#and the sharp teeth and that he like drinks blood

[wonderlandwalker]

Fighting Dirty

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Isaac’s golden rule: Loyalty above all. Abby’s spent years obeying it—until you, all sharp edges and I dare you eyes, make her question everything. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: porn with plot, mdni, once again I know Ellie isn't part of the Seattle crew but this is fiction and here she is because I simply can't not include her

𝐚/𝐧: I really need to stop writing when I'm ovulating but here it is anyway so yeah (might come back and edit more when I'm less horny we'll see) oh and please let me know if there's any requests i've fallen down the rabbit hole with this one

It’s common knowledge at the WLF not to fuck with you—everyone knows it, though for two very different reasons.

One—you’re lethal. You move like a blade unsheathed: all controlled violence and sharp edges. The training yard is your proving ground, and the mat drinks blood more often than sweat when you’re on it. Soldiers twice your size hit the ground before they register the strike, their pride bruised worse than their ribs. Knuckles split, breath steady—you don’t hesitate. Not with cocky recruits who mistake silence for weakness, not with grizzled veterans who forget their place. 

Two—Isaac Dixon owns this city, and you? You’re his. Not by blood, but by something thicker—something carved into the bones of this ruined world. The man who raised you after everything fell apart doesn’t tolerate disrespect, least of all toward you. And if some idiot is stupid enough to cross you and lives to tell the tale? They won’t for much longer, not once Isaac finds out. And he always finds out.

Abby knows this better than anyone. She’s seen it firsthand—the way his grip tightens on your shoulder when some fresh recruit lingers too long on the curve of your smile, the way his voice drops into something lethal when your name leaves someone’s lips wrong. It should terrify her.

It does.

But not enough.

Not when she’s lying awake at night, replaying the sound of your laugh—low, warm—in the hollow of her skull. Not when she catches the flex of your hands during drills and imagines them dragging her closer by the waist, fingers digging into the softness beneath her armour. 

It’s treasonous.

You are treasonous.

The way your sweat-slicked skin glows under the flickering gym lights, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when you’re focused—Christ, even the way you breathe feels like a provocation. Every glance, every accidental brush of your fingers against hers, every time you smirk at something she says—it’s all a slow, sweet torture. She shouldn’t be tracing the lines of your body with her eyes in the mess hall, shouldn’t be lingering outside the showers just to hear the hitch in your voice when you hum some old song under the water. She shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like to press you against the wall of some abandoned storage room, her mouth hot on your neck, her hands slipping under your shirt while you gasp her name like a prayer.

But she does.

And it’s killing her.

Because wanting you isn’t like wanting anyone else. It’s not something she can exorcise with a rough fuck in a supply closet, not something she can walk away from with a smirk and a shrug. No, this feeling lingers. It festers. It follows her like a devil on her shoulder, whispering all the things she can’t have—

The way your breath would shudder if she bit down on your collarbone.

The way your hips would roll against hers if she pinned you beneath her.

The way you’d moan, soft and broken, if she finally, finally let herself take what she’s been craving.

It started with the glances—sharp, stolen things, like she was committing a crime just by looking at you. You’d catch them in the fractured seconds when she thought you weren’t watching: dark, assessing, lingering a second too long before she’d wrench her gaze away. Her jaw would tighten, teeth pressing into the soft flesh of her lower lip, like she was pissed at herself for looking, pissed at you for existing in her periphery like a thorn she couldn’t pluck out—or maybe more like a wound she kept pressing on, just to feel it sting.

And oh, how it stung.

Because then came the touches—small at first. The brush of her knuckles when she passed you supplies, calloused and deliberate even in its carelessness. The way her hands lingered a heartbeat too long during sparring, fingers digging into your hip to adjust your stance—her grip firm enough to brand you through your clothes. You’d smirk, and she’d snatch her hand back like you’d burnt her, muttering "Focus" like it wasn’t her own touch that unravelled you.

But the worst—the absolute worst—was the way she looked at you after. Like she was caught between wanting to wipe that smirk off your face and devouring you whole. Her jaw would clench when you smiled at her, teeth grinding like she was imagining all the ways she could shut you up. Her fist? Maybe. Her mouth? Definitely. Her thighs? God, yes. You’d seen the way her muscles flexed when she trained, sweat-slick and powerful, and you weren’t above admitting—at least to yourself—how badly you wanted her to put them to better use. Wanted her to pin you down and ruin you with them, just to see if she’d finally, finally lose that fucking control.

And then there’s right now—

The gym is a living thing around you: packed bodies and shouted bets, the air thick with sweat and the electric buzz of violence—or maybe that’s just the current arcing between the two of you, sharp enough to scorch.

Sparring matches are always prime entertainment here, but this? This is a spectacle.

Two of Seattle’s best fighters circling each other like the wolves they are, the mat a battleground of scuffed rubber and spit-shined pride. Abby shifts her weight across from you, rolling her shoulders in a way that makes her muscles flex under her sweat-damp tank top. The fabric clings to every ridge, every scar, and fuck, it should be illegal to look that good while also being fully capable of snapping you in half.

She’s stronger—all corded muscle and brutal precision, her strikes calibrated to bruise, not break. Every swing is controlled fury, like she’s holding back just enough to keep from wrecking you. 

But you’re faster.

You slip past her guard like you’re floating, twisting away before she can land a hit that would leave blossoms of violet and gold under your skin. The near-misses send your pulse jackrabbiting, your body thrumming with the thrill of almost. Every block sends a jolt up your arms; every graze of her knuckles burns, lingering a second too long, like she’s savouring the contact. Like she can’t help herself.

She lunges. You dodge. The crowd erupts as you pivot, using her momentum against her—but she recovers fast, too fucking fast, her body slamming into yours with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. The mat hits your back with a dull thud, and then—

She’s there.

Thighs caging yours, her weight pinning you down like she’s been dreaming of this. The room dissolves into white noise; all you can focus on is the hot puff of her breath against your lips, the way her eyes flicker into something hungry, something desperate, just for a second—before she schools her expression back into that infuriating, ice-cold control. But you felt it. The way her pulse jumped when your hips rolled up against hers. The ragged hitch in her breathing when your mouth grazes her jaw.

"Going to admit you like having me underneath you," you murmur, "or do you want to keep playing pretend?"

Her grip tightens on your wrists, fingers digging in hard, and you watch the war in her eyes—the way her pupils swallow the colour whole, the flush creeping up her neck like a confession. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the sharp click of her swallow when your knee nudges between her thighs—

She knew this was a bad idea.

Knew it the second you stepped onto the mat, all cocky smirks and infuriating grace, like the fight was already yours. Knew it when the first brush of your skin against hers sent a spark down her spine, violent and bright, the kind that starts wildfires. Knew it when the crowd started chanting, their voices a distant buzz under the static in her ears—because the heat in your eyes told her you knew. Knew exactly what was going on in her head.

And now?

She’s fucking trapped.

Not by you—no, you’re the one pinned beneath her—but by the way your breath fans over her skin, by the way your voice curls around her like smoke, thick and intoxicating. By the way, your body arches into hers like you were made to fit there. By the fact that every cell in her body is screaming at her to either kiss you senseless or run.

A gasp tears itself from your throat—lost in the roar of the crowd, swallowed by the chaos. But you know she hears it, because her breath hitches, sharp and sudden, her body locking up like she’s been electrocuted. Her muscles coil so tight you can feel the tremor in her thighs where they bracket yours, her pulse kicking wildly under your fingertips. Her lips part—just to drag in air like she’s drowning. Like you’re the oxygen she’s starving for.

A ragged breath escapes her, and she swears under her breath—low, filthy, the kind of word that would’ve earned her a demerit from Isaac if he’d heard it.

Isaac.

The thought hits her like a punch to the gut.

Because you’re his. Not in the way she is—his soldier, his apprentice, his loyalty—but in the way that matters. The way that makes his voice soften when he asks if you’ve eaten. The way he barks at anyone who spars against you too hard. The way he watches you sometimes, like he’s memorising the ghost of someone he couldn’t save.

And Abby?

She owes him everything.

But then you move—twisting your hips, leveraging her distraction, and flipping her onto her back in one smooth motion. The crowd erupts—someone whoops, someone else groans—but all you see is the way Abby’s pupils blow wide, her gaze dropping helplessly to the rapid rise and fall of your chest. She stares at your lips, parted and panting, at the sweat glistening in the dip of your collarbone, a bead trailing down like an invitation, at the way your tank top has slipped just slightly, the fabric clinging to every desperate breath, and the hint of skin beneath taunting her.

You grin down at her, slow and knowing. "My eyes are up here."

Her hand snaps up, fingers curling around your wrist—too tight, too desperate—but she doesn’t shove you off. Doesn’t move. Just holds you there, her grip trembling with the effort of not pulling you closer, of not giving in to the thing clawing up her throat.

Her voice is a growl, rough with restraint. "You’re going to fucking regret—"

A particularly loud holler splits the air, reality crashes back in—and just like that, the moment shatters. Her grip slackens, fingers twitching like she’s been burnt. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, too hard, like she’s forcing down something hungry and unfinished.  With a snarl she shoves you off with enough force to send you across the mat. She's on her feet in one fluid motion, her breathing ragged.

"That's enough for today."

The words come out clipped, military-precise, but her voice cracks on the last syllable. She won't look at you. Can't. The flush creeping up her neck betrays her, turning the tips of her ears the same violent red as a fresh bruise. Every muscle in her back is corded tight as she stalks away.

The gym holds its breath. Dozens of eyes track her retreat—some amused, some confused, all riveted. The air hums with unspoken questions, the kind that'll fuel barracks gossip for weeks. Then Ellie shatters the silence like a brick through glass: "Pay up, shitheads!" Her cackle cuts through the tension like a knife. "Told you she'd fold first!”

Afterward, things get...complicated.

Abby doesn't just avoid you—she wages war against your memory. For days, she becomes a ghost in the compound, her presence evaporating the moment you enter a room. She takes the longest patrol routes, the ones that leave her boots caked in frozen mud and her fingers numb enough to forget how they once trembled against your skin. She volunteers for back-to-back overnight watches, staring into the pitch black until her vision blurs and doubles, praying for raiders or infected—anything she can justify pummelling into submission.

She runs stadium stairs until her lungs scream for mercy, until her thighs shake so violently she has to clutch the rusted railing to remain upright, sweat dripping from her nose onto concrete below. The weight room echoes with her punishment—plates clanging, her grunts sharp and guttural as she lifts until her muscles shriek in protest, until the barbell slips from her sweat-slick palms and crashes to the floor with a sound like gunfire.

Sleep is a casualty in this campaign. When exhaustion finally claims her—if you can call those fitful two-hour stretches sleep—she collapses in the barracks instead of her usual bunk. The thin mattress does nothing to cushion the distance she's trying to put between you, the space that does nothing to quiet the guilt gnawing at her ribs like a starved animal.

But it's all useless. A fool's errand.

Because when the compound falls silent and her eyes finally close—

She still sees you.

No matter how far she goes, the realization follows—if she stops—if she so much as hesitates—she’ll have to face it.

So she runs faster.

The archives are quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that presses against eardrums and makes breath feel too loud. Flickering fluorescent lights hum their death rattle overhead, casting erratic shadows that jump across Abby's hunched shoulders like spectators to her torment. Paper rustles under her restless hands—mission reports, supply manifests, anything with enough dry facts to drown out the memory of your voice, your scent, the way your body had yielded beneath hers only to flip the script and leave her gasping.

Her braid drips onto the collar of her shirt, the damp chill doing nothing to soothe the fever under her skin. Three showers today—three rounds of near-scalding water that failed to strip away the phantom sensation of your hips rolling up against hers. The soap had turned her hands raw, but she still smells you in the steam: that hint of salt and something sweeter beneath, the scent that had flooded her senses when she'd pinned you down. When your breath had caught just enough for her to hear it. When your eyes had gone dark with the same hunger currently eating her alive from the inside out.

Fuck.

Her pen snaps between her fingers. Ink bleeds across the inventory sheet like a bruise. She drags her nails down her forehead hard enough to leave red trails, as if she could physically scrape the images from her mind—Your lips parting when she leaned in too close. The way your pulse jumped under her grip. The sinful arch of your back when she—

"You avoiding me or something, Anderson?"

Your voice is a lit match tossed into a powder keg.

Abby's spine locks. Her breath stops dead in her lungs. There in the doorway, haloed by the dim hallway light, you lounge against the frame with that infuriating half-smirk—the one that lives in her dreams now, the one that makes her want to either slam you against the nearest surface or flee this godforsaken compound forever.

She hadn't heard you approach. Hadn't sensed your presence until it was too late. Too busy drowning in the kind of thoughts that would have Isaac demoting her to latrine duty for a month if he ever guessed. 

The overhead light flickers again. In the strobe-like effect, she sees the knowing tilt of your head, the way your crossed arms make your tank top strain just so across your shoulders. Worst of all, she sees the way your gaze drops to her whitened knuckles, to the ruined paperwork, to the rapid rise and fall of her chest—reading her like one of these damned mission logs.

Abby goes rigid—muscles locking like she’s spotted a threat, a mistake, something she can’t afford. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A fucking mistake of nuclear proportions. She might be Isaac's apprentice, his razor-edged weapon honed to perfection, but you—

You're his pride. His joy.

The one who makes that permanent crease between his brows soften when you walk into a room. The one he looks at like you personally hung the goddamn moon and arranged the stars to match your freckles. His voice drops half an octave when he speaks to you, all rough edges sanded smooth—a tone Abby's only ever heard him use with one other person, back when there were still photos on his desk instead of empty spaces.

And her?

She's the soldier he trusts to keep her hands clean. The one he expects to be ruthless, disciplined, and unbreakable. Not the woman who fucks recruits in supply closets when the nightmares get too loud, who leaves a trail of broken hearts and rumpled sheets because it's easier than letting anyone see the cracks in her armour.

Isaac would kill her if he knew.

Not just because it's you—though that alone would be enough—but because he'd never believe this is different. That she's lying awake, aching for you in a way that terrifies her, because this isn't just hunger—it's something worse. Something that feels suspiciously like yours, like she wants to carve out a space inside her ribs just for you to ruin.

Why would he believe it?

She doesn't even let herself believe it.

"Why can't you just let this go?"

You've seen Abby angry before—fury is her native language—but this is something else entirely. This isn't the hot, reckless rage of battle; it's something slower, sharper, like a blade being drawn deliberately across skin. Her voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more threat than a scream ever could.

"You tell me," you counter, stepping closer until your shadow swallows hers whole. "You've been staring at me for months."

She knew you’d noticed—hadn’t exactly been subtle with the way her gaze lingered a second too long when you stretched after training, muscles taut and glistening under the afternoon sun. Hadn’t hidden the way her knuckles whitened around her rifle when you laughed at one of Ellie’s stupid jokes, your head thrown back, throat bared like an invitation—like a fucking feast laid out just for her.

But she hadn’t expected you to call her out on it. To strip her bare with nothing but a challenge in your voice and that goddamn smirk that’s been haunting her dreams.

"You’re imagining things," she lies, but her pulse is a traitor, hammering where your fingers could so easily press against her throat—where they have before, in the ring, when she pretended it was just combat and not coveting. When she told herself the way her breath caught was from exertion, not the way your nails dug into her skin like you wanted to leave marks.

"Am I?" You tilt your head, eyes dark with something that makes her stomach twist, her skin too tight over the wildfire in her veins. "Then why do you look like you want to fight me?"

Abby’s breath stutters.

"Unless", you murmur, stepping closer, close enough that the heat of your body sears through the space between you, "you’d rather fuck me."

Both.

She wants both.

To break you—to pin you down and watch that smirk dissolve into gasps, to see if you’d still be so smug with her teeth at your pulse.

To bend you—to make you unravel under her hands, to hear the way your voice would crack when she finally wrings the truth out of you.

To ruin you—to leave you just as haunted as she is, just as desperate, just as hers.

To be ruined—to let you strip her bare until there’s nothing left but the truth she hasn’t dared to say.

And fuck Isaac. Fuck his expectations. Fuck the way he looks at you like something precious, because she’s not his perfect soldier right now—she’s a woman starved, and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted to devour.

One second, there’s space. The next—

Her hand fists in your shirt, yanking you forward so hard your body slams into hers. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you don’t care—not when her breath is ragged against your mouth, hot and uneven, her lips so close you can taste the coffee she drank hours ago, the faint metallic tang of blood from where she’s bitten through her own restraint.

"You don’t know what you’re asking for."

Her voice is low. Dangerous. A last warning—the final chance to back away.

"Then show me."

And fuck, she does.

Her mouth crashes into yours like a gunshot—

No hesitation. No delicacy. Just hunger and heat and months of denial exploding between you in a single, devastating kiss.

Abby kisses like she fights—all teeth and dominance, her tongue sliding against yours with a greed that borders on violence. There’s no softness here, no tentative exploration—just the bruising press of her lips, the sharp bite of her canines when you gasp, and the way her fingers dig into your hips.

She pins you against the desk, the edge digging into your thighs as her body cages you in. One hand stays twisted in your shirt, crushing the fabric in her fist like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go, while the other grips your hip to haul you onto the desk—no asking, no gentleness, just taking.

And, God, you love it.

Your hands tangle in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her groan—a rough, broken sound that vibrates against your mouth.

"Fuck," she growls, tearing her lips from yours to bite down your neck, sucking dark marks into your skin like she’s claiming them. Like she wants the whole fucking base to know you’re hers.

Her knee presses between your thighs, forcing you to grind down shamelessly against the hard muscle, the friction perfect, maddening. Abby’s grip tightens—possessive—her fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave proof, while her other hand slips into your shorts with a confidence that makes your breath stutter.

She teases you first—cruel, calculated—her fingertips tracing slow, torturous circles around your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, your nails claw at her shoulders. Then, without warning, she slides inside with a single, ruthless thrust, her fingers curling just so against that spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck—Abby—"

"Gotta be quiet," she murmurs, nipping at your jaw, her breath hot and uneven against your ear. "Unless you want this to be over before I’ve even really started."

You bite your lip to stifle the whimper building in your throat, but it’s useless—your body betrays you, hips rocking against her fingers, chasing the pressure as she curls them just right, her thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.

She watches you with dark, satisfied eyes, drinking in every twitch of your muscles, every hitched breath, and every desperate roll of your hips. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you. How her fingers drag against your walls, how her palm grinds against you with every shallow thrust, how your thighs tremble when she slows just to hear you plead her name.

Your back arches toward her, your thighs clamping around her wrist like you can keep her there forever. But she doesn’t let up, her fingers pumping deep and steady, her teeth scraping your pulse point as she growls.

"Such a good girl for me."

Your body locks at the praise, a silent scream caught in your throat as pleasure wrecks you, wave after wave, her fingers milking you through it until you’re gasping, squirming, her name a broken chant on your lips.

But she still doesn’t stop.

Not when you whimper, oversensitive. Not when your legs shake so badly she has to tighten her grip to keep you upright. Not until your fingers are tangled in her hair, tugging weakly, your breath coming in ragged, uneven pants.

Then—finally—she pulls back, her fingers glistening as she drags them slowly over your lower lip.

"Look at you." Her voice is rough with something between awe and hunger, the words dragging across your skin like calloused fingers. "Fucking ruined."

Her thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open, and you taste yourself on her skin—salt and heat and her, always her. That distinct blend of gun oil and sweat and the cheap mint toothpaste from the barracks.

When she leans in to kiss you again, it’s deep and filthy, her tongue licking into your mouth like she’s starving. Like she’s trying to consume every gasp, every whimper you’ve given her, like she wants to carve herself into the very air you breathe, and you realise with dizzying clarity:

This isn’t close to enough for her.

Not when her free hand is already sliding up your stomach, thumb brushing over the curve of your chest in a possessive sweep, as if mapping every inch of you for later. 

Not when the growl in her throat vibrates against your lips, raw and unchecked, the sound of a woman who’s spent too long holding back.

She nips at your jaw, sharp enough to make you gasp, then soothes the sting with her tongue, slow and deliberate. Her breath is hot against your ear as she murmurs:

"Oh, baby…" A chuckle, dark and promising. "I’m only getting started."

There’s no hesitation in her touch now, no pretence of restraint. Just hunger, honed to a razor’s edge, and the unspoken truth between you: This was always going to happen.

[dippindaz]

Just a quick NSFW Remmick blurb for you all. Enjoy. :)

MDNI

Warnings: dom!Remmick/sub!Reader, bloodplay, biting, degradation, very slight dub-con vibe, rough sex, face slap, drool obvi, porn without plot, AFAB reader

Your back hits the wall with a dull thud, stone cold against your spine. He has you pinned—one hand braced beside your head, the other already under your skirt, rough knuckles grazing the slick heat between your thighs.

Remmick grins, the corner of his mouth twitching with something feral. There’s blood on his teeth, and you’re not sure if it’s his or yours—it doesn’t matter. The low growl in his throat when he feels how wet you are makes your knees buckle.

“Y’come t’ me like this,” he mutters, voice thick with hunger and smoke, “already drippin’—fuck. Filthy lil’ thing.”

His fingers hook into your panties and rip them down your thighs. You gasp, and he laughs—hot breath hitting your cheek, laced with that familiar metallic scent. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your neck, then lower. His lips don’t kiss so much as devour.

Fangs sink into your throat without warning, and you cry out. Sharp pain blooms—hot, deep, and messy—as he bites, sucks, marks. You can feel the blood trickling down your collarbone, sticky and warm. He groans against your skin like it’s the sweetest thing he’s tasted.

“Look at ya,” he pants, pulling back. His chin is wet, glistening with both your blood and his spit. His pupils are blown wide, nothing but a thin ring of crimson left. “Damn beautiful.”

He lifts your leg over his hip and grinds against you, hard. You can feel how thick he is through his pants, pressing right against your soaked cunt, and your back arches.

“Beg for it, darlin’,” he growls. “Tell me how much y’want the devil to ruin you.”

“Remmick—”

The slap is fast. Not brutal, but enough to sting. Enough to make your head snap to the side, cheek blooming with heat. His hand cradles your jaw after, the tips of his claws just slightly digging into your skin.

“Try again.”

“Please—,” your voice breaks, trembling, raw. “Please. I need it. I need you—”

He doesn’t wait. Just shoves his pants down, splits you open on his cock in one brutal thrust. The stretch is maddening—overwhelming—and you cry out.

“That’s it…” he growls against your ear, thrusting into you again, harder this time. “Scream, pretty girl. Let God hear how good the devil fucks.”

You do. You can’t not.

Your head falls back against the wall, mouth open, gasping and crying and clawing at his shoulders. He doesn’t slow. He doesn’t let up. He fucks you like he owns you. And maybe he does.

His drool drips onto your chest as he snarls above you, his mouth open, eyes never leaving your face. “Perfect little slut,” he groans. “Bleedin’ all over. Takin’ me so good. You were made for this, darlin’.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers rubbing rough circles against your clit until your legs shake. You’re close—too close—and he feels it, dragging his tongue up the bloodied side of your neck, groaning like he’s drinking in your high.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Come f’r me. Make a mess, lil’ thing.”

You shatter.

White heat explodes behind your eyes as your body seizes around him. You sob, full-body trembling, and he follows with a curse and a final brutal thrust, biting into your shoulder so hard you feel more blood spill—hot and slick and searing.

When it’s over, he doesn’t pull out. He just holds you there, panting into your neck, still throbbing inside you.

“Mine,” he whispers, so low you almost don’t hear it. “You don’t walk away from this. Not now. Not ever.”

And part of you—bloodied, ruined, and gasping—wants to believe him.

[undyingdecay]

would fauxcest with john be too crazy ...

big brother!john! you’ve always been close. too close, probably. there’s a history there that neither of you really talk about — that sort of sticky, loaded closeness born from growing up too fast in a house that didn’t leave either of you many good options. and sure, he’s rough around the edges. quick-tempered. loud. calls you names sometimes when he’s had too much to drink or comes home pissed off about something you couldn’t even begin to fix for him.

but you’ve always known he means well. at least you like to believe he does.

it started off innocent, didn’t it? watching his boy after the divorce. you stepping up because someone had to, because you didn’t like the idea of your nephew alone in some cold, quiet house while john was god knows where, doing god knows what. and then you started cleaning up after him too. doing the dishes, folding his laundry, making his coffee just the way he likes it in the morning because no one else ever learned. because you wanted to. because the way he grunted out a half-hearted thanks that he can tell makes you upset so instead he fairs with a faint kiss on your forehead.

you were playing house. that was the ugly truth of it.

maybe that was the worst part — how natural it felt. how easy it was to imagine a baby in your arms with john’s eyes, john’s sharp jaw, john’s mean streak.

especially now, with him joining SHIELD. him getting dragged back into goddamn suits and cold offices and sanctioned missions after everything. it made him worse. made the temper sharper, the hours longer. coming home reeking of sweat and old blood and whatever cheap perfume clung to the women who still didn’t know better, you wonder if it was olivia's — it probably wasnt, didnt matter though it still hurtt. it didn’t matter though, because he always came back to you. always.

sometimes it was bad. sometimes he’d slam the door so hard it rattled the frame and you’d brace for the storm. sometimes he’d shout  “what the fuck are you even doin’ here, huh?” even though you both knew he didn’t mean it. even though ten minutes later you’d feel his broad palm shove up under your shirt, pulling you in by your waist, mouthing at your throat rough enough to bruise saying "'m sorry"

the ugly thing was, you never stopped him.

and it was always like that. a sick little pattern neither of you had the guts to name. the worst was those nights where you’d be cleaning up his son’s toys, the house quiet, and john would come up behind you, one hand heavy on your hip, pressing himself up against your back.

“you look good like this, y’know that?” breath hot against your ear. “pickin’ up after me, takin’ care of my kid. bet you want one’a your own, huh? all round and soft carryin’ my baby… fuck, sweetheart.”

you never answered. didn’t need to. not when he’d shove you down over the kitchen counter, pulling your panties to the side, leaving messy, possessive handprints on your thighs. never any prep. barely any teasing. just mean, greedy rutting like he had something to prove.

and it always ended the same — his chest flush against your back, breath ragged, teeth sunk into your shoulder as he came, grinding as deep as he could like it might stick this time. you knew it was wrong. god, you both knew it. but it never stopped him. and it never stopped you either.

because you loved him. ugly and broken and so far past the point of salvation that you didn’t even care. because you both needed this. needed each other.

and maybe, maybe one day you’d get that baby. maybe one day he’d come home with a ring instead of another bruise. but until then — you’d be right there. making his coffee. cleaning up after his kid. and letting him fuck you mean whenever he needed to remind himself you belonged to him.

[sniktbaby]

𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝑔𝑜 (𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓌𝑜)

summary: logan continues to use you to chase away the ghost of jean. part one

content: SMUT, ANGST, MEAN LOGAN, jean grey needs her own warning, spanking, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, choking, unrequited love, rough sex, creampie, blood play if you squint

word count: 3k

author's note: y'all are gonna hate me!!

Three days have passed. Three days of Logan avoiding you, three nights he’s spent drinking alone in his room instead of knocking on your door. But tonight, the whiskey isn’t working. Tonight, the nightmares are worse – Jean’s screams mixing with memories of wars he can’t forget. His claws itch under his skin, restless, dangerous. He needs an outlet. He needs you.

Before Logan can talk himself out of it, he’s outside your bedroom door. Part of him hopes you’re asleep. Most of him hopes you’re not. He knocks twice – hard, impatient.

There’s no greeting. No apology. He just says your name, growled like a command. “Open up.”

You had been drifting in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep when the sharp rap at your door jolted you. Logan’s voice – rough, demanding – sends an immediate flush through your body. Without hesitation, you scramble out of bed, smoothing your messy hair as you hurry to answer.

Opening the door, you take in his disheveled appearance – the wildness in his hazel-green eyes, the tension coiled in his muscular frame. Instinctively, you step back to allow him entry, concern knitting your brows together. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong with Logan? Everything. Nothing. He doesn’t have the words to explain the storm raging inside of him, so he doesn’t bother trying. He steps into your space after shutting the door behind him, crowding you backwards until your calves hit the edge of the bed.

“Head’s fucked,” he says gruffly, his hands finding your waist. They span nearly the whole width of you, making you seem even smaller, more fragile compared to him. “Need ya to fix it.”

There’s no pretenses, no romantic bullshit. Just honesty. He needs you. Not just for your body – though that’s all Logan would admit to – but your light, your warmth. The way you make the darkness recede, if only for a little while.

You can see the turmoil swirling in his eyes – the ghosts haunting him, the pain he refuses to speak out loud. You reach up to cradle his jaw between your palms, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. “Tell me what you need,” you whisper. If he needs oblivion from your arms, you’ll give it willingly. If he needs violence, you’ll bear the marks proudly. Anything to ease his suffering, even if only temporarily.

Your fingers trail downward, tracing the tense muscles of his neck before settling over his chest. “Anything, Logan. Just tell me.”

You never ask what it costs you. Never register that you’re bleeding yourself dry for a man who can’t love you back the way you deserve.

His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging in just shy of painful. He stares down at you – your eyes full of concern, that pretty mouth parted slightly, waiting for his answer. You look like an angel, and Logan is about to drag you to hell with him.

“Need ya underneath me,” he rasps. “Need to fuck you until I can’t think straight anymore. ‘Till all I know is your pussy and your screams.”

His crude words send a shiver down your spine. You know you should protect your fragile heart from another round of his emotional whiplash, but the lost and haunted look in his eyes undoes you. It always does.

“Yes,” you breathe. Your hands slide under his shirt, mapping the contours of his back as you arch into him. “Take what you need.” You capture his mouth with your own, pouring all of your pent-up longing and desperation into the kiss.

He crushes you against his chest, one hand fisting in your hair while the other grips your ass possessively. Your tongues duel fiercely, teeth clashing, breath mingling. It’s violent and messy and exactly what he needs.

You fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, his large frame pinning you down. He grinds his hard cock against you, relishing the way you gasp into his mouth. He tears his lips away, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. His teeth graze your collarbone, marking your skin in reddening constellations.

You moan, submitting completely to Logan’s dominance. Each point of contact burns but it’s divine – his grip in your hair, his hand still kneading your ass, the heavy press of his arousal against your aching center. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to urge him closer. “Please,” you whimper.

Your plea goes straight to his cock. Logan growls low in his throat, yanking your flimsy sleep shirt up and over your head. The sight of your perfect tits makes his mouth water. He dips his head, capturing a nipple between his teeth. He bites down just hard enough to make you yelp, then soothes the sting with his tongue.

His hand slides between you, finding the damp spot on your cotton shorts. He rubs his fingers over it, feeling your heat through the fabric. “Soaked already,” he murmurs against your breast. “Dirty girl.”

Shame and arousal war within you, but the latter quickly wins out. You grind against his teasing fingers. “Only for you,” you say breathlessly, cheeks flushed. “You make me crazy, Logan.”

Emboldened by lust, you reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently. “Off. Please. I need to feel you.”

Logan lets you pull his shirt off. Your hands immediately roam his bare skin, tracing light patterns over his chest and abs. He hums softly, it feels so good – too good, too intimate.

He frowns and grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. “Not like that,” he snaps.

Using his free hand, Logan hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs. You kick them off eagerly, spreading your thighs in invitation, but he releases your wrists instead, roughly flipping you onto your stomach.

You are startled by the sudden change in position, a small whimper escaping your lips. You look back at him over your shoulder, eyes dark with lust and trepidation. One hand reaches back, fingers splayed across the curve of your ass. “Like this?” you ask softly. There’s a tremor in your tone. You know how rough he can be. How much it hurts sometimes, and how much you crave that pain.

Logan smirks as he pulls your hips upwards until you’re on your knees. Ass up, face down, spread out for him like a goddamn buffet. He runs his palm over the smooth globe of your ass, squeezing firmly. Then he raises his hand and brings it down hard, the smack echoing in the quiet room. You yelp, more out of surprise than pain.

“Count,” he orders, landing another sharp slap on your flesh. “Out loud.”

You begin to count obediently. “One…two…” Each number is punctuated by a moan as you push back against his punishing hand. The burn spreads through your rear, radiating in waves of pleasure and pain that leave you gasping for breath.

You don’t shy away or protest, rather you push back into his hand like you want more. So he keeps spanking you, each slap harder than the last, watching as your skin bruises beneath his touch.

But this isn’t what he wants. He wants to taste you. Needs to lose himself in you. Bending down, he presses his face between your thighs, inhaling deeply before diving in, sucking and licking at your wet folds.

You cry out, nails digging into the sheets. The dual sensation of his rough hands and his gentle tongue are overwhelming. You reach back, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close as he devours you. “Oh God, yes!” Every lap of his tongue, every suckle of his lips, drives you higher. You rock back against his face, chasing your climax desperately.

Logan eats you out relentlessly, driven by a hunger for escape, for oblivion, for the brief moments of peace he finds between your thighs. Your taste, your scent, the way you move against his mouth – it’s all intoxicating.

But a part of him watches from the outside. Sees the way you hold him close. The way you say his name like it’s a prayer. And he knows he’s fucking you over. You’re in love with him, and he’s using you. Using you to numb the pain of losing Jean. Using your body to forget that he’s a monster, one who doesn’t deserve redemption. Guilt gnaws at him, but he pushes it back down.

Your orgasm builds, cresting like a tidal wave as his tongue works magic on your sensitive clit. You’re teetering on the brink, every muscle drawn taut, poised for release. “Don’t stop,” you beg. Your thighs tremble, threatening to give out as the pleasure mounts. You’re so close, balanced on the knife's edge.

Logan doubles his efforts in response, sealing his lips around your swollen bud and sucking hard, his tongue flicking rapidly. Your scream is music to his ears as you come, your body convulsing, juices flooding his mouth. He drinks you down greedily, prolonging your pleasure with gentler laps until you collapse forward, boneless and panting.

He sits back on his heels, admiring his work. Your ass is cherry red, pussy glistening with your slick and his saliva. You look sinful, and the sight makes his cock throb against the fabric of his jeans.

Stars dance behind your eyelids as you continue to ride out the waves of pleasure. When it finally subsides and you collapse onto the bed, your limbs feel like liquid. Panting, you roll over, gazing up at Logan through half-lidded eyes. Your stare drops to the strained denim at his core, a wicked smile forming on your lips. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Logan huffs as he strips his clothes off quickly, his movements frantic. His cock springs free, hard as a rock and aching for your cunt. Pre-come leaks from the tip, slicking the way for you. He climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself between your thighs.

You’re so wet, your juices mixing with his as he presses the tip to your entrance. Just when you think he’s going to push in, he pulls back, rubbing the head through your folds with a smug smirk on his face. “Beg me.”

Your breath hitches, your heart stuttering at the way his eyes gleam with something dangerously close to desperation. You know what he wants, what he needs to hear. And you’ll give it to him, because that’s what you do – give, give, give, until there’s nothing left of you but the echoes of his touch. “Fuck me, Logan. Make me yours.”

The words curl around his ribs like barbed wire and he forces himself not to flinch. He wants to tell you that isn’t what he meant. You’ll never be his and he doesn’t belong to anyone. But he can’t do it. Not when you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded in this crazy, fucked up world.

So he slams into you without warning, driving his cock deep in one brutal thrust. You gasp, your nails clawing down his back, your pussy stretching to accommodate him. He holds still for a moment, savouring the feeling of you wrapped around him – tight, warm, alive.

Then he starts moving. Hard. Fast. You meet him stroke for stroke, your hips rocking up to meet his, breath coming in ragged little whimpers. He fills you so completely you feel as if you might break apart. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes – from pleasure, from pain, from the unbearable intimacy of having him buried so deep inside you.

“Y-You feel so good,” you choke out, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, clinging to him like he might disappear if you loosen your grip. Your legs lock around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper with each movement. “I love—”

The confession almost slips from your lips, but you cut yourself off sharply. You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. Too dangerous. Too real. You turn your head away from him.

That ‘love’ hangs suspended in the air between you, swinging like a guillotine blade. His rhythm falters for a second before he recovers, fucking into you harder like he can chase the word away with brute force. His jaw clenches so tight he swears he can hear teeth crack.

“Shut up,” he snarls, gripping your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. His thumb digs into your bottom lip where you bit it, smearing the blood over your mouth. “Stop talkin’ nonsense. Just take my cock like a good girl.”

He shifts angles, pulling your legs up and over his shoulders so he’s as deep inside you as he can be. You arch off the bed with a strangled cry, and he hums at the sound of your screams – a much better sound than saying some shit you’ll regret when this is all over.

Your tears spill freely, but you obey him, keeping your words at bay and only letting gasps and moans past your lips. Your cheeks flush as you surrender to the onslaught of pleasure and pain. Your fingers dig into the sheets, twisting the fabric into your desperate fists. Every thrust punches the air from your lungs, leaving you dizzy, lightheaded, utterly consumed by him.

And yet – even as he fucks the words out of you, even as he denies you the barest scrap of tenderness – you can’t help the traitourous four letter word that echoes throughout your skull. Silent, sincere, doomed.

He watches you unravel beneath him – the tears, the tremors, the way your body yields to his. It should satisfy him. It should be enough. But that damn near-confession lingers in the air like smoke, choking him even as he tries to chase away his demons inside you.

With a frustrated growl, Logan wraps a hand around your throat, firm enough to remind you who is in control. His hips piston faster, driving you both towards the inevitable cliff’s edge. “That’s it,” he grits out. “Come on my cock. Show me what you’re good for.”

Because that’s all this is. All it can ever be. Physical release. No promises. No future. Just a broken man using a forgiving woman to forget the ghosts that haunt him.

You don’t fight back against his grip. Submission tastes bittersweet on your tongue, mingling with salt and shame and a desire so fierce it burns in your ribs.

Your inner muscles clamp down around his length, rippling as your climax crashes over you. Your body bows off the mattress as much as it can, your limbs trembling, your nails scraping uselessly at his arms as if trying to anchor yourself to this moment. A strangled sob escapes your throat. Through your haze, you can feel him – hear him – grunting above you, still rutting into you with unrestrained force.

You’re squeezing him so tight, your pussy like a velvet fist, refusing to let him go. Your tears smear across your cheeks, your body shaking, blood dripping from your lips. He slams into you one last time, roaring as his release tears through him. Hot come floods your insides as his fingers dig into your throat and your hip, holding you down as he rides out the aftershocks, his breath ragged and uneven.

For a moment, he just stays there – buried deep, chest heaving, heart hammering like a drum. He can feel your erratic pulse beneath his hand, strong even as he loosens his grip.

Gradually, the storm subsides, leaving you both adrift in a sea of heavy silence. Your breath hitches as he withdraws from you, leaving you feeling hollow and exposed. You lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, your body marked by his passion, your spirit bruised by his rejection.

Swallowing hard, you force yourself to sit up, pulling the sheet over you and clutching it to your chest like a shield. Your gaze drifts to him, taking in the strained lines etched into his features, the shadows still lurking within his eyes. There’s that familiar distance between you, so vast and uncrossable, filled with ghosts and regrets and the knowledge that no matter how many times you participate in this tired song and dance, it’s always going to end the same.

“Are you okay?” Your voice is small, tentative, as you wipe at the blood staining your mouth.

Is Logan okay? A loaded question. Physically, he’s fine – fucked out and satisfied in ways he hasn’t been in days. Emotionally? That’s a different story, and he hates it.

He scrubs a hand over his face, avoiding your eyes. He can’t look at you, not now, not while the guilt is eating him alive. He focuses on getting dressed, yanking on his boxers and jeans with shaky hands. “I gotta go,” he mutters.

He can’t deal with this – with you, with the mess you always make of each other. Deep down, he knows he’ll be back, and he knows you’ll take him.  But right now he needs to find a quiet place, somewhere he can drink in peace and pretend you didn’t bring up that fucking word.

Your heart sinks, the coldness settling over you like a shroud. You nod, pulling the sheet tighter around yourself as you watch him dress. The room feels too big all of a sudden, too empty, but still capable of swallowing up the remnants of your passion like they never existed.

“Okay,” you whisper, forcing a small smile onto your lips. You wait until the door closes behind him before letting the mask slip, tears tracking silently down your cheeks.

Alone once again, you curl into a ball on the bed, not even bothering to get cleaned up. You’re surrounded by the scent of him, the memory of his touch. You tell yourself it’ll be different next time. It has to be.

Once he’s out of your room, Logan leans against the closed door, closing his eyes against the onslaught of emotions he isn’t equipped to handle. Guilt. Shame. Fear. They swirl around him like a toxic cocktail, poisoning any sense of satisfaction he might’ve felt. He knows he is leading you on, knowing he has nothing to offer but pain and regret. But he can’t stop himself, and he doesn’t know why. You’re like a drug to him, a temporary reprieve from the demons clawing at his sanity.

With a heavy sigh, Logan pushes himself off the door and makes his way to the kitchen. He needs a fucking drink.

[twistedheartsclub]

The Alphas Claim Male X Female Reader #2

⚠️ Non-consent • Psychological Manipulation • Obsession • Power Imbalance • Forced Mating • Emotional Trauma • Predatory Behavior • Dark Werewolf Lore • Pack Mentality • Control & Possession

PART ONE HERE

The living room was warm and bright, scattered with soft pillows and low music playing from a speaker tucked somewhere behind a plant. Half a dozen women lounged with drinks—pack mothers, older cousins, and visiting relatives. They greeted her with cheers and exaggerated claps.

“There she is!”

“Took her long enough.”

“Miss Romance Novel finally joins us!”

A glass was placed into her hand before she even sat down—sweet red wine, slightly chilled.

“So,” one of the women leaned forward, eyes twinkling, “we heard you’re engaged.”

Y/N blushed, holding up her left hand, the diamond catching the light.

The women gasped in delight.

“You didn’t tell us it was that pretty!”

“Do we get to come to the wedding or are we just summer flings to you?”

Y/N laughed, cheeks warm. “Of course you’re invited. I’d never survive the planning without you.”

“When is it?”

“We haven’t set a date yet,” she admitted. “He’s away for work at the moment.”

“Mmm,” Isela said, refilling her glass. “So you’re free right now.”

Y/N grinned. “Temporarily.”

Then someone changed the subject with a sly smile. “And what about children?”

Y/N blinked. “What about them?”

“Oh come on, you’re engaged. That’s the next question.”

Y/N hesitated, then gave a soft smile. “He wants kids. A big family, actually.”

“Awwww!”

“And you?”

She blushed deeper. “I think I do too. The idea of raising them… staying home with them while they’re little… it’s not something I ever imagined for myself, but lately... it sounds nice.”

The women hummed in agreement—some nodding, others launching into their own stories.

“You’ll want to start soon,” one said, swirling her glass. “Best to get the body used to it early.”

“First one’s the hardest. After that they just slide out,” someone added, laughing.

Y/N choked on her sip of wine, laughing with them, utterly unprepared for how casual childbirth sounded in this house.

“He said once the kids are in school, I can go back to work if I want,” Y/N added, her voice softer now. “But he wants me home with them, especially at first.”

The women nodded—some with approval. Others more thoughtfully.

“Sounds like he wants a sweet, quiet life,” Isela said, almost too gently.

Y/N nodded, looking down at her glass. “He’s good. He wants to give me something stable.”

The air shifted slightly.

Soft.

But behind them—unnoticed—Caelum stood in the shadowed hallway.

Watching.

Listening.\

His face was unreadable.

But the glass in his hand cracked.

And no one saw it but Marisol, standing behind him.

Her heart sank.

Because she knew that look.

That animal in her brother’s eyes.

Y/N wasn’t just a guest anymore.

She was something being circled.

And she didn’t even know she was bleeding.

Caelum’s POV

The moon was high and swollen with silver, dripping light between the pines like blood between teeth.

Their paws hit the forest floor in synchronized rhythm—six wolves, large and sleek, moving as one through the thickets. The world was sharp in this form. Cleaner. Real. Every heartbeat, every shift of wind, every tremor in the underbrush felt.

And beneath it all, a silent thread wove through their minds—the pack link.

::Three to the east, one younger buck. He’s lagging.::

That was Ruben.

::I see him,:: Caelum answered. His tone was cool. Commanding.

But beneath it, his wolf paced. Restless. Burning.

He hadn't shifted in days. He’d been watching. Smelling her in the house. Listening to her laughter echo down halls that used to be still. He saw her hands brush children’s hair, saw the imprint of a child’s head rest against her chest like it was their mother’s.

Like she was already someone’s.

And it boiled in him.

::You’ve been quiet tonight, Alpha,:: came a teasing tone.

::Don’t start,:: Caelum growled through the bond.

::She’s been here one week, and already you’re wound tighter than a snare trap,:: Liana purred, her wolf old and silver-striped but still fast. ::You should be thanking me.::

::You brought her into the house, knowing what it would do to me.::

::Of course I did,:: she said smugly. ::You’ve been circling her since spring. Growling at shadows. Ruining plates. Acting like a beast in a man’s skin.::

::It was for the children.::

::Mmm. You keep telling yourself that.::

They stalked lower, bodies low to the forest floor. The deer was near—its scent sharp, twitchy, afraid.

::She’s engaged,:: Marisol reminded tightly. Her wolf was fierce, sleek with muscle and control. ::She wears another man’s mark on her hand. You need to let her go.::

Caelum didn’t answer at first.

But then—

::He’s not here.::

The thought was cold.

::She is.::

::You’re playing with fire,:: Marisol snapped.

::I am fire,:: he replied. And it wasn’t a boast. It was truth. He was Alpha. He did not ask. He took. And the world bent for him.

::The moon doesn’t ask permission to rise,:: Liana added quietly. ::And wolves don’t wait for rings to be removed.::

They fell into silence.

Then—a rustle. A flash.

The buck.

It darted through the trees, muscles flexing, hooves kicking up dirt as it bounded over roots and ferns.

Ruben was first to lunge, cutting off its escape. The others flanked left and right, herding it, pressing in.

Caelum waited.

Eyes locked. Breath still.

The buck turned—met his gaze.

It knew.

Too late.

Caelum leapt.

Teeth sank into the deer’s throat, crushing windpipe and bone in one violent snap. The others followed—ripping, tearing, silencing.

The forest went still again.

And the buck’s eyes—so wide and terrified—lost their light.

As they stood over the body, blood wet on fur and teeth, the bond rippled again.

::She’s not yours,:: Marisol whispered, almost begging now.

Caelum’s mind burned with the scent of Y/N. Her voice. Her body. Her soft, blushing smile as she held a child and talked about making more.

::She is,:: he said, low and final. ::She just doesn’t know it yet.::

POV: Caelum

The summer heat pressed down like a heavy blanket, thick with the scent of pine, sun-warmed soil, and baked fruit. But here, surrounded by trees and stone, it was tolerable. Manageable. Still, the children ran wild through the shaded yard, limbs flailing, feet pounding against the grass as they screamed and laughed with unfiltered joy.

A birthday celebration.

One of the younger pups—Isela’s middle child—turned six today. Tables had been set outside beneath canvas shade, iced drinks and berry-stained cakes laid out, with gifts wrapped in tissue and twine. Colorful scarves hung from tree branches, fluttering like little flags of temporary peace.

But Caelum wasn’t watching the decorations.

He was watching her.

Y/N moved like the center of gravity.

Barefoot in the grass, her light skirt swaying just above her knees. A pale blouse tied loosely at the waist, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her cheeks flushed with heat, curls pinned off her neck. Radiant didn’t even cover it—she glowed.

She laughed as she helped one child balance a tray of juice cups, knelt to fix another’s shoelace, brushed a sticky smear from Ines’s cheek with the same tender patience she had back in the classroom. Every gesture was soft. Thoughtful. Natural.

Liana was right.

She didn’t just belong here.

She fit.

The old wolf matriarch leaned over to him from her perch in a carved wooden chair, fanning herself with an embroidered napkin.

“She’d make a strong mother,” she said quietly.

“I’m aware,” Caelum muttered, not taking his eyes off Y/N.

“She keeps them calm. She even settled Marisol’s youngest into a nap last week. Haven’t seen that child go down without a fight since he was born.”

Caelum didn’t respond.

“She’s sweet. Teachable.”

That made his jaw twitch.

“She’s taken,” he growled.

Liana chuckled, low and amused. “Engaged is not married. And your problem, my boy, is that you’re not used to wanting something that doesn’t kneel when you snap.”

He didn’t dignify that with a reply.

But inside, his wolf paced.

Then Y/N’s voice rose, full of light. “Okay! Time for cake!”

The children whooped and scrambled toward the long table.

Caelum watched her clap and cheer with them, helping serve slices, dotting frosting on the tip of Ines’s nose and laughing when Leo tried to swipe his finger through the icing.

He turned to walk away—until she spoke again.

“And next week, my fiancé’s visiting!” she beamed, her voice drifting over the children’s chatter. “He said he’ll drive up Friday and stay for the weekend. I can’t wait.”

The words hit Caelum like stone to the chest.

Her smile. The way she said it.

How the excitement danced in her tone. How genuine it was.

He didn’t hear the rest.

Didn’t need to.

When he passed her near the porch—just as she turned to carry a plate of watermelon slices inside—he let the bitterness slip.

“Try not to tire yourself out playing pretend.”

She paused, startled. “What?”

He looked her over slowly—her flushed cheeks, sun-warmed collarbones, bare feet in the dirt. Every inch of her screamed fertile, soft, meant to be claimed.

“Some of us don’t believe the performance.”

Her smile wilted. Her lashes lowered.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend herself.

She just bowed her head slightly, nodding once before slipping inside.

That obedience—that stillness—was worse than if she’d fought him.

It wasn’t fear.

It was surrender.

Even if she didn’t know it yet.

Caelum turned his head away, biting back the growl rising in his throat.

The sun beat down.

But it wasn’t the heat that made him burn.

Caelum’s POV

From the window on the second floor, Caelum stood motionless, one hand braced against the frame.

The sunlight poured in, soft and golden, but his gaze was cold steel—fixed on the driveway below.

Y/N was outside.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around him—a tall man in a pressed shirt and sunglasses, city-polished, with that easy, confident stance Caelum hated more than anything. The man pulled her close, kissed her forehead, then her lips.

Her lips.

Caelum’s vision blurred for a split second.

His wolf snarled—fiercely, violently—beneath the surface.

Tear him apart. Tear him limb from limb. Bite his throat. Show her who she belongs to.

But Caelum’s jaw clenched until it ached. His fingers curled into a fist at his side, nails biting into his own skin.

Control. Control.

He watched as Y/N smiled up at the man—his teeth on her, her body leaning in, like it was natural, like it was right—and then she grabbed her overnight bag and climbed into the passenger seat.

The car pulled away.

She didn’t look back.

Not once.

The house changed almost immediately.

By nightfall, the entire energy had shifted.

The children were loud again—too loud. Screaming. Bickering over toys. Running through the halls like they were feral.

Ines bit Leo hard enough to leave a mark.

Two of the omega boys got into a wrestling match that ended in a broken picture frame and a bloody nose.

One of the babies refused to sleep. Another child had a full-blown tantrum when asked to brush their teeth.

The house, once lulled into calm under Y/N’s presence, had turned to static.

Even the walls felt restless.

In the kitchen, Marisol threw her dishrag onto the counter with a sigh. “It’s like they’ve lost their rhythm.”

“They have,” Liana said without looking up from her tea.

“She’s only gone for the weekend,” Ruben offered carefully.

Liana’s gaze lifted to Caelum, who stood silent near the back door, eyes shadowed and sharp. He hadn’t said much since the car left the gravel drive.

His silence was loud. Menacing.

Marisol crossed her arms. “Your jaw’s been clenched for hours. Let it go before your teeth shatter.”

“She shouldn’t have left,” he muttered.

Marisol frowned. “You don’t own her.”

Liana didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Her expression said enough: Yet.

Later that night, Caelum walked the perimeter of the property alone, barefoot in the grass, sweat beading at his temples as the heat clung to his skin.

He didn’t shift.

Didn’t hunt.

He just walked.

Pacing the edge of where her scent used to linger.

The porch. The garden path. The far side of the yard where she liked to sit and read. All of it felt wrong without her there. The house felt like it was breathing differently—off rhythm. Even the air was heavier.

He looked up at the stars.

Her absence was a wound.

And when she returned, he would make sure—

it never opened again.

The tires had barely kicked up gravel when her fiancé waved out the window and pulled off down the mountain road.

Y/N stood in the doorway, cheeks pink, hair still tousled from the open car window. Her overnight bag was slung over her shoulder, a little flower tucked behind her ear—one he’d given her during their walk by the lake. She was glowing, soft, and smiling as she stepped into the cool, familiar air of the house.

“Hello?” she called gently.

But the sound died in her throat.

They were all there.

Not just Marisol and Ruben—but Liana, Isela, three other women, a few of the older male pack members. Sitting. Waiting. Watching.

They weren’t speaking.

Just staring at her like she'd arrived late to her own trial.

Her smile wavered. “Is… something wrong?”

Marisol’s eyes caught hers—and they were already filled with guilt.

Y/N’s heart clenched. “What’s going on?”

She gently set her bag down, the silence around her too thick.

Then he appeared.

Caelum.

He emerged from the shadows behind the hallway arch—broad, tall, dark as thunder, eyes burning gold beneath the low light. His shoulders were tense. His jaw locked. His every step sounded like a warning.

He didn’t even greet her.

Just growled, low and sharp:

“You don’t leave this house again.”

Y/N blinked. The chill that ran down her spine was instant.

“I—what?” she asked, voice soft.

“You heard me,” he snapped, voice deeper now. “No more visits. No more weekends away. No more running off to him.”

“That wasn’t the agreement,” she replied gently. “I told Marisol—before I even said yes—that I’d leave on weekends if needed. I came back, didn’t I?”

“You left,” he snarled. “That’s the problem.”

She looked toward Marisol.

Nothing.

Then to Ruben.

Nothing.

Even the others—kind, chatty, sweet women who had poured her wine and asked about her wedding—stayed still. Silent.

No one moved.

He stepped closer.

She took a half step back.

“Caelum,” she whispered. “I don’t understand. What is this?”

“You don’t get to understand,” he said coldly. “You’re not here to choose.”

“I came to help—”

“You came and made everything better. You smiled, and the children listened. You held them like they were yours. You tamed this house like it belonged to you.”

His voice grew lower, more furious.

“And then you left to kiss another man with my scent still on your hands.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “That’s not fair—”

“It’s truth.”

He moved closer, and she instinctively looked around the room for help—but no one made a move.

His presence loomed.

His hunger cloaked the room like a stormcloud.

And still—she didn’t raise her voice.

Didn’t curse him.

Didn’t even tell him to back away.

She just dropped her gaze. Like always. Obedient. Soft.

And that—

That was when he knew.

He could take her.

And she’d let him.

Not because she wanted to—but because she wouldn’t fight him.

She was good.

Too good.

Breakable.

“I should’ve torn his throat out,” Caelum whispered, stepping into her space. “Let you see what real strength looks like. What a mate is supposed to be.”

His hand lifted.

Not cruel. Not violent.

Just slow, claiming—his fingers brushing up along her jaw, creasing her cheek.

Her skin flinched beneath the warmth of it.

But she didn’t pull away.

That made his chest ache with violent want.

Then—

“Enough,” Liana’s voice cut through the room like a silver blade.

The tension snapped.

Caelum’s hand dropped.

The air shifted with a sudden ease, false and sharp.

“Let the girl breathe,” Liana said with a wry smirk. “She’s barely through the door.”

Y/N blinked, like waking from a trance.

Marisol finally moved toward her, gently tugging her by the elbow.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

But as Y/N turned, she could feel it.

Caelum’s eyes on her back.

Like a predator who knew his prey would never really escape.

The mountain air was sweet with pine and late-summer blooms. Birds chirped softly from the trees above as Y/N walked the winding path behind the estate with Marisol and three of the other women—Isela, Flor, and Dalia. The ground was soft beneath their feet, worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Somewhere in the distance, water babbled over rocks, unseen but ever present.

It should have been peaceful.

It usually was.

But today, Y/N’s heart wouldn’t settle.

“I just… I don’t get it,” she said at last, voice tighter than she intended. “I came here to help with the children. For the summer. That’s it. I didn’t think it would—change everything.”

Marisol glanced at her sidelong but didn’t speak.

Y/N slowed her pace, twisting the flower ring she’d picked from a bush earlier, fingers restless. “I feel like I’m walking through someone else’s life. I sleep in a stranger’s house, teach children who look at me like I’m their mother, and now... I’m not even sure I’m allowed to leave.”

“You’re not a prisoner, Y/N,” Isela said gently, though her tone held something more.

“Then why does it feel like one?” she whispered.

They reached the clearing, an old bench tucked under a tree, worn smooth by sun and time. The women sat. Y/N remained standing.

Finally, Flor sighed, her voice low and serious.

“You don’t understand, Y/N. Because you’re not one of us.”

Y/N blinked. “I’ve never pretended to be.”

“No,” Flor said, “but that doesn’t change what you’ve walked into.”

Marisol reached out, tugging gently on Y/N’s wrist until she sat beside her. “You’ve been good to our children. Kind. Patient. You make this place better just by being in it.”

Y/N smiled, but it faltered. “But that’s not enough, is it?”

Silence.

Dalia finally broke it.

“You’ve stepped into a wolf’s den,” she said, voice laced with meaning. “You don’t understand what that means. When a wolf recognizes what’s his, there’s no turning back.”

Y/N blinked. Her mouth went dry. “His?”

Marisol looked down. “Caelum.”

Y/N swallowed. “No. No—he’s just intense. Harsh. I didn’t even think he liked me, not really.”

“His wolf doesn’t like anything,” Isela muttered. “Except you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Y/N protested, but her voice was softer now. “He’s barely spoken to me since I got here. And when he does, he’s cold. Angry.”

“That is his version of liking you,” Marisol said.

Y/N shook her head, eyes shining now. “It doesn’t matter. I’m getting married to someone else. He loves me. He’s—he’s good. And we have a plan. A life.”

The women were quiet.

But not because they disagreed.

Because they were mourning her.

“You don’t understand,” Flor said gently. “Wolves don’t let go once they choose. Not if they’ve recognized something as theirs.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “I’m not a possession.”

“No. You’re not.” Marisol reached over, tucking a strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear. “But his instincts don’t care about human laws. Or wedding rings.”

Y/N’s eyes burned.

“He can’t just… take me,” she said, but even she didn’t believe it fully.

And they didn’t answer.

Instead, Isela whispered, “He will.”

Dalia’s voice followed, hushed but honest. “And once he does, you’ll never leave this mountain again.”

Y/N stared at the ground.

The wind picked up, cool against the back of her neck, and for the first time since she arrived, she realized how quiet the forest had become. No birdsong. No water.

Just silence.

Heavy, waiting.

Her voice came out small. “I thought I was doing something good. That I was helping.”

“You were,” Marisol whispered. “And that’s why he’s going to keep you.”

Y/N stood suddenly. “I have to get back. The twins asked me to finish the story before bed.”

She didn’t wait for their responses. She just turned, walking quickly down the path, away from the truth.

But as the women watched her go, none of them followed.

Because they all knew—

She wouldn’t leave this mountain again.

Not as herself.

Not as she was.

And when he finally claimed her, there would be no softness left to escape with.

Only the wolf.

The click of the lock echoed louder than it should have.

Y/N stood in the middle of the room, her hands trembling slightly as she zipped up her suitcase and set it by the foot of the bed. Her heart was racing—not wildly, but in that slow, steady dread that lingers under the skin.

She had tried three times to send a message.

Each time, it failed.

“Call Failed.”

“Message Not Delivered.”

“Try Again Later.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at her phone screen, the soft blue light illuminating her pale fingers. She couldn’t stop picturing her fiancé’s face—his steady, reassuring voice, the comfort of being known, normal. Far from this place.

Far from him.

She hadn’t cried. Not yet. But her eyes stung. Her jaw ached from clenching it too long. She didn’t undress. Just curled under the blanket in her clothes, suitcase ready, door locked, phone pressed to her chest like it might suddenly come alive and save her.

She didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Just drifted, breath shallow, every creak of the floorboards outside her door tightening her chest.

And somewhere, deep down, she knew—

That door wouldn’t stop him.

Not when he decided to come.

Caelum’s POV

He stood at the edge of the woods, bare-chested, sweat slicking down his back from the sparring match he’d just broken up between two young betas. His knuckles were bruised, his pulse steady—but his mind was far from calm.

The house breathed behind him.

She was inside it. Packing. Trembling. Trying to run.

He could smell her fear through the walls.

It thrilled him. It disgusted him. It made him ache.

She still thought this was about choice.

Still thought she could pick up a bag and walk back to a world that had never deserved her.

His wolf paced beneath his skin, restless and growling, demanding what was owed. She is yours. Why are you waiting? Why are you letting her choose when wolves do not beg?

He turned and headed back toward the house, his body moving on instinct alone, every inch of him a tightly wound spring.

When he reached the back steps, Liana, Marisol, and Ruben were seated around the fire pit, voices low, posture tense.

They looked up when he approached.

“You spoke to her,” Liana said, not a question.

“She’s packing,” he said flatly.

Marisol stiffened. “Let her go.”

“No.”

“Caelum—”

“She doesn’t belong with him,” he growled, pacing the edge of the firelight. “He doesn't know her. He didn't see her raise our children. He didn't see how she carries them on her hip and tells them stories like they’re hers. She is ours. She belongs here.”

“With us,” Ruben corrected gently. “Not just you.”

Caelum shot him a sharp look, but Ruben didn’t flinch.

“She is part of what calmed this house,” he continued. “But if you try to force her—”

“She won’t fight,” Caelum said, voice rough, low, filled with something dangerous.

That made Marisol flinch.

Liana, however, simply nodded. “Because her heart’s soft. Not because she wants it.”

“That’s not the same as love, Caelum,” Marisol said quietly.

He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t care.

Because the wolf inside him was no longer asking for love.

It was demanding possession.

“She came to us,” Liana said at last. “She fed our children. She brought peace to this house. You think fate does that for no reason?”

Marisol’s voice broke. “She’s not one of us. Not yet. If you take her, Caelum—really take her—she won’t be able to go back.”

“She never will,” he said.

Not as a wife.

Not as a teacher.

Not as herself.

Only as his.

Liana looked at him, her gaze sharp and ancient. “Then you better do it clean. Do it quiet. And if you break her in the taking, Caelum—”

“She’ll break softer than most,” he murmured.

Marisol turned her face away.

Ruben stood slowly and walked into the house.

Liana remained by the fire, watching the flames dance.

Caelum didn’t wait for permission.

He was done waiting.

And upstairs…

the lock on her door would not save her.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that felt heavy in the air, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

It was well past midnight when Y/N eased the door open and slipped out into the backyard, the night warm against her skin. The moon was swollen overhead, casting silver across the trees, the grass, the stones beneath her feet. She walked quickly, glancing over her shoulder, holding her phone tight in her palm like a lifeline.

One bar.

She swallowed hard. Her fingers shook as she typed.

please call me

i love you

i’m scared

She hit send.

The little bubble spun.

“Trying to escape again, little dove?”

Her breath caught in her throat.

The voice came from the shadows—low, rough, dark with fury.

She spun, eyes wide, shoving her phone behind her back like a guilty child.

But it was too late.

Caelum was already walking toward her.

He stepped out from beneath the trees, shirtless, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, like he’d been running—or waiting. His eyes were gold in the moonlight. Bright. Burning.

“Give it to me.”

“C-Caelum,” she stammered, backing a step.

“I said—give it.”

Her fingers trembled. She tried to hide the phone again, but he was already on her—too fast, too strong.

His hand snapped out, snatching the device from her hand. He didn’t even need to unlock it. The message was still glowing on the screen.

please call me

i love you

His breath turned sharp.

His eyes darkened.

“You love him?” he asked, voice nearly a snarl.

She flinched. “He’s my fiancé—”

“Don’t say that word.”

He stared at the message like it had personally offended him. His nostrils flared. His jaw flexed. His fingers curled tighter around the phone—until he threw it, hard, into the grass.

It disappeared into the dark.

Y/N gasped. “Don’t—!”

But before she could take a step toward it, he was there, grabbing her wrist, pulling her close, his grip iron.

“You think you can run from me?” he growled.

“I wasn’t—I just wanted to talk to—”

“To him? The man who leaves you alone for weeks? The one who didn’t even stay to walk you in?” His voice dripped contempt. “He’s not here. I am.”

She shook her head. “Please don’t do this—”

But her voice broke as he slammed his mouth against hers.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

His other hand tangled in her hair, holding her still as he kissed her with bruising force, like he wanted to erase every memory of another man from her lips. Her hands pushed weakly against his chest, but he didn’t move.

Her protests were soft.

Her tears were salt between their mouths.

And her obedience—her stillness—was the final thing that unraveled him.

He tore his lips from hers only long enough to snarl against her skin:

“Mine.”

Not a question.

Not a hope.

A sentence.

A sentence she would not escape.

Her heart beat like thunder in her chest.

It all happened so fast.

One moment his mouth was crashing into hers, and the next—his hand was over her lips, cutting off her breath and her scream as he dragged her bodily across the yard and into the house.

“Stop fighting me,” Caelum hissed, breath ragged with fury and desire. “You’re mine. This was always going to happen.”

“No,” she tried to scream into his palm, but it came out a muffled cry.

She twisted in his grip, legs kicking, heels scraping the floorboards as he shouldered the back door open and hauled her down the hallway—toward his bedroom.

The scent of pine and his cologne suffocated her senses as the door slammed shut behind them. Her bare feet scrambled across the floor, nightgown twisted and clinging to her legs. She managed to plant one good kick against his shin—but it didn’t stop him.

His eyes were glowing now, wild and gold.

Predator.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he warned darkly, slamming her back into the edge of the bed. “You were always meant to be mine.”

Her trembling fingers grasped for anything—anything at all—and when he leaned too close, she did the only thing she could.

She bit him.

Hard.

Right into the muscle of his hand.

He roared—a deep, primal, inhuman sound—and shoved her with such force she fell backward onto the bed, breath knocked from her lungs. Blood dripped from his hand as he snarled down at her.

That sound, that look—was all she needed.

Adrenaline surged.

She scrambled from the bed, tearing the nightgown in the process, and bolted for the door. Her scream finally burst free, piercing the night.

He lunged after her—but his claws scratched down her shoulder as she slipped past, crying out again in pain and fear.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

She ran.

Through the hall. Out the back door. Into the forest.

Barefoot. Bleeding. Terrified.

Behind her, lights in the house flared on.

Doors opened.

Voices shouted.

“What’s happening?!”

“Who screamed?!”

She heard Marisol scream her name. Ruben call for help. Liana’s voice like a knife in the dark.

And over it all—his voice.

“Don’t let her leave these woods. Bring her back. Now.”

Footsteps thundered behind her.

The pack was moving.

And Caelum—faster than all of them—was following the scent of her blood.

She ran until her legs gave out.

Branches tore at her arms, roots snagged her ankles, but still—she ran. Blind, barefoot, bleeding, she pushed herself into the deep of the forest. The world around her had become shadows and breathless panic.

And behind her—

they came.

Not as people.

Not anymore.

They were wolves now.

Large, fast, whisper-quiet despite their size, slipping through the trees like smoke. She could hear their paws against the ground—heavy, deliberate, teasing. She didn’t understand at first. Why weren’t they catching her? Why didn’t they just stop her?

Because they didn’t need to.

She was already surrounded.

She collapsed near a clearing, lungs burning, heart slamming in her throat. The trees circled her like prison bars, and then—she heard them.

Growls.

Not feral. Not angry.

Amused.

Cruel.

They circled her in a slow, almost mocking rhythm. Massive wolves, pale-eyed in the dark, shapes shifting behind leaves and trunks. She turned in a full circle, panting, unable to tell them apart. Which one was Ruben? Was that Marisol, or Liana? She called out—

“Please—please, stop—”

But no one came forward.

Only in her head, a voice echoed.

Marisol.

"Let her go, Caelum. This isn’t the way—”

Another voice interrupted, colder, final.

Liana.

"It’s too late. She’s already part of us. She must be claimed—for the pack."

Y/N fell to her knees, tears stinging her face.

She didn’t hear him coming.

She felt it—

a force, sudden and brutal, slamming into her back.

The world tilted. The air left her lungs. She hit the forest floor with a cry, crushed beneath weight and instinct.

A massive black wolf stood over her—eyes glowing, breath hot against her skin. He was panting, his chest heaving, the sound of possession deep in his throat.

Then—

He shifted.

The wolf disappeared.

And in its place, crouched over her, Caelum.

Naked. Human. Unashamed.

His skin steamed in the night air, muscles taut, eyes wild and unreadable.

She tried to scramble backward, legs kicking weakly against the dirt—but his hand caught her wrist. Then her hip. He forced her onto her back.

Around them, the other wolves closed in, forming a tight circle of bodies and glowing eyes. Silent witnesses. Watchful. Complicit.

Y/N couldn’t breathe.

She looked up at him, face streaked with tears.

“I don’t want this,” she whispered.

His expression twisted—part anguish, part hunger.

“You were never going to have a choice.”

He leaned in.

And the forest closed around her.

She didn’t remember the exact second it happened.

One moment she was trying to scream, the next—it caught in her throat and vanished. Like the forest itself swallowed it. Like the night was complicit.

The trees loomed above, crooked and unmoved. The circle of wolves didn’t shift. They stood, massive and silent, like ancient statues carved from bone and breath. Their eyes glowed. Some silver. Some gold. All cold.

And in the center of them all—her.

Her back against the earth, skirt torn, chest rising in short, panicked gasps as his weight pressed down. Her wrists pinned.

Caelum.

Human now. But not man.

Wolf.

The feel of his skin was searing. Hot. Overpowering. She tried to buck, once—but he snarled above her, and the sound paralyzed her more than any hand could.

“I waited,” he growled into her neck. “I gave you time. I warned you.”

Her mind was fraying at the edges. This couldn’t be real. This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t really on the forest floor—not like this, not with wolves watching, not with her heart breaking open in her chest.

Her mouth opened to scream again, but the noise never came.

Because that was when she saw her.

A wolf—white as ash, eyes wet and glowing.

Marisol.

Y/N didn’t know how she knew. But she did.

Their eyes locked.

And then slowly, with deliberate, aching grief, Marisol closed hers.

Looked away.

Y/N’s body went still.

Her eyes, wide and glassy, stared past the treetops now—unseeing, unblinking.

She stopped trying to fight.

Stopped trying to flee.

It didn’t matter anymore.

He was inside her.

He had taken what he wanted.

Her limbs trembled, but she didn’t resist. She couldn’t. Her mind floated somewhere far away—above the trees, above the mountain, where no one could hurt her. Where the weight on her body couldn’t pin her down anymore.

The wolves around them remained quiet.

Not out of shame.

Out of ritual.

Out of reverence.

Because she was being claimed.

And when it was done—

When her body was marked with claw and sweat and earth—

He pressed his face to her throat, inhaling deeply, like she belonged to him now in every way.

Because she did.

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @amanduhh1998 @bananaasfordewin @rachfart @hopingtoclearmedschool

[fluffroom]

"Midnight Companion" -HH

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | protective, gentle horror & urban | Hyunjin x Reader

TW: mild violence, implied threat, vampire-related themes (blood, fangs, predatory behavior), mentions of unsafe neighborhoods and stalking.

Summary: When a sudden switch to night shift leaves you walking alone through a dangerous neighborhood, a mysterious man begins showing up to walk you to work. He says it's just to keep you safe- but the truth behind his nightly visits is darker than you ever imagined.

The night air in your neighborhood always carried a bite, but lately it felt more like teeth sinking into skin.

You hadn't wanted to switch to night shift. It was supposed to be temporary- a couple of weeks until the manager figured out the schedule. But two weeks turned into three, and now this was your new normal: 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. at the corner store, walking under flickering streetlights past closed laundromats and crumbling billboards.

You started carrying pepper spray in your coat pocket after the first week. Nothing had happened. No really. Just...the occasional shadow where there shouldn't have been one. The feeling of being watched, even when you turned your head fast enough to see nothing but pavement. That sort of thing.

Still, when you saw him the first time, leaning against the wall near the shuttered pharmacy, you froze.

Tall. Dark coat. Hair so pale it almost glowed under the lamplight. He was...beautiful, in the way statues were beautiful- sharp and still and untouchable. His eyes caught yours and held them.

You thought you were about to be mugged.

But instead, he smiled.

"You shouldn't walk alone," he said, stepping into your path.

You gripped your pepper spray. "I have mace."

He blinked, then chuckled softly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just...saw you walking alone, and thought it looked dangerous."

"That's the neighborhood," you replied, still on edge.

"I could walk you," he offered. "Just to the corner. Or the store, if you'd let me.

You eyed him carefully. Every rule you'd ever learned screamed at you to say no. But there was something odd about him. Not threatening- just strange. Like he didn't belong here. Like someone had pulled him from a painting and dropped him into your dirty, buzzing city.

"...Fine," you said slowly. "Just tonight."

He smiles again, eyes crinkling. "Hyunjin," he said, offering a hand.

You didn't shake it. But you remembered the name.

. . .

He walked with you every night after that.

Never too close. Always at your side, never behind you. Sometimes he asked questions- where you were from, if the job was boring, if you liked the stars. Sometimes he just walked in silence.

He never told you much about himself.

You asked once where he lived, and he answered, "Around."

You asked if he worked nearby, and he smiled strangely. "Not exactly."

It should have been a red flag, but he never pushed your boundaries. He never asked to come inside. He always walked you to the store, paused under the broken light out front, and said goodnight.

It became a habit. Familiar. So familiar that when you didn't see him one night, you felt strangely...unsafe.

Until you turned the corner and he was already waiting, as if he knew you'd be running late.

. . .

One night, it was cold enough to see your breath.

You pulled your hoodie tighter and glanced sideways at Hyunjin. "Don't you get cold?"

He smiled. "I don't really feel it."

You laughed. "What, are you a vampire or something?"

He tilted his head. "Would that scare you?"

You smirked. "Only if you wanted to drink my blood."

He didn't answer. He just looked at you, too long, too steady. You turned away first.

. . .

It wasn't until the night someone else showed up that things changed.

You saw him before Hyunjin did, at least, you thought you did. A man standing across the street, dressed in black, pale as paper. He wasn't watching you, though.

He was watching Hyunjin.

You slowed. "Do you know that guy?"

Hyunjin turned. His whole body stilled.

The man smiled, baring teeth that were too white, too sharp. And then he crossed the street.

Hyunjin moved fast- faster than you thought possible. He stepped between you and the stranger and said, low and firm, "Don't."

The stranger tilted his head. "They smell nice."

"Walk away."

"I'm hungry."

Hyunjin's body shifted subtly like a shadow curling. You blinked- and for half a second, his face changed. His eyes darkened. His lips parted.

Fangs.

You stumbled back. "What-?"

Hyunjin didn't look at you. He growled- an inhuman sound- and lunged.

The fight wasn't flashy. There was no flying or blood spraying, no slow-motion punches. Just the quiet, brutal sound of movement- of impact, of claws and teeth.

And then the stranger was done. Just...gone. Like smoke. The alley was silent again.

You stared at Hyunjin.

He wasn't breathing hard. He wasn't even scratched. But he looked at you like he was in pain.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

"I didn't want you to see that, he said softly.

You stared at him. "What are you?"

"A vampire, he said. "I wasn't lying."

Your knees wanted to give out.

He stepped back. "I've never wanted to hurt you. I never would."

"You-" You shook your head. "Why me? Why walk me to work? Were you...feeding off me or something?"

"No!" His eyes widened. "God, no. I never touched you. I just-" He sighed, visibly struggling. "I heard you walking alone at night. You were scored. I could smell it. I thought...maybe I could help. Just this once. Just for a while."

You still couldn't breathe right.

"I never planned to tell you. But he-" Hyunjon glanced down the alley. "He's not like me. He wouldn't have stopped."

You remembered the look in the stranger's eyes. Like you were a meal.

You looked back at Hyunjin. Pale skin, dark eyes, elegant hands.

He could have hurt you. So many times. But he hadn't.

He protected you.

"You're really a vampire," you wshipered.

He nodded.

"And you've been walking me to work just because...what? You wanted to?"

"I liked your voice," he said. "And you're kind. Most people don't notice things anymore. You do. I don't meet many people like that."

You blinked. Your chest felt too tight.

"I understand if you never want to see me again," he said. "I'll go. I'll stay away."

He turned.

"Wait."

He stopped.

You swallowed. "Will he come back? That other one?"

Hyunjin didn't turn. "Maybe."

"...Then you should probably keep walking me to work."

He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide.

You shrugged, trying to look braver than you felt. "You're creepy, but you've got a decent track record."

A smile cracked across his face- slow and shocked, and genuine. "You're...unbelievable."

"Not the first time I've heard that."

He stepped back to your side. The silence stretched as you walked.

Then you said, "So...no reflection, or is that just a myth?"

He laughed, deep and bright. "Myth."

"Sunlight?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Like acid on skin. Hurts like hell."

"Do you...really drink blood?"

He glanced at you. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"...Fair."

You reached the corner store. He paused, like always. The light above the door flickered overhead.

You hesitated, then turned toward him. "I'm scared of you," you admitted.

He nodded. "That's okay."

"But I trust you."

That surprised him.

He lowered his gaze. "Then I'll protect you. For as long as you'll let me."

You smiled, faintly. "See you tomorrow night, then?"

Hyunjin looked up, and this time, there was something fragile in his expression. Hope. Relief. Awe.

"Yeah," he said. "Tomorrow."

. . .

You still work the night shift. You still walk through the same dark streets.

But now, there's always a shadow at your side- tall and quiet and too beautiful for this world. Hyunjin walks with you like it's the only thing he was made for.

He doesn't lie to you anymore.

And sometimes, just before the sun rises, you think you catch him smiling like he's never known what it meant to be human...but maybe he's starting to learn.

Because for once, he's not just surviving the night.

He's sharing it.

With you.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[lonerslug]

i LOVED your sweetheart masc fic.

i’m not requesting this with any type of girl in mind, but could you write a vampire sevika x reader or vice versa story?? your writing is amazing!

a/n: AHHH thank you so much!! 🥺💗 I’m so glad you liked it, that means the world!!

slow burn | obsessive desire | blood drinking | light horror vibes | eventual smut | vampire!Sevika x human!Reader

masterlist

You saw her first on a Thursday.

Rain slicing the alley behind the café like razors. Lights out. Closing shift. One flicker of movement, impossibly still, like a shadow that chose to be seen.

She was leaning against the wall across the street, smoke curling from her lips. Watching you.

You don’t scare easy. But something about her made the hairs rise on the back of your neck. Not fear. Not quite. But your body knew something before your mind did, a Predator.

She comes into the café the next night. Orders black coffee and doesn’t drink it. Just sits there, one hand curled loosely around the cup like she needs to look like she belongs.

You glance up.

She’s looking at you.

Not casually. Not politely. Like she’s starving.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet.”

then you start seeing her everywhere.

Always at night.

Always just a little too close.

Always still, silent, and watching.

Your friends say she gives creep. You say nothing.

You don’t tell them about the way her voice wraps around your spine like velvet.

You don’t tell them how your heart races when she says your name, slowly, like tasting it.

You definitely don’t tell them you started walking home slower just in case she was behind you again.

She never touches you.

But sometimes, when you’re close enough, she’ll tilt her head like she’s listening to something only she can hear.

And then, with eyes half-lidded, she’ll murmur:

“Your pulse is louder tonight.”

weird..

One night, you stay late. Alone again. Rain again.

You unlock the back door, and there she is.

Soaked. Hood down. A cut on her lip.

Eyes glowing faint red.

“I told myself I’d leave you alone.”

“You’re here.”

“I know.”

She steps into the light. Her lip curls. Not quite a smile. Something hungrier.

You don’t know why you want her to stay.

But she moves closer.

And whispers, right against your jaw,

“Say stop.”

You don’t. You can’t

She feeds on you.

Once.

It’s careful. Gentle, even. Pain edged with pleasure, like being split open by silk.

Her hand catches your back and you swear she purrs.

“You shouldn’t have let me do that,” she says, eyes closed like she’s praying.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t stop now, baby”

She disappears after that.

Days pass.

Then a week.

Then ten days.

You feel it. Her absence, like someone gutted your chest and left the wound open.

You dream about her.

You wake up with your hand on your neck.

You touch yourself, thinking about her.

You don’t know it, but she’s watching again.

From rooftops. From shadows. From windows.

Starving.

Trying not to come back.

then failing.

When she finally returns, it’s because you walk down a dark alley with your headphones in, stupidly, foolishly, and someone follows you.

Not her.

A man.

Human.

She kills him before he touches you.

Throws him off. Breaks his neck. Doesn’t look at him again.

Only at you.

“I told you,” she growls, “You make me fucking insane.”

She pushes you against the wall. The brick is cold. Her hands are colder.

You gasp, but it’s not fear.

It’s want.

You don’t fuck that night.

well not yet.

But she kisses you. Hard. Desperate.

Mouth wet with rain. Lips sharp with blood. Her tongue in your mouth like she owns it.

And when she pulls back,she’s panting.

youre pinned against the alley wall, your shirt soaked, her body pressed so tightly to yours you can’t tell where you end and she begins. One of her hands is braced above your head, the other fists into your collar, dragging you up into her mouth like you belong to her, and god, you do.

Her teeth graze your throat. You shudder. Her hips roll against yours slowly, like she’s trying to grind the heat between her legs into your pulse.

She tastes you again, just a tiny prick. Just enough to drag a soft gasp from your throat.

Then she moans.

“Fuck…mmh, you taste like you’d let me do anything to you.”

She’s right.

You don’t make it to a bed.

She takes you inside some half-abandoned loft two blocks away. Slams the door. Lights off. Only her eyes glowing, low and red like embers.

You blink.

She’s already on her knees.

“You’ve got no idea what it’s like,” she growls, dragging you closer by the thighs. “You walk around all warm and soft and wet, smelling like sin, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your pants are yanked down before you can speak. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to.

You’re soaked. She grins when she sees.

“Dripping for me already? Fuck, You’re mine, sweetheart.”

She eats you like she’s starving.

Tongue deep, slow and possessive, mouth sealed over your clit like she wants to taste the part of you that makes you beg.

And you do.

You beg so quickly it’s humiliating.

“More! please, Sevika!”

“You’ll take what I give you.”

One hand holds your hip down. The other wraps around your throat, not tight.

Her mouth never leaves you. She moans when you twitch. Grinds her tongue harder when you cry out.

You cum once. Then again. Too fast. Too much.

You push at her shoulder. She doesn’t budge.

“No…Sevika I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

She pulls back just long enough to spit on your cunt.

Licks it back up.

Then shoves two fingers in, deep, thick, curved right where you can’t handle it.

You scream. and cream

She takes her time after that.

Kisses every part of your body with reverence.

Leaves bite marks just below the surface.

Doesn’t break skin, yet.

But when she finally drags her mouth back to your throat, you’re trembling.

“I want to drink from you while you’re cumming,” she growls.

“I want to feel your heartbeat in my mouth. Let me. Please.”

You nod.

She bites.

You shatter.

After, she holds you in her lap, mouth slick with your blood and cum. Your body is boneless, twitching, dazed. Her tongue runs over the bite lazily.

“Told you I wouldn’t stop,” she whispers against your skin.

“I never will.”

and then you’re spread out beneath her again, wrecked

Breath hitching. Neck already marked with twin bites.

And Sevika, towering over you, just smirks.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “Shaking for me. You’ve got blood on your throat and cum on your thighs, and you’re still begging.”

You don’t realize you’re whining until she bites your thigh with her eyes, just staring, like she’s deciding.

“You want it here now?” she asks, dragging her fangs so lightly across the tender skin between your legs. “Right where I can smell how sweet you are?”

You nod, frantic.

“Say please, honey”

“Please, Sevika, bite me right there, fuck, please… ah!”

And then she does.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

Her fangs sink into the plushest part of your inner thigh like she’s claiming it.

You jerk. Cry out. Your hands fly to her hair. She growls against your skin, grinding her hips into the mattress like she gets off on your taste.

Your blood runs down her chin.

Your thighs tremble around her head.

“Fuck,” she hisses between licks. “you taste amazing…”

She kisses the bite after. Tongue sweeping over it tenderly.

“No one else ever gets this. You hear me?” she murmurs. “No one gets your blood. No one gets this sweet little pussy. Only me.”

You’re already cumming again.

She’s not even touching your clit.

[yoomiwrites]

Saltwater and soft hands

Summary: Arlong, barely alive, is getting treatment of a HUMAN. He hates it. But oh, (g/n) Y/N has quite the soft– No, he can't break. Can he?

Note: This request baffled me, but I understood...somehow? I don't know. I had fun writing it!

✦═════✦═════✦

The ocean wasn’t kind that night. It dragged what remained of Arlong’s broken body ashore like a piece of discarded driftwood, salt stinging deep into wounds that Luffy had carved open with fists and defiance. His crew had scattered like minnows in shark-filled water — the ones still alive, anyway.

The world had shrunk down to pain, and the smell of blood and brine.

And then it had the audacity to shrink even further — to you.

You, the only doctor on this sorry little speck of an island. A human. Fragile and unimpressive, standing over him with nothing but a worn-out bag of supplies and hands far too gentle for a creature like him.

He would’ve bared his teeth, would’ve lashed out with what little strength he had left. But even hate couldn’t override the need to survive.

And so your hands worked in silence, steady and sure despite the raw, jagged mess of him. You washed the salt from his wounds, cleaned away dirt and blood with soft cloths, your touch always careful — always patient. Not once did you flinch at the sharpness of his teeth, or the growl that rumbled weakly from his chest.

“Try not to move,” you murmured, voice low but kind. “You’ll tear the stitches.”

He stared at you, the hate still curled in his gut, coiled like the predator he’d always been. But the longer your fingers worked — binding, stitching, soothing — the more that hate blurred.

It wasn’t gone. Not entirely. But it was… quieter. Drowned out by something unfamiliar.

No human had ever treated him like this. No human had ever touched him without fear or malice, let alone with this much care.

You pressed a damp cloth to his brow, wiping away sweat as fever threatened to pull him under.

“There,” you whispered, thumb brushing over his rough skin. “You’re doing better than most would.”

The words weren’t meant to wound or belittle, but for some reason, they stung worse than any blade. Because you weren’t afraid. And worse — you weren’t pretending to be kind for your own gain.

You were just... kind.

And for the first time, Arlong didn’t quite know where to place all that hate.

The next day blurred into the next, time punctuated only by the sound of your voice telling him when to drink, when to eat, when to lie still. And though his body was slow to heal, something inside him shifted faster than his wounds ever could.

He caught himself watching you — how you moved around the room, how your lips pursed in thought as you prepared medicine, how your hands were always so careful even when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

When he finally spoke, voice low and hoarse, it wasn’t to insult. Or threaten. It was quiet, almost foreign on his tongue.

“...Why?”

You looked up from the fresh bandage you were smoothing into place, blinking softly.

“Why what?”

“Why are you helping me.”

Your fingers stilled on his skin, resting lightly against the curve of his jaw — just for a second.

“Because someone had to,” you answered. “Hate... doesn’t heal anyone.”

And for once, Arlong didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

Because lying there under your soft hands, with your kindness seeping through the cracks in his pride, the hate didn’t feel so sharp anymore.

A day later, the sun hung heavy in the sky, burning down on the patch of land where you and Arlong had been stranded for what felt like weeks now. The worst of his wounds were closed, his strength coming back in slow, hesitant waves, but every time he moved too fast, the pain in his side would flare up, and he’d be forced to sit, seething in frustration.

You’d been checking on him that morning, offering him food — simple fish, carefully prepared — but his appetite had been spotty, and his temper even worse. He took the plate from you without a word, his gaze fixed far away, but you still noticed the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed when you got too close.

“You’re gonna need more than that if you want to get back on your feet,” you said, pushing the plate a little closer. Your voice was light, teasing, like you didn’t notice how stiff he had become.

Arlong glanced at you, his lips curling into a scowl, though there was no heat in it this time.

“I don’t need your pity,” he growled, voice rougher than usual. “I didn’t ask for your help, human.”

Your fingers twitched, but you resisted the urge to snap back at him. Instead, you smiled, a little too knowingly.

“I’m not pitying you,” you replied, voice soft and steady. “You’re a fighter. You’re going to need your strength back if you’re going to get out of here.”

There it was again — the way you spoke, the way your eyes didn’t flinch from him. It was the same calm, unbothered kindness that had softened him bit by bit. And that irritated him more than anything. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to anyone treating him like he mattered beyond what he could offer.

He could feel the flutter of something in his chest, the familiar stirrings of discomfort, but he pushed it down as best he could.

“I’ll be fine,” he snapped, sitting up straighter, though his body groaned in protest. “I don’t need you hovering around me all the time. You’re just a human. You can’t fix everything.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden outburst, but you didn’t take offense. Instead, you placed the food down beside him on the weathered wooden table and took a step back, giving him space.

“I never said I could fix everything,” you said gently, your tone far too calm for his liking. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself by trying to do it all on your own. You’re allowed to let others help you, Arlong.”

He flinched at your use of his name — the one thing that always seemed to make his defenses drop, even just a little. His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white against the rough wooden table, but he couldn’t look away from you.

You’d taken care of him. You’d helped him. And somehow, despite everything he hated about humans, he couldn’t bring himself to push you away completely.

“I don’t need your pity,” he repeated, but the words came out more strained this time, like they were for his own benefit more than yours.

You didn’t move. You didn’t argue. You just stood there, quietly waiting, watching him.

“I’m not pitying you,” you said again, this time with more certainty. “You’ve been through a lot. But you don’t have to carry it all alone. You’re... important.”

The weight of your words hung in the air between you both, thick and undeniable, and for a moment, it was just the sound of the waves, the breeze rustling through the trees, and the faint creak of the wooden boards underfoot. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He didn’t want to know how to respond to that.

For the first time since his defeat, Arlong felt... vulnerable. Not weak. But vulnerable in a way he couldn’t fight off. He turned his gaze away from you, gritting his teeth as if to push those feelings deep inside, where they couldn’t reach him.

“Stop being so soft,” he grumbled. “I don’t need your kindness.”

But the look in his eyes betrayed him. The way his jaw clenched, the way his gaze softened just before he turned away — he was a mess of conflicting feelings, and he hated it. Hated how your words sank into him, how he wanted to believe you but couldn’t allow himself to. He wasn’t supposed to need anyone. Not even you.

He stood up abruptly, wincing at the sharp pain in his side, but he ignored it, instead taking a few unsteady steps away from you.

“I’ll go. I don’t need you babysitting me anymore.” His tone was harsh, but there was an edge of uncertainty underneath — a small crack in his tough exterior. “I’ll do it on my own.”

You didn’t try to stop him. You simply nodded, watching him with that soft, patient smile — the same one you always gave him.

“Alright. But I’m still here if you need me, Arlong.”

And then, in a rare moment, Arlong’s resolve wavered.

He stopped in his tracks, his back turned to you. He didn’t speak at first, then muttered under his breath, “...You’re... too damn soft, human.”

You didn’t say anything, but you could hear the faintest shift in his voice. Something softer. Something... almost fond.

The island was quiet. The ocean’s constant rhythm was the only sound that seemed to fill the air, a reminder of the isolation you’d been left in.

Arlong had left days ago — you hadn’t seen him since that last argument. You had given him space, even let him go, because in the end, that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? He was a prideful, bitter creature, and you couldn’t force someone like him to stay.

So, you had learned to live with the silence once more. To keep your head down. To care only for yourself, though there were moments when you still thought of him — when you would wonder if he was alright, or if he had gotten far enough away from the island to find his next fight, his next battle.

You had decided to go for a walk along the beach today. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the water. It should have been peaceful, beautiful, like everything on this island had always been.

But instead, it felt strange. Like something was missing.

The thought lingered in your mind as you walked along the shoreline, your feet sinking into the warm sand. And then, you stepped on something sharp — a hidden rock or coral, you weren't sure. But it cut deep, a sharp pain shooting up your leg.

You yelped, stumbling back, but the damage had already been done. Blood quickly began to pool in the sand, crimson against the golden beach. You hissed in pain, clutching your foot, your breath shaky as the reality of your injury began to settle in.

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself, frustration welling up in your chest. You couldn’t even get a damn break. You needed help, but there was no one here.

The tide of panic started to rise in you, your head spinning with the realization that you were stranded — hurt and alone — and there was no one around to help. The ocean, the sun, the sand… none of it mattered if you were alone.

And then you heard it.

The unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps. You froze, heart racing.

The shadows grew longer, and a figure emerged from the trees. Your heart skipped a beat. Arlong.

For a moment, you thought you were imagining things — surely he had left. Gone, out of your life. You didn’t want him to return. You didn’t need him to return.

But here he was, standing in the sand, looking down at you with a mix of annoyance and something else. Something you couldn’t quite place.

“Didn’t think you’d be this pathetic,” he sneered, crossing his arms over his chest, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the blood spreading on the sand. “How foolish can one human be?”

You bit your lip to hold back the tears. The pain in your foot was unbearable, and his words stung worse than the injury itself. “That doesn't help, I don't need your help,” you spat, trying to stand, but the dizziness hit you, and you collapsed back to the ground.

“You really think I’m going to help you now?” Arlong’s tone was mocking, but it was so much less biting than it used to be. You couldn’t understand why. He watched you struggle, eyes cold but not with the venom they usually held.

And then, a strange silence hung in the air. The kind that felt too heavy. Too real.

You closed your eyes, tears of frustration slipping from the corners of your eyes. You didn’t care if he mocked you. You didn’t care about his cruel words. You just wanted someone to help. Someone to… care.

But Arlong didn’t move. Not at first. Instead, he sniffed the air, eyes sharp.

His gaze flickered down to the blood — and then back to you.

And something shifted.

“Damn it,” he muttered, his voice barely audible as he cursed under his breath.

You heard him move toward you then, his large hand reaching down to grab your arm, his grip firm and surprisingly careful as he hauled you up.

“Get up,” he snapped, trying to sound like his usual intimidating self, but the way his hand trembled just a little betrayed him.

“I said I don’t need your help! Not like that.” you shot back, voice cracking as you tried to push him away. But the pain in your foot was overwhelming, and your attempts were weak at best.

Arlong didn’t say anything. He just huffed, grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up without another word. His grip was strong, but the way he held you didn’t feel like he usually made you feel — like you were a nuisance to him. This time, it was different. There was something careful about the way his hands brushed against your side, almost like he didn’t want to hurt you.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered, his face still contorted with a mix of annoyance and something darker. He shifted you in his arms, his free hand reaching down to lift you more comfortably. “Hold on, human.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you let him carry you, too exhausted from the pain to fight him anymore. You let your head fall against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body — that same strange, familiar warmth you’d come to dread and crave at the same time.

The journey back to the small hut you’d been using as shelter was silent, aside from the occasional grunt from Arlong as he carried you. His usual mocking demeanor was gone, replaced by a strange sense of determination. He didn’t stop to taunt you. He didn’t make a single comment about how pathetic you were.

When you arrived, he gently set you down on the bed, his hands still unusually gentle as he took a seat beside you. You were too dazed to argue, too stunned by his actions to even comprehend what was happening.

For a moment, he simply stared at you, his eyes scanning the wound on your foot. He reached into the bag for the supplies you had, but there was no ease to his movements. He was trying, but it was clumsy — too awkward. It was like he didn’t quite know how to treat an injury that wasn’t his own.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You smiled weakly, despite the pain, feeling the known warmth spread in your chest. “I didn’t think you would.”

Arlong let out a low growl, clearly embarrassed. He gripped the cloth and carefully dabbed at the wound, trying to stop the bleeding with the kind of hesitance that made your heart swell in unexpected ways.

“Don’t go getting used to this, human,” he grumbled. “I’m just… not letting you die because you’re too stupid to look after yourself.”

But despite his harsh words, his touch was careful. Delicate, even. And when the last of the bandage was wrapped tightly around your foot, he let out a heavy sigh, like a weight had finally lifted from his shoulders.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, though his voice was soft, uncharacteristically tender. “Just don’t be an idiot next time.”

Arlong didn’t seem so much like a monster in that moment. He seemed… almost human.

The morning sun came in soft through the salt-scratched windows, the waves slow and lazy against the shore. It was too peaceful — too quiet.

You knew this day would come.

His wounds had long since healed. The bruises, the cuts, the battered pride — all stitched up, sealed away beneath muscle and sharp teeth. He was strong again. More than strong enough to walk away.

And now he stood at your doorway, tall and broad as ever, arms crossed over his chest, casting a shadow that blocked half the sun. He didn’t look at you when he spoke, his voice low and rough, as usual.

“I’m leaving.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the heat of the sea breeze. You sat there on the steps, already dressed and trying so hard not to look as small as you felt.

You nodded once. “I figured.”

It should’ve hurt more, but the hurt had been simmering for days now. You’d long since accepted that whatever had grown between you would never be dressed up pretty. He was still Arlong. A shark with sharp teeth and sharper pride.

But there was a pause. A long one.

You looked up to see his golden eyes watching you, his mouth drawn into a tight line. There was something in the air between you, but neither of you tried to say it. You both knew it would only make it harder.

Instead, he stepped closer. His large hand dipped into the pocket of his worn-out coat, fingers brushing something inside. When he pulled it free, your brows lifted.

A necklace.

The pendant wasn’t fancy, not some glinting jewel or polished trinket. No, it was a simple, smoothed shard of sea glass — worn by the tides, the edges soft, the blue pale and faded like an old sky.

You barely had time to react before he leaned down, reaching for you with careful, if still clumsy hands. His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he fastened it around you.

“There,” he grunted, stepping back.

You blinked down at it, thumbing the sea glass.

“What’s this supposed to be?” you asked, your voice cracking just a little around the edges.

His mouth tugged into a small, crooked smirk. “Mark.”

“Mark?” you echoed.

“You’re mine. My crew, whether you know it or not.” His gaze was sharp, steady. “That way, everyone else will know it too.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, pulling your breath right out of your lungs.

Typical Arlong — no confession, no soft words, just a claim. As if he had any right to stake it. But you couldn’t stop the warmth blooming in your chest, spreading through your ribs like sunlight.

You looked away, smiling despite yourself. “That so? I don’t remember signing up.”

His lips twitched, the closest thing to tenderness you’d ever seen on him.

“You didn’t have to,” he rumbled, turning away and stepping down from the porch. “I don’t need your permission.”

His feet crunched against the sand as he moved, slow but steady, back toward the sea. You watched him, your fingers still curled around the cool sea glass at your chest.

At the edge of the beach, he paused — just once.

Without turning around, he called over his shoulder.

“You take care of yourself, human. I won’t be here to patch you up next time.”

And with that, he strode into the waves, the sea swallowing his silhouette until only the horizon remained.

But the necklace, resting against your skin, stayed.

Proof enough.

You were his. Whether he said the words or not.

[xmultimusesx]

Remmick walked close so that there was distance between the man and Mary, studying his body language to the smallest twitch , in the way he breathed and held himself, and listened to the blood rushing through his veins. The first hit landed hard and already a red mark from the impact was forming on his chin, but it barely seemed to effect remmick - granted it did hurt but he'd had worse punches than that honestly by stronger people. Inhuman or not, he could still feel pain and the stupid myth about super strength and speed for his kind was all bullshit - not that needed it though, they had other abilities to be as deadly as they were.

Before he could get another swing in, remmick slammed a fist right into his cheek hard and fast, and the air shifted around them almost, it felt heavy like something dangerous was awake and oh it was. Remmick's eyes were not an inhumanly shade of crimson with no signs of his pupils and they reflected in the light like an animal in the night "Can already tell I ain't gonna be the biggest fan of ya memories...but I'm sure I've seen and drained worst people before"

Trigger Warning: Gore and Violence Below

His fingers now looked like claws almost as he reached for the man and slammed him into the nearest wall, a firm grip on his shirt collar to keep him in place as the other monster like hand covered the man's mouth. For a moment if Mary looked she would spot rows of sharp teeth in remmick's mouth now as he ripped into the man's throat like a wild animal and started to drink heavily - not even caring about the blood he was getting all over the front of his shirt, his hands and his mouth. Remmick didn't let go even if the man became dead weight, he just kept drinking until there wasn't a drop left and even when he did stop, the vampire tore pieces of his throat out before dropping his body to the ground

"Oooo....he's been eyeing ya for awhile now hasn't he - can see his memories and looks like I did ya a favor sweet pea" Remmick hummed now turning to mary and took a few steps towards her, testing to see how she'd react, but he still moved just as confident as before with a handsome smirk on his blood covered lips "Now, be a good lassie and invite me into ya home so I can wash up aye? I did save ya from this stalker after all....ain't gonna bite ya....unless ya want me too shugar" he almost purred the last bit

Remmick didn't seem to feel all that threatened truly and something in the air seemed to shift into a heavy ominous feeling, but was it due to the shift in sudden danger by her stalk or someone else? He moved Mary more so behind him, keeping himself between her and the man who seemed to have a poor assumption he was in control. Blue eyes turning to look to mary, remmick grinned a bit "want me to handle this eejit darling? he won't be bothering ya anymore but, gotta promise you'll be a good lassie and not run aye?" He spoke and for a second in the light, it almost seemed like his eyes shifted in color, like they reflected almost similar to that of an animal's eyes at night.

Removing his coat that he'd been wearing and resting it over her shoulders, it left him in his short sleeved shirt - yet his body didn't seem to be cold given the time of night and cool breezes at the moment, like it didn't effect him at all. Turning to face the stalker, remmick rolled his wrists and took a few steps forward with confidence "I said ya shite at hiding, but seems ya got shite hearing as well " he spoke bluntly.

If the man took a swing at remmick, he'd allow it to hit him, he'd let this guy think he had a chance for a moment of course before the real fun started- and oh was remmick hungry tonight, and this guy would make a fair meal instead of dear mary. Today this little hunter would be the prey to a much more inhuman hunter.

[a-little-beastie-most-foul]

is rupert the baby one of trevor herbert’s vampires ? he sounds like he’s one of trevor herbert’s vampires

[goyastardream]

Ugh uploading my art to certain sites and even Airdropping it from device to device seriously sucks all the saturation and color out of my works sometimes, but it's especially noticeable with this one

I really had to go and set the saturation super high to make it look somewhat normal, and doing that destroyed the image quality. Why does this happen?? Ts pmo

Anyways here's a part of Asa's ref for Art Fight in all of its slightly color-shifted glory. He looks slightly more brown than usual🥀

Mainly demonstrates how his eyes aren't always red like that; they only are when he's doing some magic crap or is very upset/emotional

[potatobugz]

hello uty community i had a thought today. if monsters in undertale don't bleed then that would mean dalv is a vampire who's (probably) never tasted blood before

[satrs]

Requested by anon ↳ ❝ [..."would you be open to writing the lads men mocking your moans?" ] ¡! ❞

A/N; sowrryyy that I took so long luv :(( This also turned into sum rambling ig, oopsiii! regardless, still hope u enjoyyy^^

XAVIER

Your back arches against the mattress, fingers frustatingly tangled in the sheets while a breath, broken and uneven slips from your lips.

Xavier's kneeling between your legs, still fully clothed except for the shirt he shed somewhere he couldn't care less about right now. His hands are warm and firm on your thighs, holding them open as his mouth hovers just barely above your dripping heat.

"You really can't help it, can you?" he murmurs, voice low and dark with amusement, voice fanning right against puffy clit. "All I did was touch you, and you're already a mess as it is."

You shudder when his fingers slide slowly up your inner thighs, barely grazing your aching cunt.

He's doing it on purpose, of course he is.

Whimpers and wails of pleases escape you and a rush of blood hurries to your cheeks at his intense gaze, boyish grin already saying it all.

"Do you hear yourself right now?" he taunts, inching closer. "P-p-please, Xav'—"

He spurts it out in a high-pitched mock of your voice, smirk firm on his lips as he plants a sharp kiss just above your clit.

You jolt, hips twitching up with a choked cry, thighs twitching around his firm grip.

"Hushhh," he teases, running his tongue over his teeth as his eyes scan your clenching hole. "You're so loud, angel. If you want me to do something, you better keep quiet."

His mouth finally dips lower at your eager nod, licking a slow stripe up your folds, and your moan rips out of you before you can even think about biting it back.

"Mhmmm, like that Xav'! L-love— o-oh!"

At that he chuckles, kitten licks adoring your clit as his teasing glare digs holes into your eyes. "Can't help yourself, hm? What did you say? 'L-loveeee it, Xav'?"

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sucks, hard, and your cry is near-pornographic. Your thighs tremble, and he grins wider, eyes never leaving your face as two fingers slide into you, curling just right.

"Ohhh, there it is again," he croons, dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, voice mocking.

His fingers thrust harder, wrist slapping against your clit with each ruthless curl of his until your back arches clean off the bed.

"Oh, you liked that, huh?"

"M-mhmm!— Js' like that, Xav'!"

"'f course you do." he muses, "You're so damn easy, you know that?"

Yeahhh, you know. You also know that he loves that about you.

ZAYNE

"There she is."

His voice is a husky purr right against your neck, his cock burried deep inside you, twitching agains your gooey walls with each breathless whimper of yours.

You try to push his hips away at his brutal thrusts, his hands moving quick to pin your wrists above your head.

"My darling wife," he murmurs, tilting his head, eyes drinking in every shiver that runs through your body, smirk twitching up his lips as he agnles his hips just right, robbing a devastating whimper from you. "always so noisy. Cute."

Fuh—fuck! Zayne, m'—"

"What, darling? You're gonna- gonna c-c-cum?"

"Nghhh, Zayne! Q-quit it!"

"Quit it? Huh."

He pulls out just an inch and rolls his hips in slow circles, light coal colored trail of hair teasing your aching clit when suddenly his smug snicker meets your ear.

"But you sound like you're enjoying it, darling."

You writhe beneath him, arching into the friction when his grip tightens around your wrists. "O-ohhh—!"

"Mm-mmm. Quite vocal today, are we?" He tsks, tone so cruely mocking you can't help but sob in embarrassment.

"'Z-Zayne, please—just—just wanna— nghhh! wanna—'" you're a mess, voice echoing in a breathy whine. "'Can't take it no more!"

You choke on a whimper as he grinds his swollen tip delicously against your g-spot, watching your every expression twist with a big fat smirk on his face.

"Now now", he speeds up, pelvic creating a mind-numbing friction to your pulsating clit, low growl indicating that he himself is barely holding onto a thread, "What happened to my composed little darling, hmm?"

His beefy arms make quick work to throw your legs lazily over his bread shoulders, your back arching as he leans down, cock sliding even deeper into you.

"R-right there! Zayne, fuh—fuck!"

Your legs jerk at his sharp thrust, his sheer, raw girth still managing to leave you gasping and panting every damn time. And once you clench that thight pussy of yours around him like a vice, trapping him so deep inside you, he looses it.

"Gods above." It's just a breathy whisper but you know he's frantic now, chasing so desperatly for your loud sobs and cries as one strong hand slides down to smack and grab a handful of your ass as if to ground himself.

"The neighbors are gonna complain either way, so why not give them something worth whining about?"

RAFAYEL

Youre nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crecent marks in their wake as your sweat-slick body trembles, thighs shaking atop of his.

Rafayel keeps his face close to yours, coral eyes heavy-lidded and lips curled in a devilish grin every time you whimper right against his kiss-swollen lips— and fuck, do you moan a lot.

"H-hahhh, js' listen to you," he hums low, voice coated in sweet honey. "Feelin' good, yeah?"

You nod frantically, lips pursed as you try to keep a moan from escaping your lips much to his displeasure.

His hips roll up into yours with a sharp plap! resounding, and your head falls into the crock of his neck, your muffled moans dim against his skin.

And he's not having it.

Slender fingers catch your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his, placing a teasing smack! to your ass as a warning.

"Ah-ah. Eyes on me, darling. Wanna see the look on yer' face when ya' sing so pretty f' me."

"N-nghhh! Raf', don't— h-hahhh!" Your whimper is loud, body twitching under the heat of his voice, and he just laughs, a piercing pound following suit.

"Ahhh, that's the one," he mocks, grin never flattening.

"'Nghh, ahhh—!' That's your favorite one, isn't it?"

Oh if only you could wipe the sass of his face.

"No can do, cutie. The sass is built in."

"Stoppp," you whisper, blood pumping loud in your ears as reality sinks on you that you just said this out loud, hand flying out to free your jaw from his grasp.

"Stop?" Rafayel echoes in mock shock, trapping your hand in his other. "But you're clenching so tight around me every time I say it, baby."

And when he starts pounding into you in earnest, all rhythm and wicked precision, the sounds you make are nothing short of obscene.

You whimpers echo over and over again as his fat mushroomy head prods at your cervix with sharp percision, stretching your exhauted cunt far beyond her limits.

"See?", his mouth is a hair's breath away from yours, a light snicker brushing your face as his eyes take in the drool forming at your mouth. Your eyes are rolled behind your lids as lewd sounds spill from you with no end, his tongue slurping up the dripping saliva from the corner of your mouth with a sinister smile.

"Yer' lovin' it."

SYLUS

The bed creaks with every thrust, your voice already hoarse from how many obscene screams and wails Sylus managed to tear out of you, his crazy girth streching you to a point beyond sanity.

He's got you on your stomach, chest pressed into the sheets with your back arched and ass high as he pounds his staggering inches deep into you. Perfect, it's just perfect— from the immense stretch to firm grip to the back of your head.

"Fuck, sweetie," a spine-chilling groan escapes him as he drags a hand up your spine. "Did you just whine?"

You're too gone to answer— mind turned to putty at this point, as his low chuckle echoes of the room's walls, pumping all of his inches right into your g-spot— bullseye.

All you can do is wail out incoherent, half-assed sentences mumbled into the spit-stained pillow that's pressed upon your flsuhed cheek, your nails digging into the sheets below you for dear life.

"Ohhhh, that's the one."

And you can already imagine that smug smirk curling on his lips as his tone turns amused. "Let's see..." he murmurs, mockingly cooing at your noisy moans, drawing his hips back just enough before slamming forward, sending you flying forward and your head barely missing the headboard by a mere inch. "ah— there it is."

He places a kiss to your temple, your sweet noises only making his cock throb harder inside you, eager for release, "That sweet little spot that makes you sing for me."

Your nails almost tear the sheets to pieces, the overwheling feeling of him hitting your g-spot over and over again so damn addictive you're at the brink of—

"Oh, honey," Sylus laughs at your pussy spasming onto the sheets, your quickering hole desperatly clenching around his solid length, panting behind you. "You sound and look a fucking mess."

"S-Shut up—!"

"'Shut up'?" he clocks you instantly, pitch rising with cruel mimicry, "Oh, please. Bold coming from the eager little bird."

"You're— fuck! You're makin' f-fun of me!"

At that, he clicks his tongue, hand tanging in your hair as he pulls your head back just enough to lean down and growl in your ear.

"Baby, I'm not trying to mock you," he breathes a laugh. "I love the way you sound. You're making the filthiest music I've ever heard."

You sob into the pillow, thighs trembling, voice a wreck of moans and breathless curses as you squirm beneath him. He pulls out halfway at your antics, then slams back in, and the sound you make is straight out of a porno.

Weakly probbing onto your arms, you try to crawl forward to get any reprieve, but his hands finds your hip in a hurry, pulling you right back in place.

"Where are you going, baby?" voice laced in mockery he picks up his speed, hammering his inches to kiss at your womb, every moan of your's only spurring him on.

"We're nowhere near done yet."

CALEB

Your legs are shaking around his hips, wrists pinned above your head, and Caleb is digging deep, his hips grinding his entire cock through your quivering walls, drawing out the most desperate cries from your throat.

He grins above you, purple hues locked onto your face. "Aaaatta girl," he hums, one hand snaking down to play with your puffy clit. "Feels so good yeah? C'mon, wanna hear ya' again."

You turn your head, cheeks flushed, trying to keep it in,trying to escape from his intense gaze, but Caleb doesn't let you. Why the hell would he?

"Nahhhh," He grasps your jaw towards his face, his other hand working tight circles on your clit as your legs begin to lock around his hips, "Don'tcha fuckin' dare, baby. Wanna hear it all."

With another percise thrust his curved tip knocks at your cervix and your mouth falls open in a silent scream before a choked moan follows. He groans in approval, lips brushing your cheek, then your ear, breath hot against your skin.

"Yeahhh, js' like that." He's all grins now, dragging his lips along your jaw. "Fuck, baby, sounds like yer' falling apart. Ya' are falling apart, huh?"

"P-pleaseeee, Caleb— nghh!"

He tuts, shaking his head almost like he's disappointed, even as his hips grind deeper, his pelvic pressing his busy pad further into your budle of nerves.

"Say my name like that again and m' gonna lose it," he warns, a sharp inhale following suit. "'Caleb, please’'?" He mimics you with a cruel smile, biting at your ear. "Please what, sweetheart?"

You shudder under him, trying to catch your breath, but he rolls his hips again, making your body jolt, nails racking at his back.

"There it is again," he notes, almost to himself in a quiet whisper. "God, ya' moan like yer ashamed of it, pips'." He mocks, snickering as you bite the inside of your cheek in embarrassment.

"Tryna hide how good m' fuckin' ya?"

You gasp, biting your lip hard, but he catches that too. Of course he does.

"Don't do that," his eyes scan your face carefully. " Wanna hear that pretty mouth give me everything, mkay?"

You cry tears loose shamelessly, walls tightening around him in a desperate flutter. At that, a guttoral groan rips from his lungs before he drags his teeth along your jaw.

"So damn loud for me, baby," he praises, needy undertone audible. "Ya love when I bully that voice outta you, don'tcha?"

You nod, glossy eyes containing his reflection, weak cry leaving your lips as he places a teasing smack to your clit.

Then he leans in, kissing your swollen lips with a rough clash, voice muffled but still spilling praises into your mouth as he continues to ram right into your gushing spot with such percision you can already taste your orgasm at the tip of your tongue.

And when you finally cry out, shaking and clenching around him, Caleb grabs your legs, throwing them over his broad shoulders, helping you ride out that delicious wave of euphoria.

"Now that's my good girl."

©︎𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙍𝙎 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. Do NOT plagiarize, copy, modify, republish, or translate my work in any way!

[fozmeadows]

The Parable of the Wolf

On a fine spring day, an errant young Wolf wandered away from his pack and, in a sunny forest glade, encountered a Hunter.

"Please don't kill me!" said the Wolf, as the Hunter raised his gun. "I'm not here to hurt you!"

"I don't believe you," replied the Hunter. "Everyone knows that wolves are vile, dangerous creatures. You have claws that rip and tear - how can I possibly trust you?"

"If I pull out my claws," said the Wolf, "will you let me go?"

"Of course," said the Hunter. "Why would I lie to you?"

One by one, the Wolf pulled out his claws. The Hunter watched with a lazy smirk, and when the Wolf was done, he lowered his gun.

"I believe you now," said the Hunter. "You're free to go."

"Thank you!" said the Wolf, who tottered home on bloody paws and told his pack of the Hunter's benevolence. "It's only clawed wolves that the hunters don't like," he said. "So long as we remove them, we'll never be shot." And though some wolves disagreed with this, the most fearful of them listened, and soon a third of the pack was clawless.

A month went by, and in due course, the young Wolf found himself once more alone in the forest. A twig cracked behind him, and when he turned, there was the Hunter, his shiny gun at the ready.

"Wait!" said the Wolf. "I've got no claws, remember? I'm not dangerous!."

"I'd like to believe you," the Hunter said, "but last week, I heard that a little girl was mauled by something with big, sharp teeth, and your teeth look pretty sharp to me."

"If I pull out my teeth," said the Wolf, "will you let me go?"

"Of course," said the Hunter. "Why would I lie to you?"

One by one, the Wolf pulled out his teeth. The Hunter watched with silent intent, and when the Wolf was finished, he let his gun droop low.

"I can see you're a well-behaved pup," said the Hunter. "Go, be on your way."

"Thank you!" said the Wolf, and lolloped home, his jaws dripping blood, to tell the pack of the Hunter's caution. "Something with fangs has committed a terrible crime," he said. "So long as we don't look like them, we'll never be mistaken for monsters." And though the eldest wolves exchanged worried looks, the younger ones listened, and soon a third of the pack was toothless, too.

Another month went by, until one day, drinking at his favourite part of the river, the Wolf realised he wasn't alone, and raised his head to see the Hunter walking towards him, his gun once more at the ready.

"This stream is in my territory," the Wolf said, panicked and puzzled. "What are you doing here? I have neither claws nor teeth, and pose no possible threat to you."

"You don't, it's true," said the Hunter, "but many among your pack have both teeth and claws. How am I to trust your good intentions when you associate with such creatures?"

"If I chased away the toothed and clawed members of my pack," said the Wolf, "will you no longer be afraid of me?"

"Of course," said the Hunter. "Why would I lie to you?"

"I'll do it, then," said the Wolf, and when the Hunter gave the nod, he hurried back to his pack, assembled all the obedient wolves, and told them what had to be done. Though some were troubled by the Hunter's presence in their territory, they all agreed it made no sense to have sacrificed their claws and teeth while still associating with those who hadn't - after all, their stance was a principled one, and what good was principle if it wasn't firmly applied? With that, they banded together to chase the other wolves away, and when they were finished, more than a third of the pack was gone.

His task achieved, the Wolf returned to the river, where the Hunter was patiently waiting, and told him the good news.

"It's done!" he said. "The only wolves left are those without claws, or those without teeth, or those without both, like me."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the Hunter. "I hope the others didn't give you too much trouble?"

"Some of them snapped at us, it's true," said the Wolf, "and others swiped at us with their claws. It was frightening; I understand now why you were afraid."

"That's good," said the Hunter, and tipped his hat as he strolled back the way he'd come.

That night, as the remaining wolves lay sleeping, the Hunter and his fellows snuck up on the den and started shooting. The Wolf awoke in terror and confusion to the sound of gunshots and the howls of his dying friends. Desperately, he tried to fight back, but his toothless jaws found no grip on the limbs of the hunters, and his clawless paws left not a dent in their sturdy coats. All too soon, he was knocked to the ground, and as he lay there, panting in fear, the Hunter came and stood over him.

"Why are you doing this?" cried the Wolf. "I did everything you asked!"

The Hunter shrugged. "At the end of the day, a wolf's a wolf. We never could've trusted you."

Horrified, the Wolf asked, "Then why did you have us pull out our claws and remove our teeth and chase away our friends?"

"Because you were strong together," came the reply. "Like this, you're weak."

"But you said you weren't afraid of us!" begged the Wolf.

The Hunter smiled, and sighed, and raised his gun. "Oh, little pup," he said, "this was never about fear. Why would I lie to you?" And before the Wolf could answer, he pulled the trigger.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Gladiator

A man can become a god in the arena. But all he fights for is you.

In his own country, he was nothing more than a soldier. But cities always fall to the might of Rome and Yandere! Gladiator learns the hard way that slavery is the reward for defying the Emperor.

Yandere! Gladiator who's thrown into the ring with criminals and slaves, with nothing but a dull sword to protect himself.

Yandere! Gladiator who uses every trick and instinct to win. Who stands covered in blood and sand as the crowds cheer, his chest heaving.

Yandere! Gladiator who must have a lucky star.

Yandere! Gladiator who wins by the skin of his teeth every time. Who goes from fighting criminals to fighting lions to fighting champions.

Yandere! Gladiator whose sword gets sharper with each victory.

Yandere! Gladiator who starts attracting sponsors - rich Patricians who lavish him in gifts.

Yandere! Gladiator who stands still in shock when one of his patrons gifts him a slave of his own - you.

Yandere! Gladiator who isn't sure what to do. Despite what people say, he can't see you as just a piece of property. And when you bow before him, the scars from his own slave collar itch.

Yandere! Gladiator who just nods helplessly when you offer to do things for him. Sharpen his sword. Clean the blood and grit off his armor. Oil and braid his hair before each fight.

Yandere! Gladiator who can only dip his head in thanks, always avoiding your eyes as though he isn't your master.

Yandere! Gladiator who watches you when your back is turned. The shape of your hips, the curve of your shoulder, the delicate skin on the side of your neck... He drinks in every part of you whenever he can.

Yandere! Gladiator whose eyes go sharp and dangerous when the other fighters talk about his "pretty little slave girl."

Yandere! Gladiator who slowly falls in love.

You aren't sweet or innocent or any of the other qualities he's been told to look for in a woman. You're blunt and deadpan, with a jaded view of the world.

But you're always there.

Rubbing his aching muscles after a week of brutal training. Carefully dressing his cuts after every tournament. Bringing him food cooked with all the herbs you know of that grant strength and speed.

Yandere! Gladiator who fights his battles not just to survive, but to return to you.

Yandere! Gladiator who admires your strength more than any opponent he's faced. A slave girl doesn't have an easy life - he shudders to think what other masters have demanded of you.

And despite the collar and the labour and the long nights spent treating him, you never complain.

Yandere! Gladiator who becomes known through Rome for his skill in the arena. Who looks like a child of Mars with his armour and crested helmet, his sword stained scarlet.

Yandere! Gladiator who dreams of you in his arms every night. Who longs to hear your voice even when the crowds scream his name.

Yandere! Gladiator who finally earns enough money to buy you from his patron. Who sits quietly in front of the fire while you comb his hair, staring into the flames and thinking. Eventually he finds the courage to ask.

What would you do with your freedom?

Your hands grow still.

Return home. To my father's farm with it's ancient olive groves.

Yandere! Gladiator who squeezes his eyes shut like you've hurt him.

Of course you would leave. He was a fool to think otherwise. And yet... he couldn't help imagining you staying with him. Willingly.

Yandere! Gladiator who asks around about your home. Sold, he learns. The farmer couldn't pay his debts and his daughter was sold as a slave to his creditors.

Yandere! Gladiator who uses the money he saved to buy your father's farm instead of your freedom.

It's selfish, he knows. If he loved you as you deserved, you would be your own master again.

But he can't let you go.

Yandere! Gladiator who watches the longing flicker across your face when he tells you the news. Who tries to convince himself you'll be happy here, that your collar won't weigh as heavy.

Yandere! Gladiator who kills for a living and doesn't bat an eye.

But whose hands shake when they touch your skin.

[flixpii]

Too Much, Not Enough

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 12.6k

A/N: first, i'd like to thank my wonderful boo thang @iceemochaa for this idea. everyone go give her a kiss. i'd also want to thank some fellow people from the server for very horny-fest ideas: @crxw1ey @itsaaudraw @remmicks-salvation @madkingcrowley

ALSO this is in lowercase because i typed it on my phone (default lowercase squad) and i was already so far in that i didn't feel like going back to capitalize everything

synopsis : he catches you one night—drinking from you as you try to get away. but suddenly, something shifts in him; he starts to feel strange, aroused to the point that you can feel him pressing against your backside. a couple of nights pass before he shows up again—only this time, he’s not after blood. he’s hoping you’ll help him release all the pent-up sexual frustration he’s been carrying.

warnings !! (MDNI 18+) : unprotected sex (p in v), drool/spit, overstimulation, handjob, oral (f receiving), fingering, very soft dom remmick, virginity taking (both?), dream sex

----

blearing, white-hot pain shoots through the side of your neck, and a gasp tears through your throat. it is so sudden—so sudden, and you barely have time to understand how you ended up how you did. 

he had grabbed you, holding you so close to him—his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you upright while his tongue licked lazily up your neck. 

“shh…don’t cry. it’ll be alright.”

he had murmured against your ear, breath hot and dripping with thirst. 

it was a cruel thing.

cruel in the way it stole breath before you could even scream, in the way it mocked the simplicity of your night—how only minutes earlier, your hands had been warm, reaching for the last pair of drawers on the line, the wind tugging gently at your nightgown like a teasing friend. you had only stepped off the porch. just a few steps. just to gather what was yours.

and then he was there.

the roughness of his grip was so sudden, so wrong, it split the air like a crack of thunder. your body flinched on instinct, mind fumbling to catch up to the moment—was this real? did you know this man? were you dreaming? but the pain blooming beneath his fingers on your arm told you otherwise. told you this wasn’t the kind of nightmare you could wake from.

you had opened your mouth to say something—anything, but no words could escape before his teeth—no—fangs punctured your neck. 

his rough tongue darts quickly, his mouth slurping as your blood—warm and tangy—leaks down your neck from where his mouth hadn’t been quick enough to catch. the splatter of it spills onto your cotton nightgown.

a movement—sudden, but clear, spills from him. more so, from the space where he is pressed up against you. a stuttering breath passes through your lips at the contact.

he’s flushed up against you, and aside from the blearing pain flying through your body, you feel him pressing into your bottom.

he ruts against you, chasing the friction provided. he lets out a sound—a whine, you assume through the mind fog. 

a heat flushes through you—sudden, unprovoked, and sickening. it crawls beneath your skin like a fever you didn’t ask for, one that sets your nerves on fire in all the wrong ways. shame follows fast behind it, swallowing you whole. it pulses in your fingertips, clenches in your gut, coats your teeth like bitterness.

you hate that you feel it.

hate that your body reacts at all.

because the pain—sharp, raw, burning—should’ve been enough. but somehow, it’s the shame that lingers heavier. shame that makes you feel small. shame that makes your skin feel too tight. shame that makes you wish you could disappear, not because of what’s happening, but because some awful part of you believes you’re supposed to bear it.

the suction of his mouth grows sharper for just a second—you swear he’s going to drain you. just before he can, you feel his head snap back, the crimson fluid he just stole from you dripping down his chin, coating his cheeks.

“oh….oh.”

your head slowly turns, and you spot his eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the space—or the lack of—between you.

he seems confused as his eyes scan the way he fits against you—firm and hard, like instinct. like muscle remembering what the mind had long tried to forget. Like something inside of him is remembering something he had buried and traded for the concept of survival. 

his mouth opens with a smack, before it slowly forms into an ‘o’.

you’re sure he’s about to say something when suddenly, he presses forward, flushing his chest to your back, ripping a gasp from your throat.

“i…i don’t think this is ‘posed to happen’”

his breath ghosts over your ruined neck, and the confusion falls from his lips.

a groan, low and abrupt, passes through his blood-stained lips. it’s a sound that doesn’t belong to hunger or pleasure—it’s uncertainty. reluctance. it rumbles like a warning he doesn’t understand himself, and it sends a jolt through your body, sharp as a spark beneath the skin. your breath catches. you’re not sure if it’s fear or revulsion or some terrible, trembling mix of both.

your eyes flit back to the porch—to the basket where your clothes lay, spilled and crumpled in the dirt. a shirt hangs over the edge like it’s reaching for you. the sight guts you.

you had dropped it when he grabbed you.

your arms had been full of ordinary things.

of clean linen, still warm from the sun.

and all you want now—achingly, desperately—is to return to it.

“please,” your voice comes out with a breath—choking up in your throat, “…let me go.”

he pauses. 

the arm around your waist tightens and it causes a soft gasp to sound from your throat. 

“why you wan’ me to let you go?”

his nose pokes into the bite mark on your neck, eliciting a wince from you. the question comes out a bit uncertain—like he’s confused as to why you want to leave him like this.

“you don’t feel this,” he punctuates his word with a rut against you. “you can’t leave me like this.”

the tone in his voice is desperate—needy even, causes you to freeze.

confusion laced with desire falls from his mouth. his rough, hot tongue darts out to lick at your neck once more. 

a sound of disgust slips through your mouth—sharp and guttural, rising before you can stop it. it’s instinct, raw and trembling, the only thing you have left to give.

he pauses.

just for a breath. just long enough for the air between you to shift.

then he pulls back—confused, maybe stunned—and that retreat is all you need. you don’t think. there’s no space for thought. only a surge of heat.

you ram your head back, hard into his chin. bone meets bone. the crack echoes inside your skull like a church bell rung wrong.

a grunt tears through his lips, and his hold falters.

you move. not gracefully, not cleanly—

just fast. just desperate.

you push forward, wrenching yourself out of his arms. your feet slam against the cold grass, slick with dew, and the ground tilts underneath you. your vision veers sideways, spinning from blood-loss, from panic, from the weight of everything all at once.

“s-stop! you can’t leave me like this.”

his voice rings out behind you—desperate, yearning, maybe even startled—but it feels distant, like it’s echoing from underwater. you don’t dare look back. the only thing you see is the porch rising in front of you like salvation.

your legs nearly give out as you reach the steps, but you launch yourself upward, stumbling and scrambling until your body crashes against the door with a dull, aching thud. pain flares along your shoulder, but you don’t stop. you brace for the worst—for the hard slap of wood refusing you, for the cruel slam of a locked world.

but you’d left it cracked.

you don’t even remember doing it, but thank god you had.

your body falls forward, toppling past the frame in a blur of heat and breath and blind panic. the wooden floor meets you with a thud, and for a heartbeat, you just lie there—half-sprawled, half-curled, heart pounding against the floorboards like it’s trying to get free of your chest.

past the threshold.

inside.

safe.

the door was still splayed open, and you could hear the heavy boots of him pacing on the worn wood of your porch, but you didn’t care. didn’t care how or why he couldn’t just walk in and take you right back out.

no. you didn’t think that far, and as the weight of the blood-loss settles over your body like a wet blanket, your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

——————

it had been a week. 

a week since you had stepped outside your house at night. 

that morning—when the light finally broke across your floorboards like a quiet apology—you woke with your head pounding and your mouth dry as cotton. every part of your body felt sore, like you’d been wrung out and left in the sun too long.

he was nowhere to be seen.

no shadow. no sound. no sign he’d ever been there at all.

but you knew better.

you didn’t step outside. not even once.

you stayed inside your home, locked behind the door like it was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open again. a strip of cloth was pressed against your neck, stained from the wound that throbbed beneath it. the ache pulsed steady with your heartbeat—a quiet, cruel reminder.

your fingers stayed curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, white-knuckled and still trembling, long after the sun had crept across the room. even when your hand went numb, you didn’t let go.

he didn’t return that day. or the next.

you didn’t want to worry, but a part of you still clung to the idea that he was out there, waiting. waiting for you to slip up so that he could grab you once more.

by the third day, you decided to continue on with your life. stepping outside onto the porch with your breath held in your throat.

he wasn’t there. 

the sun beat down heavily across your home, and the clothes line danced with the wing—rustling gently.

that night, you dreamt. 

your body jolted with each thrust, already caught in the storm, and his voice—ragged and wild—only pulled you deeper under.

“say it… s-say my name!”

it came out in a near-snarl, not cruel, but desperate. like the sound of a man barely holding himself together, trying to find something to anchor to as he pounded into you with reckless, trembling need.

but your voice—

it wouldn’t come.

your mouth opened, but nothing formed, just broken gasps and choked cries, your face still buried in the pillow, now damp with sweat and spit. your throat ached with moans you hadn’t meant to make. you were unraveling, bit by bit, your body pulsing around him, clenching tight as the pressure in your belly twisted into something unstoppable.

his hand on your clit didn’t let up. if anything, it grew more deliberate—ruthless in its rhythm. his thumb swirled over you, hot and slick, heavy and rough as your hips twitched uncontrollably. every nerve in your body was alight, the sound of his groans behind you nearly as dizzying as the slaps of skin and the bed frame straining beneath the force of him.

his cock throbbed inside you, each stroke deep and hurried now, dragging against your swollen walls like he was trying to carve his name into you from the inside out. the sound of it—wet, sharp, filthy—filled the room like a song that only your bodies knew how to sing.

and then it happened.

your body locked.

your toes curled.

and your lungs emptied.

a sharp cry tore from you—his name half-formed, almost there—as your climax hit, sudden and all-consuming. your vision blurred as your body convulsed, waves crashing through you so hard you nearly forgot where you were.

he let out a strangled groan behind you, his hips jerking erratically, chasing your release with his own. his cock twitched deep inside, and with a hoarse, broken sound, he spilled into you—warmth flooding you, filling you, marking you.

he rode it out, his body pressing down on yours, hand still moving, dragging the orgasm from you until it left you limp and shaking beneath him.

your fingers finally released the sheets, trembling, and you gasped into the pillow like it was the first breath you’d taken in years.

your mind blanked.

you woke with a startle—your body jerking, breath caught sharp in your throat like you’d been yanked from the depths of something unspeakable. heat flooded you, thick and sudden, pooling beneath your skin as if you were still there, still lost in it.

your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs aching from how hard they worked to steady you. your hands clutched the sheets without realizing, the fabric damp beneath your palms. your mind, still fogged with fragments, tried to twist back into itself—tried to make sense of what was real and what had only felt that way.

your thighs rubbed together—and you felt it.

a wet, sticky warmth clinging to the soft skin between them. slick and unmistakable. your breath hitched as the realization hit you, and a wave of shame surged through your chest so suddenly, you flinched.

“fuck…” you whispered under your breath.

your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it against your stomach as if the pressure alone could make the feeling go away. like you could press the memory down, flatten it, bury it under cotton and guilt.

your mind spun, trying to make sense of why him.

why that.

you didn’t understand why you dreamt of him in such a scandalous, filthy way—why his hands, his mouth, his body had felt so real.

why your own body responded like it wanted it.

like it remembered.

your face burned.

hot and clammy to the touch, even in the cool quiet of your room.

you squeezed your thighs together, trying to contain the pulsing ache that hadn’t yet faded. it sat there, low and heavy in your gut, begging to be soothed. your fingers twitched at your side, and for a split second, you almost let them drift lower.

but you stopped yourself.

you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes tight, pressing your legs together like a seal. like that would hold back the memory of his name falling from your lips, the feel of him stretching you open, the sound of skin slapping and breathless groans in your ear.

————

by the end of the week, you felt as though he was truly gone for good.

the silence had settled again, not like a threat this time, but like dust returning to undisturbed corners. no voice behind you, no shadow in the tree line, no sudden breath against your neck. just the wind. the sun. the familiar creak of the porch beneath your steps.

it didn’t take long before you slipped back into the rhythm of your days—those quiet, outdoor chores that had always grounded you. you began hanging clothes again, your fingers brushing the warm fabric, sunlight catching the edges of the sheets like a blessing.

in the back of your home, you knelt beside your small herb garden, pressing your fingers into the dirt like it could anchor you. rosemary. sage. thyme. they greeted you like old friends, unaware of what you’d endured. or maybe they knew—and simply chose not to ask.

the peace didn’t last long.

on the sixth night, he returned.

you’re taking the clothes down that had been drying all day—like you had before, when he first got you. 

a crack sounds behind you.

sharp. sudden. too close.

your body jerks, instincts sharper than thought, and your head whips around—fists clenched tight around the soft fabric of a freshly-dried gown. your heart lurches upward, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

your body knows before your mind.

knows the rhythm of danger. the hum beneath the skin.

and without a thought, your feet begin to move—gravel crunching beneath them as you pull yourself toward the front door like safety is just inches away.

“wait.”

you hate how you stop.

how the sound of his voice roots you in place.

there’s something in it—something cracked open. desperate. searching.

and for some godawful reason, it reaches you.

your feet freeze.

your head turns, slow and reluctant, toward the right.

and there he is.

dressed in dark pants, suspenders hanging loose like they’d been tugged too hard, too fast. a pale blue button-up clings to his frame, sleeves rolled, top buttons torn clean open. it might’ve once looked neat. now it clings to him like second skin—filthy, sweat-soaked, streaked in places with grime and something far worse.

blood.

so much of it.

his brown hair is tousled and damp, the front sticking to his forehead in matted curls. and beneath the fabric, the white of a wife-beater peeks out—though it’s barely white anymore. more a rusted red, like someone had tried to scrub the stain but it refused to fade. a thin gold chain glints against his collarbone, catching the moonlight like it doesn’t realize it’s resting on a monster.

your eyes widen.

your breath catches.

you take a step back. your heel digs into the dirt. and still, your gaze is fixed on him—on the smear of blood across his cheeks, dried and flaking at the edges, like war paint. it trails down his throat, painting the lines of his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. it looks fresh.

his mouth opens as he takes a step forward.

you take a step back—slow, deliberate, your heel skimming the earth like you’re testing the ground beneath you, unsure if it will hold.

“i ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

his voice is soft. too soft. like he’s trying to fold himself into something harmless, like he doesn’t still have blood on his face, like he didn’t tear through you once already. it’s a tone that might’ve calmed you in another life. in this one, it makes your stomach turn.

your fingers clutch the dress tighter, knuckles paling with the strain. you can feel the seams of the fabric pressing into your skin, grounding you, even as your body begs to run.

you want—desperately, urgently—to look back. to see how many steps remain between you and the safety of your door. but you don’t dare move. not even your eyes. not when he’s watching you like that. not when you know how quick he can close the space between you.

even the smallest glance away might invite him forward.

“you hurt me before.”

the words fall from your lips before you’re ready. soft. strange. unfamiliar.

the sound of your own voice jars you. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound afraid. it sounds… disoriented. like the memory has begun to blur around the edges, melting into something that doesn’t make sense anymore. like you’re not certain if it happened the way you remember. if it happened at all.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

because you know what he did.

your body still remembers, even if your voice has started to forget.

your mind flits back to the dream—the dream that had you gasping for air once you’d awaken. 

it’s strange. 

here, in front of you, was the man—the beast—who had held your life in the palm of his hand, threatening death with a final pull of your blood into his mouth. 

and now, all you could think about was the way he rubbed against you—like the feeling was both foreign and enticing to him. 

he lets out a strained laugh.

“yeah. you’re right about that, b-but, i ain’t goin’ to do that again. 

“how can i trust you?”

your voice is more certain this time around, and your hands fall to your sides, still holding the dress in your hand as your chest moves with your breaths.

the wind sweeps between you.

he takes another step forward and you mirror by taking another step backward.

his arms lift, elbows jutting out wide as his hands settle on top of his head. his fingers thread through his messy hair, gripping at the roots like he’s trying to hold something inside from breaking loose.

then comes the sound.

low, cracked—something between a groan and a whine.

“please… why is this happenin’ to me?”

his voice trembles at the edges, and for a moment, it almost sounds like grief. like confusion twisted into something uglier. and that unsettles you even more. because this isn’t remorse. this isn’t shame. it’s self-pity—sharp and misplaced.

you blink, heart rattling in your chest.

you have no idea what he’s talking about.

and the not knowing—it’s beginning to twist in your gut, cold and tight.

he starts pacing, erratic and restless, but still a good distance off. far enough that you can breathe. far enough that you don’t yet have to run.

“i’ve been runnin’ ‘round everywhere,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with something that borders on frustration. “drainin’ folks left an’ right…”

he pauses, his body stiffening.

“but i ain’t do this with them.”

his arms drop heavily to his sides, and then one hand presses flat against his pants—lower. against himself.

your breath stutters.

the gesture is crude, almost unconscious, like his body is betraying him, like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. and that’s what makes it worse. not the motion itself, but the fact that he’s unraveling—right there in front of you.

and you’re the one he’s unraveling over.

you take a step backward, slow and cautious, and the snap of a small branch beneath your foot cuts through the quiet like a shot.

he stops.

his head turns toward you—slow, deliberate, like he already knows exactly where you are. his eyes lock onto yours, and something in your chest flinches. not from fear. not entirely.

no, it’s something else.

something low and stirring, unwelcome but real, curling hot in your belly beneath the weight of his gaze. it shames you the moment it blooms, but it doesn’t leave. it sits there, twisting—because the look in his eyes isn’t hungry for blood. not right now.

he looks torn.

like a man fraying at the seams.

like something inside him is breaking open under the weight of a need he doesn’t understand—had forgotten was possible. a craving that wasn’t sharp teeth and crimson thirst, but touch. closeness. something unbearably human.

he takes a step forward.

you don’t move.

“help me…” he breathes, voice cracking as if the words pain him. “i won’t hurt you. just help me feel better. yeah?”

he inches closer, each step careful, almost reverent, until he’s within arm’s reach. and now, this close, you can see it all—his chest heaving, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pants strain from how tightly he’s wound. how unbearably pent up he is.

your eyes flick down. just for a second.

your cheeks flush hot, instant and humiliating, and you curse yourself silently—clenching your jaw as if that alone could rewind the moment. your body had again. as if it hadn’t learned.

he doesn’t let you answer.

he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid any hesitation might send him unraveling again.

your empty hand flies up on instinct, palm raised between you like a barrier made of sheer will.

“stop,” you say.

but your voice—god, your voice—comes out too soft, too unsure, trembling on the edges. it betrays you, just like your body does.

he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving until your hand meets his chest, firm and burning beneath your touch. his skin is hot through the thin fabric, and the moment you make contact, a sound spills from him—deep and broken. a groan laced with something softer, needier. a whine.

his head dips slightly, his breath brushing your skin.

“see?” he murmurs, voice thick, ragged. “see what you’re doin’ to me?”

it takes every ounce of strength to keep your gaze on his, to hold steady beneath the weight of him. but the tension in his body, the ragged rise of his chest, the way he looks at you like you’re both his torment and salvation—it all pulls your eyes downward.

just for a second.

just long enough to see his hand again, pressing against himself, slow and deliberate.

resuming what he had started.

and your breath stutters.

“stop. i don’t know you.”

your voice is firmer this time, but there’s a crack running through it.

a hairline fracture of fear, of confusion, of something far more complicated than either.

his eyes stay locked on yours, wild and pleading.

“remmick,” he breathes.

“what?”

you blink. it comes out before you can process it.

“my name,” he says again, faster this time. “remmick.”

he says it like it means something. like it should unlock something in you.

he pauses, as if waiting for it to take hold, and then looks up—right into your eyes.

“say it. please.”

your hand is still on his chest, trembling now, caught between pushing him away and holding him there. your lips part, hesitating, uncertain. but the sound slips out anyway.

“remmick.”

that’s all it takes.

his body shifts—subtle but unmistakable—as if the word pierced straight through him. he leans forward, just slightly, like he’s being drawn into you by gravity itself. one of his hands lifts, and he presses yours harder against his chest, like he needs to feel it. like he needs proof that you said it. that it’s real.

a soft moan escapes him, low and shivering, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. it curls around you like smoke—dangerous, intimate, and far too close.

a sensation shoots through you—sharp and strange—sparking low in your belly and crawling up your spine like a current. your body shudders, betraying you before you can make sense of it. you suck in a breath through parted lips, and that’s when you catch it.

he’s close.

so close, you can smell him.

not just blood, though that’s there—metallic, sharp, and thick like it clings to him from the inside out. not just dirt either, though earth clings to his clothes, the scent of sweat and soil mingling on his skin. there’s something else. something older. colder. something that reminds you of decay, of things buried and forgotten. it lingers in the air around him like a warning.

your voice trembles as it slips past your lips, low and unsure.

“if…”

you pause, swallowing hard as your thoughts struggle to take shape.

“if i help you… will you let me live?”

your eyes dart away from his, just for a second.

you don’t mean to. but holding his gaze for too long feels like surrendering.

remmick pauses.

it’s slight—barely a beat—but you feel it in your bones.

“i was always plannin’ on keepin’ you,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “couldn’t do that if you’re dead.”

his voice has changed. not just the words—his whole way of speaking. the southern drawl softens, thins out, and something else bleeds through. a different cadence. older. maybe even his real voice. it startles you, but you can’t quite place why. it sounds less put-on. more him.

he studies your face—eyes flicking across your features like he’s trying to read a language only he remembers.

then, a slow smile curves his lips. not smug. not cruel.

curious. certain.

“tell me you feel it too.”

you want to say no.

you want to recoil, to push him away, to scream that this is wrong, that none of this makes sense, that nothing about him feels safe.

but your body—traitorous, aching, alive—gives you away.

because as you look at him, at the hunger and confusion tangled in his expression, something warm begins to spread through you again.

you gather the courage to turn from him, your eyes flicking toward the back door—your door. the one that had always meant safety, the one you weren’t sure would feel that way ever again.

“i can’t let you in.”

the words leave your mouth like something sacred. like a boundary you hope he might honor.

his smile deepens, slow and knowing.

“i know, darlin’,” he says, voice like worn velvet. “you’re not stupid.”

the way he says it isn’t mocking. it almost sounds like admiration. like he means it.

you glance back at him, chest tight, and exhale a shaky breath. your hand softens against his chest, settling there beneath the warmth of his palm—no longer resisting. not quite yielding. something in between.

“okay.”

you barely get the word out before the world shifts.

suddenly, you’re in his arms—lifted with startling ease, pressed tightly against his chest like you belong there. a shocked gasp rips from your throat, your arms instinctively grabbing hold of whatever they can, unsure whether to brace or cling.

his feet move fast, sure, and then the cool slam of the outside world hits you again—your back porch beneath you, the creak of old wood under his boots.

your feet touch down onto the dirty boards, but you barely feel them.

your back hits the wall of your house, and his chest meets yours.

you’re trapped—surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, the tension that radiates off his body in waves. the wall behind you is cool and hard, but his body in front of you burns like fever. he’s close. too close. and yet somehow not close enough for him.

something in him shifts—slow, subtle. like the current inside him changes direction and he doesn’t know how to follow it. you feel it in the way his body stills, then trembles slightly, pressed so tight against you that every breath he takes stutters against your chest.

you can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into your thigh through the worn fabric of his pants. the weight of it, the heat, the way it pulses with no rhythm but his rising need.

he seems… lost.

remmick’s eyes flicker, wild and unsure, and when you meet them, there’s something desperate there. not hunger like before—but confusion. like his body remembered something his mind didn’t. like he had no idea what to do with this kind of ache.

you search his gaze, trying to find a map inside him. something that tells you what he wants. what he expects. but there’s nothing clear. only the trembling look of a man who doesn’t remember how to feel without violence.

then he lets out a groan—low and helpless—as his hips push forward, grinding against your thigh with a need he doesn’t seem to know how to contain.

your body jerks in surprise.

a sharp breath tears from your lips as the movement drags heat through you, low and dizzying. it coils in your belly, thick and sudden.

you hadn’t meant to respond.

but now that you have, you can’t pretend not to feel it.

“do something, please.”

his voice breaks apart as he speaks, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. he begs through it—through the way his hips keep chasing the friction, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

you swallow hard, nerves tangled with something warmer, something you don’t want to name. your fingers twitch where they rest, and you shake your head, barely able to speak.

“i–i don’t know what to do,” you confess, voice thin with uncertainty.

and it’s true.

you’d never been with a man like this—never one so far gone, so undone, so completely at the mercy of his own body. and even if you had… you never learned how to give this kind of touch. never learned how to bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself, never thought you’d have to.

but something about the way he presses into you, so frantic and confused, stirs a reluctant kind of empathy in you—mixed with fear, with heat, with a strange pull you can’t understand.

your gaze drops.

his hips are still moving, slow but desperate, grinding into your leg like he needs more and doesn’t know how to ask for it. something about it makes your breath catch.

almost without thinking, your hand moves down—hesitant, shaking—and you press your palm gently against him, through the fabric of his pants.

he freezes.

utterly.

and then a sound tears out of him—a moan, raw and broken, rising from the pit of his throat like it surprised even him.

his body shudders under your touch, rigid with restraint, but trembling like he’s seconds from falling apart. your hand stills where it rests, the heat of him burning through the cloth and into your skin.

your palm presses down harder, instinct guiding your movements more than experience. and that’s when you truly feel him—solid, straining beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through your skin like a fever. the bulge stretches wide beneath your touch, filling your entire hand, every inch of him throbbing with need you can’t begin to comprehend.

he lets out a choked breath, and then his hand shoots down—larger, rougher—covering yours. he presses it harder against himself, hips stuttering like he’s chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.

“it’s not enough,” he pants, voice cracking as his brows draw together, his face twisted in a mix of agony and need.

you feel your face burn at the words—at the implication of what “enough” might mean. your breath falters, throat tight, but your hand doesn’t move away.

instead, your fingers twitch.

they curl slightly, without thinking, just enough to grip.

the reaction is immediate.

he winces—a shudder running through his body like a jolt of lightning—and his mouth parts with a sound that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“don’t stop.”

his voice is strained—hoarse, almost fragile beneath the weight of his own desire. like stopping would shatter him entirely.

your mind flickers back, unbidden, to the dream from a few nights ago. the one that clung to your skin even after waking. in it, he had been so sure of himself—so commanding, so in control. his hands had known where to touch, his mouth had known what to say, and you had given yourself over without question. there had been no trembling. no hesitation. only heat.

but this—this trembling, panting version of him pressed against you now—this was the opposite.

and yet it didn’t cool the fire in you.

it stoked it.

your heart pounds harder, your face flushing hot as the realization settles deep: he hadn’t felt this in a long time. maybe ever. the touch, the friction, the aching pleasure that left him shaking in your hand—it was unfamiliar to him. and yet he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him whole.

and you… you were the one giving it to him.

there’s power in that. not the kind that demands or dominates—but the kind that hums quietly under the skin. the kind that says he needs you. not just for blood. not just for survival.

but for this.

and that truth alone makes your breath catch, your thighs press closer, the warmth between them blooming hotter, heavier.

you tighten your grip just slightly—just enough to feel him shudder again.

his breaths come out ragged now—uneven, trembling, like every second that passes without release is too much for him to bear. his hand stays pressed over yours, holding you there, grounding himself in the heat and pressure of your palm.

“take ’em off.”

your voice is steadier this time. firmer.

and it surprises even you.

not because of the words, but because of the confidence. the realization blooming slowly but surely in your chest—that you hold him. literally. completely. his need is cradled in your hand, and his body responds like it’s never known this kind of touch before.

remmick glances down, eyes locking onto the way both of y’all’s hands are still cupping him. and something flickers across his face—raw, unfiltered desire.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t hesitate.

he scrambles, fingers fumbling at his belt, unbuckling in rushed, uneven motions like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long. the sound of metal scraping against metal, the zip of fabric—it’s frantic, loud in the quiet space between you.

you watch the way his hands move—desperate and clumsy—and when you glance up, your breath catches.

drool.

thick, glistening, slowly spilling from the corner of his mouth. it stretches into a line, gleaming in the light, trailing from his parted lips as if his body is unraveling faster than he can control it. his jaw hangs slack with need, his eyes half-lidded and glazed.

then his pants fall open, and your hand moves without thought—slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear to grasp him fully.

he gasps—loud and shuddering—and his hips buck the slightest inch forward, as if chasing the warmth of your palm. in that same instant, the line of drool falls, landing wet and hot on your wrist, sliding down over your skin like a mark.

the feeling of his drool sliding warm over your wrist sends a jolt through your body—strange, electric, exciting in a way you can’t fully explain. your thighs press together instinctively, the heat between them building with every breath he takes.

he’s heavy in your hand.

hot. stiff. pulsing with need.

his body leans forward, barely held up by the tension in his muscles. his head tips back, exposing the column of his throat, jaw slack as he pants through parted lips. he’s a mess in your hand—completely undone, breathless and sweating, helpless to anything but the touch you’re giving him.

but your strokes falter.

he’s slick with sweat, and it’s more of a struggle than you expected. your hand catches slightly with each movement, and you glance back up at his mouth, remembering the way that thick drool had spilled from his lips.

you pull your hand from his pants.

at the loss of contact, he stutters—broken and breathless.

“why?”

your face flushes, warmth rising all the way to your ears at what you’re about to ask.

“spit in my hand.”

his eyebrows pull together—not from refusal, but from the sharp spike of desire and confusion. his mouth parts slowly, and then he obeys, cheeks hollowing as he draws the drool forward.

his tongue slips out, mouth wide and willing, and thick strings of spit fall heavily into your waiting palm.

you watch it.

watch how it glistens, how it coats your skin, warm and obscene and intimate.

your hand stills for a beat as you take in the weight of the moment—how close he is, how his body is giving you what you need to bring him pleasure.

then, slowly, you lower your hand again.

your fingers wrap around him, slick now, and the difference is instant. your strokes glide smoother, faster, and his body reacts with shudders and gasps. his hips twitch and his head falls forward, forehead nearly brushing yours.

a ragged moan rips from him, and his hand slams against the wall beside your head, bracing himself—because now he’s truly falling apart.

“s–shit!”

it rips from his throat, a sharp groan laced with more than just surprise. there’s something else in it—something raw, starved. hunger, yes, but not just for release. for you. for more of your touch, your attention, your hand wrapped around him like it was meant to be there.

you move with growing confidence now, dragging your hand up his length until you can tug him fully out of his pants.

he winces as the cool air brushes over his flushed skin, a tremor running through him at the sudden contrast. the heat of his body meets the cold of the world, and he shivers—but doesn’t stop you. not even close.

you see him fully now.

hard and flushed, the tip red and glistening, a thick vein running the length of him like a path carved straight to your hand. pre-cum beads at the head, already smeared down his shaft from where your palm had moved over him before, mixing now with the slick sheen of drool still coating your fingers.

your fist wraps around him again, deliberate and slow, and the combined wetness allows you to stroke him with ease. the sound is soft, wet, and rhythmic—his breaths syncing to the motion like he can’t help it.

his body bows slightly, every muscle tensing, like he’s trying not to collapse from the overwhelming pleasure you’re building in him.

he tenses beneath your hand, muscles locking as your strokes grow faster, more assured. his body is trembling now—not from fear, but from how close he is to falling apart completely.

another thick line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing slowly down his chin. you watch it for a moment, caught in the daze of his unraveling, until your eyes lift—drawn instinctively to his face.

and then you gasp.

his eyes are open.

not fully, but enough.

cast downward, glazed over with pleasure. but just enough to catch it.

a glint. a glow.

red.

dark, pulsing, unnatural—like embers caught in the low light. your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at it, transfixed, and then—almost like he knows—he slams them shut, a sharp whine escaping him.

“aah… wait,” he pants, his voice trembling. “something’s happening…”

you know exactly what.

you feel it in the way he twitches in your hand, in the pulsing warmth building at your palm, in the desperation threaded into every sound that falls from him.

so you don’t stop.

you go faster. tighter. focused.

his hips jerk forward, chasing the friction like he can’t help it, and a strangled moan breaks from his throat. his whole body hunches over you, trembling, until his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“please,” he gasps—voice small now, breathless—as his head turns just slightly, his mouth nearly brushing your neck.

you smell it.

blood.

copper-sweet and heavy on his breath.

then a deep, guttural sound tears up from his chest—a growl soaked in something ancient, primal—but it breaks halfway through, collapsing into something softer. weaker. almost… pathetic.

and then he tenses, hard.

his whole body locking, shaking in your grasp as he finally lets go—spilling into your hand and across the front of your nightgown in hot, thick pulses.

there’s a moment of silence.

thick, heavy.

the only sound is his breathing—hot and uneven—ghosting over your neck, brushing the skin there with every exhale like he’s still tethered to you by need alone.

your hand remains around him, even as he begins to soften, your fingers still slick and warm. only once he’s completely spent do you slowly pull your hand away in one long, fluid drag. the motion makes him flinch, a gasp slipping through his lips at the sudden overstimulation. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t speak.

he stays still, suspended in the hush between you, before his head tilts up. there’s something open in his expression—tender, maybe. something you’re not ready for. his lips move closer, and you know before it happens what he’s trying to do.

he wants to kiss you.

your head turns, just slightly. your eyes soften, but the word comes quiet.

firm.

“no.”

it’s barely louder than a breath, but it lands like a weight between you.

his eyes close slowly, and he leans his forehead back against your shoulder—not angry. just… quiet.

your legs are still pressed together, thighs tense, breath held. your nightgown clings damp against your stomach, the fabric sticking to your skin where he’d spilled across it. the reality of it hums through you, the scent, the heat, the knowledge that you let it happen. that you made it happen.

then you feel it.

his nose against your neck.

the slow inhale.

he’s smelling you.

your body stiffens.

for a second, terror scrapes at your spine. you think—maybe he lied. maybe this is the moment. maybe he’s going to sink his teeth into your throat and finish what started a few days ago. your heart races.

but he doesn’t bite.

instead, he pulls back slightly, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air—curious. drawn.

you follow his gaze.

he leans in again, closer this time, his softening length pressing faintly against your stomach, dragging heat across your skin through the nightgown. and then, his voice—low and hoarse—scratches its way up.

“what’s that smell?”

your stomach tightens.

you hear it—that hunger tucked just beneath the question. not for blood this time. something else. something that makes your skin tingle with anticipation and shame.

his hands move slowly, tracing the shape of your waist, until they settle at your hips—gripping them gently, but firmly enough that you feel the intent behind it.

your brow creases in confusion… until his eyes drop.

you follow the look.

and then it hits you.

you know exactly what he’s asking about.

because while you were focused on him—while your hand moved over him, while you whispered his name and watched him fall apart—the warmth between your thighs had bloomed into something undeniable. your panties are soaked. clingy. shamefully damp against your skin.

your face burns hot as the realization settles.

he smells you.

remmick’s eyes slowly rise to meet yours, and what you see there sends a ripple through your chest—hunger, thick and molten, pulsing just beneath the surface. another line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, thicker this time, stretching as he breathes through it.

his hand moves—slow, sure—and drags down, curling behind your thigh. then, without warning, he lifts. your leg rises with the motion, guided by his strength, and your breath catches.

a gasp slips from your lips as your hands press instinctively against his chest, trying to ground yourself, maybe even push him back—but your limbs are shaking.

“what are you doing?” you stammer, voice barely stable as you feel his hand slide higher. it skids up your thigh, rough fingertips brushing hot skin, slipping under your nightgown like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“you’re leaking,” he says, simply.

like it’s an observation. a fact.

like it’s not the most shameful, intimate thing he could’ve said aloud.

drool slips over his chin, unbothered by the mess he’s making, by the mess you’re in.

your body burns. flushed and twitching beneath his touch, thighs trembling around the hand that now glides so easily against your damp skin. his fingers drag through the heat gathered between your legs, and your hips jolt, a quiet sound caught in the back of your throat.

his mouth hovers just beside your cheek now, voice ragged and breath thick.

“let me taste ya,” he says.

almost pleads.

and there’s something so raw, so utterly stripped of pride in the way he says it—like he’s not asking just to take, but because he needs it. like the ache inside him will never fade unless you let him have this one thing.

you turn your head slightly, breath hitching as you meet his eyes—his mouth still hovering beside your cheek, so close you can feel the heat of his breath skating across your skin.

“i…” you begin, voice quiet and uncertain, “i ain’t never had that done before.”

he lets out a groan—deep, throaty, almost pained.

it vibrates against you like a confession.

“let me do it,” he murmurs, eyes dark and pleading. “please. show me where you like to be licked.”

the words make your heart stutter, but before you can even respond, you feel it—his fingers pressing firmly against your clothed heat, dragging slow and deliberate along the soaked fabric.

“remmick—!”

your voice breaks, sharp and startled, rising without your permission.

your face floods with shame, your body trembling at the sound that just tore from your throat. but desire drowns it out, thick and surging—because the pressure feels too good to ignore, and his touch is reverent, not cruel.

he pulls his head back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

and he waits.

there’s no smirk, no demand. just remmick, gaze burning into you with raw need, silently asking for something he doesn’t know how to take without permission.

you stare at him for a long, aching second—heart racing, chest heaving—before you nod.

slow.

shy.

but real.

that’s all he needs.

he sinks lower, descending to his knees with a hunger in his movements, yet careful—like you’re something sacred. both his hands slide along your legs, settling at the backs of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently into your skin as he looks up at you from below.

his face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead, his lips parted and still shiny from where drool had spilled earlier.

“tell me what to do,” he groans, voice rough with restraint, with admiration.

his mouth is inches away.

but he won’t move until you tell him how.

your body is burning now.

inside and out.

the sound of his voice asking to be guided—tell me what to do—echoes through you, wrapping around your spine and sending a shiver up your back. no one’s ever asked that of you before. not like that. not with that kind of hunger barely held back by restraint.

when you glance down at him again, you find his eyes already on you. waiting. not impatient. not demanding. eager. wide, dark, full of wanting—but still waiting. like you’re the only one who can give him permission to breathe.

“use your fingers,” you say softly.

your voice wavers, shaky at the edges, but it doesn’t matter.

he hears you.

he obeys.

you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch upward—just for a moment—before one of his hands slides up, lifting your thigh gently and settling it over his shoulder. the stretch of it opens you, exposes you, and you gasp as the new position presses your nightgown higher.

then, his other hand moves—slowly, reverently—until his fingers are back at your panties. they’re soaked now, clinging to you, and you can feel every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive skin there.

his eyes flick up to yours again—checking. asking.

and then he slips a finger past the damp fabric, the tip curling just inside you.

your breath stutters in your chest, a sound catching in your throat that you didn’t mean to let out. he watches you. his gaze never leaves your face.

and then—

with a sudden tug, he rips your panties clean.

the sound is loud, sharp in the silence—the tear of fabric quick and final—and the cold air hits you immediately.

your body tenses, thighs quivering around him as the sudden exposure leaves you breathless. every nerve is awake now, burning, aware of the way his hands hold you open, how the cool air contrasts against the heat pooling between your legs.

you’re bare to him.

and he’s still kneeling.

still looking at you like you’re holy.

you let out a soft pant, your breath catching as you feel his finger slowly trail up the inside of your thigh. his touch is warm—rough in texture, but gentle in pressure—and your skin tingles beneath it. his movements are slow, careful, like he’s learning your body inch by inch.

he stops just at your entrance.

he doesn’t go further right away.

he lingers there—testing. waiting. seeing how you react to the nearness, the quiet promise of what comes next.

then, without warning, he slides a finger in.

his middle finger—long, thick—and the stretch of it makes your walls flutter around him.

a low moan tumbles from your lips, your head tipping back slightly as your muscles clench. it’s more than just the intrusion—it’s the heat of him, the weight of that single finger inside you, the way it already fills more than you expected.

your hand reaches down, gripping the hem of your nightgown tightly, bunching the fabric against your stomach as if anchoring yourself to the moment.

he draws his finger back out—slowly, deliberately—and then pushes it back in with a soft, wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. your body clenches around him again at the sensation, and the lewdness of it, the intimacy of being this bare and open, sends another wave of warmth washing over your skin.

he breathes in through his nose, like he’s memorizing the scent of your arousal, and you can feel him growing more confident in the way his finger curls just slightly on the next thrust.

the thrusts of his finger continue—steady, slow at first, then building into a rhythm that leaves your legs weak. each movement sinks in with purpose, the tip curling ever so slightly, brushing against a place inside you that makes your hips twitch.

your walls clench around him, instinctive and aching.

“you’re so warm,” he pants, voice husky with awe, like he’s never felt anything like this before.

you glance down—eyes glazed, breath uneven—and see his free hand working at himself again. his fingers wrap around his cock, now slowly thickening with each stroke. the sight makes your stomach flutter, your lips parting as another moan slips from your mouth, uncontained and needy.

your mind is fogged with sensation—his hand inside you, his hand on himself, both moving in tandem like some unholy harmony of want. your body is no longer your own. it belongs to the rhythm, the heat, the burn of it all.

then you feel it.

another finger at your entrance.

his ring finger this time—thicker than the first. he eases it in beside the other, stretching you slowly.

you wince. not from pain exactly, but from the sudden fullness.

you’d touched yourself before, sure. but your fingers had never felt like this.

his are longer. rougher. firmer.

they reach deeper.

your walls stretch to accommodate him, muscles fluttering as both fingers begin to pump in and out of you. slick sounds fill the air—soft, obscene—and every time he curls them just right, you whimper.

meanwhile, his other hand strokes himself in slow, languid motions, the pad of his thumb brushing over the tip. he groans aloud, the sound low and wrecked, spilling from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

and all of it—his fingers inside you, his pleasure building in front of you—pulls you deeper under.

he starts to move closer.

you can feel it in the way his breath warms your skin, see it in the way his shoulders shift, the subtle rise of his body as he inches toward you like gravity’s pulling him into place.

a low growl rumbles in his throat as he presses his face in, and when the bridge of his nose brushes against that sensitive bud, you tense—hard. a full-body shudder rolls through you, your breath catching sharp in your chest.

then suddenly—his fingers leave you.

you gasp at the loss, clenching around nothing, your body pulsing with the need to be filled again, to feel something.

“let me eat you, baby,” he pleads, voice raw, mouth just a breath away.

his words hit you deep—both filthy and tender, desperate and reverent.

you hesitate.

not from fear.

but from the overwhelming weight of it. the way your body is already responding without needing to be told.

then, you nod.

he doesn’t look up.

but he must feel it—through the way your thigh tenses over his shoulder, through the way your hips shift just the slightest bit forward, offering yourself.

he takes that as his answer.

his mouth descends, and you feel it—his tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line between your folds, tasting you for the first time. your back arches off the wall, sharp and sudden, your thigh slipping, and he readjusts it with one hand, holding you steady with a strength that borders on possessive.

then he licks again.

this time deeper, firmer—and a moan tears from his mouth. the sound vibrates directly into you, and your head falls back with a strangled cry.

“you’re so sweet,” he breathes.

then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your entrance—like a promise—before his tongue pushes inside of you.

you cry out, the stretch of it unfamiliar and overwhelming, but so, so good. his tongue thrusts harshly, rhythm building fast, and every movement sends you spiraling, moan after moan clawing out of your throat as your body writhes against the wall.

your hand flies down instinctively, fingers diving into his hair, clutching at the thick strands. you don’t even realize how hard you’re holding on until you feel him groan again, deeper this time.

and then—his mouth rises, lips closing around that bud.

he sucks.

you break.

completely overwhelmed, shaking with the intensity of it, clenching around nothing but air and the feeling of him devouring you.

your head flies back, colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud, but you hardly feel it. the pleasure ripping through you overshadows everything else. your free hand reaches up, grasping at your hair, tugging gently—desperate for anything to ground yourself as his mouth continues to assault your core with relentless devotion.

“remmick…”

his name falls from your lips in a moan, soft and broken, like a prayer caught halfway through a plea.

he doesn’t stop.

his tongue licks, flicks, drags through your folds, then closes around your clit again, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with rhythm that borders on sinful. the sounds he makes—low, guttural moans and hungry grunts—vibrate directly into you, sending fresh waves of sensation surging through your thighs, your belly, your spine.

he’s pumping himself with the same desperation, his hand moving fast and slick over his length, the sounds of it mixing with the wet noise of his mouth working between your legs. and every time he moans into you, you feel it—feel it everywhere.

then he shifts.

the hand that had been resting firm on your thigh over his shoulder suddenly moves. it slides down—strong and sure—until his fingers press into the flesh of your inner thigh, right beside your entrance. and then he pulls—gently but firmly, opening you wider for him.

a soft gasp slips from your mouth at the stretch, the exposure. you feel so bare, so utterly open. his tongue immediately returns, working deeper now that you’re spread wider for him, and it feels devastating—like you might come apart entirely just from the way he holds you open and tastes you like he’s starving.

your eyes squeeze shut as a stuttering moan tears its way out of your throat—uncontrolled, raw. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, clutching at the only thing tethering you to the earth as his mouth continues to work you open and undone.

and then—

something shifts.

a feeling. strange. unfamiliar.

it starts low in your belly—tight, electric, and rising fast. it coils, curls, builds like pressure behind a dam, and you don’t know what it is, only that it’s coming hard and fast and you don’t know how to stop it.

your breath hitches.

panic flutters in your chest.

your eyes snap open, wide with the sudden fear of losing control, and your body tenses as if to brace for impact.

and then—

it hits.

a violent, blinding explosion rocks through your body.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first—just the air being pulled from your lungs as your release rips through you.

your eyes roll back, vision swimming, and your legs nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. your thighs twitch, body quivering uncontrollably as your climax washes over you like a crashing wave you were never prepared for.

but remmick doesn’t let you fall.

his hands grip you steady, firm and reverent, holding you together even as you come apart in his mouth. he moans into you, greedy and satisfied, lapping up every drop of your release like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you tremble above him, caught in the aftershocks, completely undone.

when he finally pulls back, his cheeks and chin are drenched—slick with you, shining in the low light. his mouth parts slightly as he breathes, dazed and wild, and you can still feel the ghost of his tongue between your thighs. you’re still catching your breath when he moves again—this time, pulling you gently down with him.

your back meets the wood floor of your porch with a soft thud, the cool surface a harsh contrast to the heat blooming in your skin. before you can process it fully, he’s leaning over you, body caging yours in, his cock already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him above you, thick and heavy, makes your breath stutter.

you barely have time to react before you feel him—his tip brushing against your entrance, slicking over sensitive skin, nudging.

you snap out of it instantly.

your hands press to his chest.

“w-wait! stop!”

his body stills.

he freezes above you, panting, chest heaving as he stares down at you. the desperation in his eyes is immediate—sharp and pleading—but he doesn’t move. instead, you feel his fingers tighten around the bunched fabric of your nightgown, clinging to it like an anchor.

your mind is racing.

he wanted to go this far.

he was going to go this far.

and you—god, your face burns even hotter as the thought settles—you’d never done this before.

not with anyone.

not like this.

and the fear coils tight in your belly.

“i won’t hurt you.”

his voice comes soft.

echoing what he said earlier.

but it lands differently now—closer to a promise.

you look up at him, searching.

his hand on your hip is strong, grounding, and though he grips you tight, there’s no force in it. only restraint.

you search his eyes for anything that might read as a lie, some shadow of cruelty or indifference—but there’s nothing. only tension. only waiting.

so you nod.

his gaze softens, and the hand holding your gown lowers, moving between your bodies. he grips himself, lining up carefully, guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance.

you inhale, slow and deep, trying to ready yourself.

then—he meets your eyes.

and begins to push in.

your jaw clenches hard as the stretch begins. the pressure is immediate, unfamiliar, so much. he’s thick—thicker than anything you’ve ever felt before—and your walls struggle to accommodate him.

“s-slowly…” you manage to stutter, breath caught in your throat.

he nods, sweat beading at his brow, his own face twisted with the effort of going slow—of not losing himself completely in the heat and tightness of you. your walls clench around him, instinctively, and he groans low in his chest.

inch by inch, he presses deeper, until—

you feel a pinch. sharp.

not enough to cry out, but enough to make you tense again.

your hand flies down, gripping the wrist on your hip.

“wait!”

he halts immediately, eyes flying up to yours.

“almost there…” he moans, voice strained. “i’m almost there.”

his hand tightens, holding himself still—waiting for you to give him more.

and when you finally nod—heart hammering—he moves again.

he pulls out slowly, carefully, then pushes back in with more urgency this time. the stretch returns, but this time the pain dulls quickly, fading into something else. something thicker. warmer.

his hand plants beside your head, fingers splaying against the wooden floor for balance, and he pushes the rest of the way in until he bottoms out inside you.

you both still.

your bodies tangled, your breath ragged, your skin burning where it touches his. and for a long, pulsing moment—there’s nothing else.

just the sound of panting.

just the feel of him inside you.

just the overwhelming, terrifying intimacy of being this connected

slowly, but surely, he pulls out—just an inch, just enough to make you feel the loss—before pushing back in with a deep, guttural groan. the sound of it vibrates through your chest, and your own moan answers his as your hand flies up, gripping the wrist of the hand planted beside your head.

your grip is so tight your knuckles turn white.

“aah… yea…” he stutters out, breath shaking as his hips roll forward again, his thrusts slow but deliberate, each one more assured than the last.

the drag of his cock inside you leaves your body stuttering—your breath catching in broken gasps, your thighs trembling with every deep, slow stroke. he’s thick. so thick. every movement stretches you wide, your walls struggling to take him and clenching around him with a mind of their own.

he groans—mouth falling open in something pathetic, raw, aching—and the sound shoots straight through you. the hand on your hip tightens, guiding your body with each thrust, steadying you, grounding himself in your warmth.

your walls flutter around him, and he sees stars behind his eyes.

every time you clench, it’s like heaven and hell collide inside him.

your back begins to slide against the porch beneath you, the wood warm and rough, dragging lightly at your nightgown as his thrusts gain rhythm. the pace builds—not fast, but firm, deeper. every push rocks your body just enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

the sound of skin meeting skin fills the air now—wet, rhythmic, desperate.

his grunts are low in his chest, slipping out between clenched teeth.

your eyes open slowly, jaw slack, mouth parting as choked moans tumble past your lips.

and then—

you see it.

his mouth hangs open, panting, and in the haze of your half-lidded gaze, something catches the light. not just teeth. fangs.

sharp. monstrous.

inhuman.

you let out a sharp gasp as his hands suddenly move—grasping the backs of your thighs with a strength that steals your breath. he drags you toward him with ease, your slick skin sliding across the wooden porch until your thighs rest on his, legs spread and trembling as he settles into the new angle.

once you’re in place, his hands return to your hips—strong, possessive—and without pause, he begins pounding into you again.

but now, it’s different.

his rhythm grows more erratic, more primal. he groans through gritted teeth, fangs fully bared now, glistening with spit as his mouth hangs open in pleasure-drunk awe.

he finds that spot inside you again—

and again.

and again.

each thrust is a strike of lightning behind your eyes, drawing stars out of thin air, making your body convulse in helpless rhythm beneath him. you try to say his name, to moan it into the thick air between you—but all that escapes is garbled, slurred noise. syllables tangled in pleasure too strong to form words.

you don’t notice it at first—

the way his fingers change.

the grip on your waist grows tighter, rougher.

his nails stretch, curling longer, sharper, claws forming in real time as his body reacts to you. to this. to everything he’s holding back.

he groans through clenched fangs, jaw twitching with restraint. it takes everything in him not to pierce your skin. not to lose himself to what he is.

your hands reach down, fumbling for the hem of your nightgown, wanting it off, wanting to feel the air, feel him. remmick sees the motion, and something feral flashes in his eyes as he helps you—tearing the gown up and over your head.

it now lays beneath your upper back, your spine pressing into the fabric as your body arches.

the cold air hits your bare skin and a shiver runs through you. your breasts bounce with each thrust, each impact sending them upward and down in hypnotic rhythm.

remmick lets out a guttural sound—desperate and overwhelmed all at once—as drool escapes the corner of his mouth and spills messily across your stomach. you gasp at the sudden warmth of it, the contrast between cold air and wet heat making you twitch.

then his hand moves again.

he lowers it between your legs, and suddenly he’s rubbing your bud—rough and unrelenting. the pad of his thumb swirls over it in frantic circles, careful not to scratch you, using just enough pressure to send another bolt of pleasure through your spine.

you cry out, louder this time, your back arching as your body tenses up around him.

his other hand rises, large and trembling, and cups one of your breasts, kneading it with a kind of reverence that’s quickly undone by the bite of his claws. one scratches just slightly—a soft sting blooming across your skin—and instead of pulling back, you moan louder.

the pain only sharpens the pleasure.

and remmick…

he watches you fall apart like he’s witnessing something sacred.

and he’s the one dragging every sound, every shiver, every tremble out of you.

you’re losing yourself.

your vision blurs at the edges, body flushed and trembling, unable to hold on to anything solid—except him. your hand reaches blindly, desperate to touch, to anchor yourself in something, someone. your fingers find it—the chain. that gold chain around his neck, damp with sweat and heat.

you loop your fingers through it, gripping tight.

the moment you do, his body responds—his thrusts picking up speed, harder now, deeper. his hips crash against yours with ferocity, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing across the porch. each thrust sends his balls slapping against your ass, adding to the filthy rhythm of it all.

“l–look at you…” he pants, voice breathless and broken, eyes wild as he stares down at where you’re joined. “so beautiful… and speared on me…”

your head falls back, jaw slack as he slams into you again—rough, desperate. his thumb is still on your bud, circling fast and tight, and the pressure spirals out of control.

you feel it.

again.

rising.

but this time, you don’t panic.

you welcome it.

your walls flutter, then clamp down hard around him, squeezing his cock in perfect rhythm with your unraveling. your moans tear from your throat, raw and choked, as your body convulses beneath him.

remmick chokes on a moan of his own, hips stuttering as you clench around him. but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

he pounds through it—thrusting through your orgasm, keeping the rhythm alive, drawing it out until you can’t tell where the high ends and the overstimulation begins.

the sounds are obscene.

each time he pulls out, it’s wet and loud, a slick drag that makes your stomach tighten—and then he slams back in, deeper, filling you again with a moan.

your walls twitch, overly sensitive now, and a sharp little wave of discomfort flares in the middle of the lingering heat. it stings, but not enough to stop. not when he keeps going like that. not when your body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him deeper.

your grip on his chain tightens.

remmick moans—loud and broken—as the gold links dig into his neck, and still, he doesn’t stop.

his hips drive into yours with punishing need, his chest brushing yours with every thrust, and you realize—

he’s not just trying to fuck you.

he’s trying to stay inside you.

to live there.

to lose himself in the place where you melt around him.

and it’s becoming too much.

your body is trembling, wrung out and burning, nerves raw from how he keeps moving inside you—deep, relentless, nonstop. the sensitivity spikes, each thrust dragging along your pulsing walls like fire and silk, sending you over the edge and right back again before you’ve even caught your breath.

your mouth opens in a soundless moan, your legs twitching, body locked in that unbearable space between pleasure and pain.

remmick groans above you—deep, rough sounds torn straight from his chest. they rumble through his body and into yours, and you feel the way he’s struggling. holding back. holding in.

his fangs flash as his lips part again, saliva stringing between them as he pants like an animal. he’s trying—truly trying—not to sink them back into your neck. not to bite down and mark you like instinct is screaming at him to do.

you see it in the way his head tilts, the way his mouth hovers near your throat before he jerks back again, forcing himself to focus.

your hands are full now—

one clutching his gold chain so tightly the links dig into your fingers,

the other gripping his wrist, fingernails pressed to his skin, grounding yourself as your body thrashes beneath his.

you whine, high-pitched and breathless, overwhelmed as your thighs threaten to close, but his grip on your hips is unyielding.

his eyes glow—deep, dark red—and when he looks down at you, it’s through that glowing haze of instinct and want and near-unraveling. his jaw clenches hard, fangs bared as he fights the shift overtaking him.

then he tenses.

you feel it—

in the way his rhythm falters,

in the way his thrusts grow sloppy, uncontrolled, missing that sweet spot as his hips jerk with no pattern.

he’s close.

he hunches forward, his whole body curling in on itself, and a loud, broken groan tears from his chest as he spills inside you—hot and thick, pulsing with each wave of release.

you moan, long and soft, as you feel him flood you—coating your walls in warmth as his hips keep moving, fucking his orgasm into you.

he pounds through it, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your skin. the mixture of you both—slick and steady—drips down from where he stretches you open, forming a glistening ring around the base of him each time he pulls back.

“remmick—!”

his name bursts from your lips, sharp and breathless, as your thighs snap tight around his waist, trying to anchor yourself to him—to anything.

your entire body trembles beneath him, and you feel like you might fall apart again, even though there’s nothing left in you but the aftershocks.

“i k-know, baby…” he groans, voice low and shaking, still thrusting inside you. his movements are uncoordinated now, sloppy and feverish, driven more by need than rhythm. his hips jerk like he’s chasing the last of it, like he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being inside you.

your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers finally release their grip on his chain, the gold slipping from between your knuckles.

you trade it for flesh.

your now-free hand reaches up to grab his other wrist, mirroring your other hand—holding him completely. your body, your breath, your trembling form says stay.

his breathing stutters again, another broken groan ripping through him as he thrusts deep—hard—like something inside him is unraveling one last time.

at this point, you feel it—

the steady leak of your shared pleasure slipping out of you, warm and wet, trailing down your thighs and pooling on the floorboards beneath you. the sounds between you are slick and endless—every movement, every shift punctuated by the lewd, messy wetness of it all.

then he pulls back—just slightly—to look.

his eyes drop to where his cock still moves in and out of you, glazed with the evidence of everything you gave him. you feel his stare deepen, and you swear he’s ascending—his lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sight of you stretched around him, milking every last wave of his orgasm.

his hips slow.

slow again.

until they still.

his chest rises and falls, frantic and wild, then slower, steadier—as he begins to return to himself.

he looks up.

eyes searching yours.

his mouth opens, like he wants to say something. like he needs to.

but nothing comes out.

instead, he leans down.

his lips hover just above yours, breath brushing your mouth, waiting—asking. not like before, when you turned your face away. this time, he lingers.

and this time, you don’t pull back.

you tilt your chin just slightly, and your lips meet his in a kiss.

slow. warm. breathless.

not demanding. not frantic.

just real.

and in that quiet moment, with him still inside you, your bodies still joined in the mess of it all, he kisses you like it means something. like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be human again.