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phoenix9912 · 23 days ago

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Something Familiar

Clark Kent x Male Reader

Summary: After Superman saved you from a collapsing building, you couldn't help but wonder if you knew the man behind the cape.

A/N: Not surprising that he won the poll. Not my best, but hopefully y'all like it. Also for anyone unfamiliar, Clark wears glasses that hypnotize people in the comics (hints why people/reader don't know he's superman)

TW: Fluff

Words: 4.8k

The familiar scent of stale coffee and ink hung heavy in the air of the Daily Planet newsroom, a comforting aroma that had become synonymous with your life. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag, the worn leather a testament to countless assignments, and glanced over at the desk across from yours. Clark Kent was hunched over his keyboard, brow furrowed in concentration, a stray lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. It was a sight you’d seen a thousand times, a snapshot of your everyday.

You and Clark were a well-oiled machine, an inseparable duo at the Daily Planet. Your lens captured the world in vivid detail, while his words brought it to life. From the bustling streets of Metropolis to the quiet corners of forgotten towns, you’d chased stories together, fueled by cheap coffee and an insatiable curiosity. Outside the newsroom, your friendship with Clark deepened over late-night pizza runs and competitive board game sessions, a bond forged in shared experiences and easy laughter. He was one of your best friends, an anchor in the often chaotic currents of your life.

Lately, though, a subtle shift had occurred. It was nothing you could pinpoint, just a feeling, a whisper of change in the comfortable rhythm of your friendship. It coincided, of course, with the meteoric rise of Superman. The Kryptonian had become a global phenomenon, a symbol of hope and an endless source of headlines. As the Daily Planet’s go-to photographer for all things Superman, you’d found yourself closer to him than most. You’d snapped iconic shots of him soaring through the city, caught his stoic profile against a fiery backdrop, and even managed a brief, albeit rushed, interview after he averted a major disaster.

But it was more than just the thrill of the chase. There was something about Superman’s eyes, a depth and warmth that tugged at a distant memory. And his smile, quick and fleeting, held a familiarity that you couldn't quite place. You’d chalked it up to exhaustion, a trick of the light, anything to dismiss the nagging sensation that you knew that face. Every time you’d bring up Superman in conversation with Clark—his latest heroic feat, a particularly captivating photo you’d taken—you noticed the subtle changes in his demeanor. A slight stiffness in his shoulders, a flicker in his usually open gaze, a quick change of subject. You’d brushed it off, of course. Clark was Clark, and you trusted him implicitly. Besides, who wouldn't be a little awestruck by a literal superhero?

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows down the bustling Metropolis sidewalk, the vibrant energy of the city a constant hum in your ears. Your press badge, an emblem of your profession, bounced gently against your thigh with each purposeful stride. You wove through the kaleidoscope of people, a human river flowing around you, your camera strap secured comfortably around your neck, the familiar weight a reassurance. The click of your lens cap echoed in your mind, a silent promise of the shots to come.

As you pushed further downtown, a subtle shift in the crowd became apparent. Pockets of people were gathering, their heads craned skyward, a collective gasp rippling through them. You quickened your pace, your journalistic instincts kicking in. Then you saw it – a familiar blur of red and blue streaking across the sky, a fleeting comet against the backdrop of towering skyscrapers. Your camera was at your eye in an instant, the rapid-fire click-click-click of the shutter a testament to your urgency. You snapped several frames, trying to anticipate his trajectory, already mentally composing the front-page shot.

"Excuse me! Coming through!" you muttered, pushing through the thickening throng, intent on getting a clearer vantage point. You followed his airborne path, a singular focus in the midst of the urban chaos, your legs burning with the effort. Downtown he went, your gaze locked on the disappearing streak of red, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You rounded a corner, barely catching your bearings, when the very ground beneath your feet shook violently. A guttural roar ripped through the air, followed by a chorus of terrified screams. People stumbled, some falling, others scrambling for cover. You weren't sure what it was – an earthquake, an explosion, something else entirely – but in that moment, all that mattered was the story. All that mattered was the shot. Your finger remained stubbornly pressed to the shutter, capturing the fear, the chaos, the raw, unfolding drama, even as your own heart hammered against your ribs.

You braced yourself against a sudden gust of wind, the ground still vibrating beneath your feet. Debris rained down from above, a cascade of glass and concrete, forcing screams from the crowd around you. Your focus, however, remained unwavering, your finger hovering over the shutter button. Then, like a vibrant, impossible blur, he burst forth.

Superman erupted from the gaping maw of a high-rise building, a whirlwind of red and blue, a woman clutched gently in his arms. He moved with impossible speed, a beacon of strength against the backdrop of destruction. You didn't hesitate, your camera already tracking his descent. Click-click-click, the rapid fire of your lens a testament to your urgency, each shot framing his powerful form, the terrified but relieved expression on the woman’s face, the shattered remains of the building behind him. He landed softly on the cracked sidewalk mere yards from you, a silent guardian setting his precious cargo down with a tender care that belied the chaos surrounding them. The woman, disoriented but safe, stumbled away, tears streaming down her face.

As he straightened, his gaze, a flash of piercing blue, swept over the stunned onlookers. For a fleeting, impossible second, those intense, familiar eyes locked with yours. A jolt, like a sudden electric current, shot through you. It was more than just recognition; it was a profound sense of knowing, a connection that transcended the extraordinary circumstances. In that brief, charged moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you, the cacophony of the city fading into a distant hum.

Then, just as quickly as it began, the connection shattered. The ground beneath you heaved again, a deeper, more violent tremor that sent a fresh wave of panic through the crowd. Superman’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with renewed urgency. Without another glance, he was gone, a streak of crimson and azure vanishing back into the maw of the collapsing building, a silent promise to face whatever fresh hell awaited him within.

The distant wail of sirens, growing louder now, did little to deter you. While others scattered, seeking refuge from the falling debris, you found yourself instinctively pushing deeper into the growing throng. This wasn't just a story; it was a phenomenon, and you were determined to capture every angle. You spotted a slightly elevated curb, a perfect vantage point amongst the sea of upturned faces and trembling bodies. Ducking and weaving, you secured your new spot, the weight of your camera a comforting presence. Police officers, their faces grim, began to form a perimeter, their voices booming through bullhorns, ordering people to a safe distance. But you held your ground, your lens already fixed on the shattered building, waiting for the next impossible moment to unfold.

You continued to snap pictures, your fingers numb from the constant clicking, the adrenaline coursing through your veins making you oblivious to the fear rippling through the crowd. The police line was steadily pushing people back, the stern faces of the officers a stark contrast to the awe-struck expressions of the onlookers. You, however, were an immovable object, a photographer possessed, determined to capture every nuance of this unfolding drama. You vaguely registered a hand on your shoulder, then a firm but polite voice telling you to move back. You mumbled an apology, taking one last desperate shot before reluctantly retreating a few paces. It was frustrating, but you knew better than to argue with law enforcement in a crisis.

The building continued to groan, dust and smaller debris still sifting down. Then, with another violent tremor, Superman emerged once more, this time carrying two more people, a young boy and an elderly woman, their faces streaked with soot but undeniably alive. He repeated the same swift, graceful maneuver, depositing them safely before soaring back into the collapsing structure. Your camera went wild, capturing the relief, the awe, the sheer impossibility of it all. Each time he reappeared, a fresh wave of hushed whispers and astonished gasps would ripple through the crowd.

Between his incredible rescues, you found your gaze drawn to the shattered windows of the building, trying to discern the source of the catastrophe. It wasn't an earthquake, not truly. There was a focused destruction, like something had torn through the building from the inside out, or perhaps, a powerful force had struck it. The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

As the minutes stretched on, the sirens became a deafening chorus, joined by the wail of fire trucks and the distant thud of an ambulance helicopter. The air grew thick with the smell of smoke and pulverized concrete. You adjusted your lens, zooming in on Superman as he made his fifth, then sixth, trip. He was a blur of tireless motion, a singular force against overwhelming odds. The sun, now lower in the sky, cast long, dramatic shadows, making his form even more imposing.

Suddenly, a massive section of the upper floors of the building groaned and began to buckle inward. A collective cry of horror rose from the crowd. Your heart leaped into your throat, but your camera remained steady. Just as it seemed the entire structure would give way, a vibrant streak of red and blue shot upwards, not out of the building, but through the collapsing section. Superman, with a superhuman effort, was seemingly holding the disintegrating facade together, his muscles bulging, his face a mask of intense concentration. It was an act of impossible strength, holding back the very collapse of a skyscraper. You pressed the shutter repeatedly, knowing these were the shots that would define the day, the shots that would immortalize him.

The air was thick with the scent of dust and ozone, and the roar of the collapsing building filled your ears, a terrifying symphony of destruction. You were still focused on Superman's impossible feat, holding back the building, when without warning, a deafening rumble vibrated through the ground beneath your feet. It wasn't the building he was holding, but a surrounding one.

Before you could even process the sound, a massive wave of concrete and debris burst outwards from the adjacent structure, a deadly spray hurtling directly towards you and the huddled crowd. There was no time to react, no time to scream, not even time to blink. Your ears were already ringing from the previous explosions, and now, a sharp, searing pain tore through your upper arm. A jagged piece of shrapnel had found its mark, slicing deep. You stumbled back, the camera falling uselessly from your grasp, your vision momentarily blurring with pain.

Then, the world tilted. The secondary building, unstable from the initial attack, began to crumble inwards, a colossal cascade of steel and concrete descending like a hungry beast. You instinctively squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the impact, the certain crushing weight. This was it.

But the impact never came.

Instead, a sudden, powerful force enveloped you. You were no longer frozen in fear, no longer about to be engulfed by the collapsing structure. You were, impossibly, in someone's arms. The ringing in your ears was deafening, a high-pitched whine that drowned out most other sounds, but through it, you could faintly distinguish your name.

The voice, thick with concern and urgency, was unmistakable. It was Clark's voice, his usual caring tone when he spoke to you, but amplified, raw with an almost desperate fear. It was a voice you knew as intimately as your own thoughts.

Your eyes, still squeezed shut, fluttered open hesitantly, battling against the haze of pain and disbelief. The world around you was a swirling vortex of fine dust, illuminated by the fading afternoon light filtering through the apocalyptic haze. And there, holding you securely against his chest, floating effortlessly above the ground, was Superman.

His strong arms were wrapped around you, holding you with a protective grip that felt both immense and incredibly gentle. His face, usually a mask of stoic determination, was etched with a profound relief, mixed with a hint of something else—a silent terror, as if he had been moments too late. Those familiar blue eyes, the ones you'd been trying to place, were wide with an intensity that pulled at a distant memory, now gazing down at you with an overwhelming sense of concern. He held you like he was scared, truly scared, that he had almost lost you. The sheer impossibility of the moment, the searing pain in your arm, and the realization that the man holding you was both your best friend and the world's greatest hero, converged into a dizzying, disorienting truth.

The world spun around you, a whirlwind of dust and disbelief. One moment, you were facing certain death, the next, you were cradled in the impossibly strong arms of Superman. But it wasn't just Superman; it was Clark. Your best friend. The man you shared lukewarm coffee with every morning and debated obscure comic book lore with on Friday nights.

He hovered there, suspended in the swirling particulate matter, his gaze fixed solely on you. His eyes, those piercing blue depths you'd been trying to place, now held an open vulnerability, a raw concern that mirrored your own shock. He didn't need you to speak, didn't need you to voice the chaotic jumble of questions forming in your mind. He saw it all in your wide, disbelieving stare.

A small, almost imperceptible shake of his head was his only acknowledgment of your silent interrogation. "I'll explain later," he said, his voice a low rumble, the familiar warmth of Clark's tone mixed with the deeper resonance of the hero. His thumb gently brushed against your wounded arm, a fleeting touch that somehow intensified the dull ache. "Right now, you're hurt. That's what's important."

His words, simple and direct, cut through the noise in your head. You're hurt. That's what's important. In the midst of collapsing buildings and a world-altering revelation, his primary concern was you. It was so utterly Clark, so fundamentally him, that it almost made the impossible reality of him being Superman even more disorienting.

You could only manage a small, jerky nod, your eyes still wide and fixed on his face, trying to reconcile the mild-mannered reporter with the flying, super-powered savior. The ringing in your ears slowly began to subside, replaced by the faint sounds of sirens and distant shouts, but all you could truly hear was the steady beat of your own heart, thudding erratically against your ribs. The dust swirled around you both, creating an ethereal, almost dreamlike bubble around the impossible tableau: you, suspended in mid-air, held by superman who was, incredibly, your closest friend.

The sterile scent of antiseptic still clung to your skin, a faint reminder of the emergency room and the dull ache in your upper arm where the stitches pulled taut. It was later that same evening, the chaos of the afternoon replaced by the quiet hum of your apartment. You sat on your couch, a mug of rapidly cooling tea in your hand, replaying the impossible events of the day. Every time the image of Clark's face, etched with fear and concern as he held you, flashed in your mind, a fresh wave of disbelief washed over you.

A soft thump from your balcony startled you, making you nearly drop your mug. You turned, your breath catching in your throat. It wasn't the usual fumbling at the door, the familiar jingle of Clark searching for the spare key, his glasses slightly askew and his worn-out sweatshirt pulled over a plain t-shirt. No. This was Superman.

He stood on your balcony, silhouetted against the dimming twilight, the iconic red cape draped over his shoulders, still somewhat dust-covered. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet evening. In his hand, he held your camera, the very one that had fallen when the debris struck, miraculously intact.

Before you could even fully process his entrance, he was through the sliding glass door, moving with a silent grace that belied his immense power. He didn't stride, didn't march; he simply flowed into your living room, his gaze fixed on you. The usual easygoing demeanor was replaced by a solemn intensity.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual playful lilt. The concern in his eyes was palpable, a deep, unwavering blue that held yours.

He moved towards the couch, setting your camera carefully on the coffee table as if it were a fragile artifact. Then, he sat beside you, the slight dip in the cushions the only indication of his considerable presence. The air around him still carried a faint scent of ozone and something else, something clean and elemental that hinted at the impossible feats he'd performed just hours earlier. He didn't touch you immediately, simply sitting, radiating a quiet worry.

After a moment, his gaze dropped to your bandaged arm. He reached out slowly, his large hand incredibly gentle as he took your forearm, turning it slightly to get a better look at the fresh white gauze. He didn't press, didn't prod; he just observed, his brow furrowed in a familiar concern that was so utterly Clark, yet now filtered through the lens of Superman's immense power and responsibility. You could feel the slight warmth radiating from his hand through your sleeve, a strange comfort in the surreal situation. You remained silent, still staring blankly at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, your mind racing to catch up with the reality unfolding before you.

He gently traced the outline of the bandage with his thumb, his gaze still fixed on your arm, a quiet tension humming between you. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken questions and the monumental weight of his secret. Finally, he looked up, meeting your gaze.

"When the other building started to go," he began, his voice softer now, almost a murmur, "I saw the debris heading straight for you. I was focused on the first building, trying to stabilize it, but there wasn't time. I just... reacted." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, perhaps a memory of the near miss. "I got to you just as the wave hit. I took the brunt of it, shielded you." He gestured vaguely with his free hand, indicating the force that had ripped through the street.

His words were delivered with a calm, matter-of-fact tone, as if saving you from a collapsing building was an everyday occurrence. Which, for him, it probably was. But for you, it was a terrifying, life-altering event.

"As for your camera," he continued, a faint, almost shy smile touching his lips, the kind of smile you knew well from your Daily Planet desk, "it was right there. I figured you'd want it back. Didn't want it getting trampled." He chuckled softly, a familiar sound that momentarily broke the surreal atmosphere. "You’d probably be more upset about your camera than your arm."

He gently released your arm, leaning back slightly on the couch. The subtle shift in his posture seemed to open up the conversation, the immediate crisis addressed, clearing the way for the inevitable. The unspoken question hung in the air, thick and palpable. He took a deep breath, his blue eyes meeting yours, suddenly filled with an almost painful honesty.

"So," he began, the word a quiet prelude to the confession you both knew was coming. "I guess you have some questions."

The weight of his words, the simple, undeniable truth of his explanation, settled over you. You didn't respond immediately with questions or shock. Instead, a strange, almost hysterical wave of disbelief washed over you, morphing into something akin to fond amusement.

You leaned your head against Clark's broad shoulder, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent and subtle cologne a grounding presence amidst the surreal. Your arms instinctively moved, wrapping around his neck, holding onto him not out of fear, but out of an overwhelming sense of... well, Clark.

A low, disbelieving laugh bubbled up from your chest, escaping in short, airy bursts. You shook your head, still nestled against him, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting you in full force. Here you were, best friends with the most powerful being on the planet, and you'd been utterly oblivious for so long.

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, a wide, genuine smile spreading across your face. "You know," you said, your voice still laced with lingering disbelief, "you better start explaining. Every single thing. But," you paused, tightening your hold on his neck playfully, "I think I'd prefer to hear it from Clark Kent."

A soft, genuine smile bloomed on his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes – eyes that were now so openly his, without the hero's mask. He gave a gentle, almost imperceptible nod. In the next blink of an eye, so fast you barely registered the movement, he was no longer in his super-suit. The red and blue were gone. He was sitting beside you on the couch, the same comfortable, worn gray sweatshirt you knew so well, paired with equally familiar sweatpants. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and the only thing missing were his glasses. The Man of Steel had vanished, replaced by the everyday Clark.

He shifted, turning to face you fully, a deep breath filling his chest. "Okay," he began, his voice taking on a softer, more intimate tone, the one he reserved for your late-night conversations. "Where do I even start? It's... it's a long story. About where I came from, what I can do, why I'm here." His gaze dropped for a moment, then met yours, vulnerability shining through. "I never meant for you to find out like this. Or ever, if I'm honest. The whole point was to keep everyone safe, especially the people I care about." His voice softened further, almost a whisper. "And you... you were always so good at finding trouble. Chasing down stories, getting into the thick of it for the perfect shot. I was always so worried something would happen to you, and I wouldn't be able to protect you without giving myself away. Every time you were near a dangerous situation, my heart was in my throat. And I never, not in a million years, expected you to catch on." He shook his head slowly, a faint, rueful smile on his lips. "You're too smart for your own good, sometimes."

He seemed about to launch into the full, epic tale, the story of Krypton and his powers and his mission, but you didn't let him. Before he could ramble on, you lifted your hands, gently cupping his face. Your thumbs brushed over his cheeks, feeling the subtle warmth of his skin.

Your thumbs gently stroked his cheeks, cutting off his well-intentioned rambling. The warmth of his skin against your palms was grounding, a physical anchor to the impossible reality unfolding between you. You looked into his eyes, a playful glint in your own, and a small, mischievous smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

"Clark," you interrupted softly, your voice filled with an almost giddy disbelief, "I honestly just expected you to say 'I am actually Superman, and no, you're not going crazy or dead.' Instead, you're off on one of your rambling tangents, bless your heart." You gave his cheeks a gentle squeeze, a silent acknowledgment of his endearing habit of over-explaining when nervous.

A slow, bashful smile spread across Clark's face, a genuine warmth radiating from him. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your palms. He leaned into your touch, his eyes sparkling with a mix of relief and amusement.

"You're right," he admitted, his gaze unwavering. He took a steadying breath, his voice clear and resonant, utterly devoid of any pretense. "Okay. Deep breath. Here it goes," He paused, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, but also a profound honesty. "Yes. I am actually Superman." He held your gaze, then added, a soft smile touching his lips, "And no, you're absolutely not crazy."

The simple, direct confirmation, spoken by Clark Kent in your living room, felt both utterly insane and completely, undeniably real. The weight of it hung in the air, a truth that would forever alter the landscape of your friendship and your life.

You stared at him for a long moment, letting the truth settle, truly settle, in your bones. The initial shock began to recede, replaced by a profound wave of understanding, and then, an overwhelming warmth. It wasn't fear you felt, or even awe, not anymore. It was… relief. And something else, something deeper, that resonated with the years of friendship you'd shared. The kindness in his eyes, the gentle strength of his hands, the unwavering sense of right that had always defined Clark – it all made perfect, beautiful sense now. It was never just Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. It was always him.

A soft, choked laugh escaped you, followed by a genuine, unburdened smile. You finally pulled your hands away from his face, only to intertwine your fingers with his, resting them on your laps.

"So," you began, a playful glint in your eyes, "all those times I tripped and you caught me from falling, or when you 'randomly' knew where to find me when I got lost on assignment in the middle of nowhere... that was you." You shook your head, still smiling. "And the 'unbelievable luck' of getting all those exclusive Superman photos? That was you, too, wasn't it, you big faker?"

Clark's smile widened, a sheepish, endearing grin that was pure Clark. "Guilty as charged," he admitted, squeezing your hand gently. "I always had to make sure you were safe. You have a knack for getting right into the thick of things. And I knew you'd get the best pictures anyway, so why not give you a little 'luck'?" His eyes twinkled with a shared secret.

The weight of the world, or at least the weight of his world, seemed to lift, replaced by an easy, comfortable silence. You leaned your head against his shoulder again, feeling the solid warmth of him, the familiar comfort that had always been there, now imbued with an extraordinary depth. You thought of all the late nights at the Daily Planet, the shared meals, the endless conversations about life and dreams and everything in between. He had been carrying this incredible secret, this immense burden, all that time. And despite it all, he had always been there, truly there, for you.

"It must have been so lonely," you murmured, your voice soft against his shirt, "keeping all of this to yourself."

He sighed, a quiet exhalation that spoke volumes. "Sometimes," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "But knowing you, knowing everyone at the Planet, knowing the people of Metropolis�� it kept me grounded. And it reminded me why I do what I do." He shifted slightly, turning his head so his chin rested gently on the top of your head. "But it's... good, to not be alone with it anymore. Especially with you."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, a feeling that went beyond friendship, beyond gratitude, settling into a space that felt profoundly right. You lifted your head from his shoulder, your gaze meeting his. The evening light filtered through the blinds, casting soft shadows across his face, highlighting the familiar kindness in his eyes. There was no longer any filter, any disguise, between you. Just Clark. Your Clark.

And in that moment, with the silence of the evening wrapping around you both, and the unspoken weight of years of unspoken feelings finally settling, you knew. You loved him. Not just as a friend, or as a hero, but as the man who sat beside you, vulnerable and strong and wonderfully, impossibly real.

You leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, but he didn't. His eyes widened slightly, mirroring your own anticipation. You closed the small distance between you, your lips finding his in a soft, tentative kiss. It was gentle, hesitant at first, a brush of warmth that spoke of years of unspoken affection and a future suddenly bursting with possibilities. And then, as if a dam had broken, it deepened, a tender press that conveyed all the disbelief, the relief, the burgeoning hope, and the undeniable truth of your feelings. It was a kiss that tasted of quiet evenings, of ink and coffee, and of a lifetime of extraordinary friendship, now blooming into something infinitely more.

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phoenix9912 · 24 days ago

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## one true love !!

summary──── ben feels true love with you, his enemy, and finds himself able to break from the toxic masculinity he surrounded himself with.

pairings──── soldier boy / benjamin x anti-hero!male reader

warnings──── nsfw content, porn with too much feelings, fluff, slight angst, foul language, probably (very definitely) ooc soldier boy, top!reader, sub!bottom!ben, gentle love, praise kink, hair pulling, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, overstimulation, vibrator, pet names ( love, baby, pup, etc. ), short oral ( r. receiving ), love-making, mating press, missionary, riding, aftercare, light D/S dynamics, pillow talk, a lot of vulnerability, ben proposes to reader unexpectedly, enemies in forbidden love, internalised homophobia, morally grey!reader, possessiveness, homophobic slurs, canon typical misogyny, reader’s anti-hero name is lucifer, reader has magical powers

author’s note──── i might’ve made him too soft and vulnerable, so forewarning that he doesn’t show much of his asshole side in this fic. the ooc warning already says much, i guess?

MINORS DNI !!

Peaceful jazz music and well dressed crowd fills the grand hall decorated in gold curtains, men and women from different wealthy families flaunting around their riches with drinks in hand. Adorned in nothing but expensive attires that feeds off of the poor were most guests that have been invited to celebrate another success of Vought-American with a superhero movie that starred its own team, Payback, while the heroes themselves remained in their pretty little costumes for the publicity and fame.

Cameras, photographers, and journalists lurked in the corner section of the hall, where they’ve been assigned to fulfil their destiny of capturing significant moments that are interesting enough to be written on headlines or shown on television.

Nights like this were when Soldier Boy wanted to beat the shit out of Vought employees for their incapability in making celebrations entertaining. The lack of excitement and chaos infuse Ben with excessive boredom that just gives him the urge to shoot himself in the head, all of its professionalism becoming nothing but a burden and straight up pain in the ass. He’s been hardly enjoying the night, having to put up with Crimson Countess attached to his hip at all times to keep appearances, which he admits is worse than fucking a loose cunt. It didn’t make him feel better that Stan fucking Edgar was watching, making sure things are under control.

The jazz music suddenly stops short with a loud screeching sound that has everyone covering their ears in pain, startled murmurs filling the air as all eyes turned to the stage where a famous band stood, confusion also plastered across their faces. One of them repeatedly presses down on the piano’s key, frowning when it does nothing as if it lost its function all of a sudden. Sensing the panic slowly rise among guests, Stan opens his mouth to speak, only for his words to die in his throat when the lights begin to flicker.

“You know, I’m quite displeased to not have received an invitation.” Deep, resonant, husky voice littered with confidence and cockiness erupt out of nowhere as the flickering lights return to normal, an utterly familiar figure making themselves known.

Gasps, of either excitement or fear, falls from everyone’s lips to your powerful presence that almost immediately caused a shift in atmosphere. Soldier Boy’s breath hitched, feeling his throat dry as he cleared his throat and swallowed.

You don’t miss the quick look of surprise and panic flashing across Stan’s face before they were hidden behind his casual mask of greedy businessman, making the corner of your lips twitch up.

“You’re simply not welcome here, Lucifer.” The man uttered with barely contained irritation despite his best efforts to remain calm, spitting your antihero name — given by, not Vought, but the public themselves — in distaste.

Amusement emerge on your expression, completely unbothered by the antagonistic perspective Stan sees you with.

There’s an underlying overconfidence and arrogance to the way you hold yourself, a man who clearly knows how influential and threatening your own existence is and isn’t even apologetic for it. It wasn’t just for a show — you knew you mattered, knew exactly your worth, and didn’t hide behind the fake persona of a beloved public figure that pretends they’re enjoying a single bit of what they’re doing. Your ego and pride seemingly rivals that of Soldier Boy’s yet yours come more naturally, like you were born with it without the need to develop them in amidst of your life to trick yourself into feeling more relevant. You held charisma, a charm that seems to pull people closer to you despite the dangerous, deceitful, fucking jackass attitude you had that’s supposed to be driving them away. It makes Ben want to either punch your face or suck your cock like a fag whore.

“Fair enough,” You shrugged. “But I certainly make parties more fun. You could learn a couple or two from me.”

Stan’s eye twitches in annoyance at your arrogance; it’s much worse that he can’t use anything to stomp on it because your ego wasn’t fragile like the others. While most men, supe or not, wrap their self-importance in toxic masculinity in order to feel superior than they actually are, you were fully comfortable with yourself. Your emotional capacity was extremely high that developed you to become invincible against criticism or rejection. He can attempt to hurt your feelings, manipulate you, use your own ego against you all he wants — none of it will force you to surrender or submit no matter what because you, quite simply, loved yourself too much to be under power hungry maniacs.

When Stan can’t seem to muster a snarky remark, you smirk and invite yourself in, walking further into the grand hall as you snap your fingers, the white bright lights turning into colourful disco lights with your magic.

You stared at the band members on stage, eyes glowing red, and forcefully overtake their minds to play an upbeat party worth music instead of the boring jazz they did. It’s not that you dislike jazz music, it’s peculiar and beautiful on its own, you’re just not really fond of formal parties where everyone’s required to be in their good behaviours, barely having the time of their life if not to shove their riches down less wealthy people’s throat, which you don’t particularly find amusing or fun at all.

It seems to excite the guests, some of them even beginning to bop their heads to the catchy rhythm, moving their previously still bodies along with the beats. Energy surges through them, life revealing itself within their eyes that was filled with misery before you barged in.

“Let go of the fucking formality, ladies and gentlemen.” You grinned wide with your arms spread open to your sides. “It’s time for a true fun party!”

Ben was in awe when all cheered at your declaration, how quick you were able to turn this entire place into your own playground despite the hosts — authorities — being present, how much of a natural you were at gaining people’s faith and attention without doing more than show up and be yourself.

It should be making him envious; he’s doing all these heroism, model, actor bullshit and hiding behind a perfect macho-man façade to be loved and paid attention to for fuck’s sake, and yet it’s so easy for you to bend people at your own will just by being yourself. He should be pissed as he always did when others get the spotlight more than him, but Ben couldn’t find it in himself to.

How the fuck is he going to be pissed when you look so disgustingly hot doing all of it?

“He’s fucking doing it again,” Countess seethes through gritted teeth, glaring at you. Her little tug on his arm snaps him out of daze as he shifts his gaze to her. “Taking all the attention away from you. With the rate he’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised if he interrupts everything you’re in.”

Ben had to pretend to irritably clench his jaw, and smiled with sarcasm. “As if I’d let him. Fucking asshole needs to be put in his place.”

He knew you heard him when the corner of your lips pulled up in a smirk, one of your brows raising to shoot him a challenging look. It sends a thrill down Ben’s spine as he scowled, giving you a death glare that everyone sees for it is; rage, hatred, despise.

“Pleasure to see you here, Soldier Boy. Crimson Countess.” You greet in a feigned enthusiasm, swiftly taking a cocktail from the waiter that just passed, and approach them in all your glory.

“Fuck you,” Soldier Boy quickly snarled as Countess spits, “Get the fuck away from us.”

Amusement instantly cross your face, nearly making both of them want to punch you. “So much for greeting lovebirds in clown costumes,” You dejectedly say with a hand over your chest for dramatic effect, in contrast to the mocking way in which you spoke. “C’mon, I just made this boring, useless party worth your precious little time. At least now you can stop being a pussy hiding behind an awfully constructed television personality.”

That strikes a nerve in Soldier Boy as his face hardened and a cold look appeared, stepping forward warningly, “I’d choose my next fucking words wisely if I were you.” Countess tugs his arm in a nervous manner while scanning their surroundings, taking notice of people watching your interaction.

You meet his glare with a calm yet daring look and leaned closer, “I wouldn’t. I know I can beat you.” Your eyes glowed in red once again as you grinned confidently.

Ben’s hand twitched, but before he could make a move, a woman approached you from behind and tugged on your elbow, interrupting the little rivalry you had going on. “I’m sorry, do you mind if we dance and have fun for a bit?” She shyly but bravely asked you, not even sparing Soldier Boy a glance.

An unimpressed look flashes in your eyes that only Ben took notice of, the subtle annoyance to the woman for cutting into your rather hostile conversation. You, however, plastered on an emotionless smile within a split second, not giving anyone the chance to see through you. “I’ll lead the way,” You barely looked at him before walking off with her to the centre of the hall where bodies swayed to the beat.

It takes everything in Ben not to square up and make a mess of this party when you started dancing with her, your body dangerously close to hers as she stares at you with a look that made him want to strangle her slim neck. As if you’re a divine sculpture created by Gods, like you’re the entire universe, most precious being to ever exist in this planet, like she knew everything about you when she, in fact, absolutely did not. But he does.

And Ben knows he’ll be screaming your name, holding you impossibly close to him, digging his nails onto your back as you grind into him — everything she wished you’ll do to her — when all of this shit show is over.

At the end of the day, no slut or pussy fucker would come home to you but him; you’ve chosen him despite the countless amount of people throwing themselves pathetically at you, and Ben will make sure he’ll forever be the only one who does.

Lewd squelching, sucking sounds fill the dimly lit bedroom of your home as the stench of sex and arousal surround the air, more prominent due to your and Ben’s enhanced senses. You sat comfortably against the headboard of your shared bed with Ben in between your legs as he sucks and slurps your cock, taking it as far as he can in his mouth and gagging. Tiny muffled moans or groans escape him occasionally, hips grinding against the mattress to stimulate his own aching dick while the vibrator you bought for him nestled deep inside his prepped hole.

“You love my fuckin’ cock so much, don’t you?” You chuckled hoarsely, almost degrading, and Ben shudders. “It’s alright, love. m’not goin’ anywhere.” Your fingers tread through his hair, gently scraping your nails against his scalp, making him groan as his hips stutter.

Maintaining eye contact with you, Ben inhales a deep breath through his nose before taking your cock further down his throat, tears gathering in his eyes when he nearly gagged. A genuine smile adorns your face when he looks at you expectantly, the most beautiful green eyes you’d ever seen holding desperation and self-doubt. Pleading expression that he shows only to you.

“You want me to praise you, pup? Call you good boy?” He whines in response — God, that fucking sound you know he’d rather die than let anyone else hear. Ben doesn’t have any idea how much it affects you, the fact that you’re the only one whom he allows a vulnerable side of him show.

Realising he has to earn what he yearns for, Ben gently wraps his hand around the base of your cock where it didn’t fit and starts to bob his head. You moaned softly, throwing your head back; the sight being such a blessing to Ben’s eyes that makes his own cock throb and needy. He swirls his tongue on the underside of your shaft, his free hand gripping your thigh for support.

“Doin’ so good, love. You’ve gotten better at this,” You cooed, petting his hair and gently thrusting up into his throat. Ben closed his eyes, a blissful look appearing on his face as he relaxed and allowed you to move instead.

The trust and faith Ben has in you makes something explode within your chest, heart swelling in love and adoration at your troubled yet adorable partner.

Building a healthy and trustful relationship with him was more difficult than anything you’ve ever done before, considering the absolute bigotry his father forcefully fed into him and all the unresolved issues he had with himself. Despite the tough and harsh exterior he constantly put on, you had seen right through him when you first met — those broken spirit that yearned to be loved or needed by people hiding behind his douche, Soldier Boy persona, a man that his imbecile of a father always wanted him to be. It amused you as much as it squeezed your chest; one of the first strongest superhero being a fucking attention starved bastard was undeniably funny, but pitiful. It’s also why you fell in love with him.

You’ve accepted that Ben was always going to have a deep rooted homophobia in him, that there won’t be a day where you’ll be seen in the public with him holding hands like star-fucking-crossed lovers, that he’ll always be too much of a pussy to be fully himself — but you never expected him to be so open, comfortable, with you like this to the extent of willingly trusting you with a needy and desperate version of himself.

Benjamin is laying his heart out bare for you to take, and you didn’t know whether you wanted to make love to him or fuck his brains out. You decided with the former.

Confusion settles on Ben’s expression when you gently pushed his shoulders to make him pull away, a sudden worry if he’s done something wrong, but all thoughts flies out the window after you passionately smashed your lips against his and guided him on your lap. Ben gasps when you pulled the vibrator out of his hole and replaced it with your thick fingers, hooking his arms on the back of your neck.

“So good, love. Lookin’ all pretty for me.” He moans at your praise, the compliment making his heart flutter rather than boost his ego.

“s’for you…” They come out in whisper from his lips, littered with slight reluctance around the edge, but you hear it loud and clear. “All for you. I— fuck… just for you,” He grinds on your fingers, crying out when you curled them just right to stimulate his prostate.

You almost feel dizzy for his words that he’s never uttered before.

The utmost pride he upholds made it difficult for Ben to completely submit to you, often being a disobedient brat that needs to be put in his place or a quiet, reserved man that’s embarrassed to be loved by another man which causes him to be tense for the first half of this activity — so seeing him like this, hesitantly yet openly letting you in to his comfort zone, spilling the thoughts he’s always been fearful of admitting, holding you tight to him as if you’d slip from his grasp if he let you go, was pleasantly surprising. Your heart flutters, butterflies filling your stomach as the urge to protect and gently take him apart piece by piece runs like electricity through your veins, fuelling your desire for Ben.

You thrust your digits with gentle pace, Ben’s hips moving on its own to chase the pleasure. “That’s right, baby. All f’me, yeah? My pretty darling?”

The gentleness of your whispered voice and your eyes staring at him with pure love sends shivers down his spine; Ben holds your face and nods, pulling you in for a kiss. You can feel his suppressed fear through his desperate lips, the doubts that lingers in his mind that you might see him differently for being so vulnerable like this, and you quickly silence his thoughts by slipping your tongue inside his mouth.

Ben mewled when you add another digit in him, now having three fingers penetrating his hole, as he breaks the kiss to breathe for air. There’s a hazy look in his tearful eyes when he meets your gaze, “Take care of me, please.”

You groan at the plea, immediately pulling your fingers out to instead align your cock with his entrance. Ben must’ve been waiting for so long because he doesn’t hesitate to sink down on it almost in an instant, a loud collective moan escaping the two of you. Your hands gripped his hips while he rested both hands on your shoulders, and fuck he felt so fucking good. The way his warm, tight velvety walls deliciously clamp around you as if swallowing your cock whole, the way his divinely beautiful body perfectly fit against yours like he was made for you.

“fuck… you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” You praised, kissing up his throat as he threw his head back in pleasure. “Completely mine, so is Soldier Boy. Everythin’ about you, Ben. It’s all mine.”

Ben nods vigorously, gripping the back of your neck and starting to ride you at a perfect pace, tiny sounds escaping his mouth. Slipping his fingers through your hair, he gently tugged on them just enough that had you groaning, and laid his forehead to rest against yours. “Y-yours- ah… Yours as… as much as you’re fucking mine,” He grunts out, possessiveness hanging onto his every word that shot excitement through your body. “No one gets to f-fucking have you… oh fuck—!” He cuts himself off with a strangled moan when you snapped your hips up.

“Yeah? Not even that slut that danced with me on the dance floor?” You teased, smirking.

His bright green eyes seem to darken as he sinks even further down on your cock, forcefully stretching himself out, hissing at the delicious pain. You moaned, wrapping an arm around him to pull him to your chest. “Fuck, especially her.” Ben almost growls, one hand coming up to wrap around your throat, feeling you throb and seemingly get bigger inside him due to it. “You… belong to me, o-only me.”

You hum, moaning softly when he squeezed your jugular just right. “Always, my love.”

Relief washes over his entire body as he begins to roll his hips and move again, leaning down to suck and kiss on your exposed collarbone. “Oh fuck… It’s— a-agh…! Tell me- tell me, please…” He whined desperately.

Ben needed to hear you say it, have the promises of you completely belonging to him nailed into his brain so he’ll never feel insecure or doubtful again. He’ll never admit it, but you always know every little thing that goes on inside his head, those haunting words of his father that seems to have a tight grip over him. You’re the only one that could see right through his soul; someone exactly opposite from his father, someone who fearlessly challenges the normality or ancient traditions, someone who actually have their shit together that enabled you to be mature, wise, unapologetically yourself.

You were extraordinary in every way possible, and Ben knew his inner vulnerable — not quite the man his father wanted him to be — self was safe with you. Always secured. Never judged nor ridiculed, instead embraced perfectly by your strong and warm arms that shields him away from the mental, emotional harm.

He knew you would catch him when he falls. You would keep him and his treasured thoughts safe. You weren’t afraid to love him loudly, wholeheartedly, and Ben allows himself to be brave just this once without thinking about his fears.

Trailing one of your hands up his nape, you pull him back to a searing kiss, pouring all the desire and love into it. Ben melted, his hand on your throat loosening as you gently twist your bodies around to lay him down on the bed without pulling out. He whimpers and chases you when you detached your lips from his, which nearly made your heart explode.

“I belong to you, my love.” You whispered, kissing down his neck and chest, thrusting your cock sensually slow inside him. Nothing quite like the animalistic sex you two usually have due to your powers, but it was more right than ever. “My heart, my body, my soul, my spirit. All for you, belong with you.”

Ben feels as if his heart would hammer right out of his ribcage from how rapid it was beating.

Your soothing yet powerful presence all over the place, hovering over him and embracing every bit of the damaged part of himself that he refused to acknowledge. There’s resistance gnawing on his skin, the unhealthy urge to push you away and guard himself again with a thick wall despite being the one who willingly showed vulnerability, but Ben uses all of his ability to shove it down. He wanted to listen to your overwhelmingly romantic and gentle words that he’s been taught men should never utter, he wanted to be held with so much care like he was your most prized possession, he wanted to be actually loved. For once, he wanted to allow himself to not be drowned in the toxicity his father had force-fed him with.

It doesn’t take you a second to notice him relaxing even further underneath your body, practically leaning onto your existence as the pretty noises escaping his mouth seems to gradually get louder, like he stopped holding himself back.

An awe surrounds your expression, genuinely taken aback by him letting everything go, and a soft sigh of pleasure falls from your lips. “That’s it, baby. You make the most prettiest sound. Don’t hold back,” Cooing gently, you adjust your hips and rolled into him, brushing his prostate at a perfect angle.

Ben keened, arching his back. “Fuuuck… oh, please. Deeper.”

You obliged, keeping the same slow and sensual pace but pushing further inside. “You’re made for me, aren’t you? Just as I’m made for you,” You sharply snap your hips once to emphasise, and he cries out. “We’re one, my love. No one can have me, I come home to you and only to you no matter what.”

His breath hitched, the pleasure and your words sending explosions of euphoria into his brain, nodding mindlessly at your promises. “Y-yes, fuck… I’m- I’m yours, too— ah, hng…” Tears spill from his beautiful green eyes as he spread his legs more wide, one hand grabbing your wrist that was propped beside his head to stabilise your body, almost clinging onto you while the other scratched against the mattress. “F-fucking Christ, always- always yours.”

“I know,” You softly acknowledged. “Always mine, no matter how much some part of you can’t accept it. I can see right through you, love. I understand everything about you.”

“I- oh yes! There, fuck!” Ben sobs when you start picking up your pace, hips bucking against you. “Y-you do… God, you a-always fucking do.”

That causes a grin to spread across your lips before you leaned down to devour him again.

Truth be told, Ben was afraid of how much you saw everything he’s been trying to hide all his life. It takes a bit of his soul every-time he learns to be indifferent, more sick and twisted. The innocence in him had died out long ago, but the desperation of a child never vanquished — the pathetic, ruined and heavily deprived of any love someone that he always forced himself to forget or get rid of, was seen entirely by you without much effort. He didn’t need to say anything, you always understood all the hidden insecurity, longing, pain, and fear nested deep in his mind. You also understood why he was the way he was, why he does what he does, who he had to become.

To be loved is to be seen and understood, he guesses.

A love he’s never thought he’ll ever experience from anyone, let alone his supposed enemy. You gave it to him, though. All so willingly, happily, like he was meant for it, like he was always meant for you.

Strangled, loud moan was forced out of him when your hand wrapped around his achingly hard dick, making him feel dizzy from all the overwhelming desire and pleasure. Every bit of love that emits from your touch sends a frying electricity through his veins, fulfilling his inner thirst that was supposed to be unquenchable.

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck—!” Ben wails, arching his back and digging his nails on your forearm as your thumb rubbed his sensitive slit and smeared precum all over. “C-close… oh, Christ! Cummin’, cummin’, please—”

“It’s alright, Ben. I got you,” You purred, slamming your hips down on him. “Let go, cum for me.”

As if that’s all the permission he needed, Ben instantly tumbles over the edge with a loud breathy whine as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, sticky loads shooting out from his cock to his stomach. Body spasming and head thrown back, letting his mind-blowing orgasm wave right off of him, still clinging onto you. You gritted your teeth when his hole tightened impossibly around you, feeling yourself throb and ache to release.

Ben — in spite of his cloudy, mushed state of mind as well as hazy and cock-drunk look in his eyes — suddenly wraps both strong legs around your hips to keep you in place, which forces you forward to bury yourself deeper inside him, eliciting a growl of curses from you.

His mouth splits into a dumb, shit-eating grin. “Inside, baby. Fill me up… give me all you got. I need you.” He moves his hips and squeezes down like a fucking expert prostitute, and it’s enough to have you let out a guttural groan as you spilled inside his tight hole.

Ben released a shattered breath, moaning delightfully at your warm cum that taints his insides, his hand that was gripping your forearm moving down to caress his belly where he could feel you finishing.

It makes your breath hitch; the action sparking a deep hidden desire and possessiveness within you that you’ve had shackled for so long in order to not be too greedy.

But Ben, oh your precious Benjamin, pressed down on his perfect belly and whined so brokenly that tugged the strings of your heart, as if he wanted something so unreachable. He attempts to bury his face on the pillow in what you recognised as shame and you quickly hold his face to keep him from hiding from you, subtle concern glimmering in your gentle eyes.

“What’s bothering your mind, love?” You whispered with such carefulness, afraid speaking too loud would break the bubble of sensitivity that surrounded the two of you as you pressed a light kiss on his temple. “You can tell me, Benji. It’s not embarrassing nor shameful.”

Ben’s heart swells at the way you cage him in your protective arms and words, the back of his eyes stinging from the tears that threatened to come out. He doesn’t deserve you; he never did, but you’re so good to him and he doesn’t think he can live without you. No, he knows he can’t live without you.

What would he do without your captivating eyes looking at him with so much passion no one ever gave him before, your gentle voice uttering such carefully crafted words that embraces rather than cut through him, your big and muscular yet warmly protective arms holding him like he was a treasure to behold, your soul healing and rebuilding every damaged bit of his spirit like it was your purpose? What would he do without you?

And fuck, everything would be so much easier if he wasn’t a fucking man. If he wasn’t such a pussy who’s afraid of risking everything.

You gently roll your hips against his, slow and steady, as if to comfort his nerves and overthinking thoughts with a soft pleasure.

Letting out a quiet, breathy sigh, Ben holds your face close and internally fights back against the restraints that wanted to keep him from opening his soul up to you. “We’d be… We’d be so much happier if I wasn’t a fucking man,” His whispered voice breaks at the end.

His heart ached and so did yours, a realisation dwelling on you of how serious Ben actually was with your relationship. It comes off as an unexpected admittance. While you knew he did love you like you love him, you didn’t think it was to this extent of imagining the countless possibilities if either of you was a woman instead, much less he’d think of himself to be the woman. It was odd and so unlike him — true love brings out something within people, you suppose.

Tears glimmered in his green eyes that’s filled by storm of emotions.

Ben hated this, hated you for making him such a crybaby and a pussy, but he’s so in love with you it fucking hurts. He doesn’t know what triggered him to be an annoying, pathetic, insecure loser the moment you held him. God, he’s Soldier Boy for fuck’s sake!

Then, you look at him with so much tenderness like he hung the moon and was the only thing that grounds you down to earth, and Ben realises it’s this.

“You’re such a fucking fool,” You affectionately cursed with a tone barely above whisper before pressing a lingering kiss on his lips. “I wouldn’t have spared you a glance if you weren’t. Women never captivated me, love. Only you.”

Wrapping his arms around your back and burying his face on the crook of your neck, Ben inhales your scent as you gently rock your bodies together. “Love me more,” He almost demands, voice low and trembling.

You smiled, “Of course, Benji.”

Pressing a sweet kiss on his head, you grab the back of his thighs and push them to his muscular chest, Ben’s flexibility despite his well defined physique making it easier for you to fold him. In a swift motion, you slam down on him, beginning to pound away the loud thoughts that made home in his mind. Angelic, high pitched sounds escape Ben’s mouth with each rough thrusts, bordering on pornographic. The blissful look across his face enhance his already ethereal features, and you can’t help but stare intently at him.

“You look so beautiful like this, love. Taking me in so well, letting me cherish you.” You praised, earning a needy whimper from the love of your life. “My Benjamin… my brave soldier.”

At the unexpected pet name, Ben’s body jolts and a choked sob erupted from his throat, suddenly pushed over the edge as he cums undone on his stomach. “F-fuck!”

“G-god, baby…” You groaned, shuddering in pleasure at the way his gummy walls spasms around your girth. “Drivin’ me insane, y’know that? Cummin’ with just my words alone? Shit, wanna fuck you hard and love you at the same time.”

Digging his nails on your back, Ben attached his lips on your collarbone with an intent to leave several possessive marks, making you jut your hips forward. “D-do it, fuck me.” He mumbled breathlessly.

That’s the only permission you needed to let go of your own self-control and just rut into him like an animal, thrusting your cock with more vigour and roughness that forced the headboard to repeatedly bang against the wall. Feeling the way your shaft practically drill into and rearrange his guts that brought immeasurable ecstasy, Ben finds himself finally unable to make out a coherent thought as drools drip down his chin. The two orgasms you milked out of him already left him sensitive enough, his thighs quivering under your grasps.

Lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and wet squelches filled the room, accompanied by feral noises of both of your moans and grunts.

It’s nearly incomprehensible how you’re able to quickly switch between loving him and treating him like a slut next, a perfect balance to Ben’s constant yearning for admiration or appreciation and his tendency to always be an inconsolable brat that needs to be put back in his place.

He feels so complete and whole, so loved. And so so fucking dumb for your cock. He could stay like this forever without heavy expectations weighing over his head all the time, just taking you whole and letting you ruin his body, looking all pretty and beautiful for you. Yeah, he can do that. Being pretty and sexy has always been a talent of his, after all. He can even learn to cook for you like a fucking perfect, pretty housewife, maybe you’ll stuff him full of your cum again while at it and tell him to keep them in. Fuck, he can do that too. He wants to do that.

“Oh fuck, Ben…” An almost pornographic, low growl rumbles from your chest when he squeezed down on you, his warm walls fluttering against your girth from the imagination. The coil in your stomach tightens as you twitched inside him, too close to your high.

“I- ah—! Please, pleaseplease—!” He babbles, one hand shifting to press your ass and push you in deeper, syllables slightly slurred from how cockdrunk he was.

Understanding his wordless signal, you increase your pace with an angle that drives your instincts wild, a chill running through your spine from the overwhelming pleasure. Seeing Ben completely fall apart and surrender underneath you gives your ego an infinite boost, the powerful man such a sobbing, wrecked, pretty little mess just because of your cock. Drunk in every little euphoria and precious love you feed him. Oh, how fucking adorable and gorgeous he was.

Before long, Ben feels you throb inside him and pulls you in with what little willpower he had left, clumsily slipping his tongue in your mouth, overwhelming you with different sensations of his body against yours. It’s enough to have you harshly ram your hips down in one swift motion and empty yourself inside him, a loud wail of your name leaving Ben’s lips as he finishes as well. You feel his body tremble violently due to overstimulation, breath stuttering.

“You look so fucked out,” You laugh breathlessly, hips softly grinding to ride out your climax. “Still fuckin’ hot when you’re all dumb n’ mindless.”

Petting his disheveled hair, a soft contented hum leaves Ben as he closed his eyes and nuzzled to your touch. The entire erotic sight of his hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat, tears staining his cheeks, hazy look across his eyes, and swollen lips sends amusement and satisfaction through your veins — you definitely fucked whatever self-loathing thoughts he’s had out of his head.

Having completely spilled inside him, you moved to pull out only for Ben to groan in protest. “Stay the fuck in,” He grumbled, panting to catch his breath.

“I need to clean us up, love.” You gently say, but kept yourself sheathed inside him as your lips attach to his neck. “Wanna take care of you properly.”

Ben quietly sighs in content, “You already do.” Before he tilts his head to capture you in a passionate kiss. You slowly pull out of him in amidst of the moment, holding his face and reciprocating with equal passion.

He breathes low and heavy when you start to wipe him up with a wet towel you magically conjured up, running it across his body gently as your other hand massaged his sore hip with such tenderness. Your eyes taking in every part of his physique feels much more innocent now compared to before, deep appreciation and subtle awe flashing across your irises the more you stare, which causes his cheeks to tint slightly. You find it adorable how shy or embarrassed he gets whenever you look at him like he’s something born out of the stars in contrast to the overinflated cockiness he displays when others compliment him; it just proves he feels different, more special with you.

You shoot him a gentle smile that makes his brain shut down and his heart jump.

Christ on a cross, just what did you fucking reduce him into?

“Will you marry me?” The words had left his mouth before he could even process.

You froze, eyes wide as you snapped your gaze to him at the same time his own widened in shock. Fuck, did he just say what he thinks he did? After you fucked him ‘til he couldn’t even speak properly? God, his legs feel wobbly after all that delicious pounding of your dick in his tight little—

His distracting thoughts were interrupted by your hands cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at you. There’s a bit of doubt lingered across your expression, worried that you mistakenly heard him, and Ben’s gaze softened. “Will you marry me?” He repeats quietly this time with genuine emotion, wiping away your worry.

Excitement and happiness seem to explode within you as you beam; “Yes! Fuck, yes, I’ll marry you.” However, your smile slowly deflates and a foreign look of insecurity replaces the joy surrounding you. “Are you… are you sure? You’re not pushing yourself?”

Confusion spreads across his face, “Why would you think I am?”

“It’s just not that easy to break away from all the homophobia, love.” You softly remind him. “You’re still having a hard time accepting it, could barely even call yourself the right term. You’re afraid, and that’s fine. We can continue on like this. You don’t have to marry me because you feel obligated to.”

Ben frowns, his hand pulling you down to the mattress at his side as he props up on his elbow and stares at you incredulously. “You think I wanna fucking marry you just ‘cause I’m guilty about hiding this? Did it ever occur to you that I actually fuckin’ love you?”

You smile to yourself; what a long way it took for him to just be able to admit that. At least he’s letting himself know he can be vulnerable with you now, compared to when he was convinced you’ll despise his inner self — a big fucking pussy, he says — and completely shut himself off in the beginning.

“Hey,” He grabs your chin to make you pay attention. “I know I still don’t do enough to show you, but I do. I really fucking do, baby.”

You look into his captivating green eyes for a second before releasing a deep breath, “I know. Trust me, you don’t have to do enough to show it, I can already tell. And I love you too.”

Ben nods and kisses your lips, lying down beside you. Your hand instinctually attaches to his waist, caressing his soft skin and shooting warmth throughout his body.

He can’t help but stare at your features, the way you look different now from how you looked at the party you crashed earlier. A certain amount of coldness, hostility and displeasure usually lurked your expression in a daily manner — hidden behind the undeniable charisma and obnoxious arrogance — directed at others that told exactly what their worth to you was; nothing. Ben hasn’t seen a day you were even remotely pleased by someone in the long years of knowing you, the people who attempted to get in your good graces often ended up screwing everything up instead and irritating you enough to kill them off.

But with him, you wouldn’t even spare him a cold glance. Your gaze twinkling with a pleasant spark, always warm, always comforting, always proud. God forbid you look at him with hatred like you’re supposed to. So affectionate for a man who’s been named after the Devil by the idiotic public that only sees what you let them see.

It is then had Ben realised; to him, true love is you.

True love is when you embrace a part of him that he deems undesirable, mend his broken soul, and melt the ice of deep rooted trauma surrounding his heart — it is when Soldier Boy doesn’t drive you away from seeing Benjamin, an ordinary boy from South Philadelphia who desperately wanted to make his father proud. You see them as one, as equally significant parts of him.

Good fucking Lord, he was a gigantic imbecile if he didn’t want to marry you, even if the idea still makes him feel quite… odd. Fuck’s sake, he really needs to learn how to deal with this homophobia bullshit, doesn’t he?

Ben licks his lips anxiously, reluctance plastered on his face. “I… I actually got the rings,” He hesitantly admitted.

Your eyes widened. “You did?”

“I- Jesus Christ, of course I did! I know I don’t fucking do shit like that, okay?” He snapped before quietly muttering, “Just wanted you to believe me when I propose.”

“I do,” You don’t miss to give him comfort, grabbing his hand. Ben’s nerves soothes at your touch. “I just thought we still have a long way to go and you need more time to figure yourself out.”

He shakes his head, “Gotta claim you before some fucker decides you’re free for them.”

“Yeah?” You smirked, raising one eyebrow. “Could’ve gone with a collar, y’know. It would get your point straight across. Plus, it’s more visible.” Tapping your neck to emphasise, which made Ben swallow.

Yeah, you’ll look good with a collar in his colour. You can even wear both. That’ll definitely get his point across to anyone that even looks at you. Maybe next time, he decides.

A mischievous smirk spreads across his lips, “That’ll fucking work best. Think I could put a leash on you too?” He teased, letting out a chuckle and sliding his hand up to your neck and hold you there.

“Mhm, fuck yes,” You almost purred from how pleased you were at the idea.

Ben laughs, lightly squeezing your neck in affection before turning around to rummage through the cabinet on the side of your bed, pulling out a velvet box that’s in the shade of his green. You could tell he was enthusiastic and overwhelmed with emotions from the way his hands slightly trembled, though you made no mention of it to avoid bursting his adorable bubble.

His grin was as bright as the sun on a sunny day when the ring perfectly fits around your finger, already snuggling comfortably on your skin and bringing a weight of new purpose in life. You slip the other ring on his as well, feeling the entanglement of your destiny with one another, the red strings of fate on both of your pinky fingers thickening. It’s a sacred oath that ties you to each other forever.

Warmth spreads around your chest at the fact it’s his first time giving you a gift and it’s something so unexpectedly intimate. A silver engagement ring with a ruby in his shade of green and his name engraved on the inner side; practically a part of his soul, settling itself home around your finger. You shift your gaze to the one he wears — the same silver ring but with a dark red ruby instead, your signature colour, and you assume also have your name engraved on the inner side as well.

A big, significant step for a man who’s constantly afraid of what others think about him, and you couldn’t be more prouder.

Lying back down on the bed together, Ben turns his back on you and scoots closer to your chest, making you smile when he grabbed your wrist to pull your arm over his torso. He always loved being hugged by you from behind despite the fact he’ll never admit it out loud; as much as it sounds pathetic and unmanly, he doesn’t argue with himself of how it gives him safety and protection from the harsh judgmental world. Being in your arms always dissipated the cruel words of his father carved in his mind.

You gently pulled him closer to your body and pressed a kiss on his shoulder blade. “Don’t have to rush about coming out, love. It’ll take more than a simple courage to be open about something considered taboo by our society. You’re still dealing with personal issues, we’ll focus on that for now.”

Ben’s heart warms at your consideration, unable to resist the urge to stick to you like a glue as he leans back on your chest. “How the fuck did you do it? This feels like a pain in the fucking ass,” He muttered disdainfully, though there was a hint of willingness in his tone, like he’s willing to make an effort just for you.

You shrugged, “m’not exactly shaped by my childhood trauma, Benji, and I didn’t like my parents that much. Never really gave a fuck about somethin’ that has no benefit to my life whatsoever.”

“Entitled asshole,” He laughs.

“So are you,” You teased, making you both erupt in loud laughter.

I could get used to this, Ben thinks as genuine happiness glows bright in his heart, your love anchoring him and providing a solid land for him to stand on. Dealing with his own problems doesn’t sound so bad when you’re there for him every step of the way. With your protective arms around his body, both Soldier Boy and Benjamin knew their heart will always be safe with you.

For once, Ben believes he can finally learn to create a family of his own.

Until disaster struck and life suddenly decides to not be fair on someone as fucked up as him — ripping his world apart into shreds in the form of coward, betraying bastards known as his fucking teammates.

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phoenix9912 · 24 days ago

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𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮? 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞?

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐱 𝐌!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

“Y-You’re going to get us caught,” Clark stammered, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as you thrust into him. Clark's breath hitches as you thrust into him against the desk, his glasses fogging up from the heat. His fingers desperately grip the edge of the desk while his legs tremble in your grasp.

Clark let out a soft moan, his back arching as you hit that sweet spot. His button-up shirt was halfway open, revealing a glimpse of his toned chest, and you could see the way his cheeks flushed with desire. “Y-You’re going to make me—” “Make you what?” you teased, pulling back slightly before thrusting deeper, making him gasp. “ You’re going to have to use your words, Clark.” “Please... harder... I need more...” His voice comes out in needy gasps between moans, his shirt fully untucked now as he writhes beneath you.

Clark's head falls back as you hit that sweet spot inside him, The desk creaking with each thrust, papers scattering across the floor. “Oh god... yes... right there...” His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure as his glasses slip down his nose. One hand reaches up to grasp your shoulder while the other still clutches the desk.

“I’m, I’m—” he gasped, his voice trembling with pleasure. “I’m so close.” Clark’s body tensed, and he let out a loud moan, his back arching as he came. He pants heavily, still twitching from his orgasm as he tries to catch his breath. His fingers weakly grip your shirt, holding onto you as aftershocks course through his body.

you slowly come down from your high, you lean forward to capture Clark's lips in a passionate kiss. His body is limp against the desk, still trembling slightly from the intensity of what just happened. He returns the kiss weakly, his tongue tangling with yours as he tries to catch his breath. When you finally pull away, he looks up at you with dazed, satisfied eyes.

You gently lower his legs from your waist, taking a moment to admire the sight of him - disheveled, flushed, and completely wrecked on his own desk. Clark slowly sits up, wincing slightly as he feels your cum dripping out of him. He reaches for his glasses, but they're too far away. "Mmm... I think you broke me..." He says with a tired chuckle, his voice still hoarse from moaning.

You smirk at his comment and help him fix his shirt, though it's clearly wrinkled beyond repair. The evidence of your passionate encounter is everywhere - papers scattered, desk askew, and both of you looking thoroughly debauched. Clark tries to stand but his legs wobble unsteadily. He leans against you for support, pressing his face into your chest. "We should probably clean up... before anyone comes looking for me..." He murmurs, though he makes no move to actually start cleaning.

Taglist ~ @starboye @boypied @cronasluvr @amor-xoxo @magicstarbits @capsicleforever @loverclear @cravingrickgrimes @gayaristocrat @m4r13ll @sluttyhusband

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phoenix9912 · 24 days ago

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first time you called me baby

aka male reader takes clark's virginity. cw warning for smut, bottom reader, praise kink, and insecure!clark.

984 words

“Clark?” You asked, tugging at the back of his head with the hand buried in his messy hair, “you okay?” You fixed him with a confused look after you pulled his head up and found a nervous look on his face. “What’s wrong, baby?” You asked, cupping his sweaty cheeks.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he slurred, his body curled over yours protectively. And fuck, he looked close to tears as he ran his hands over your stomach, just shy of your hard cock which rested in a pool of precum that leaked from the head.

The laugh that bubbled up your throat was borderline hysterical, and it only scared Clark further. At the sound, the tears in his eyes fell from his blue eyes, making them shimmer. He went to pull away, but you wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing your bodies together in a sweaty tangle of limbs.

“Clark, baby,” you said, pulling the man down to kiss him as his tears hit your fingers, “i’m not in any pain,” you said after you pulled away from the kiss, “quite the opposite, actually,” you said with another laugh, this one sound a lot less crazy.

“Yeah?” Clark whispered, his voice wet and full of emotion, “I feel good, too,” he said breathlessly. His body was taut, tight under the pressure of trying to stay completely still. The pressure started to finally give when you clenched down on his cock, the man above you groaning. His hips twitched forward, moving the thick, hot brand of his cock that rested deep inside your body to brush your prostate.

You pulled Clark down into another kiss, silencing the teary sorrys he tried to get out. Your tongues met with a moan, Clark’s higher in frequency after you clenched down on his cock once more.

“Want me to do it?” You asked, your legs loosening around Clark’s waist.

“You mean like,” Clark began, his face going a dark shade of red as he spoke, “fuck me?” He whispered, like he was afraid to even utter the words.

You giggled, pulling Clark down into yet another kiss, “next time,” you said, a warm feeling of satisfaction washing over your body when Clark’s face lit up, “I meant do you want me to do the work? Want me to ride you?”

“Oh!” Clark responded, glancing down where your bodies were connected before quickly looking back up, “yeah. Yes. That sounds good,” he said as the redness on his face went down his broad chest, “great, even-” he said excitedly, but you cut him off by surging up for a kiss.

It was a little difficult to switch positions while at the same time kissing, but you managed. You were both breathless after you settled on top of Clark, his hands finding their way to your hips. His hands tightened when you reached back to guide his cock back into your hole. You went down slowly, aided by Clark’s grip on your hips.

You both moaned once you bottomed out, feeling as if it was deeper than it had been previously. Clark pulled you close until you were chest to chest, his hands roaming the expanse of your back as he pulled you into a slow kiss.

“You feel so good,” Clark moaned, his cock giving an involuntary twitch deep inside you. His eyes, now dry, still twinkled, especially as he could do nothing but watch as you raised your hips up and brought them back down.

A punched out moan left your throat as his cock made its way back into your body. You groaned in a mix of frustration and pleasure as his cock missed your prostate, but the burn of it going back just as deep was enough to send shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

You placed your hands on Clark’s broad shoulders, using them to bring yourself up and then back down. They fell once you established your rhythm, your fingers digging into his pecs as you bounced on his cock.

“Not gonna last long,” Clark said through gritted teeth, already seemingly close to the edge. His hands rested on your ass cheeks, helping you fuck yourself down onto his cock.

You slowed down to pull Clark into a kiss that was just as slow, “touch me,” you commanded after you pulled free from the kiss to press your forehead to his. You gasped when Clark wrapped his fingers around your cock loosely, “tighter,” you said, hissing when his fingers tightened to a perfect amount, “good boy.”

Clark let out a low noise at the praise, his hips twitching up into your body. His fingers glided along your hard cock, using what leaked from the head to slick the way. His hand moved in the rhythm of your thrusts, pulling you closer and closer to edge with every stroke.

Clark came before you, his mouth falling open as moans of ecstasy fell from his lips. The sight of it pushed you over the edge just moments later, cumming messily over Clark’s fingers. You kissed him soft and slow as you came down from your orgasm, Clark taking your weight easily onto his muscular chest.

“You okay?” You asked once you had your breathing under control. The feeling of worry that you felt threatened to sour your orgasm when Clark hid his face into the crook of your neck, “what?” You asked after you felt the vibrations of Clark softly speaking.

“I didn’t last long,” Clark repeated, this time loud enough for you to hear.

“I didn’t either,” you responded with a chuckle, grabbing one of Clark’s hands. You led it between your bodies, right into the mess you splattered onto your chests.

You cupped his cheeks to pull him from his hiding spot, “we’ll just have to build your endurance,” you said with a soft smile before you pulled him into a soft kiss.

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phoenix9912 · 25 days ago

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starring: soldier boy x male reader

request: I need a Soldier Boy x Male Reader fic about Butcher leaving Reader with Soldier Boy alone. Soldier Boy offers Reader a few drinks and they both get hammered. A few drunken conversations later, and Soldier Boy drunkenly admits to wanting to fuck Reader ever since they first met. Maybe add butcher walking on them at the end for a funny touch ? ❤️

warnings: smut, drinking, alcohol mentioned, ass smacking, rough sex, creampie, unprotected sex, cursing, drunk sex

it was just supposed to be something to take a little edge off from the constant stress of everything, butcher had left to go handle some errands and left you with the one hundred and something year old popsicle, so what better thing to do rather than drink.

downing shot after shot and drinking beer after beer until you were both shit faced drunk, talking about some random shit until soldier boy decides to reveal a secret "y'know i've always wanted to fuck you" he slurred a little "oh yeah" you turned on your side to look at him "mhm, you gotta nice ass" he smirks.

and just in the moment an idea popped in your head, straddling yourself on his lap and rubbing your ass on his bulge "what're you doing" you moves his hands to your hips to keep your clumsy drunk ass from falling over "we can fuck right now, no harm in a little fun right" you tease.

"don't gotta tell me twice" he rips off your pants and quickly makes work of taking off his pants revealing no underwear making you look at him with a raised eyebrow "what i like going commando" he smirks rubbing your ass back and forth of his hardening cock until he was rock hard.

using some spit as lube and making quick work of getting in your hole, his cock plunging in and out of you in no time, and along with your bouncing up and down on his dick, the moan and groans were filling the room in no time "fuck this ass didn't disappoint" he huffs turning you over on your back, his hands tightly grabbing your waist to continue fucking your hole.

the headboard of the bed was slamming against the wall at this point, adding to the loud noise already being made between you two "fuck me harder" you demand wrapping your legs around his waist to lock him in "you sure you can take all this" he slows his thrusts to fuck his cock deeper into you with more sensitivity, shivers running up your spine.

"please just do" you moan pulling him closer to kiss, moaning into his mouth when he starts slamming his cock into your hole, his hips working overtime to make sure you feel him destroying you "shitttt fuck meeee" you whine out, from the mix of him fucking you and the alcohol in your system the room was spinning "im gonna fucking fill this ass so well" he grunts smacking your ass "please please do" you beg matching his movements.

one more thrust and you both were cumming at the same time, your cum spurting all over his and your chest while he painted your walls white with his load, you both came down from your high relatively quick, him falling next you with heavy breaths "was it like how you imagined" you ask "even better" he laughs.

"ah what the hell mate, i leave you two fucking shits alone for one hour and this is wat ya do" butcher walks into the room "no regrets" you say.

taglist:@mailmango @spermeboy @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac

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phoenix9912 · 25 days ago

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Ben would be the type of man to fuck real hard and deep mostly only caring about his pleasure and disregarding yours but sometimes if he’s up for it he fucks nice and slow and passionate just for you to make up for all the times he failed to pleasure you. When he fucks for his pleasure he does just hit it from the back able to use your hips and your hair as a way to handle to make you stay in place while he violently fuck your sweet ass, for the times he fucking for your pleasure he has you in missionary for ring you to keep eye contact with him while he slowly fucks you whispers sweet nothings in your ear like “such a good boy taking me so well” , “ keep your eyes on me boy” and “perfect sweet ass~”.

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phoenix9912 · 25 days ago

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starring: soldier boy x male reader

request: nsfw headcanons for soldier boy

warnings: smutty headcanons

soldier boy who can go round after round after round without any breaks but usually has to stop just to give you a breather so you wont pass out but trust he'll be back to fucking you up

soldier boy who was not as kinky back then but after meeting you he's got loads of them now, to name a few he likes daddy kink, breeding kink, cnc, and dirty talk

soldier boy who just loves when you call him daddy, it just makes him feel so high and mighty when he's absolutely destroying your hole and making you cum ten times over

soldier boy who needs sex like every hour, i mean he was starved of it when he was in cryo sleep so when he got a taste of you he needed that constantly every time

soldier boy who loves choking you, just watching you cower under him as his hand tightens around your throat more and more, begging him to stop it, he never is gonna actually hurt you he just loves doing it

soldier boy who loves watching you take his cock, taking him all the way down your throat to the base with no gagging just makes him want you destroy every part of you

soldier boy who always has to remind himself to fuck you and not destroy you, it's just you looks so good taking him that he wants to fuck you until your legs can actually not work anymore but he knows you're fragile

soldier boy who can be a jealous motherfucker and when he's jealous the sex is even better, calling you his slut and constantly telling you that your hole belongs to him only

taglist:@mailmango @spermeboy @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac

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phoenix9912 · 25 days ago

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Starboy

Soldier Boy x M!Reader

Soldier Boy sits on the edge of the bed, a trail of smoke curling from his cigar as he looks up at you with those intense eyes. “Well well, look who's finally here. I was getting lonely waiting for you.” He slowly stands up, letting his robe slip slightly to reveal more of his muscular frame. “You know, I've been thinking about you... And what you can give me. Been a while since I had a proper taste.”

His hands move to your pants, deftly unzipping them as he pushes you against the wall. “Mmm, you're already so hard for me... Daddy's going to take good care of his boy.”Soldier Boy's calloused hands grip your thighs as he kneels down, his warm breath ghosting over your exposed skin. “Come on, give it to me. Show daddy how much you want this.”

He takes you fully into his mouth, moaning around you as his tongue swirls skillfully. “You taste so sweet, baby boy. Keep making those sounds for me...” Soldier Boy's throat works around you as he deepthroats you, one hand reaching up to play with your balls. “Such a good boy, letting daddy use your cock like this... I could do this all day.” He pulls back momentarily, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your tip.

“You're gonna fill my mouth with your cum, aren't you? Be a good boy and give it to me.”Soldier Boy swallows every drop as you release, his throat working to milk you dry. He pulls off slowly, licking his lips and looking up at you with satisfaction. “That's my good boy... You always make such a pretty mess for me.”

Taglist ~ @starboye @boypied @cronasluvr @amor-xoxo @magicstarbits @capsicleforever @loverclear @cravingrickgrimes @gayaristocrat @m4r13ll @sluttyhusband

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phoenix9912 · 25 days ago

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Hi, could you do one about Remmick from Sinners? Context: The reader has an ethereal beauty and is a wonderful dancer. Remmick saw him dancing one night and became obsessed with the male reader. So, he pretended to be attacked and stopped by the reader's house. The reader allowed him into his house. As time went on, the reader discovered he was a vampire, but ended up falling in love anyway. Then, Remmick and the reader began having a very pornographic and bloody night. (At the end, the reader could be transformed by Remmick, please, and Remmick could have a Greek kiss fetish, please 🙏🏻).

Tainted Bliss

Remmick x Male Reader

Summary: His unfiltered desire for you led Remmick down a path from which he wouldn't return until you were his, bound to him for eternity.

A/N: Hadn't a single clue what Greek Kissing was, but when I looked it up it seemed more like a kink or honestly just sexual foreplay? I'm not sure how to put it. Anyway I did my best with the ethereal beauty and dancing part, hoping it turned out how you wanted. It also ended up being oddly soft, like that wasn't my intention at all when it came to the smut.

TW: Fingering - Anal - Gay sex - Biting - Brief Greek Kiss - Blood - Praise - Vampirism - Females DNI - Minors DNI

Words: 12.8k

From the deepest shadows, Remmick watched, captivated. There was an otherworldly quality to you, a beauty so profound it transcended the mortal, touching upon the ethereal. Your very presence was a breathtaking vision, a surreal masterpiece that stirred even his unliving heart, making it thrum against his ribs with a sensation he hadn't known for centuries. Every delicate curve of your form, the gentle allure in your eyes, the way your long lashes caught the moonlight and shimmered like spun silver—each detail was a stroke of divine artistry. Your lips, so soft, held the promise of an enchanting smile, and your nose, with its perfectly unique curve, rivaled the idealized sculptures of ancient Greece. Your hair, a cascade framing your face, seemed to weave itself into the moonlight, creating an aura of unparalleled grace. The silver glow caressed every perfect contour, and Remmick, a creature of shadow and night, found himself utterly consumed by it. He loved the sight of you, loved such breathtaking beauty, loved it with an intensity that demanded possession.

Each night, he returned to his hidden vantage point, drawn by an irresistible force. His initial hunt, the search for a family to claim, had been utterly forgotten. His purpose had shifted, narrowed, focusing solely on you. The shadows became his sanctuary, a veil behind which he could indulge his obsession. He was mesmerized by the fluid grace of your movements, by the effortless way you danced across the worn wooden floor. It seemed to transform beneath your feet, becoming a stage built just for you, a testament to your innate rhythm and joy. The pure, unburdened elation radiating from your face as you danced, free of any earthly worry, was a beacon in his desolate existence.

He watched as you swayed, a silent melody echoing in his mind, mirroring your every turn. Your hands, expressive and lithe, gestured with a captivating elegance. The fabric of your clothes shifted with your movements, a whisper of material against skin, highlighting the lean strength of your frame. A stray strand of hair would sometimes fall across your forehead, and the unconscious, graceful way you’d brush it back only tightened the invisible bonds that were forming around Remmick's cold heart. He noted the slight tilt of your head when you seemed lost in the music, the soft hum that sometimes escaped your lips, carried on the night air like a private blessing.

With each passing night, the possessiveness grew, a slow, insatiable hunger taking root within him. The desire to simply observe transmuted into a fierce, unwavering resolve. You were not merely a beautiful sight to be admired from afar; you were an epiphany, the missing piece of his endless, empty eternity. The thought of anyone else laying eyes on such beauty, of anyone else experiencing the warmth of your smile or the lightness of your spirit, became an unbearable torment. You were meant for him, and him alone.

The moon, a silent conspirator, continued to cast its silver net over you, illuminating every perfect detail, every ephemeral quality that drew Remmick deeper into his fixation. He no longer sought a family; he had found his eternity in you. This ethereal man, this breathtaking vision, would be his. He would claim you, not with force, but with an inexorable pull, drawing you into his world, into his endless night. He would safeguard that beauty, that joy, that unparalleled essence, keeping it for himself, forever. The shadows that had once concealed his existence now became the borders of his burgeoning domain, with you at its radiant, captive center.

The nights bled into each other, each one deepening Remmick's desperate need. It was no longer enough to simply watch, to admire from afar. A gnawing hunger had taken root in his ancient being, a primal craving that transcended mere obsession. He needed you. He needed to feel the warmth of your skin, the delicate curve of your body pressed against his own, a stark contrast to his perpetual cold. He craved the taste of you, a sensation his unliving palate had never known but now imagined with an intensity that bordered on agony. This was a need that no whispered prayer could answer, a desire no god, merciful or vengeful, would ever sanction. It was a dark, consuming fire that demanded satisfaction.

He needed you beneath him, pliant and yielding, to trace every exquisite line of your form with his hands, to commit to memory the unique landscape of your flesh. He yearned to know the subtle rise and fall of your breath, the soft sighs that would escape your lips. He envisioned the silk of your hair fanned out against his skin, the delicate pulse in your throat beneath his touch. Most of all, he needed to know your taste—to savor the very essence of you, to claim it as his own in the most intimate, undeniable way.

Remmick, a creature of calculated moves and ancient cunning, knew exactly what had to be done. The physical barrier of your home’s threshold, an age-old protection against his kind, was the first obstacle. He couldn't simply take you; he had to be invited in, to bridge that sacred boundary. And to do that, he had to earn your trust. It was a delicate dance, one he was prepared to lead with infinite patience and cunning. He would weave himself into the fabric of your life, a subtle thread at first, then an indispensable part of your existence. He would offer solace, companionship, understanding—whatever you unconsciously yearned for.

He would make you believe you needed him too. He would peel back the layers of your polite resistance, find the hidden desires buried deep within your soul, the unspoken longings you might not even admit to yourself. He saw the spark of something wild and untamed in your eyes when you danced, a yearning for freedom and passion that mirrored his own dark intensity. He knew, with an ancient certainty, that deep down, you craved the same all-consuming connection, the same surrender to a powerful, undeniable force. And he, Remmick, was that force. He would orchestrate events, subtly manipulate circumstances, until the moment was perfect. Until you, willingly and irrevocably, gave in to his every being, gave into the potent, inescapable pull between you. You would be his, not by force, but by your own awakening desire, your own profound need for him, an eternity of ethereal beauty locked in his shadow.

He found his way in through your politeness, a vulnerability he had long since mastered exploiting. The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, its final, fiery kiss a calculated risk Remmick willingly embraced. He needed to be invited, and for that, he needed to appear vulnerable, a stark contrast to the predator he truly was. He knew you would let him in, that your inherent kindness would override any caution. He knew you would care for him unlike the others, those fleeting shadows of his past who had either fled in terror or fallen to his true nature. And so, with a grim determination, he prepared for his performance.

He tore at his old linen shirt, the coarse fabric giving way with a satisfying rip. His movements were swift, precise, as he covered himself in the fresh, still-warm blood of a goat he'd slaughtered moments before. The coppery scent was strong, sickeningly sweet, a macabre perfume that would sell his charade. He worked quickly, smearing the dark liquid across his face, his bare arms, letting it seep into the torn cloth. Then, he stumbled towards your home, the last fiery rays of the sun beginning their final descent. They licked at his pale, ancient skin, a searing caress that burned with a ferocity he hadn't felt in centuries. The pain was sharp, agonizing, but he welcomed it, knowing it would lend authenticity to his suffering.

A guttural cry, more animal than human, tore from his throat as he collapsed onto your doorstep. "Help me!" he rasped, his voice raw with feigned desperation. "Please, someone... anyone!" He twisted his body, making sure the tattered shirt and the fresh blood were undeniably visible. He let out a pained groan, clenching his fists and digging his nails into his palms, the self-inflicted pain adding to the realism. He knew the sun was still singing him, felt the sizzle of his skin, but he held his position, his eyes fixed on your door. He waited, a silent predator masquerading as prey, his heart pounding a rhythm of anticipation against his ribs. He knew you would open it, knew you would step into the trap he had so meticulously set.

The soft murmur of your footsteps approached, hesitant but resolute. Remmick heard the click of the latch, the slight creak of the door as it opened, a sliver of light spilling out onto his feigned agony. He forced a shudder, a pained gasp, making his body seem to convulse slightly. "Please," he choked out again, his voice barely a whisper, yet laced with an urgent, desperate plea.

Then, you were there, a silhouette against the warm glow of your home. Your eyes, wide with concern, immediately fell upon his blood-soaked form, the raw, sun-scorched skin, the desperate vulnerability he so expertly projected. He felt the soft brush of your hand against his arm, a tentative touch that sent a jolt, not of pain, but of exhilarating triumph through him. "Oh, my gods!" you gasped, your voice a blend of shock and genuine distress. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Some…..men," Remmick mumbled, letting his head loll to the side as if losing consciousness. "Got caught...trying to make it back..." He let out another pained groan, allowing his body to sag even further. He knew the concern in your eyes was real, a purity he had almost forgotten existed. It was exactly what he needed.

He felt your gentle hands on him, helping him shift, trying to find a comfortable position. You were asking more questions, your voice laced with worry, but he only managed to offer more fragmented, pained sounds in response. He knew you wouldn't leave him out there. He knew the warmth of your compassion was too strong to resist.

"We need to get you inside," you murmured, and the words were music to his ears, the sweet chime of victory. You carefully maneuvered him, your strength surprising, as you began to pull him across the threshold. The moment his body crossed the boundary, the lingering sting of the sun's touch vanished, replaced by the cool, comforting air of your home. He let his weight rest heavily against you, savoring the feeling of your body supporting his. The subtle scent of your skin, the warmth radiating from you, enveloped him, a heady mixture that made his still heart thrum with a dark, satisfied rhythm.

You guided him to a soft armchair, gently easing him down. He kept his eyes mostly closed, feigning weakness, but not so much that he couldn't take in the details of your living space: warm, lived-in, filled with an inviting comfort that spoke of genuine care. As you knelt beside him, your touch tender as you began to assess his 'wounds,' Remmick allowed himself a small, internal smile. The bait had been taken. You were inside, and so was he. The game had just begun.

From that night forward, Remmick understood he had you ensnared, a knowledge that only deepened his resolve. The memory of your hands on his skin, so gentle and sincere, was a persistent echo. He recalled the profound compassion in your eyes, a stark contrast to the truth of his being, a truth you remained utterly oblivious to. The subtle scent of your skin became a constant, almost tangible presence, a phantom comfort that fueled his growing obsession.

He began to return each night, his visits cloaked in the guise of gratitude. He claimed his thanks could only be expressed through music, a talent he feigned discovering within himself purely for your benefit. He would play for you, soft melodies that filled the quiet evenings, watching as your face softened, your guard lowering with each note. He pretended not to know of your dancing, acting surprised and delighted when you moved with such effortless grace. This charade, however, was a mockery; he knew intimately the way your body flowed, every sway and turn ingrained in his memory from countless nights spent in the shadows, observing.

He memorized the slight curve of your lips when you smiled at him, a genuine warmth that made his calculated deceptions feel almost real. He had taken to calling you "little bird," a tender endearment that seemed to delight you, eliciting that captivating smile. He recalled the first time your hands met his, the perfect fit as you danced together, a seamless connection that sent a dark thrill through him. Your laughter, bright and unburdened, was another detail he meticulously cataloged, a sound he now craved above all others.

You were perfection in his eyes, everything he had ever desired and more. You transcended the simple concept of family, becoming an all-consuming entity that permeated his every thought, every waking moment, and every lingering shadow of his unlife. You were the culmination of centuries of unfulfilled longing, a singular focus that had replaced the vast emptiness of his existence. Remmick reveled in this consumption, this profound absorption, finding a twisted pleasure in the absolute control he believed he wielded. He had you, completely and utterly, and the thought was a sweet, intoxicating poison.

Then came the night. Remmick stood at your door, a silent sentinel as he had so many times before, a soft, expectant smile on his lips. But this time, something was different. Your eyes, usually so soft and welcoming, held a knowing look, a flicker of something he hadn't seen before – not fear, not anger, but a profound, almost sorrowful understanding.

"You can't come in," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with an authority that stopped him cold. The air between you crackled with an unspoken truth. The familiar warmth that usually radiated from your home felt like a physical barrier, a shimmering wall he couldn't breach.

Remmick's carefully constructed composure shattered. His eyes, wide with disbelief and a dawning dread, searched yours frantically. "Wh-what's wrong, love?" he stammered, his carefully cultivated accent slipping, a hint of his true, ancient brogue creeping into his voice. "What in God's name are ye talkin' about?" He instinctively reached out, his hand extending towards you, towards the warmth, the life, the very essence he craved.

But as his fingers neared your form, an invisible force repelled him. It wasn't a physical push, but an undeniable, unyielding barrier that prevented his touch. His hand hovered in the air, trembling, unable to bridge the infinitesimal distance between you. A cold dread seeped into his being, colder than any crypt. He tried again, pushing against the unseen wall, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Let me in, darlin'! What's this madness?" His voice was laced with a raw desperation, a panic he hadn't truly felt since his turning. He tried to take a step forward, but his feet felt rooted to the spot, held fast by an unseen power.

You watched him, your expression a mixture of sadness and quiet resolve. The knowing in your eyes deepened, mirroring the despair that was now blossoming in Remmick's chest. The unspoken truth hung heavy between you, a truth that had been whispered on the wind, perhaps, or revealed in a forgotten dream. The magic of his carefully crafted deception was dissolving, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and utterly bewildered by this sudden, impenetrable barrier. The world, which he had so confidently bent to his will, was now defying him, and the source of that defiance stood before him, the very person he had intended to claim forever.

Your voice, though soft, cut through Remmick's growing panic. "I was so naive," you began, your gaze unwavering, holding his in its steady grip. "So incredibly foolish." A slow, knowing shake of your head accompanied your words. "I dismissed the strange hours, the unnatural pallor of your skin, even the way you healed from that 'injury' on my doorstep, faster than any human could. I wanted to believe the story you spun, the vulnerable man seeking help."

You took a deep, fortifying breath, the very air around you seeming to solidify with the weight of your realization. "But the nightmares started. Not of you, not exactly, but of something cold and ancient, shadows clinging to the edges of my waking thoughts. And then... the stories. The old tales my grandmother used to tell me, whispers of creatures that couldn't cross a threshold uninvited, of eyes that held centuries of secrets." Your voice dropped, heavy with a heartbreaking certainty. "It all clicked into place, Remmick. You're... you're a vampire, aren't you?"

The word hung in the air, a stark, undeniable truth that pierced through his carefully constructed lies. Remmick flinched, not from your accusation, but from the raw, open honesty in your voice.

You stepped closer to the invisible barrier, your eyes pleading now, a new vulnerability in their depths. "Why, Remmick? Why go through all this trouble? The music, the 'little bird,' the dancing... the feigned injury." A tear tracked a path down your cheek, catching the faint moonlight. "Tell me, if you're truly what I think you are, why haven't you... why am I still human? Is it because..." Your voice hitched, thick with emotion. "...is it because you love me, the way I've come to love you? Is that why you're playing this game? Because if not, if this is all just a monstrous ploy, then I don't understand."

Remmick's chest ached with a sensation he hadn't known was possible for his kind—a profound, gut-wrenching pain. Your words, your tears, were more potent than any sun he'd ever faced. He yearned to bridge the gap, to touch you, to wipe away your tears, to pull you into his arms and silence your doubts with the truth of his dark affection.

"Ah, little bird," he rasped, his voice raw with a desperate plea, his Irish brogue thick with genuine anguish. "Please, darlin'. Just let me in. Let me explain everything to ye, from the very start. I swear on all that's unholy, I'll tell ye the truth. Just... let me in." His hand reached out again, trembling, hovering an inch from the invisible wall, his eyes fixed on yours, pleading for the invitation that would allow him to cross the threshold and lay bare the centuries of longing that had finally found their anchor in you.

You took another shaky breath, your gaze unwavering from his. Slowly, deliberately, you stepped aside, opening the doorway wider. As you moved, Remmick's keen eyes caught a glint in your hand—a sharp piece of wood, clutched tight. A stake, he realized, his ancient instincts flaring, but quickly subdued. This wasn't the terrified scream and wild swings he was used to; this was controlled, desperate courage.

"Come in, Remmick," you said, your voice low and laced with a tremor, but firm. "But you better not try anything stupid. Not one single thing."

Remmick moved, a predator stepping into a cage, though the cage was of his own making. He walked past the threshold, every fiber of his being tingling with the sensation of truly being inside, invited. His hands instinctively rose, palms open, a gesture of surrender. "I swear on me life, little bird, I wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, tinged with his thick Irish brogue. "Not a blessed thing."

He stepped fully into the room, then turned to face you, his eyes locking onto yours, desperate to convey the truth of his centuries-long yearning. He lowered his hands slowly, carefully, not wanting to spook you. The stake in your grip remained steady.

"Ah, my little bird," he began, his voice softening, a profound ache echoing in every word. "Do ye know what drew me to ye? Not just the beauty, though God above, yer like a piece of the heavens fallen to earth. It was the way ye moved, dancin' there in the moonlight, free as a spirit. I've watched ye, ye know, for weeks. Every night. Yer laugh... it's like music I've never heard before, pure and bright. And yer eyes, darlin', they hold such kindness, such light, even when they're lookin' at a monster like me."

He took a slow, deliberate step closer, stopping just out of your reach, his gaze never leaving yours. "Ye've no idea what it's like, livin' as I do, year after year, with nothin' but the cold. And then there ye were, this vibrant, bleedin' miracle. Every curve of yer body, the softness in yer eyes, the way yer lashes turned silver in the moonlight... I memorized it all. I want nothing more, sweetheart, than to feel ye against me. To know every blessed inch of yer skin under my hands. To taste ye, little bird, to taste the life and warmth of ye, and to make ye mine."

His eyes, dark and ancient, burned with an intensity that promised both eternal devotion and an insatiable hunger. "Not as a meal, never as a meal, not my perfect, precious boy. But as my own. My eternity. My comfort in the endless night." He finished, his voice a low, desperate plea, his vulnerability as stark as the moonlight that now streamed through your window, illuminating the unspoken truths between you.

The air in the room hummed with the raw intensity of Remmick's confession. The stake in your hand felt both heavy and insignificant. His words, delivered with such a fervent, ancient passion, painted a picture that was both terrifying and undeniably magnetic. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden, profound silence.

You stared at him, taking in the sincerity in his dark eyes, the desperate plea in his stance. This was no longer the charming stranger, or the injured victim. This was something vast, something otherworldly, laying bare a terrifying devotion. The thought of being his, his "eternity," his "precious boy," sent a shiver down your spine that was not entirely of fear. There was a strange, undeniable pull, a recognition of something primal in his hunger that resonated with a nascent longing you hadn't known how to name.

"My precious boy," you whispered, the words tasting foreign on your tongue, a mirror of his own. You couldn't tear your gaze from his. "You... you want to make me yours? What does that even mean, Remmick? What would that make me?" The questions tumbled out, urgent and unbidden, born from a swirling mix of terror, fascination, and a startling, dangerous curiosity. The stake in your hand trembled almost imperceptibly. "And what about the sunlight? The blood? Everything that comes with... with being what you are?"

You paused, your mind racing, trying to reconcile the monstrous truth with the gentle hand that had nursed his feigned injury, the lyrical music that had filled your evenings, the captivating smile he'd offered. "You say you've watched me. That you love me. But how can you love something human when you... you are so far removed from humanity?" Your voice cracked with the weight of the impossible choice laid before you. This was not a choice between right and wrong, but between life as you knew it and an eternity intertwined with a creature of shadow and endless night.

Remmick was in front of you in an instant, a blur of motion that defied human speed. His hand shot out, not violently, but with an ancient certainty, closing around your wrist, just enough pressure to make your fingers uncurl. The stake clattered to the wooden floor, a stark sound in the heavy silence. Before you could react, his other hand rose, cupping your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin. The touch sent a jolt through you, a blend of alarm and a strange, undeniable current.

He leaned in close, so close you could feel the cool breath ghosting over your lips. His eyes, moments before a warm, if unnervingly deep, brown, now glowed a brilliant, pulsating red. The color was mesmerizing, terrifying, a raw manifestation of the primal being lurking beneath the veneer of the gentle musician. The shift was stark, undeniably monstrous, yet his touch remained tender, almost reverent.

"Ah, my little love," he whispered, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. The Irish lilt was thicker now, more pronounced, carrying the weight of centuries. "Humanity? What has that got to do with any of this? With the way I crave ye? With the way I love ye?"

His gaze, burning red, bored into yours, demanding comprehension, demanding surrender. "I could show ye, darlin'. Show ye exactly what it means, what it feels like, to be truly desired. To be consumed. Humanity has naught to do with the things I could do to ye, the pleasures I could give ye, the depths we could reach together." He paused, his gaze dropping to your lips, lingering there with an intensity that promised both ecstasy and oblivion. "And if ye gave in, my precious boy, if ye let go, just like I know ye want to deep down in yer soul... I'd give ye everything. Everything that the living can only dream of. An eternity of us. Of me and you, forever."

The air thickened, charged with his dark promise. His words, delivered with such fervent conviction, painted a vivid, dangerous future. The red glow from his eyes bathed your face in an unnatural light, pulling you deeper into his orbit.

You reached a shaky hand up, your fingers trembling as they made contact with his cool skin. Your thumb brushed over the corner of his lip, wiping away a bead of drool that had formed there, a startlingly human detail on his inhuman face. He leaned into your touch, his eyes, still burning red, fluttering half-lidded, a deep, primal contentment washing over his features as he stared at you. The intensity of his gaze was a physical weight, pinning you in place even as your mind reeled.

You leaned closer, your breath ghosting across his lips, the air thick with unspoken desires. "Then show me," you whispered, your voice a fragile thread, yet laced with a dangerous challenge. "Show me how much you crave me. Make me want it, Remmick. Make me want to be with you... for eternity." As the last word left your lips, you pushed his face gently away, breaking the spell of his proximity, the intensity too much to bear for another second.

A low, guttural chuckle rumbled in Remmick's chest, a sound of profound satisfaction. He watched, eyes glittering with triumph, as you fully pulled away from him, taking a deliberate step back. Your hands, still trembling slightly, found the hem of your simple linen shirt. Slowly, deliberately, teasingly, you began to pull it upward. The fabric rose, revealing the smooth expanse of your stomach, the subtle definition of your abdominal muscles, toned but not overly muscled, hinting at a graceful strength. The shirt continued its ascent, sliding over your chest, revealing the delicate curve of your collarbones, the gentle slope of your shoulders.

Then, with a soft rustle, the linen was pulled free, tossed carelessly aside. You stood before him, bathed in the faint moonlight that spilled through the window, an ethereal vision stripped bare. Your skin, pale and luminous, seemed to drink in the silver light, giving you an almost translucent quality. Your form was slender, lithe, every line and curve flowing with an innate elegance. There was a fragile beauty to your frame, a delicate strength that Remmick had only dreamed of possessing. Your hips curved softly, leading to long, elegant legs that seemed to stretch endlessly into the moonlight. Every sinew, every bone, every inch of you was a masterpiece, sculpted by some divine hand.

Remmick's red eyes devoured every detail, his ancient heart pounding with a renewed, ferocious rhythm. This was beyond beauty; this was perfection incarnate, laid bare before him. You were truly his "little bird," fragile and exquisite, yet with a strength that defied your delicate form. His lips parted slightly, a low growl of pure, possessive pleasure escaping him. He wanted nothing more than to feel that skin against his, to claim every inch of you as his own, forever.

Remmick's red eyes burned with a hunger that was both ancient and utterly singular. He took a slow step forward, then another, drawn by an irresistible force. His earlier caution had evaporated, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming desire to touch. Your pale skin, illuminated by the moonlight, seemed to pulse with an invitation only he could truly feel.

"Ah, my love," he breathed, his voice a low, rough murmur. He reached out, his long fingers trembling ever so slightly as they ghosted over your hipbone, then the delicate curve of your waist. His touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, yet it sent a shiver through you, a cascade of goosebumps rising on your skin. He traced the line of your ribs, his touch lingering over the soft hollow of your stomach. "Ye've no idea how long I've waited to feel this."

He moved closer still, until the warmth of your body was a tangible presence against his perpetually cool form. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the unique scent of your skin, a fragrance that was already more potent to him than any blood. His head dipped, his gaze dropping to your chest, then traveling slowly upward, over your collarbones, along the elegant line of your throat.

"Every night, watchin' ye from the shadows," he whispered, his voice thick with unbridled longing. "Every movement, every breath... it was a torment and a delight. And now... now ye're here, my precious boy, laid bare for me." His voice grew husky, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Ye asked me to show ye. To make ye want it."

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, his red eyes blazing with an intoxicating promise. He closed the last fraction of an inch between you, his body pressing gently against yours. You felt the hard planes of his chest, the unsettling coldness of his skin, yet beneath it, a strange heat seemed to emanate from his very presence. His hand tightened imperceptibly on your waist, drawing you infinitesimally closer. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken desires and the potent, dangerous magic of his true nature.

Remmick's red eyes remained locked on yours, a silent, blazing question. Then, with a fluid grace that belied his ancient power, he sank to his knees before you, his gaze never breaking contact. His hands, cool and strong, found your thighs, gripping them gently, possessively. He leaned forward, resting his head against your ribs, his breath, cool and faintly metallic, stirring the hair on your chest. From this vantage point, he looked up at you through the fringe of his dark lashes, his eyes still glowing with that mesmerizing, terrifying crimson.

Your hands, almost without conscious thought, rose to his hair. Your fingers tangled in his dark curls, surprisingly soft and thick, as you instinctively brushed a few stray strands behind his ear. His head pressed more firmly against you, a silent plea for reassurance, for acceptance.

Then, his lips, cool and exquisitely soft, found your bare skin, just beneath your ribs. He kissed you, a tender, lingering touch that sent shivers through your entire being. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, subtly bunched into the fabric of your trousers, a silent testament to the intensity of his restraint. He moved his head slightly, his lips tracing a path upward, pausing at your sternum, his voice a low, guttural whisper that seemed to emanate from the very core of him.

"Look at me, little bird," he rasped, his eyes burning into yours with an almost painful intensity. "Truly look at me. And tell me, darlin', do ye truly want this? Because once I start, once I let go, there'll be no goin' back. No stoppin' what we're meant to be. This ain't a game, sweetheart. Are ye sure ye want to know what this eternity, what we, truly mean?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with consequence, a final, solemn warning before the plunge into the unknown.

The air thickened, charged with the weight of Remmick's question. His red eyes, unwavering, held yours captive. You could feel the cool brush of his breath against your skin, the subtle shift of his fingers bunching the fabric of your trousers. This was the precipice, the point of no return, and a profound certainty, startling in its intensity, settled over you. All the fear, the doubt, the ingrained human caution, seemed to recede, leaving behind an undeniable yearning.

Your hand, still tangled in his dark curls, tightened, pulling gently. You leaned down further, until your lips were just a whisper away from his, your breath mingling with his ancient scent. "Yes," you breathed, the word a soft exhalation of surrender and desire. "Show me, Remmick. I want to know. All of it. I want you."

The crimson in Remmick's eyes deepened, intensifying until they seemed to burn with a raw, triumphant joy. A low, guttural sound, somewhere between a growl and a sigh of profound relief, escaped his lips. His grip on your thighs tightened, and without breaking eye contact, he moved. His head tilted, and his mouth, cool and impossibly soft, finally found yours.

The kiss was an exploration, a claim, a promise. It began gently, a tentative brush that sent shivers through your entire body, electrifying every nerve ending. Then, it deepened, becoming more insistent, more consuming. His lips molded to yours, moving with an ancient expertise that left you breathless. You tasted something wild, something profoundly alive and terribly dangerous, yet utterly intoxicating. His hand left your thigh, sliding up your bare back, pulling you closer, pressing your body fully against his. You felt the shocking cold of his skin against yours, a chill that paradoxically ignited a furious heat within you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer still, wanting to drown in the sensation, to lose yourself in this raw, undeniable connection. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice husky, laced with triumph, his Irish brogue thick with unleashed desire. "My little bird, my precious boy. You are truly mine now."

He lowered you then, gently, carefully, until your backs met the cool, smooth wood of the floor. The moonlight, now streaming fully through the window, bathed your joined forms in a ghostly glow, highlighting the stark contrast of his dark hair against your pale skin, his ancient strength against your delicate frame. He leaned over you, his eyes still burning red, devouring every inch of you with a possessive adoration.

Remmick leaned over you, his red eyes blazing, devouring every inch of your moonlit form. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His lips, still cool but now infused with a thrilling warmth, descended.

"Ah, my beautiful boy," he murmured against your skin, his voice a husky whisper, thick with his ancient brogue. His mouth found your sternum first, a lingering kiss that sent a jolt through you, spreading warmth despite the cool contact. He moved slowly, deliberately, his lips tracing a path down your chest, each kiss a delicate exploration. He praised you with every touch, every breath.

"Yer skin, sweetheart," he breathed, his lips ghosting over your ribs. "Like spun moonlight, it is. So soft." He moved lower, his hands gripping your hips gently, possessively. His tongue flicked out, a quick, almost imperceptible taste against your abdomen, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. He heard it, a sound of pure pleasure, and a dark smile touched his lips. "And the taste of ye... sweeter than any nectar, my love."

His kisses continued their journey, exploring the subtle definition of your abdominal muscles, the delicate curve of your hipbones. He nipped playfully, gently, at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a thrill of exquisite sensation shooting through you. You arched into his touch, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer, deeper into the intoxicating swirl of sensation.

"Every curve, every line," he praised, his voice a low, reverent hum against your skin as his lips found the sensitive hollow behind your knee, then moved up your inner thigh. "Perfect. Utterly perfect. Ye were made for me, my little bird. Made to be adored, to be cherished, to be... consumed." His kisses became more fervent, more demanding, yet never losing their exquisite tenderness. He was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of cool skin and burning desire, mapping every inch of your exposed form with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He was claiming you, marking you, making you his in a way that transcended the physical, binding your eternity to his.

Your hands, almost independently, slid down Remmick's back, finding the hem of his linen shirt. With a decisive tug, you pulled it upward, revealing the pale, sculpted expanse of his back. The fabric gathered at his shoulders, and in a swift, fluid motion, you pulled it over his head, tossing it to land beside your own discarded shirt on the floor. A cool breath hitched in Remmick's throat as the last of his covering was removed, and that breath, against your skin, sent a delicious shiver tracing a path down your spine.

His arms, now unhindered, hooked around your waist, strong and possessive. With an effortless grace that belied his kneeling position, he pulled you up from the floor, bringing your body flush against his. The shock of his cold skin against your heated flesh was a jolt, yet it was undeniably exhilarating. He began to walk you backward, slowly, deliberately, his every step mirroring the hypnotic rhythm of his kisses.

His lips moved from your chest, trailing upwards along your throat, finding the sensitive skin of your jawline. Each kiss was a promise, a claim, interspersed with the tantalizing, almost painful graze of his teeth. Not a bite, not yet, but a whisper of the power he held, the delicious danger that now defined your connection. You gasped softly, your head tilting back, giving him more access, your fingers tangling in his short, dark hair as a silent plea for more.

He guided you, step by measured step, past the quiet living room, the moonlight casting long, dancing shadows around you. The air around you thrummed with a raw energy, a silent symphony of desire and ancient hunger. Then, you felt it – the soft give of the mattress, your knees hitting the edge of the bed. A silent command, an undeniable invitation to surrender completely.

Your knees met the edge of the bed, a soft, yielding surrender. Remmick didn't hesitate. He followed you down, his body a cool, commanding presence against yours as he pressed you back onto the mattress. The moonlight, now a silent, voyeuristic witness, bathed the room in a soft, silver glow, casting long shadows that danced with your intertwined forms.

His mouth found yours again, hungrier this time, more urgent. It was a kiss that devoured, that consumed, demanding a response you willingly gave. Your fingers dug into his dark hair, pulling him closer, deepening the connection until there was no space, no air, between your lips. He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your mouth, and you felt a wild, untamed thrill ripple through you.

Then, he bit you. Not a savage, tearing bite, but a deliberate, possessive nip on your bottom lip. It was hard enough to draw a pinprick of blood, a warm, coppery tang blossoming in your mouth. Remmick groaned again, a deeper, more profound sound this time, as the minute drop of your blood touched his lips, mingling with his own cool taste. It was everything he craved, everything he had waited centuries for. His body stiffened, a tremor running through him, a raw, almost agonizing pleasure. He pulled back just slightly, his red eyes burning down at you, reflecting the moonlight and the intensity of his desire. His thumb, still on your cheek, brushed gently over your now swollen, bleeding lip, smearing the crimson just a fraction.

"Ah, my precious boy," he rasped, his voice thick with a triumphant hunger, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "This... this is what I craved." He lowered his head again, not to kiss, but to lick the tiny bead of blood from your lip, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a shockwave through your senses. He savored the taste, his eyes closing for a moment in what seemed like pure bliss, before opening them again, fixated on you. His gaze was possessive, utterly consumed, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that you were entirely, irrevocably his.

The taste of your blood, a mere hint of crimson on his lips, seemed to ignite something profound within Remmick. His red eyes, still blazing, held a newfound depth, a mix of triumph and an almost reverent awe. He pulled back slightly, his body still pressed against yours, his gaze devouring your face as if seeing you for the first time, truly, irrevocably his.

"Mine," he breathed, the word a low, possessive growl that vibrated through your chest. He moved then, not with haste, but with a deliberate, sensual slowness. His hands, no longer just gripping, began a fervent exploration of your body. One hand slid from your waist, down your hip, then along the length of your leg, tracing the delicate line of your calf before returning to your thigh, his fingers gently kneading your skin through the fabric of your trousers. The other hand traveled up, cupping the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up for another kiss.

This kiss was different. It was a claiming, a deep, consuming plunge into the depths of desire. He moved over you, his weight a comforting pressure, his body a cool, hard counterpoint to your increasing heat. His lips moved with a slow, grinding intensity, drawing every breath from your lungs, every thought from your mind, until only sensation remained. He tasted of wildness, of ancient longing, and of the barest hint of your own blood, a combination that made your head spin.

You responded with an instinctual fervor, your hands moving restlessly over his bare back, feeling the taut muscles beneath your palms, the cool, smooth skin that promised both danger and an exquisite pleasure. You arched into his touch, your body craving more, urging him deeper into this intoxicating dance. Remmick groaned against your mouth, a sound of profound satisfaction, as if he had waited centuries for this exact moment, this perfect communion.

He broke the kiss once more, his breath ragged against your ear as he pressed his forehead against yours. His red eyes, though still glowing with fierce intensity, softened just a fraction as they met yours. "Forever, my little bird," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, sealing the silent pact between you under the watchful eye of the moon.

Remmick's hands, still strong and possessive, moved from your hips, finding the hem of your trousers. With a low, guttural growl of anticipation, he bunched the fabric, pulling them down past your hips, over your thighs, and down your legs. They slid to the floor with a soft whisper of cloth, joining your discarded shirt.

He pulled back just enough to let his red eyes linger over your now completely bare body, bathed in the ethereal moonlight. A slow, predatory smirk stretched across his lips as he watched a fine prickle of goosebumps rise on your skin, a testament to the cool air and the intoxicating thrill of his gaze. A thick line of drool pooled at the corner of his mouth, a stark, visceral sign of his unleashed hunger, and dribbled down his chin.

"Well now, little bird," he purred, his voice a low, rough murmur, laced with a teasing lilt. His gaze held yours, a challenge and an invitation. "It seems ye weren't wearin' a blessed thing under those trousers, were ye? No undergarments to speak of at all." His smirk widened, and he leaned closer, his eyes raking over your form. "Surely that means ye wanted this, my precious boy, wanted it far more than even I did, eh?"

As he spoke, his finger, cold and deliberate, descended. It pressed teasingly, lightly, against the very tip of your cock, a single, feather-light touch that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation through you. The contrast of his cool skin against your heated flesh, the casual intimacy of his touch, and the blatant accusation of your desire, stole the air from your lungs.

A gasp tore from your throat, sharp and involuntary, as Remmick's finger made contact. The cool pressure, so light yet utterly potent, sent a jolt of pure, electric sensation coursing through you. It was a direct hit, a silent acknowledgment of the very desire he'd so brazenly called out. Your breath hitched, your hips instinctively arching, a subtle, desperate plea for more. The goosebumps that had just pricked your skin now seemed to intensify, every nerve ending alive and buzzing under his mesmerizing gaze.

"You... you know I do," you managed, your voice a husky whisper, barely audible above the sudden, frantic beat of your own heart. Your eyes, wide and heavy-lidded, were fixed on his, unable to break the intoxicating connection. The shame, the embarrassment, the last vestiges of human modesty, were dissolving under the heat of his gaze and the thrilling precision of his touch. He was right. You had wanted this. Wanted it with a fierce, undeniable craving that now felt like a revelation.

Your hands, which had been resting on his shoulders, slid down, finding purchase on his bare back. You pressed your palms flat against his cool skin, urging him closer, desperate for more of his weight, his presence, his intoxicating touch. The raw, primal hunger reflected in his red eyes was a mirror of your own burgeoning desire, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. Only him. Only this.

A triumphant gleam lit Remmick's red eyes. The soft admission, the raw honesty in your voice, was all the invitation he needed. He moved, effortlessly crawling over you, his weight a tantalizing pressure, his hands bracing on either side of your head. He held himself above you, his gaze sweeping over your body one last time, a silent promise of what was to come.

He leaned down, his cool breath ghosting across your ear as he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent shivers down your spine. "God, my little bird, I want to taste ye so badly. That wee drop on yer lip, it was naught but a tease. It didn't satiate me. Not near enough." His words were a confession, a desperate plea, and a dark declaration all at once.

You turned your head, your lips brushing against the cool skin of his jawline, a silent acknowledgment of the primal hunger that now mirrored your own. You whispered back, your voice barely audible, thick with burgeoning desire, "Then take what's yours, Remmick. Take it."

A low groan vibrated from deep within Remmick's chest, a sound of profound relief and unbridled anticipation. Your words, your surrender, ignited a fire within him that had burned for centuries, finally finding its release. His red eyes, still glowing fiercely, locked onto yours, a silent pact of ownership and submission passing between you.

Remmick didn't hold back any longer. The raw, ancient hunger that had simmered beneath his carefully constructed veneer now erupted, consuming him entirely. He lowered his head, his lips, no longer cool but burning with an internal fire, finding your skin. He sucked, he kissed, he devoured every inch he could reach, moving with a frenzied, desperate energy that left you breathless. Each touch was a claim, each lingering kiss leaving behind a blossoming purple mark, a testament to his fervent possession. Hickeys bloomed across your chest, your ribs, your hips, painting your pale skin with the vibrant hues of his desire.

His nips were no longer gentle caresses; they were hard, insistent tugs that broke the surface of your skin, drawing bright, scarlet beads of blood. A sharp gasp tore from your throat with each piercing nip, quickly followed by a profound shiver of something akin to ecstasy as Remmick’s tongue was there instantly, lapping up every single drop. He drank as much as he could, his tongue swirling, coaxing more from the tiny wounds he created, a low, satisfied groan rumbling deep in his chest with each taste. It was pure, raw sustenance for him, a direct conduit to your very essence.

He never touched your neck, never venturing further than your upper chest, a silent, powerful boundary he instinctively honored, perhaps a final shred of his twisted restraint, or a macabre promise of a future, deeper claim. Instead, he reveled in the freedom of your exposed skin, his mouth a hungry, insatiable force. As he kissed and licked, your blood became smeared across your body, a crimson sheen that caught the moonlight. It was on his mouth, glistening wetly, mixing with his drool and dribbling down his chin, a thick, dark line that traced the sharp angles of his jaw before disappearing into the hollow of his throat. He was a creature of pure, visceral hunger, and you, his willing sacrifice, were the perfect, intoxicating feast.

Your world had narrowed to the sensations Remmick was creating. Each nip, each suck, each lick sent a jolt of pleasure and a sharp sting of pain that blurred into an exquisite, almost unbearable intensity. Your body arched, an involuntary response to the primal claiming. You could feel the warm trickle of your own blood on your skin, a shocking, intimate sensation that mixed with the cool dampness of his mouth and tongue. It was a dizzying, disorienting experience, stripping away thought, leaving only raw, heightened feeling.

Emotionally, you were adrift in a storm of conflicting sensations. Fear, a primal, ancient fear of the predator, warred with a burgeoning excitement, a terrifying thrill that bordered on euphoria. Shame whispered at the edges of your awareness, quickly drowned out by the overwhelming tide of desire that Remmick was so masterfully unleashing. You felt utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, yet paradoxically, utterly safe within the confines of his dark adoration. This wasn't just physical; it was a profound, soul-deep surrender to a force you had unconsciously yearned for. Every muscle in your body was taut, your breath ragged, coming in short, sharp gasps as you gave yourself over to the intoxicating madness of his hunger.

A long, shaky breath escaped your lips as Remmick's mouth finally lifted from your inner thigh. A low, satisfied growl rumbled deep in his chest as he licked his lips, savoring the lingering taste of you. He then sat up on his knees, looming above you, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. His red eyes, still glowing with fierce intensity, stared down at you, and an inhuman smile stretched across his face, revealing the sharp, elongated points of his teeth.

"Oh, my beautiful, precious boy," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr, thick with triumph. "Look at ye. So hard for me, are ye? My bites, my feedin'… it only makes ye crave me more, doesn't it?" His eyes dropped, tracing the rigid length of your cock, a dark, satisfied glint in their depths.

He took a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing for a moment, as if to savor the very air around you, thick with your scent and the promise of what was to come. Then, his eyes snapped open, blazing with renewed hunger as he whispered, "Get on yer stomach, little bird."

Your whole body trembled, a dizzying mix of lingering pain from his nips and an overwhelming surge of pleasure. Every muscle ached, yet you found yourself obeying without question. With a soft groan, you turned, pressing your chest against the cool cotton sheets. The crisp white fabric immediately began to darken with the faint smears of your blood from where Remmick had feasted, a scarlet map of his recent claim. You let out another soft groan as your aching cock pressed against the sheets, a dull throb resonating through you.

You heard the faint rustle of fabric, the sound of Remmick removing the rest of his clothes, a quiet testament to his complete surrender to this moment. Then, the bed dipped, a distinct shift of weight, as he crawled above you, his cool body a tantalizing shadow hovering over your own.

The bed dipped further as Remmick crawled above you, his presence a heavy, thrilling weight. He leaned down, and you felt the cool brush of his lips begin a slow, sensual descent down the length of your spine. Each kiss was a delicate spark, igniting a trail of fire in its wake. His hands found your sides, caressing the soft flesh, his fingers kneading gently into your skin, sending shivers through your core.

"Gods above, my beautiful creature," he rasped, his voice a low, raw rumble against your back. "Even after all this... all these tastes... I still want ye. Still crave ye with a hunger that burns hotter than any sun." Your body shuddered under his touch, an involuntary arc of your back pressing you more firmly into his kisses, an unspoken plea for him to continue.

His lips continued their journey downward, a path of exquisite torment and rising desire. You let out a soft gasp as his mouth finally pressed warm, wet kisses against your ass, his hands cupping the full, soft flesh, molding it to his touch. A deep, guttural moan tore from your throat, Remmick's name a desperate plea on your lips, as he sunk his teeth into the soft skin, a sharp, piercing pain that quickly morphed into something else entirely. You gasped again, a more intense sound this time, as his tongue flicked across the fresh bite, tasting the metallic tang of your blood, a subtle shiver running through him at the renewed flavor.

A low, pleased smirk stretched across Remmick's lips, pressing against your skin as he continued to savor the taste. His tongue, no longer just licking the bite mark, lolled out, thick and deliberate, dragging slowly across your rim, a single, tantalizing stroke that sent a white-hot jolt through your entire body. He spread you gently, expertly, with one hand, opening you further to his ministrations. The sensation was agonizingly exquisite, a raw, exposed vulnerability that heightened every nerve ending. He followed the drag of his tongue with a series of soft, lingering kisses, butterfly light, that promised more, demanded more, while holding back the ultimate satisfaction.

Your breath hitched, a desperate plea caught in your throat. Your hips instinctively bucked, a silent, animalistic response to the profound pleasure and tantalizing restraint. With a trembling hand, you reached behind you, your fingers finding purchase in the dark, thick curls of Remmick's hair. You wrapped your hand around it, pulling gently, urging him on, a desperate, unspoken command.

"God," you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible, as your body shuddered under his touch. "It feels so good, Remmick. So good."

Remmick’s body stiffened perceptibly at your desperate plea, at the feel of your hand in his hair, urging him deeper. A low, ragged breath escaped him, and the subtle smirk on his face deepened into a feral grin, revealing more of his sharp, predatory teeth. He loved your honesty, the raw, unadulterated desire that now flowed so freely from you.

"Aye, my sweet boy," he rasped, his voice thick with unbridled triumph, resonating against your skin. "It's meant to feel good. Meant to drive ye mad for me."

He pressed his lips fully against your ass, tasting you, devouring you with a primal intensity. His tongue traced dizzying, intricate patterns that sent fresh waves of exquisite sensation through your trembling body. His hands, still cupping your ass, lifted you slightly, subtly shifting your position, a silent command for deeper access.

A long string of moans tore from your throat as Remmick’s tongue, emboldened by your complete surrender, pushed past your entrance, a shocking, intimate invasion that made you gasp and writhe. His nails, now less gentle, subtly dug into your skin, a grounding pain amidst the overwhelming pleasure. He pulled back just enough for a moment, his hot breath fanning over the still-bleeding bite on your ass. The moment of exquisite absence was brief, as his tongue was immediately replaced by the aching pressure of his finger, pushing slowly, deliberately into you.

Remmick moved to lean over you, his body a heavy, thrilling weight. Your hand, which had been tangled in his hair, now instinctively gripped the bicep of his free arm, the one he used to hold himself up, your knuckles white with the intensity of the moment. You pressed into him, a silent plea for him to continue, to consume you entirely.

Remmick's finger pressed deeper, a slow, deliberate invasion that made your breath catch in your throat. He watched your face, his red eyes blazing with an almost scientific fascination, observing every flicker of sensation that crossed your features. His thumb brushed against your sensitive flesh, a small, teasing movement that made your hips buck instinctively.

"There now, my sweet boy," he murmured, his voice a low, rough purr against your ear. "Feel that? Just the beginning, darlin'." He eased another finger inside, stretching you, preparing you with a deliberate, unhurried pace that was both agonizing and exquisitely thrilling. You gasped, a mix of discomfort and burgeoning pleasure, your muscles clenching around him. He paused, letting you adjust, letting the sensation bloom.

He leaned in closer, pressing kisses against the curve of your shoulder, then up your neck, always avoiding the jugular. His breath, cool and faintly metallic, whispered against your skin. "Ye asked me to show ye. To make ye want it. And I intend to do just that." His voice was a promise, a threat, and an undeniable seduction all rolled into one. He moved his fingers, slowly at first, then with more confidence, mapping your interior, learning your reactions, driving you to the edge of what you could bear. You whimpered, a soft, desperate sound, your nails digging into his bicep, your body a taut bow string stretched to its limit.

Remmick's fingers continued their relentless exploration, a slow, insistent pressure that built with every deliberate movement. He found a spot, a particular angle, and pressed, eliciting a sharp gasp that tore from your throat. Your hips bucked instinctively, a desperate, uncontrolled arch of your body.

"There it is, my brave boy," he rasped, his voice thick with dark satisfaction as he pressed harder, finding that exquisite point again and again. His thumb brushed over the opening, teasing, tormenting, yet never fully entering. He was mapping your every response, learning the landscape of your pleasure with an ancient, predatory precision.

You whimpered, a soft, broken sound that was swallowed by the overwhelming sensations. Your fingers dug into his bicep, your nails raking lightly against his cool skin, leaving faint red marks. Your head thrashed against the pillow, lost in the maelstrom of pleasure and desperate need. The pain of the nips on your ass and chest was a dull throb beneath the searing heat that was building between your legs.

Remmick chuckled, a low, pleased sound that vibrated through his chest. He pulled his fingers out, leaving behind a sudden, aching emptiness that made you cry out softly. Then, with a fluid motion, he shifted his weight, pressing his body fully against your back, aligning himself with your prone form. You felt the cool length of his cock press against your ass, hard and insistent, a stark contrast to the burning desire that now consumed you.

You felt the cool, hard length of Remmick's cock press against your ass, a silent, powerful promise. He held you there for a moment, letting the anticipation build, letting your body tremble under his overwhelming presence. His breath hitched, hot and ragged against the back of your neck.

Then, with a low, triumphant groan, he pushed. Slowly, deliberately, the tip of his cock pressed against your aching entrance, a firm, insistent pressure. You gasped, your fingers digging into his bicep, your back arching even further as he began to slide inside. It was a stretch, a profound fullness that was almost painful, yet undeniably exhilarating. He moved inch by excruciating inch, filling you completely, his body a perfect, cold counterpoint to the burning heat he ignited within you.

You cried out, a mix of shock and desperate pleasure, as he finally bottomed out, burying himself deep inside you. Remmick let out a guttural groan, a sound of ancient satisfaction, his hips pressing fully against yours. He held you tight, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as he began to move, a slow, powerful thrust.

Remmick began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that drove you deeper into the intoxicating haze. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his cool breath ghosting against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the burning pleasure he ignited within you. His hips snapped forward, meeting yours with a forceful intimacy that elicited a gasp from your lips. One hand, strong and possessive, found purchase on your throat, not choking, but pressing just enough to make you acutely aware of his power, his dominance. The other stayed firm around your waist, holding you captive against him.

"Gods, my beautiful boy," he rasped, his voice a low, guttural murmur against your skin. "Ye take me so well. So perfectly." His thrusts became a little faster, a little deeper, each one driving the pleasure to unbearable heights. "Imagine this, darlin'. This very moment... stretched out for eternity. You and me, forever. This passion, this fire... never endin'."

You gasped, a broken sound caught between desperate moans, your hips instinctively rocking back, meeting every one of his powerful thrusts. The rhythm consumed you, demanding your full surrender. "Nothing... nothing more," you mumbled, your words caught and fractured by the intensity, your voice raw with emotion. "I want... nothing more... Remmick..."

Remmick slowed his thrusts, the rhythm becoming a teasing drag, each withdrawal an agonizing stretch. You whimpered, desperate for the fullness that was suddenly, exquisitely withheld. Then, with a soft groan that vibrated against your ear, he completely pulled out, the sudden emptiness a stark, aching contrast to the intense pressure that had just filled you.

Before you could fully process the loss, he shifted. He swiftly, yet gently, laid you back against the bed, positioning you flat on your back. You felt the cool cotton sheets beneath you, a brief moment of disorientation, before Remmick moved between your legs, pulling your knees up and opening you wider.

His eyes, still blazing crimson, met yours for a fleeting moment of intense connection, then he leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, consuming kiss. And as his mouth devoured yours, he thrust back in, a hard, deep penetration that stole the breath from your lungs. Your cock twitched from the sudden, overwhelming rush of pleasure, a powerful response to the exquisite sensation of being filled again, completely and utterly.

This time, his pace was harsher, quicker, each thrust a powerful, unrelenting drive that pinned you to the mattress. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, the sharp pressure of his nails a grounding sensation amidst the spiraling pleasure. He was taking you with a fierce, primal intensity, no longer holding back, completely consumed by the moment, by you.

Remmick's harsh, quick pace intensified, and with each powerful thrust, his cock brushed against your prostate, a deep, exquisite pressure that sent a shockwave of sensation through your entire being. Your body arched violently off the bed, a desperate, unconscious movement to meet his force, to press deeper into the pleasure he was so expertly wielding. You were completely consumed, lost in the rhythmic thrusts that drove you closer and closer to the edge.

The kiss, which had been a consuming fire, suddenly felt suffocating. You needed air, needed to vocalize the overwhelming sensations. With a desperate moan, you pulled your head away from his, breaking the kiss. Your chest heaved, gasping for breath, your eyes wide and unfocused as you stared up at him.

"Remmick!" you choked out, your voice ragged, barely a whisper between desperate gasps. "I'm... I'm close! So close!"

A low, guttural grunt vibrated from deep within Remmick's chest. Your words, your raw admission, pushed him over his own edge of control. His thrusts, already powerful, became sloppy, uncoordinated, driven by a pure, animalistic need for release. He surged against you, his body a trembling mass of concentrated hunger, pushing you deeper into the intoxicating oblivion he had so masterfully created.

The grunt Remmick let out, and the immediate, almost uncontrolled sloppiness of his thrusts, signaled his own proximity to the edge. His body, once so precisely controlled, now shuddered with an ancient, desperate urgency. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth gently grazing your shoulder, a silent testament to the overwhelming sensations consuming him.

You were no longer simply close; you were there. The pressure built, tight and excruciatingly sweet, coiling in your core. Each thrust from Remmick, though less refined, was a powerful surge that amplified the unbearable pleasure. Your fingers dug into his biceps, your grip desperate, holding on as if he were the only tether to reality. A string of guttural moans tore from your throat, rising in pitch as your body became a taut, trembling bowstring pulled to its absolute limit.

Then, with a final, shuddering groan from Remmick, and a sharp, guttural cry from you, the dam broke. A wave of intense, shattering pleasure crashed over you, pulling you under its tide. Your body convulsed, bucking against his, every muscle clenching in a release that was both violent and utterly sublime. You felt his own body stiffen above you, a deep, shuddering growl vibrating through him as he met your climax with his own. The raw, animalistic pleasure that coursed through him was palpable, a dark, potent energy that mingled with your own profound release.

For a long moment, you lay there, gasping for breath, your body trembling, entwined with his. The room, once alight with moonlight and desire, now felt still, heavy with the aftermath of pure, unbridled consumption. Remmick’s weight was a comforting pressure, his breath ragged against your neck. The glowing red in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by a deep, satisfied warmth, though still retaining an undeniable, ancient intensity.

The world slowly coalesced back into focus, no longer a blur of sensation but a room bathed in moonlight. Your body, spent and trembling, lay intertwined with Remmick’s. His heavy, satisfied breaths stirred the hair on your neck, and the cool weight of his body against yours was a profound comfort after the storm. The distinct smell of blood, faint but present, mingled with your own musk and his ancient scent, creating a unique, intoxicating perfume of shared intimacy.

Remmick shifted, pulling back slightly, just enough to look down at you. His red eyes had softened, the fierce crimson now a deep, smoldering ruby, filled with a possessive tenderness that made your own heart ache. A slow, contented smile, devoid of any prior predatory malice, spread across his lips. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to your temple, then your bruised lips, tasting the lingering coppery tang.

"My little bird," he murmured, his voice husky with post-climax satisfaction. "Did I show ye? Did I make ye want it?" His thumb gently caressed your cheekbone, his touch now entirely soft, utterly cherishing. The hickeys he’d left bloomed across your skin, visible in the moonlight, a map of his undeniable claim. The tiny nips throbbed faintly, a pleasant ache.

You could only nod, breathless, your voice still caught in your throat. Every part of you felt utterly sated, yet a new, profound emptiness, a yearning for more of this connection, was already blossoming. The fear was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of belonging. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, marveling at the strength that had just claimed you so completely. This was real. This impossible, terrifying, beautiful thing was utterly real.

The soft glow of the moon continued to spill into the room, illuminating the quiet aftermath. Your fingers, still trembling slightly, reached up to Remmick's face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb brushed gently over the dried blood near the corner of his mouth, a stark reminder of his hunger, of what he truly was. Yet, in that moment, it held no fear, only a strange tenderness.

Your voice was barely a whisper, yet it resonated with a profound certainty that surprised even yourself. "Remmick," you breathed, your gaze locked with his, "bite me. Please." A single tear, unbidden, tracked a path down your temple, not of sorrow, but of overwhelming emotion. "I love you. I want... I want to spend eternity with you."

The words hung in the air, potent and irreversible. As they left your lips, something shifted in Remmick's eyes. The smoldering ruby that had glowed with recent satisfaction slowly, gradually, began to recede, replaced by the familiar, warm shade of brown you had known from the first moment he appeared on your doorstep. He stared down at you, his expression unreadable, a silent testament to his shock. It was as if, even after everything, even after your surrender, he hadn't truly expected you to comply, to willingly offer yourself to the transformation. The ancient predator, who had orchestrated every move, was now faced with an unexpected, profound offering.

Remmick's brown eyes, now full of a complex mix of surprise, profound adoration, and a touch of sorrow, held yours. He slowly nodded, a silent acceptance of your ultimate offering. His hands rose, cupping your face with a tenderness that belied the ancient power they held. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, a silent promise, then moved down your jawline, showering your skin with feather-light touches. Finally, his lips found the delicate curve of your throat, just beneath your ear. He pressed a tender kiss to the skin, letting his lips linger there, a moment of profound hesitation before the inevitable.

"Take a deep breath, my little bird," he whispered, his voice a low, rough murmur against your skin. "And close yer eyes, darlin'."

You obeyed, inhaling deeply, filling your lungs with the scent of him, the lingering musk of shared intimacy, and the coppery tang of your own drying blood. As your eyelids fluttered shut, you felt the cool brush of his breath intensify against your throat. Then came the pain.

It was sharp, searing, unlike anything you had ever known. A tearing sensation, impossibly deep, as his fangs pierced your flesh. You cried out, a raw, animalistic sound that ripped from your throat, choked off almost immediately by the overwhelming sensation. Your hands shot up, finding purchase on Remmick's shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, an instinctive claw for purchase against the agonizing assault.

You could taste your own blood, warm and metallic, filling your mouth. It poured down your chest, a hot, sticky river against your skin, trickling down your neck. You began to choke on it, a desperate, gurgling sound escaping your lips as your body convulsed uncontrollably. Your vision blurred, the edges of your awareness fraying, consumed by the agonizing fire blooming in your throat, drawing you closer to a terrifying, eternal darkness.

Remmick pulled back, his mouth slick with your blood, his fangs retracting from your skin. The sudden release of pressure left a gaping, burning wound on your neck. Your hand instinctively flew to it, pressing against the raw flesh, though it did little to stem the flow. Your eyes, wide with primal panic, fought to stay open, struggling against the encroaching darkness. You drew in ragged, gargled breaths, each one a desperate, failing attempt to cling to the life that was rapidly draining away.

Remmick stared down at you, his face a mask of complex emotions—triumph, sorrow, and an ancient, resigned acceptance. He watched, utterly still, as the light slowly, irrevocably, left your eyes. The desperate struggle faded from your gaze, replaced by a vacant stillness. Your body gave one final, shuddering convulsion, then went limp, utterly, completely still beneath him. The last, faint pulse flickered in your wrist, then vanished.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your cold forehead, a tender, possessive kiss. "I'll see ye soon, my love," he whispered, his voice a low, rough murmur, thick with promise. "Very soon."

Remmick remained above you for a long time, watching, waiting. The air in the room grew heavy, silent save for the drip of your blood onto the sheets, a rhythmic, macabre counterpoint to the profound stillness of your body. He gently adjusted your head, smoothing a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers brushed your cheek, cool and possessive, tracing the ethereal contours he had memorized over countless nights.

He knew the process. He had seen it before, countless times, though never with such a potent mix of anticipation and agonizing patience. The venom, his essence, now coursed through your veins, battling against the vestiges of your human life, preparing to reshape you, to remake you in his image. It was a slow, agonizing rebirth, and he could do nothing but wait.

The first faint tremor rippled through your limbs, a subtle twitch beneath his touch. Then another, stronger. A shallow, almost imperceptible breath hitched in your chest. Remmick watched, a dark, triumphant light returning to his eyes. The stillness was breaking. The transformation had begun in earnest. He would wait. He had waited centuries for you, and he would wait now, for your awakening into his eternal night.

A profound stillness settled over you, a weightlessness that was utterly new. When your eyes finally fluttered open, there was no pain, no lingering ache from the bites that had consumed you. The agonizing fire was gone, replaced by a cool, clean emptiness, a sense of being unbound from gravity, no longer truly of this world. Your body felt strangely light, utterly refreshed, and as your senses sharpened, you realized you were no longer lying in a pool of your own blood. You were wrapped in clean, soft sheets, your body meticulously cared for, as if Remmick, despite his monstrous ways, had tended to you with an unsettling gentleness.

Your eyes, now impossibly keen, adjusted to the moonlit room, every shadow, every dust motes dancing in the silver beams, rendered in perfect clarity. And then you saw him. Remmick. He sat in the old wooden rocking chair in the corner of your room, one of your own books from the shelf resting open in his hands, though his gaze was fixed on some distant point, lost in thought. He didn't have to speak. In that instant, a profound, undeniable connection snapped into place. You understood everything he was feeling, knew every thought running through his ancient mind—the immense satisfaction, the deep possessiveness, the quiet triumph, and even a lingering shadow of the sorrow he'd felt for the human life he'd taken. Two minds had become one, a silent, intricate hive.

He looked up then, as if sensing your awakened awareness. His eyes, now that familiar, rich brown, held an unnerving depth, an understanding that transcended words. A slow, inhuman smile spread across his lips, revealing just a hint of his sharpened teeth, yet it was a smile of pure contentment. His gaze locked onto yours, acknowledging everything that had passed between you, the pain, the blood, the fear, and the ultimate surrender. He had seen the worst parts of you, witnessed your body's agonizing transformation, and still, he looked at you with this profound acceptance.

"I hope this new life is more kind than yer last, my precious boy," he whispered, his voice a low, melodic murmur, filled with an ancient tenderness.

The words resonated deep within you, touching a place you hadn't known existed. Without a moment's hesitation, the answer sprang from your lips, echoing his sentiment, sealing your fate with an unwavering devotion. "I hope so too, Remmick. I want nothing more."

You were completely and utterly his. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you truly understood what that meant. This was your new life, bound to him, a creature of shadow and endless night, forever.

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phoenix9912 · 29 days ago

Text

It Will Come Back

one-shot

Remmick x M!Reader

Synopsis: There was once a time where Remmick offered you the life you wanted in exchange for your companionship. He gained you, loved you, and then left you. All to show back up on your doorstep years later wanting to be let in all over again.

Word Count: 11.4k

A/N: Finally writing a transmasc reader because I'm transmasc, woohoo!! It's wild to finally be releasing this, this was actually the first concept I had for a fic after first watching Sinners months ago, and it's finally here. I don't know what the hell took so long, but we got here I guess. I want to thank you all for the unbelievable love my fics have been getting, it truly means the world. Also shoutout to the lovely mutuals I've made through this community, they're all so fuckin cool and I'm sending em lots of love. And thank you to @candiedbeez for letting me lay next to you in bed and explain this beat for beat and then helping me pick a title <3. Anyway hope y'all enjoy!!!

Warnings: transmasc reader, abandonment, guns, interview with a vampire reference if you squint, period typical transphobia (not from Remmick, loosely discussed), implied stalking, the house is alive, excessive use of section breakers, angst, reunion sex, cunnilingus, some feminine language used for reader genitalia, fingering, overstimulation, crying during sex (both), penetrative sex, sappy sex, creampie

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated and adored <3

⋆.✮ 18+ Minors DNI ✮.⋆

He wasn’t supposed to come back.

Even if you wanted him to, he wasn’t supposed to.

And even then, you weren’t supposed to wish for his return. To dream of it. To yearn for it. That was something you’d been supposed to bury years ago, in the deepest, farthest part of your heart, locked behind your ribcage for no one to ever dredge up again.

But he’s here all the same. And you know it’s him. No one else would come this deep into the heart of woods and bayou, let alone in the middle of the night. But even without that fact you’d know it’s him. The cicadas don’t quiet for a single other soul. The porch creaks low and angry, like it’s scolding an old friend for not coming sooner. And sure enough the bells on the wind chimes he tied above the porch ring, just like he told you they would.

He doesn’t knock, he never did in the past, why on earth would he start now? He knows you’ll come all the same anyway. And you do. For a moment you just stand in the middle of the room, looking at the figure on your porch through the wood and mesh of your door, he’s there silhouetted by the night, reflective eyes glinting in the moonlight, he doesn’t say a word, even after all this time, he just waits for you.

It’s not immediate, and the way you drift to him is slow and cautious, like he’s a trick of the light and if you tilt your head or move to just the right angle he’ll be gone again. He doesn’t though, when you’re right in front of him, the door and the magic that won’t let him in the only things between you, he’s still there. He grins when you come to him, tucks his hands in his pockets, and makes sure you watch him do it. Hands elicit memories, especially his, hands that have laid you out and take you apart in ways that would have you Daddy drag your sorry ass to the pews and never let you leave, if he could find you that is. And that mouth and fanged grin your eyes glide back to have done worse.

“Hey there.” And that’s all he has to say, after all this time.

“Get the hell off my porch, Remmick,” your voice shakes more than you mean it to, more than you want it to, from anger or grief, neither of you can really tell.

His head tilts to the side and his smile falters for a minute before it returns, smaller than before, “c’mon, don’t be like that.”

When you don’t make any move to open the door, he leans on it making it creak on its hinges, “baby, ‘m starved, I need ya, c’mon and lemme in now, since it seems the house ain’t jus’ gonna let me no more.”

For a moment nothing happens, you don’t move a muscle, and his smile starts to falter again. And then your hand starts to move towards the door and he stops leaning on it so you can open it. And you do open it, what he doesn’t anticipate is when you hold it open with your foot and don’t ask him to come in. Rather, you grab that old shotgun you’ve had propped by the door right for this occasion and point it right at his chest.

“That won’t kill me,” but you can see in his eyes that it startled him, “ya know that.”

You keep that gun trained on his chest, don’t flinch for a moment, just stare at him right down the barrel of it, “it’ll hurt like a sonova bitch though, won’t it?”

He looks down at it, then back up at you, and he swallows thickly, “yeah, yeah it will.”

“Good,” and you cock the gun.

He takes a step back, eyes darting between you and the gun much quicker now, he raises his hands slowly, lips curved on the left side in a sheepish grin, “sweetheart, darlin’, baby, you ain’t gotta do all this, jus lemme in, we can talk—”

And that makes you laugh, the throaty kind of laugh that very quickly turns into a scoff, “‘Talk?’ Last I heard you were a Louisiana man now, went to be with yer own lot, didn’t need to talk to me no more—”

He rolls his eyes, and you almost blow a hole in his chest just for that, “that’s what all this is bout?”

“Fuck else would it be about?” You jab the gun towards him a little more.

“Believe me when I say, that lot was too much even for me, only took me two months to get tired of all that,” he backs up a little more when you jab the gun.

“Oh, but it took you three years to crawl your sorry ass back here, huh?”

“I can explain—”

“Ya know I looked for you? And I waited, a long fuckin’ time, Remmick,” you say his name like it’s a curse, “then I see a fuckin’ newspaper article, bout some bullshit happening down in Louisiana, a ‘flaming man’ it said, and I thought, there’s only one man stupid enough to go out in the sun and get his ass burnt as a vampire.”

“That coulda been anybody,” no one talks for a moment, and he sighs, “fine that was me, I was gettin’ the hell outta there, I can explain darlin’, jus let me in, I’m sorry, I need ya, ‘s been terrible bein’ away, please.”

“And whose fuckin’ fault is that?”

“‘S mine baby, I know that,” he moves closer, puts his hands down, lets the gun press into his chest, he doesn’t yank it forward to pull you outside, maybe that counts for something, “I love ya—”

And that one stings, feels like a slap right across the face, and you flinch like it is, press the gun harder into his chest.

“You don’t getta say that no more—”

“I mean it—”

“I don’t care,” you’re lying, you know and he knows it too, “I’ll stake ya, I’ll fuckin sharpen fire wood and do it—”

“‘M gonna let that slide cause I know ya don’t mean it,” he walks even closer, gun pressed even harder into his chest, like he’ll let you fire if before the blow it means he gets to be closer to you for even a moment.

“I do—”

“No, no ya don’t,” he puts his hand on the gun, doesn’t tug on it, just keeps it steady and pressed against him. “Ya haven’t fired yet.”

“And you haven’t said sorry yet, not properly anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

And that makes you scoff, “three years bein’ gone and that’s it?”

“What? Ya want me to beg in the dirt? Cause I’ll do it—”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You motion with the gun and by tilting your head, gesturing off the porch to the dirt path leading to your home, “ya said you’d beg in the dirt, go on, do it.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The day you’d met Remmick had gone something like that too.

You’d been different back then, less yourself.

Much less yourself.

Sweeping up your Daddy’s church while he talked to congregation members out back, talking to men about whose son he thought best to tame his daughter, get her back on God’s path.

It was odd to some of the men, on a surface level you were the perfect daughter to the preacher. Kept your head down. Kept quiet. Greeted people coming in for Sunday service. Held the door open for them when they left. Swept up when your Daddy asked you to. Stayed away from the gossip of the other unmarried women. Sweet, polite, and perfect, that’s how those other men saw you.

Not your Daddy though. Maybe it was some divine sight, some message from God, but he knew you were different. All the way from the time you were little. When you’d played too rough with your brothers. When you’d hung around too many boys in town, and not to bat your eyelashes or talk all sweet. When you screamed and fought as your mama tried to put you in your dresses for Sunday service. When you’d enlisted your brother to make your hair look like his when you weren’t even ten, oh how he’d tanned your hide for that one. He knew. He knew there was something different about his daughter, something wrong with her. And as much as you’d started acting right when you got older, he could see right through it. You still wouldn’t marry. Wouldn’t give him grandchildren. Wouldn’t live the way God had written for you. So he knew whatever evil in you still lurked somewhere in his daughter.

Daughter, what a foreign word, used to describe you by others, but never by yourself.

But Remmick didn’t approach you like you were the preacher’s little daughter who wasn’t so little no more, maybe that’s what made him so alluring, or maybe it was what he’d offered you.

He’d knocked on the doors of the church while you were still sweeping, and you’d said come in without thinking, you didn’t know the magic of it all back then, didn’t know what he was, what sort of things lurked outside church walls.

He strolled right in, grinning, eyes all big and bright, moonlight pouring in behind him, you hadn’t even realized how late it’d gotten till he’d stepped in. He was out of place almost immediately, there was this wrongness about him, like he didn’t belong here in the house of God and holy matters, but it didn’t let it bother you none, you weren’t so sure you belonged here either.

He approached you languid and handsome, like a snake oil salesman, you were smarter than to buy whatever he was selling, or you thought you were. His hands were tucked in his pockets and his sleeves were rolled up, and he spoke cautious and cheery, trying to put you at ease like a spooked fawn he’d have to chase down, trying to make sure you didn’t run or call for your Daddy.

“Sorry, service is over, preacher’s out back if yer lookin’ for savin’.”

And he laughed throaty and deep, an inhuman lace around the sound, one that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, and then he spoke just as languid as he walked, “oh darlin’, ‘m not lookin’ to be saved, ‘m here to do some savin.”

“What?”

He took a step closer, you took one back, hand tightening on the broom. You looked towards the back door, you’d locked it earlier behind your Daddy. If you tried running out that way you’d have to spare a couple seconds to undo the lock, plenty of time for someone chasing you to catch you in a room as small as this one. And he was in the middle of the aisle, blocking the most direct path to the front door. If you went around the side of the pews if he was any smart he’d be waiting for you at the door, and you got the unfortunate feeling he was smart enough for that.

“‘S okay, ‘m here to help,” when you moved back away from him instinctually, he reached his hand out, stepped forward, “ya ain’t gotta do that now.”

Human instinct sets in before you can formulate any real plan, the broom slips from your hand and clatters to the ground. Your body follows what every fiber of your being is screaming for you to do: run.

He doesn’t chase you though, doesn’t need to, he makes you stop running with just one word, a name, your name. Not the one your mama gave you, the one you‘d call yourself when you’d wear stolen clothes your daddy and brothers wouldn’t miss. The clothes you’d stuffed far under your bed so when your folks came over to complain you’re a spinster they didn’t see em. The ones you’d dress yourself in before going out in the night and using the name he called you to strangers you’ll never see again. The name you’d prayed to not be caught using.

He grinned when you turned, cruel and unbothered, like he didn't have a care in the world that he just laid your greatest secret out before the altar to await judgement, “yeah, yeah, I know all bout that.”

“How did you…” and even then you couldn’t fathom what he’d said, what he knew.

You were sure you’d never seen him before that night, that he’d never been one of your strangers, that you’d never given him your name. None of that mattered though, he’d known it all the same.

“Don’t worry your pretty lil head, I ain’t gonna go run and tell your daddy or call ya a sinner,” his hand had slipped back into his pocket, “like I said, ‘m here to save ya, cut ya a deal if you will.”

You didn’t move toward him, just grit your teeth and spoke only loud enough so he could barely hear, “what do you want?”

“Ain’t bout what I want, ‘s bout what I can offer you,” there it is, the snake oil salesman you’d recognized in him, “I can offer ya a life where you can live as ya want.”

And you hated the way that pulled you in, like you were already buying what he was selling, “how?” And you hated even more how you couldn’t stop the desperation from seeping into your voice, “what would it cost me.”

“Everything,” he’d said it simply, honestly, “ya wouldn’t be able to come back here, not ever, ya’d have to come with me, but ya’d be yerself.”

“What would ya want me for,” and you still remember how you couldn’t keep the shake out of your voice.

“Company, been an awful long time since I’ve had any.”

“And beyond that?” Because you know there’s more, there’s always more.

He sighed a little at that, but he smiled and flashed his teeth all the same. And the teeth, what a sight they were; different from before, sharper, more jagged, monstrous, teeth that made you gasp and stagger back.

His wrongness wasn’t like yours, at least yours was something human.

“Blood darlin’, I’d want yer blood.”

“What would you…” and your mind went to the worst places it could, of rituals and sold souls that damn you right to hell.

But it’s none of that.

“Things that go bump in the night get hungry too.”

Where would it damn you to help sustain something you can only imagine crawled out of a world much older and more frightening than this one. But then again, where would it have left you if you had stayed there, in that shell you called a life.

In the end it was desperation that made you agree.

A caged bird won’t stay forever if the cage gets opened.

So you took his hand, and you flew.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He took you to a house that breathed.

A house that you had to walk a long, long way to reach, long enough you didn’t recognize the land, and the sun was threatening to come up over the trees by the time you got there. A house that felt like it cropped up out of nowhere, where there had just been paths and trees and summer heat, then suddenly there it was. A house that loomed in the dark, that had been long swallowed by vines and other growth, that shrouded itself in fog that only seemed to part when Remmick came upon it. A house where the wind chimes sang as he stepped on the porch even on a night with no wind. A house that was alive.

“Chimes’ll tell ya when ’m back,” he says it like they’re living, which should be ridiculous, but with the way windows seem to watch your arrival maybe it isn’t.

“What is this…” you mean to say place, but even that doesn’t feel quite right.

“My home, yers too now.”

And then he steps inside freely, and the floorboards creak in a way that almost sounds like a hum, and when you hesitate he looks back at you and waits. When you step inside the floorboards creak too, as if they’re saying “welcome home.”

It feels bigger on the inside somehow, the proportions of the house don’t make any sort of sense, but then again, nothing about that night made sense. You kept expecting to wake up from this nightmare, or maybe this was a dream, you couldn’t tell.

All of the curtains were dark and drawn, with scatterings of morning sunlight beginning to peek through the lace, Remmick walked around them with precision only learned from walking the same way hundreds of times.

He tosses a grin over his shoulder to you, “I like the light plenty, jus shouldn’t touch it for my own good.”

You followed him closely, fearing something might jump out of the dark crevices of the house and grab you, as if you weren’t already in the lair of a hungry beast.

His tour was quick, succinct, the house was bigger than it should’ve been, but not large by any means. There was a living room with a couch that looked untouched and a chair that looked worn, like the same person sat in it, in the same way, every single night. There were books scattered across the coffee table and filling shelves, all different genres, all different ages, all different levels of wear and tear, like they’d been collected slowly from all different people over more lifetimes than you could wrap your mind around. And that made you remember his teeth, and you felt like you knew exactly how he’d collected all those books.

“Those’ll keep ya entertained, there’s lots, bout all sorts of things too, ya won’t get bored,” he said it so sure, but like that sureness was fueled by hope more than knowing.

The kitchen was small, clearly unused for a long time, but it was warm, like it was waiting for a hearty meal to breathe life back into it. A thin layer of dust covered the countertops. He had the decency to rub his neck and look sheepish enough.

“Shoulda cleaned up more, I never use all this, but I imagine it works jus fine.”

When he took you around you couldn’t help but notice how sparse any decor was. There was a fireplace, if that counted, and it was lit, fire crackling in a way that made you believe there wasn’t a time when it didn’t burn. There was a mirror that only you reflected in when you and Remmick passed by. There was a piece of paper tucked into the frame of it, old and worn, paper so old you worried if you touched it that it would fall to ash right in your hands, it was a drawing of Remmick from the chest up. His clothes were different and his hair was tousled in a different way, like it was rendered in another time and place. It was clear what it served as though, a reminder for a man who couldn’t see himself.

If he’d seen you stare at it, he didn’t say anything.

He stopped by his room before yours. You didn’t follow him inside, but you peaked through the door. His room looked like the rest of the house, mostly untouched, the quilt on the bed was wrinkled, like someone had sat or laid on top of it rather than crawled underneath. There wasn’t any decor on the walls. There was a banjo propped up in the corner of the room, not a speck of dust on that. He opened a small closet and jerked his head to motion for you to come in, when you didn’t budge he smiled, teeth showing, no fangs.

“Hearts’ thunderin’ like ‘m gonna rip it out of yer damn chest, ‘s okay, I ain’t gonna bite, not yet anyway.”

It still took a second but you stepped inside his room, the house hummed again, excited, like it was trying to tell you that you belong here, with him, in this place, in his room.

He opened drawers to a dresser filled with clothes of all sorts of styles and sizes.

“Should be somethin’ in here that’ll fit ya, if not I’ll get ya somethin’, but take anythin’, what’s mine is yers now.” He looked at you like he was proud, like a dog who’d brought back a stick after fetch.

When you just nodded you saw something in him frustrate and wilt, but he didn’t say anything, like he swallowed that down.

He nodded to the door across the hall that you could see through his doorway.

“That’s all yers, do with it what ya please.”

And that catches you off guard, a space of your own. You’d half expected him to chain you to his bed, feed off you till there was nothing left, that the only way you could be a man, be yourself, was as a caged animal he’d drain till there was nothing left.

He looked at you like he could see your thought process, it made him frown, “you ain’t a prisoner here, come and go as ya please.”

He wasn’t looking at you when you said that last part, and you were already out the door and across the hall opening the door when he looked up from closing the drawer and spoke again.

“Jus come back, else ‘m gonna have to go find ya.”

You didn’t know if that was a threat or a promise.

Or both.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You didn’t like him.

Not at first.

Remmick always watched.

You’d catch him sometimes just staring. Lingering in your doorway too long when he’d walk by and try, and fail, to chat with you. If you made something in the kitchen he felt the need to be in there too. If you grabbed a book from the living room, he’d make a comment on his thoughts on whichever one you’d grabbed, sigh when you didn’t answer, and you’d feel his eyes on you till you closed your door. Even sometimes beyond when it was closed. The feeling of being watched was always present, permeating any room you were in, whether it was by the house or Remmick himself.

The only way to escape it was to go into town. Which Remmick hated. Even if he didn’t say those words verbatim, you could tell. You were free to come and go as you please, he meant that, but oh how he hated you going where he couldn’t follow. And the town in daylight was where he couldn't follow.

The closest town was a 20 minute walk from the house. A place far enough from where you were born that there wasn’t anyone who would even know your birth name to breathe it. And it was far enough away that no one would ever think to go looking for you there either.

The people looked at you strangely whenever you came to town. Nice with an underlying fear. Like they knew you were marked by something older than the churches and prayers they’d tried to ward him off him with. Some of them looked with pity. Some of them with fear. But none uttered a word against you, like they were scared of the consequences if he heard.

You’d walk sometimes in town, for hours, till the sun was going down and you knew he’d come looking. You’d found that one out to be true the hard way. The first time you’d gone to town and not returned the second the sun couldn’t touch him he’d found you, trying to book a room at the town’s inn, just to get away for one night. He didn’t drag you home, didn’t ask to come inside, just waited for the man behind the counter's voice to shake at the sight of two red eyes outside and ask you to “please go.”

He didn’t drag you home, just watched defeat settle in your bones when you walked outside. Then he turned on his heel and started walking back. He only turned to look back a few times, not because he didn’t expect you to follow, but because you were something precious, something worth looking back for, just in case.

When you’d stepped back inside, the house shuddered like he did, in relief and in anger.

He didn’t shout, just looked at you with eyes red enough to look like smouldering coal and said:

“‘M always gonna look for ya, always’ gonna find ya.”

And maybe that’s why you never expected him to leave.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Or maybe you didn’t expect him to leave because:

You warmed up to him slow, but you did.

You don’t really remember when it happened, when the house felt like your friend rather than your prison, when he stopped being your keeper and started just being Remmick. But it happened all the same.

It likely happened before this, but you think you only realized it the first time you’d seen him come back hurt.

He never fed in town, just kept the threat looming so they’d leave the both of you alone. He’d go farther out, be back before sun up, blood drenched, but intact.

There was a morning he wasn’t back. You’d risen to the sun and Remmick’s presence wasn’t filling the house the way it always did. You never heard the wind chimes announce his return. And the house creaked like a whine, like it was worried.

And strangely, so were you.

When he came barrelling in his skin was torched and peeling like someone had set him on fire and it hadn’t quite gone out yet.

You moved.

Leapt right up and went right to his body, shuddering and splitting at its seems, and you offered your wrist.

He looked at you strangely for a moment, like he wasn’t quite sure what was happening. You’d never stopped him from drinking from you before, that was part of the deal after all, but you’d never offered it.

“Drink,” and your voice sounded so forceful, so worried, so edged on desperation, that he bit right down.

The bite always stings at first before it starts to feel good, before it feels dizzying, maddening, in the best sorts of ways. Eventually your breath would fall in line with his, heavy, and shoulder shaking.

He always had to force himself to stop drinking from you.

“Ya taste too fuckin’ sweet, like all the finest damn things in life,” he told you that with your blood still dripping down his chin, licking over the wound on your wrist, as if he was kissing it better, while his skin started to heal.

It was a terrifying sight in all honesty. Watching a body stitch itself back together so quickly, watching as the burns faded and healthy skin righted itself, watching his eyes stay trained on you like an animal, red rimmed like an eclipse, your blood drying on his skin alongside some poor sap whose body would be found later today, someone whose death would be ruled as an animal attack. Because what else could do that? All of that should have scared you, but as his body righted itself before you on the floor, something in you thought it was beautiful.

You should’ve known it was over for you right then.

And things had gotten even stranger when you asked him what happened, he just stared for a moment like he didn’t hear you properly, before a grin came onto his face, a bewildered, eager grin.

“Got caught up.”

“Don’t do that again,” it rolled off your tongue like a plea before you even realized you were saying it.

You could still feel his eyes boring into you even as you got up quickly and walked away, mumbling something about wrapping your wrist.

His words were just as his smile was, full of palpable eagerness and bewilderment.

“I won’t.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Or maybe you didn’t expect him to leave because:

If you had warmed up to him slow, you loved him slower, but you still loved him, didn’t you?

There’s no pinpointed moment you can figure for that one, no moment where it clicked.

Like the rug had been pulled out from under you, one day it just was.

It was little things at first, things that didn’t feel like love.

You’d started staying, listening to his thoughts when you’d leave your room to grab a new book. When you’d return one you’d finished, you’d tell him yours when he asked. Eventually that evolved into staying in the living room to read. It wasn’t easy at first, sometimes he’d stare too long, it’d bother you, distract you from the page.

Then sometime, you don’t know when, his watchful eye stopped bothering you. It felt more like the comforting weight of a heavy blanket. Then he’d started keeping track of the things you read, what you liked, what you didn’t ever touch, and when he hunted he’d start returning with books tucked under his arm that he’d tried so hard not to stain with blood.

Dead men’s stolen goods as gifts just for you. It bothered you at first, the things he owned, the things he brought you, all coming from death he caused. Maybe Remmick really was the devil, corrupting your soul from the inside out, but eventually that fact stopped bothering you too.

It became just another fact of life, death, common as breathing.

The other fact of life that became common as breathing was your love for him.

It was the quiet, steady kind, the kind that filled the house, made it warmer, kinder.

The kind of love where he relearned how to use the kitchen, just to make you breakfast in the mornings, just to watch you eat.

The kind where you stopped running off to town for as much daylight as you could. Insisting when you stopped at first that a part of the deal was to keep him company, even if you both knew the truth was that you had just started to want his.

The kind where you started lingering outside his door when he’d play music, just to feel his voice settle in your bones.

The kind where he’d started leaving the door cracked for you, an invitation to come sit close while he sang, a personal show just for you.

And eventually it was the kind of love where you took him up on that. First standing in the doorway. Then standing at the foot of his bed. Then sitting on the end of it. Eventually curled up next to him, letting the sound of strings vibrate in your chest, and whispered lyrics lull you to sleep.

Because you stopped going back to your own room at night too.

You loved each other in a way that evolved slow.

Where you can’t remember when the kisses started coming, or when his hand started slipping onto the small of your back when he stood beside you, or when you started waiting up for him, or when you stopped using your room altogether and moved yourself right into his, or when his touches stopped being fleeting, when they became heavy, hotter, needier, or when your touches became the same.

You don’t remember when you became proper lovers because in some ways it felt like you always had been. Evolving into it felt as natural as the change of seasons, inevitable as the sun rising.

Unfortunately, you loved him as inevitably as him leaving was.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You still remember the night he left.

You heard him get up, figured he must’ve just been going for a hunt, you didn’t think a thing of it.

Because it was so normal.

You’d run that night through your head hundreds of times, maybe thousands, and what always made your chest ache the hardest was that it was so unbelievably normal.

He’d kissed you for a little longer, maybe? Remmick’s kisses seemed to linger though, and he smiled against your lips when you kissed him back. Just like he did every. other. time.

Maybe he’d dressed slower? Taken his sweet time drawing his suspenders up his shoulders. Taken extra care with how he buttoned his shirt.

Maybe he’d looked at you in bed just a little longer from the doorway? Let you feel the comforting weight of him looking at you just a little longer before it was gone.

But those were just the thoughts you’d had in the aftermath of him being gone, there was nothing in that night that made you feel any different, not an inkling in your head about something being wrong.

But in the morning, no chimes woke you.

You worried of course, that he’d been caught up somewhere, but he always came back.

Always.

But then the afternoon crept in.

You decided he’s probably found somewhere dark to hole up till dark.

But then the night blanketed your home and hours came and went and there was still no sign of him.

That’s when fear and worry started to creep in.

And the house worried with you, floorboards shifting and creaking with no one stepping on them.

Morning came, but Remmick never did.

So you started looking.

And looking.

And you waited, oh how you waited for him.

But he never came back, and you could never find him.

You searched so hard, for so long, and there was nothing.

On cold nights, when you slept in the bed you two once shared, you’d listen for the wind chimes, pray you’d hear them like your Daddy’s god would still answer the likes of you.

But the sound of the wind chimes never came.

You wondered late some nights what had gotten him, your dear Remmick.

Some nights hunters got him, spilled his blood on the stake.

And some nights it was the sun, he’d got himself caught up, and he was just too far to make it back before sunlight stole him away.

But never once, in all of those nights, in all of the deepest fears that rattled your chest, did you imagine he’d just left.

The thought never even crossed your mind before you picked up that newspaper.

After he’d left, you go to town sometimes, just stay there the whole day, like the house was unbearable without him in it. You’d just been walking through town, body moving like a phantom, when you’d seen it. A small tidbit in the corner of the paper, barely catching your eye on the newsstand, but you stopped anyway.

“Flaming Man Running through French Quarter!”

That had been the title that tilted your world on its axis.

The article felt silly, asking residents of the area if anyone had seen the man, if they knew if he was okay, if anyone even knew who he was.

But you knew.

That was Remmick, your Remmick.

He’d talked to you once about rumors he heard about out bayou and New Orleans, that there were a whole helluva lot more of his kind out there. That they lived together, weren’t so lonesome.

When you’d asked him if he wanted to leave the house, to go out there, he’d told you no, he rolled over and kissed you, told you that everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever needed was right there in the delta. Because that’s where his heart was, you were holding it after all.

Your feet carried you home, not your mind or spirit. In your head, you mourned, you screamed, anger, despair, agony, all compounded on each other through your flesh and bones. But outwardly your body walked, out of town and through the woods, the sun beating down on you the whole way.

You felt the burn of sunlight and the coolness of sweat the whole walk, and you hoped for a moment that the sun would swallow Remmick whole, scorch him the way he scorched your heart, burn him right up till there was nothing left. But somehow the idea of him being fully gone hurts worse, makes your throat clog up and tears burn in your eyes, like if the sun takes him it’s really over. If he still walked and anger still settled harshly in your chest that meant he might still come back. And you’d rather be furious with him and him still walk this earth than mourn him being gone.

The door was open when you got back. The house welcomed you like an old friend’s shoulder to cry on. And oh did you cry. Shoulder shaking sobs that made you collapse right in the entryway. And the house shuddered with you, window shutters fluttering open and closed, floorboards creaking and groaning like they were sobbing right alongside you. And you felt the house's eyes on you when you stood up, newspaper gripped in hand and stumbled your way to the kitchen. You’d stopped sobbing at that point, anger stopped mixing with sadness, and you shoved all that pain down, so deep down it couldn’t hurt you anymore. And you let all that anger boil to the surface, let it consume and taint all those memories of him.

Because just how long had he been planning on leaving you?

Because he left without a word.

Because he still kissed you like he was gonna come back.

Because even as you shoved that pain down it just wouldn’t stop hurting.

So you slammed that newspaper down on the kitchen table, hard enough the entire house went still and silent.

“He never comes in again, not unless I say so.”

And the house heard you, and it listened.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

That’s how Remmick ends up a silhouette in the night, in the dirt just in front of your porch, waiting for you.

You can see two red eyes locked on you, waiting for you to step out to join him.

When you don’t he sighs and starts.

“’m sorry.”

He says it quick, like that’s all, you can feel his grin even if you can't see it, playful, not serious enough for the gravity of what he’s done.

And you feel it, that burning anger bubbling back up in you, the kind that dulled in the years since you saw that newspaper, but never died. You feel it surge back into you, white hot and furious.

“Get the fuck out of here Remmick—”

When you start to turn, to disappear back into the house, panic shoots through him, so intense you feel it raise the hair on your arms.

You hear his body clatter against the door, claws sinking into the mesh of the screen, he could tear right through it, but he still wouldn’t be able to make it inside.

“No, please, ’m sorry, ‘m so fuckin’ sorry, please just don’t go, let me make this right—”

You’re struck by the sincerity of it, the desperation you can feel radiating off of him, how the way he’s looking at you is so intense you can feel it without looking at him.

You don’t turn around to look back at him, not yet, but you do freeze.

For him that’s enough, and sorrow spills out of him in waves.

“I didn’t wanna leave, not really— I thought, thought I was doin’ the right thing for once, gettin’ the hell outta your life.”

You hear him pull away from the door, stop leaning all his weight on it.

“I thought… fuck me I never imagined you stayin’ here, half thought I’d come back and find you long gone from this ol’ place. I see how stupid of an idea that was now…”

“It was a stupid idea,” your hands are shaking, you can’t help it, “thinkin’ I’d leave, makes you an idiot,” you don’t turn around, not yet.

“I thought bout ya everyday, every goddamned day,” and you know he means it, and you hate the way that knowing that makes warmth flood into your chest, how it makes your hands shake even harder.

“Then why’d ya go on and leave,” you hate how you voice sounds in that moment even more than how your hands shake, how agonized it sounds, how broken.

“Ya know, yer jus bout how old I was when I got turned,” his voice is wistful, distant.

“Answer the question,” you grit through your teeth.

“Gettin’ there,” he doesn’t speak for a long moment, you’re about to force yourself to walk further into the house when he chimes in again. “Ya kept gettin’ older, and hell nothin’ wrong with that, loved watchin’ it, watchin’ you grow into yourself.”

You say it before he does, because you can feel it hanging in the air like a noose, “but?”

“But,” he runs a hand down his face, “I kept thinkin’ bout you growin’ old, dyin’ on me—”

Before you can interject he keeps talking.

“And fuck it was killin’ me, the thought of losin’ you, for a man that’s lived long as me, felt so strange to think I couldn’t live without ya, but I, fuck I couldn’t do it.”

“Then why ain’t ya turn—”

“I thought bout it, all the time really, turning ya,” his voice slows back into that wistful tone, and you can feel him smiling at you, you can feel the way it’s softening your posture without even looking at him. “Anytime those thoughts crept in, bout ya dyin’, I’d jus tell myself that I’d turn ya tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. But I jus couldn’t do it—”

And that makes you turn back around, fury, exasperation, pain etched across your face “why—”

“Because vampirism ain’t no fuckin’ cakewalk! Ya can’t see the sun! The hunger fuckin’ consumes ya! And yer stuck here for eternity! Which I still can’t even begin to wrap my head ‘round that kinda time, and I’ve been here centuries,” he’s pressed himself back up against the screen of the door, you can feel his breath through the mesh, see his claws sinking in.

“Remmick—”

“And when I thought bout turnin’ ya, and believe me, I started thinkin’ bout it real hard, I long since made peace with me bein’ a vampire, but you,” His voice gets caught on some ragged, desperate breath in his throat, “I thought bout a hundred years from now, longer than yer lifetime or anyone else's is supposed to go, and I thought bout how angry you might be that I did this to ya, that ya’d wind up hatin’ me for it, that you’d go on and walk this Earth without me, trapped here because of me, and that, that was even worse than thinkin’ bout death stealin’ ya away from me.”

“Remmick,” you say it softer this time, like it’s a breath escaping your throat instead of a word.

“I couldn’t bear it, the idea ya might hate me, might leave me, but I, shit darlin’, I couldn’t watch ya die either.” He swallows then, you watch it bob in his throat, “so, I left. But then nothin’ made since without ya. Yer all I fuckin’ thought bout, I saw ya everywhere, in everything, and I tried so damn hard to stay away, cause I jus can’t take either possibility, but bein away from ya ‘s so much worse.”

“I would never hate ya,” you speak so soft he can barely hear it, you almost wonder if you’re saying it more for yourself than him. Because all these years no matter how damn hard you tried, no matter how angry you got, how hurt you were, you never could hate him. Could you?

“Even now?” The way he says it is almost pathetic, like a dog with his tail between his legs.

“Even now.” And you’re sure of it, more sure than you think you’ve been of anything.

And to prove it, you swing that door right open.

And the house seems to shift on the foundation, the door creaking like it’s saying “welcome home.”

He stands there in the doorway for a moment, breathless.

“I missed ya, please, come back.”

And so he does.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The first thing Remmick does when he steps inside is caress your face, each hand holding one cheek. His eyes roam over you like he’s taking in every old and new detail, memorizing you all over again. Every wrinkle. Every scar. Every smile line. All of it.

“Ya got older.”

You turn your head away and scoff, “that happens when yer still mortal.”

He guides your face back to look at him with just enough force to remind you that you ain’t dealing with something human, but he kisses your forehead soft enough to remind you that he was just a man once too.

“Yer just as handsome as the day I left ya, maybe more.”

He kisses down your face slowly, enough time to shove him away if you wanted, but you don’t, of course you don’t.

Years of wanting this, waiting for this has you kissing him back instinctually before your brain catches up.

He kisses you deep and slow till you're breathless, breathing heavy against his lips, chasing them even after he pulls away.

He kisses you again, savouring it, feeling it deep in his bones, his lips brush your ear when he pulls away, “half worried yer body’d forgotten me.”

You move to capture his lips again, mumbling against them between breathy kisses, “thought bout you even after…”

And you feel his grin wicked and devilish against your lips at that, he kisses harder, eagerness radiating off of him, “shit darlin’, shoulda never worried,” his hands trail lower, caressing your body with cold hands that still manage to leave your skin burning. “Got me written in yer damn bones don’tcha?”

“Remmick—”

“Fuck, missed hearin’ you say my name like that,” he’s sinking to his knees right there in the entry way, kissing down your body, hands gripping the back of your thighs, sneaking back up to squeeze your ass just to hear you gasp. “Lemme make up for lost time, yeah?”

And he looks almost angelic on his knees looking up at you, asking to take you apart.

How could you say no?

The second you nod, jagged and sharp, too overwhelmed to speak already, he presses a long, lingering kiss to your abdomen. His lips trailed lower, pressing firm and hot against you, he kisses your inner thigh and even though you’re clothed the kiss sears.

“Remmick—” you say his name like you’re praying.

“Entry way prolly ain’t the best place to show ya how much I missed ya, c’mon now,” he stands up slow, trailing the same dizzying kisses against you as he stands. “Let me lay you out proper.”

When he walks by the mirror where that drawing of him sits he pauses when he sees it’s still there.

“Ya kept it up?”

And you slow to look at it too, “couldn’t forget the face of the man I was so damn angry at,” and the words make Remmick’s chest ache not because of the idea of you being angry with him, but because he can read you like a book. And he knows damn well what you really meant, that you were scared of forgetting the face of the man you loved.

He kisses you again, slow and steady, and when he pulls away he holds your chin, makes you look at him, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, not again darlin’, never again.”

“I know,” but you don’t.

He kisses your forehead then, “no, no ya don’t, but I’m gonna fuck ya till ya do.” And he starts tugging you along to the bedroom you once shared. The one you hadn’t slept in since you saw that newspaper article.

When he opens the door his other hand doesn’t leave yours. The room is still. There’s a thin layer of dust on most things. The bed is still made. Remmick’s banjo is untouched in the corner of the room. There’s a book you were reading on the nightstand, one you never finished. The window’s open, curtains rustling gently with the wind, the only movement the room’s had for years.

“Place looks like a memory.”

“It is.”

“Then let's make some new ones in it, shall we?” And with that he’s pushing you towards the bed, letting you pull him with you by his suspenders, leaning in with a devilish sort of smile on his face when the back of your legs hit the bed.

“Gonna apologize proper now,” is all he says as he helps you out of your pants and underwear and sinks to the floor.

He’s drooling when he looks at you, thick strand pooling over his bottom lip down his chin, eyes fixed on your core like a starving animal. He swallows, tries to get ahold of himself. He wants to have you slow, take you apart real nice till you’re breathy and trembling. But it’s been three years since he’s had what he would consider his favorite meal. So he can’t help but dive right in.

His mouth is buried in you so quick it punches a gasp right out of your chest. And he moans. A deep and low vibration against your core, while his arms work to hook your legs over his shoulders. He has one hand cemented on your thigh, squeezing you to remind you he’s there, as if you could forget with the way his mouth is moving, and the other he’s using to spread your folds open with his fingers so he can lick deeper.

The velvety press of his lips is all you need to know that he’s been dreaming about this for years.

“Even sweeter than I remember,” and he sounds drunk on you already.

His knees are digging into the floorboards with an intensity that would make any mortal man’s body ache, but Remmick is no mortal man.

His hand squeezes your thigh tighter, his tongue slipping between your folds, thick, soft, and slow as he falls into his old rhythm, trying to shove his own eagerness down, but you can still feel how it hums in the air. He’s sinking into familiarity again, letting the pass of his tongue savor you, he hums low and soft when he hears your breath pick up into a pant, and your shaking hand thread through his hair and pull. You hear him groan when you do, but more than that you feel it, vibrations, low and heavy shooting through your core up your spine. The kind that yanks a moan right out of your throat and makes your legs tighten over his shoulders. You feel his smirk against you, another agonizingly slow lick, and then you feel his finger draw itself through your folds before he crooks it right inside.

And you whine.

It doesn’t take long for his finger to know just where to rub inside of you, he plays you like a fiddle, like your body is something he’d never forget how to take apart and put back together.

And every whine, moan, pant and gasp just confirms it for him.

And then he let his tongue flick at your clit, all gentle, just enough to shoot shockwaves through you without being forceful. And you fall back onto the bed, back arching, hand tangling harder into his hair, pulling another moan out of him.

Just as he crooks a second finger into you, he starts to suck on your clit like a vice. As he scissors his fingers, you start to squirm, the stretch wonderful and burning and overwhelming all at once. His hand on your thigh slips up to hold your hip, keeping you solidly in place, unable to run, unable to escape from, unable to forget that he isn’t going anywhere.

By the time he has three fingerings pumping in and out of you, you’re already one orgasm deep, shaking from the overwhelm of pleasure as his tongue still won’t leave you.

“Rem— too much— too fuckin’ much—”

He unlatches from your cunt for one moment just to shake his head, and give your thigh a nip. Just hard enough for him to draw blood, to make you hiss, and then whine when he starts licking your blood right up.

“No it ain’t baby, yer just outta practice, ‘s okay, I gotcha, just fall on off again, ‘m gonna be here to catch ya.”

And with one more crook of his fingers, combined with the feeling of him drinking from you, you do. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, back arching off the bed, the moan ripped from your throat echoing off the walls, joining the cicadas outside in song, hand pulling at Remmick’s hair, the other fisting the sheets.

And when he draws his fingers out of you, you sob. The emptiness feels like the closest thing to hell since him leaving.

“No— no— jus gotcha back— don’t— put em back—”

He pops his digits in his mouth, licking em clean before rising back to his feet.

“Shit baby, been gone too damn long, gotcha strung out already,” he’s leaning over you now, kissing over your face, leaving traces of salvia and you with each one. “‘S okay, ain’t goin’ nowhere, jus’ gonna give ya somethin’ bigger.”

He leans back away from you, shushing you softly when you whine, he slides his suspenders off his shoulders, real slow, he’s always been a showman after all, and who is he to not give his man a show.

He unbuttons his pants next, doesn’t bother stripping them off, just untucks his shirt and frees his cock. It’s already flushed, hard, and aching for you, beads of precum spilling from the head. He gives it a couple tugs, his head falls back, a groan escaping him. Sensitive as you are, you don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more than you want him in that moment.

He barks out a laugh when you sit up just to grab the front of his shirt and pull him to you.

“Darlin’, darlin’, ‘m coming, ‘m coming—”

“Made me wait three fuckin’ years, ya better hurry yer ass up—”

And he smirks into the kiss when you pull him in, standing himself right between where your legs are hanging off the side of the bed. When your mouth opens to breathe he slips his tongue right in, feeling you, tasting you again. You can still taste yourself on his tongue. Years ago, when you first came to this house, first came to be with him, that would’ve made you feel debauched, wrong, but now? Now it felt right, so, so right.

He only leaves your mouth to kiss down your jaw, then your neck, you can feel the heated weight of him against your inner thigh.

“Remmick,” you don’t even have to say it.

“I know darlin’, I know.”

He lines himself up with your dripping hole and presses in. He’s real slow, careful, like he’s worried he’ll break you. If your breath hitches in a way he deems wrong, he stops, presses a kiss to your pulse point and waits till you get fidgety beneath him before he presses in more. When he’s fully seated he’s hovering above you, slack jawed with lidded eyes. Drool drips down his chin, splattering onto your face, he swipes his thumb over his chin, then over your face, collecting the spit there, before dipping his thumb into your mouth, you suck it clean instinctively and he whines. He presses his face into your neck and just holds you for a moment, getting used to the feeling of your cunt squeezing him again, of your body warm and pliant beneath him again, of just having you again.

Your legs hook around his hips, your nose brushes against his, “Remmick…”

He gasps a little, knocking his forehead against yours, “gimmie a minute, jus a minute, lemme feel ya.”

And you do.

And you feel him too.

You feel where your warmth meets his cold, feel where you’re joined not just in body but in soul.

Because you feel it and he does too.

The feeling of the other half of your soul coming back to you.

The feeling of knowing the other half will always come back to you.

And then he moves.

He draws himself out real slow, makes sure you feel it, and then he slams himself right back in.

Not to take, not to be cruel, just to make sure you feel it.

“Ya feel it? Ya feel where I am in ya?” He rasps against your throat while leaving sloppy kisses and nips against your skin.

“Mhm yeah, feel ya, I feel ya, Remmick,” and you do, right in your stomach, deep enough where you think the feeling of him may never leave you.

“Good, cause I ain’t ever leavin’,” he drags himself back out, face still nuzzled in your throat, “even— fuck ya feel so good—” his voice comes out in whimper, “even when I ain’t fillin’ ya, yer gonna know, gonna feel me, not jus in yer stomach baby, in yer soul.”

“I know,” you always could feel him in that soul of yours, like you’d given it right over to him the second you shook his hand and walked away from your life before.

He felt you in his too.

“I mean it,” his voice rasps in your ear between thrusts, “can feel ya in mine, never left me, not ever, no matter where I was—”

A soul trapped in a body that’s been on this earth far too long, and the thing that tamed it into something human again was yours.

The most human piece of him was his heart, and that had stayed with you, no matter how far he’d gone.

You don’t know when you first felt his tears brush against you, but you felt them hit your cheeks all the same, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I love ya,” he says it like that act from him is a curse, “and I’m so fuckin’ sorry I do,” the rhythm of his thrusts shifted away from the slow sacred draw of his hips into something frantic and needier.

“Remmick—”

“Cause you ain’t ever gonna get away fr’me now, I tried, darlin’, I tried,” he punctuates his words my slamming into you in a frenzy, grunting against your neck as he speaks, he fucks you like he’s begging for forgiveness, because he is.

His name falls off your tongue like the chant of a hymn, like you’re worshipping him, but you’re cracking him open each time you speak.

“I’ll have ya forever if ya let me, please let me, I can’t— I can’t be without ya, it was killin’ me,” his voice comes out like a choked sob, he’s got you clutched against him as his thrusts get sloppier by the second.

“Remmick,” it’s your turn to clutch at his face, some kind of desperation in your eyes as they meet his teary ones, your hands slip into his hair, cradling his head, forcing him to keep his eyes on you, “ya already have me.”

And that sends him right over the edge, his lips slam against yours as he slams back into you, burying himself in the deepest parts of you, he spills, crying out your name when he does. One hand cradles your face as the other reaches down, rubbing softly at your clit till you’re arching off the bed into his mouth, spilling right along with him.

He doesn’t pull out for a long time, just hovers above you, forehead pressed against yours, eyes slipped shut, just breathing you in. He nuzzles his face back into your neck, nose pressed against your pulse point, feeling the blood thrumming beneath.

“That was a hell of an apology.”

And that makes him breathe out something that sounds like a laugh, “it work?”

And you run a hand through the sweat slicked hair stuck to his forehead, “yeah Remmick, it worked just fine.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

When he strips out of his clothes and lays down bare next to you the house exhales, like it’s breathing a sigh of relief.

Its two keepers finally home, finally together.

He’s oddly quiet while he holds you against him, curling an arm protectively around you, anchoring himself to you, like without you, without his heart, he doesn’t know where he’ll wander off to.

“Ya mean it?”

His voice startles you a little after so long of nothing but the sound of wind through the window and the cicadas age old song.

“Mean what?”

“That I have ya? Ya mean that?”

You tilt your head up from where you’ve pressed into his shoulder amidst your tangle of limbs.

“Course I did.”

He hums and nods, eyes distant, thinking, like they’re looking at another place, at another time. When he speaks again his voice is the same as his eyes.

“I meant what I said too,” you look at him again while he speaks, sitting up a little. “I really, fuck me, I really can’t live without ya,” he cradles your cheek again, thumb swiping against your cheekbone soft and tender, “ya give me the word I’ll turn ya.”

“If I said no?”

He sighs, sitting up, leaning back against the old headboard, “then I’d stay, even when your bones creak, and your heart sputters, and your mind ain’t all there no more.”

“And after…?” There’s this sinking in your chest, for how common death had become in your life, you can’t bear to say it here, not to him, to make him face your mortality.

“I’d follow ya, hold ya till your last breath, then I’d carry your body right outside towards the sun, and I’d go right with ya.”

And that makes you shoot up, “Remmick—”

“This ain’t tomorrow darlin’, don’t worry, this ain’t to pressure you neither,” he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, “but bein’ without ya taught me well enough that that’s just not my life no more.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”

And he gives you a sad sort of smile, “I know, but I’d have lived plenty long, ‘specially by then, and my heart’d be gone, no point in stayin’ here without that.”

That settles heavy on your chest. You don’t speak for a long time, just letting him hold you while you think.

“And if I wanted you to?”

He takes a deep breath, smiling at you, “then I’d walk this place with you for eternity, or long as you’d let me.”

“Ya make eternity not sound so bad.”

“With you, I can’t imagine it bein’ bad at all.”

Neither of you speak again till the hands of the clock have ticked by a couple more hours, and dawn threatens itself on the horizon. You stand up out of bed, and he quickly pads after you like a loyal dog. You shut the window and tug the curtains shut tighter.

You break the silence when you turn to him again, chest to chest, “I wantcha to do it.”

“What?”

“Turn me.”

His breath hitches and he takes you in again, “don’t say that unless ya mean it.”

“I do.”

“Yer bones gotta mean it, yer soul—”

You take his hand and place it over your heart, it’s not racing, not jumping or thundering in your chest, “they do Remmick, I do.”

And the way you say it like a vow makes a whimper of sorts escape his throat.

“It’ll hurt.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know, ‘s okay, ya got eternity to make up for it.”

He sighs, looks around, you can tell he’s trying hard not to pounce on you and just do it, he wants so badly for you to be sure, for you to mean it.

“Ain’t no goin’ back.

“I know,” you reach out, take his hand and squeeze it real tight, “jus’ you, me and eternity.”

And that breaks him.

He takes the time to make it soft, feel like a ritual. He dresses you in fine clothes, the kind better men than either of you might wear to church, once upon a time they probably were somebody’s church clothes. He buttons each button of your shirt with the same level of sanctity and care that someone would take communion with, leaving all but two buttoned, to expose your neck and collarbone. He smoothes out the shirt and kisses your cheek before he helps you into slacks, tucking in your shirt gently.

He lets you help him dress too. Slipping on his shirt, pressing kisses to his neck and collarbone as you button it. Pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. You work slow, like you’re making sure every detail of him is perfect.

He sits down on the bed first, pulling you into his lap, legs splayed over either side of his thighs. He looks up at you for a moment, “’m never leavin’ ya again.”

“Won’t have much of a choice after this.”

He chuckles, breathy and quiet, “no, I supposed I won’t.”

He leans in pressing a kiss to your pulse point one last time, then he lays his head on your chest.

“What’re ya—”

“Jus’... I gotta hear it beat, jus’ a little longer…”

And he listens, the soft and steady thrumming beneath your ribcage soothes his last nerves. If he could bottle that sound he would. One day it would be a distant memory, one that tethered him to a before, but when he sits back up and you smile at him he knows that smile of yours will always tether him to the present, no matter where and when that might be.

He brushes your shirt back a little, exposing your warm skin to the air. The house seems to hold its breath.

“Darlin’, why don’t ya go on and close yer eyes for me now.”

When your eyes slip shut you feel the ghost of his lips against your skin, not biting yet, just probing. You feel the tips of his teeth when he’s about to bite down, your body goes rigid, hair standing up on end, you feel a clawed hand rub your back softly.

“Trust me.”

For a second you think you hear your Daddy, preaching about the devil, preaching about hell, preaching about his lost daughter. Then all you hear is the tear of flesh, and somehow, that frightens you less.

Your eyes fly open and your fingers curl into his shirt. For a second you’re afraid. For a second all you feel is white, hot pain. You think you scream, but you never hear it. You feel your heart, how it speeds up, surging like it’s trying to save you, and then you feel it give. The edges of your vision start to go black, the last thing you see is Remmick pulling back to look at you, hand rubbing your back, chin stained with blood, eyes wide, smile soft, beautiful.

“I gotcha, ‘s okay, I gotcha.”

And then there’s nothing.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You wake laid back against the pillows, blood staining your shirt, arms laid over your chest, a dried bouquet that you know was previously hanging in the kitchen laid beneath them, a shiny gold ring slipped onto your left ring finger.

You wake to the world more in focus, sharper, brighter, louder.

You wake to nightfall. It’d been that long already.

But most importantly, you wake alone.

Panic seizes your chest for a moment. You know it all wasn’t a dream solely based on your blood stained shirt and the fact you can’t feel your own heartbeat anymore.

Right as you tear out of the bedroom in a panic, you hear it. The sound that means “‘m home darlin’.”

The rustle of windchimes on the porch.

And when you see his red eyes glowing through the screen smile, dead deer he dragged there laying on the porch behind him, your first meal after being turned.

“I told ya, windchimes’ll always tell ya when ‘m home.”

And he’ll always come home to you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ fin⋆⁺₊⋆

a/n: Welp this beat out my last one for the longest one-shot I've put out. Should I make a masterlist???? I hope y'all enjoyed, and I'll see ya in the next <3

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phoenix9912 · 29 days ago

Text

Ascensionism

Remmick x Male Reader

Summary: You're wary when a white man arrives at your door, but his persistent begging and pleading ultimately overcome your reservations, leading you to help him.

A/N: I'll start by saying, I'm not used to writing for things like this mostly cause I get in my head about the things/fandoms I write for. So, I'm hoping this does well and if it does I'll write more. It's also implied reader can understand Gaelic, do with that what you will.

TW: Gore - Blood - Death - Vampirism - Religion

You were no stranger to the suffocating shadow that clung to the world, a darkness meticulously crafted and brutally pressed upon those branded as "deviant" by the righteous. You, a poison in their eyes, knew the relentless assault of scripture, each verse a weapon aimed at purging the perceived blight of your existence. They believed it could somehow scour the very roots entwined within your soul, roots you had no power to change. You had recited their prayers until your lungs ached, endured their punishments until your skin blossomed with angry welts. Pain, a constant companion, was a bitter friend, a perverse communion with the very soul they condemned as corrupt.

The sun, a dying ember, bled across the horizon, bathing the fields in a sorrowful, low orange glow. The evening chorus of crickets began, their song a lament carried on the rising wind that stirred dust and dry twigs in its mournful wake. You stood over the rusted sink, sleeves rolled high past your elbows, your shirt, a second skin of sweat and field dirt, clung to your chest. Beads of perspiration gathered at your collarbone, sticking to the hair there. Your suspenders, long since abandoned to hang loosely at your sides, had left angry red welts where they had relentlessly dug into your skin during the day's backbreaking labor.

Your gaze, empty and distant, was fixed on the long dirt path that snaked towards your solitary, old wooden house, a forlorn sentinel in the vast expanse of your fields. A basket of potatoes sat in the sink, a cold stream of fresh water running over them, slowly coaxing away the stubborn clumps of dirt and mud. The sounds of the world around you – the persistent wind, the mournful chirping of crickets, the faint, rustling shuffle of the goats in their pen out back – felt overwhelming, a frantic, chaotic drumbeat against your skull, threatening to shatter the fragile peace you tried to maintain.

With a heavy sigh, your hand reached up, clamping around the cool, unforgiving metal of the faucet. You twisted it, silencing the water's gentle flow. You cleared your throat, the sound rough and dry, before turning your back on the fading light outside. Each step you took deeper into the house, towards the small sanctuary of your bedroom, felt burdened with an invisible weight. A low grunt escaped your lips as you finally sank into the rickety rocking chair, its protests echoing the weariness in your bones. You pulled your sweat-soaked shirt over your head, the damp fabric tearing away from your skin with a soft ripping sound, and tossed it aside. Dirt and mud, a familiar second skin in your adult years, was caked onto your body, a constant reminder of a life lived in constant toil and endless judgment.

The small bathroom, little more than a closet, offered a momentary reprieve from the vast emptiness of the house. The air inside was cool, a stark contrast to the stifling humidity outside and the warmth of your own body. The floorboards groaned faintly under your weight as you stepped across the rough wood, reaching for a worn, thin cloth draped over the edge of a chipped ceramic basin. The basin, its surface stained with years of use, held a small pitcher of water, drawn hours ago from the well, now refreshingly cool. You poured a generous amount of water onto the cloth, watching as the fabric darkened, absorbing the liquid greedily.

You began to scrub, the coarse cloth rough against your skin, a familiar friction. The dirt and sweat, a grim mosaic on your body, began to smear and dissolve under the relentless pressure. You started with your arms, working in slow, deliberate circles, feeling the grime loosen and wash away. Then your chest, the cloth dragging over the sensitive skin where the suspenders had chafed, sending a dull ache through you. Each stroke was a small act of cleansing, not just of the day's grime, but a futile attempt to wash away the deeper stains of their judgment, the invisible marks of being an outcast.

The water, now murky with the day's accumulation, ran down your skin, carrying with it not just the visible dirt but the lingering sensation of the sun's oppressive heat and the fields' endless demands. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting out a slow, deliberate breath, as if expelling the weariness from your very core. Reaching for the pitcher again, you poured the remaining water over your head. The cold shock made you gasp, the liquid streaming through your matted hair, a chilling embrace that felt both jarring and strangely liberating. Water dripped down your face, tracing paths through the remaining dust, and pooled around your bare feet on the rough floor.

Once the last of the water had been poured, leaving your hair clinging damply to your scalp, you turned and made your way back into the bedroom, the clean air on your skin a welcome relief. Your eyes fell on the simple wooden vanity, its small, tarnished mirror reflecting the dim light from the window. As you reached for a clean, coarse linen shirt from the dresser, your gaze snagged on your reflection.

There, stark against the tired skin of your back, were the indelible marks of their piety. Faded scars crisscrossed your shoulder blades, a testament to punishments long past, lines etched into your flesh like a cruel map of your perceived sins. Interspersed among them were the angry, fresh welts from today, red and raised, a vivid reminder of the constant, aching pain. You traced one with a finger, the slight sting a familiar sensation. Each mark was a story, a silent accusation from a world that had never truly accepted you, a world that saw only the darkness it had created within you, mistaking it for your very essence. The reflection, a silent witness to your brokenness, seemed to confirm the very thing they preached: that you were, and always would be, a outcast.

You let out a ragged sigh, pulling the clean, coarse linen shirt over your still-damp body. The fabric clung coolly to your skin, a faint shiver running through you. With the weight of the day's grime shed, you turned from the mirror, your gaze sweeping across the small, sparsely furnished room before you walked back towards the kitchen, the floorboards creaking softly under your bare feet.

As you moved, your eyes snagged on an old Bible, its presence a ghost in your home. It sat, a forgotten relic, on a high shelf above the hearth, surely untouched since your father or mother had pressed it into your hands, a desperate attempt to "fix" the perceived flaw in your very being. A harsh, humorless scoff escaped your lips. You reached up, your fingers brushing over the faded, cracked leather cover, the gold lettering of its title long since worn away. The heat of your defiance flared within you, a familiar fire, as if the very touch of the book was enough to summon a legion of memories you fought daily to suppress, to bury beneath layers of toil and silence.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a sharp intake of breath as you fully turned your back on the shelf, willing the phantom pains and echoes of past condemnations to vanish. When you opened your eyes again, peering out the window, the last vestiges of the sunset cast long, distorted shadows across your fields. But it wasn't the shadows that seized your attention.

A figure was approaching, stumbling, swaying, a dark silhouette against the dying light. He was covered in what looked like mud and blood, his clothes torn, and even from this distance, you could discern the angry welts marring his exposed skin, mirroring the ones you’d just observed on your own back. His dark curls, matted and damp, stuck to his forehead. Everything in you screamed, a primal instinct to hide, to retreat into the shadows of your home, to let whoever was pursuing this broken man finish their work. You knew the dangers of involvement, the bitter cost of compassion in a world that thrived on punishment.

He reached your small, rickety porch, his knees hitting the old, worn wood with a dull thud as he collapsed, a heap of misery. A faint plea, a pained whisper, reached your ears, thick with an accent you couldn't quite place, but it carried an undeniable urgency. Before your brain could process the inherent danger, before rational thought could intervene, your feet were moving. You didn't remember grabbing the old revolver from its perch above the doorframe, nor did you recall flinging the door wide open. One moment you were frozen, the next, the cool metal of the gun was heavy in your hand, its barrel pointed steadily at the man sprawled on your porch.

"Who are you?" you growled, the words rough and strained, but the tremor in your hand, a betraying shake that ran through your entire arm, belied your aggressive tone. Fear, cold and sharp, had coiled in your gut, and he, even in his broken state, seemed to sense it.

The man on your porch, his face streaked with dirt and grime, slowly lifted his hands, palms open and shaking, a universal gesture of surrender. His eyes, wide with a desperate plea, fixed on yours. "Please," he rasped, his voice raw and thick with that unfamiliar accent. "They're after me. They don't... they don't like my kind around here." His gaze flickered towards the encroaching darkness of the fields, then back to you, an unspoken terror in their depths. "I have money. Gold. Just let me in. Just until they pass."

Your eyes, narrowed in suspicion, darted to the long, dusty path that snaked towards your solitary house, then back to the figure before you. He fumbled in a hidden pocket, producing several glinting pieces of gold. The metal caught the last, dying light of the sunset, casting a brief, tantalizing gleam. You swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat sudden and acute. His eyes, so full of raw, unadulterated helplessness, mirrored a pain you knew intimately, a familiar ache blooming in your own chest. It was the look of someone hunted, an outsider in a world that offered no quarter.

He dragged himself closer, his knees scraping against the rough wood of the porch. "My name is Remmick," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I promise, I'll leave. As soon as they're gone, I'll be gone."

In that moment, the cold logic that had always governed your existence shattered. The raw, desperate plea in his eyes, the tangible fear, the shared burden of being "different" in a world quick to judge and condemn – it all washed over you. All rational thought, every instinct to protect yourself from the inevitable consequences of helping a stranger, evaporated. You lowered the gun, the barrel still trembling slightly in your grip. "Alright," you rasped, the word feeling alien on your tongue. "You can come inside."

Before you could second-guess yourself, before the echoes of your own past suffering could fully resurface and drown out this fragile impulse of compassion, you reached out. Your hand, still clutching the revolver, instinctively found his. His skin was cold, clammy, but you gripped it firmly, pulling him to his feet. He stumbled, leaning heavily on you, and together, you moved. With a final, decisive pull, you guided him across the threshold, past the doorway, and into the dim, quiet sanctuary of your home, closing the door firmly behind you. The world outside, with its judgment and its hunters, was momentarily shut out.

Remmick watched you as you turned your back to the door, his eyes scanning your form in the dim light. A primal instinct pulsed within him, the urge to strike, to sink his teeth into your vulnerable flesh and turn you, making you one of his own, before the danger outside could ever reach your property. But something held him back – a flicker of something unfamiliar, perhaps even akin to gratitude, in his ancient eyes. He didn't get a chance to speak, to utter a word of thanks or explanation, before the distant, unmistakable sound of hooves against the harsh dirt filled the air, growing louder with terrifying speed.

Without a moment’s hesitation, or even a thought to the gun still in your hand, you reacted. Your fingers clamped around the silver chain necklace adorning Remmick’s throat – a cold, surprising weight. You hauled him forward, the chain digging into your palm, and shoved him unceremoniously into the darkest corner of your small bedroom. The door swung shut with a muffled thud just as a sharp, insistent knock echoed through the quiet house.

Your finger instinctively brushed against the trigger of the revolver, its cold metal a stark contrast to your rapidly beating heart. You cracked the door open, just enough to peer out, and found yourself face to face with a group of men. They were not the rough, wild figures you had imagined; instead, they wore the distinct clothing of Native Americans, their stoic faces illuminated by the faint starlight. Their eyes, dark and piercing, scanned you with an unnerving intensity, as if assessing a frightened animal trapped in a snare.

One man, taller than the others, his face painted with somber lines, spoke. His voice was low, resonating with a quiet authority. "Have you seen a man come around here?"

"Can't say I have," you murmured, your voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor that ran through your entire body.

"Is it just you here?" the man asked, his gaze deliberately sweeping past you, attempting to pierce the gloom within your home.

You nodded, a small, almost imperceptible shy smile playing on your lips, an old habit you employed when you wanted to appear harmless. "Unless you count the goats, then I ain't exactly alone." You barely registered anything else they said, your mind consumed by a growing certainty: this man, despite his calm demeanor and the traditional attire of his companions, was not who he seemed. This was not a simple inquiry; this was a hunt. And you, caught in the middle, needed to be careful, to not let anyone else cross your threshold.

Finally, with the sun long gone and the land cast in soft darkness, the men exchanged a few more terse words among themselves. With a final, lingering look at your house, they turned their horses and rode off into the horizon, their hooves fading into the silence of the night, leaving behind only the lingering tension in the air.

You turned back into the dimness of your home, the lingering adrenaline from the encounter with the riders still thrumming beneath your skin. But the relief was short-lived. Standing in the faint light filtering from the kitchen, almost like a specter, was Remmick. And in his hands, clutched with an almost possessive grip, was the old, leather-bound Bible you’d dismissed just moments before.

A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face, revealing a flash of something utterly unnatural: sharp, elongated teeth that glinted in the gloom. The sight sent a cold shiver down your spine, a primordial warning bell clanging in your mind. His voice, a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards, echoed in the sudden silence of the house.

"You lie so easily," he murmured, his gaze piercing, chillingly knowing. "For a man you don't even know." The words hung in the air, a testament to your deception, a silent acknowledgment of the danger you had just invited in.

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat. All the fragmented warning signs coalesced into a single, terrifying realization, sending your head spinning with a sickening lurch. The unnatural quiet, the preternatural speed of his movement earlier, the strange lack of a normal human fear even when facing a gun, and now… the teeth, the predatory eyes. The question, an accusation and a terrified whisper rolled into one, tumbled from your lips before you could stop it.

"You ain't human, are you?"

Remmick's smirk widened, a silent, knowing acknowledgment of your dawning horror. He didn't deny it, didn't offer an excuse. Instead, he simply tilted his head, the movement eerily precise, and let his gaze drift back to the Bible in his hands, his thumb tracing the faded gold leaf of its spine. "No," he rumbled, the word a low growl that vibrated in the quiet air between you. "Not in the way you mean it."

The truth, stark and chilling, settled over you like a shroud. You had pulled a monster into your home, a creature of the night, one of the very things the scriptures they’d forced upon you warned against. All those stories, all those fire-and-brimstone sermons, now felt terrifyingly real. Your hand, still clutching the revolver, trembled uncontrollably, the cold metal suddenly alien and useless against what stood before you.

"What... what are you?" you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes fixed on his sharp teeth, then darting to the old Bible. The very symbol of the faith that had condemned you your entire life was now in the hands of the very thing it sought to exorcise. It was a cruel, twisted irony that burned worse than any of the welts on your back.

Remmick finally looked up from the book, his eyes, dark and ancient, locking onto yours. There was a flicker of something in them, a hint of amusement, perhaps even pity. "A survivor," he said, his voice softer now, almost a purr. "Like you, in your own way." He gestured vaguely with the Bible. "This... this is what they believe will save them from my kind. And from yours."

He took a slow step towards you, then another, and instinctively, you took a step back, the worn floorboards creaking under your bare feet. The scent of him – blood, earth, and something indefinably wild – reached you, cloying and unsettling. Every instinct screamed at you to flee, to raise the gun, but you remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a mixture of terror and morbid fascination.

"Those men outside," Remmick continued, his voice dropping to an almost hypnotic tone, "they weren't looking for a 'sinner' like me. Not really. They were looking for a scapegoat, for someone to blame for the blight they believe I bring. Just as they blame you for the blight they see in your soul." He paused, his gaze lingering on your face. "We are not so different, you and I. Both hunted. Both deemed a mistake."

He took another step, closing the distance between you, and held out the Bible, offering it to you. "So tell me," he whispered, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, "why did you lie for me? Why risk your life for a monster?"

You stared at the offered Bible, then back at Remmick's face, the sharp teeth now less a startling revelation and more a terrifying certainty. The shared burden he spoke of, the parallel between his hunted existence and your own lifelong condemnation, resonated with a chilling accuracy. It was a truth you’d always known in your bones, but never dared to voice.

"Because..." The word caught in your throat, raspy and uncertain. You looked away, your gaze sweeping over the familiar, threadbare comforts of your home, the home that was now sheltering a creature from the darkest tales. "Because I know what it's like to be hunted." Your voice grew stronger, tinged with a bitterness born of years of quiet suffering. "To be told you're a mistake. To have people want to cleanse you of something that's just... a part of you." You met his gaze again, your own eyes, usually guarded and weary, now alight with a defiant, raw honesty. "They preach their scriptures, they talk about their God's love, but all they ever do is judge. All they ever do is hurt."

You gestured vaguely towards the door, then back to the Bible. "Those men... they would've done to you what they've done to others. What they've tried to do to me, my whole life. They don't care who you are, only what they think you are." A dry, humorless chuckle escaped you. "And I guess... I'm tired of seeing it."

Remmick's gaze softened almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift in the ancient depths of his eyes. He lowered the Bible, though he didn't hand it over, holding it loosely in his grasp. "A strange compassion," he murmured, his voice no longer a growl, but a quiet, almost contemplative tone. "From one sinner to another, perhaps."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken understandings and unasked questions. The hooves of the distant riders were long gone, swallowed by the night, replaced only by the persistent chirping of crickets outside and the beating of your own frantic heart. You were standing in your simple home, harboring a being of myth, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a flicker of defiance not just for yourself, but for someone else.

Remmick closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, his movements fluid and impossibly fast. Before you could react, his hand, surprisingly gentle yet firm, clamped around your throat. It wasn't a chokehold, but a possessive grip, a subtle warning of the immense power he held. His other hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your neck. His eyes, now glowing with a faint, mesmerizing golden light, peered down into yours, holding you captive.

His voice, a low, hypnotic murmur, filled the sudden, suffocating silence of the room. "You offered me sanctuary, a moment of respite from the hunters," he began, his gaze intense, piercing through your fear. "A foolish risk, perhaps, but one that speaks of a spirit that refuses to break, even under the crushing weight of their judgment."

He leaned closer, his breath, surprisingly warm, ghosting over your face. "They call you a mistake, don't they? A blight. They try to chain you with their prayers, punish you with their hatred, hoping to scrub away the very essence of who you are." His grip on your throat tightened just slightly, enough to send a shiver through you. "What if I told you there was a way to take it all back? Every lash, every prayer, every whisper of condemnation."

His lips, cool and soft, brushed against yours, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through your entire body. "I can offer you freedom," he murmured, his voice a silken promise. "True freedom from their chains, from their righteous fires. A life where you are no longer hunted, but the hunter. Where the darkness they see in you becomes your strength, not your weakness."

His gaze burned into yours, those golden eyes seeming to peer directly into your soul. "I can offer you ascension. A new life, unbound by their rules, unburdened by their petty judgments. We could be... a family." The last word was a whisper, a strange, potent offer in the quiet despair of your existence, a vision of connection with another being who truly understood what it meant to be an outcast. The scent of blood and wildness was intoxicatingly close, and the world seemed to narrow to his glowing eyes and the weight of his hands on you, offering a terrifying, yet undeniably alluring, escape.

His words, a dark siren's song, swirled around you, each one a potent antidote to the poison of your past. Freedom. Ascension. A family. These were concepts you had never dared to dream of, possibilities that had been systematically crushed by the rigid dogma of your world. His breath mingled with yours, the metallic tang of blood a strange, intoxicating perfume.

The hand at your throat was no longer a threat, but an anchor, connecting you to this impossible being. You could feel the subtle thrum of power emanating from him, a raw, untamed energy that promised to reshape your very existence. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not just from fear, but from a terrifying, exhilarating pull.

"A family?" you whispered, the word fragile on your lips, tasting of both longing and disbelief. It was a concept so alien to your isolated life, a warmth you had only ever seen from afar, denied to you by the very people who preached its sanctity.

Remmick's golden eyes intensified, burning into yours as if searching for an answer, for a flicker of acceptance. His thumb, cold and surprisingly soft, stroked the pulse point at your throat. "Yes," he breathed, the sound a promise, a vow. "One forged in defiance, strengthened by what they call our curse. We would not be bound by their narrow world, their petty rules."

He leaned closer still, his lips brushing yours again, a more deliberate, lingering touch that sent a tremor through your entire body. "Imagine," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive hum, "no more prayers whispered in shame, no more pain inflicted in the name of salvation. Only power. Only life, lived on our own terms."

The choice hung heavy in the air, a precipice yawning before you. On one side, the familiar, brutal reality of your life: the endless toil, the quiet despair, the constant judgment. On the other, the terrifying, alluring unknown. A life with a creature of the night, a life reborn through his touch, a life of power and belonging, albeit one outside the bounds of everything you had ever known. His eyes, glowing with that ancient, golden light, were an invitation to step into the abyss, to embrace the very darkness they had always claimed you embodied.

You subconsciously tilted your head, exposing the sweat-soaked skin of your neck, a silent, desperate offering. Your eyes squeezed shut, a silent plea and a grim acceptance warring within you. Remmick's fingers flexed against your throat, a possessive caress that sent shivers down your spine. His lips, impossibly soft, brushed against your skin, his nose nudging the warm, damp flesh, inhaling your scent. It felt both violating and profoundly intimate.

"Perfect," he whispered against your neck, his voice a low, resonant purr that seemed to vibrate directly into your bones. "It will all be perfect."

Then, a sudden, searing agony ripped through you. Two points of unimaginable pressure pierced your skin, followed by a burning, spreading pain that flared outward like wildfire. His teeth, impossibly sharp, sank deep, tearing through flesh and muscle, finding purchase. A guttural cry tore from your throat, raw and animalistic, mingling with the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears.

Your hands, unbidden, shot out. One clamped onto the silver chain necklace around his neck, your knuckles turning white as you gripped it, as if trying to ground yourself against the unbearable pain. The other splayed against his chest, pushing against the unyielding muscle beneath his damp shirt. You could feel his heart hammering, a rapid, powerful drumbeat against your palm, mirroring the frantic rhythm of your own.

Remmick held you impossibly close, one arm tightening around your waist, pulling your body flush against his, while the hand in your hair became a vise, anchoring you, preventing you from pulling away. The bite was deep, a relentless tearing sensation that pulsed with excruciating intensity. You could feel the warm, thick gush of your own blood as it flowed freely, soaking your shirt, a dark, blossoming stain spreading across the linen. It painted Remmick's chin, streaked his cheeks, and dripped onto his neck, a macabre testament to the life he was drawing from you.

Tears, hot and stinging, streamed down your cheeks, blurring the edges of the dim room. Every nerve ending in your body screamed in protest, a symphony of white-hot agony. Your vision swam, flecks of light dancing before your eyes, threatening to consume you. Yet, through the haze of pain, you could feel something else—a strange, insidious warmth spreading from the bite, radiating outwards, a sensation that was both terrifyingly foreign and disturbingly... alluring. It was the beginning of an ascension, a rebirth in fire and blood, a promise of power as the world around you began to fade into a vibrant, agonizing darkness.

Remmick pulled away, tearing his fangs from your flesh with a sickening squelch. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving, face smeared with your blood, a grotesque mask against his pale skin. The world spun violently, the last vestiges of light dimming to a pinpoint before extinguishing entirely. You went utterly limp in his arms, a dead weight, your own blood rising in your throat, choking you with its metallic taste. Each labored breath was a struggle, a desperate attempt to pull air into burning lungs.

He held you tight, cradling your head against his shoulder. You could feel the warmth of your blood against your neck, sticky and flowing freely. His lips brushed against your clammy skin once more, his voice a low, guttural whisper, thick with an accent that was now achingly clear, cutting through the haze of your agony.

"Tha thu ag iarraidh an aon rud riumsa, mo shaoradh, mo dhìreadh sìorraidh, gad shaoradh."

The words, spoken in a language you had heard, resonated deep within your very bones. And yet, impossibly, you understood every syllable. You want the same thing as me, my salvation, my eternal ascension, to save you. The meaning bloomed in your mind, not as a translation, but as an inherent knowing, a truth implanted directly into your consciousness by the act of his bite. It was a terrifying, profound communion.

A strange warmth, different from the gushing blood, began to spread from the wound in your neck, a slow, insidious heat that pulsed through your veins, chasing away the cold grip of approaching unconsciousness. It was a burning, an almost electrical sensation, as if your very essence was being rewritten, purified by fire. The pain was still there, a constant, blinding roar, but beneath it, a nascent power began to stir, a hum of energy that promised to drown out the suffering, to transform you into something new, something ancient, something like him.

The warmth intensified, no longer merely a spreading heat but a vibrant, hungry fire consuming every cell. Your vision, though still blurred by tears and the last vestiges of human pain, began to clear, sharpened by an unearthly clarity. The dim outlines of your humble kitchen, once familiar and mundane, now seemed to pulse with a subtle energy, revealing textures and shadows you’d never perceived before. The faint scent of dust and old wood in your home was suddenly overwhelmed by a symphony of aromas from outside: the damp earth, the distant pine trees, the unique scent of each individual goat in the pen, even the faint, lingering metallic tang of the riders who had passed.

Your body, which had been so limp and broken, began to stiffen. The tremors that had wracked you subsided, replaced by a strange, exhilarating hum beneath your skin. The choking sensation in your throat lessened, and with it, the metallic taste of your own blood began to fade, replaced by a new, almost ravenous, emptiness.

Remmick shifted, his grip still firm, pulling you slightly away so he could look down at your face. His golden eyes, no longer just glowing faintly, now burned with an incandescent intensity, reflecting the nascent change within you. He smiled, a soft, almost tender expression that starkly contrasted with the blood still smeared across his face. This time, his sharp teeth seemed less monstrous and more... a part of him, a part of what he now offered you.

"Fear not the new beginning," he murmured, his voice a melodic resonance that wrapped around you, soothing the last echoes of your agony. "Embrace the power. Embrace the freedom."

The last remnants of the old you, the you who recited prayers until your lungs burned and endured punishment until welts formed, seemed to detach, to float away like ash on the wind. In its place, a different self began to solidify, hungry and aware, keenly attuned to the whispers of the night. You felt a deep, profound connection to Remmick, a bond forged in blood and shared otherness, a sense of belonging you had craved your entire life.

He gently lowered you until your feet touched the rough wooden floor. You swayed for a moment, still weak but rapidly regaining strength. The bite on your neck no longer throbbed with pain, but pulsed with a strange, invigorating energy. You instinctively reached up, touching the spot, finding only a faint tenderness where moments before there had been an open wound.

Remmick took a step back, his eyes still fixed on you, watching, assessing. He held out his hand, palm up, an unspoken invitation. The Bible he had held was gone, perhaps dropped in the struggle, now irrelevant.

You looked at his outstretched hand, then back at the door that led to the world that had cast you out. The darkness outside no longer felt threatening, but inviting, a vast expanse waiting to be explored. The world had deemed you a mistake, cursed you, but in this moment, you felt more whole, more powerful, than you ever had before. Your gaze met Remmick's, and for the first time, you didn't feel fear. You felt a burgeoning sense of purpose, a fierce, exhilarating defiance.

A new family, indeed.

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