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draconicks · 11 days ago

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THIS THE SHIT I LIKE TO READ YES MA'AM

Sé Abú (It is Forever) - I

Playlist / Chapter By Chapter / AO3

summary: There's a beautiful full moon over Neshoba County, Mississippi, and you are in love with a horrible vampire. word count and warnings: 7,348 ; Presence of firearms. canon-typical violence and bloodshed, canon-typical cunnilingus. Penetrative sex. Monster imagery. Tags update as necessary.

. October 16th, 1932

Remmick couldn’t think. His shaking hand could barely wind the chain he’d worn around his neck – caked with dried blood and flecked with dark-burned flesh – through the claws of your interlaced hands. His were still long and sharp, stained with blood and swamp and carnage; yours were daintier, somehow. Dense and canine. There was still mud under them.

Your eyes were half-closed as you whispered into the hot, muffled brightness. If this was to be a wedding, then it would be a marriage from both sides – the thick, woolen blanket Chayton had heaped over the both of you offered minimal reprieve from the sun, but it had come from home.

It should’ve been different. Should’ve been something of yours and something of his braided together for the handfasting, the union that formed the whole.

There were prayers that should’ve been said. Ones you couldn’t deliver yourself.

But this was enough.

His still-glinting chain between your trembling fingers. The blanket that passed from grandmother to father to you for his shield.

I love him, you said to any spirit who would listen, I bring him before you as you brought him to me.

The words were there for him, then, tumbling in a gentle chorus from his lips as he clutched your hand, triggered by the sound of yours. Half a prayer remembered – delivered, once, to someone who was not you.

I’ve joined with him. I’ve tasted him, and he, me. His blood is in my veins.

There was something to be said for second chances. Even when what was meant to be eternal resided within numbered days, he would not have traded a moment of them. Not then, and certainly not now – no matter what they’d bring.

Whatever he is, he and I are one and the same. He is mine and I am his.

The truck jostled sharply on the unpaved road. Your bodies pitched, scraping the hot bed; disturbing the slow-healing wound through his midsection and making the world around you spin. The quiet sounds you both made – agony and nausea, a stab of fear poorly staunched with desperation – couldn’t crest the rumbling engine.

So much for gathering yourselves enough to escape. Shit.

“Are you covered?” you uttered on a ragged breath.

He thought so. The sun’s oppressive heat was subsiding, anyway; you must’ve entered precious, forested shade. It gave him just enough reprieve for his body to attempt to close the gaps where still-hot lifeblood pooled. He tried not to think of how quickly you must’ve been approaching Neshoba. How little time you might have left.

He tried to meet your eyes, to speak without having to put the words in his rough, half-human voice, but you had tucked your head against his shoulder.

“Not yet.” His long claws ghosted along your bloodied jaw, fitting to the nape of your neck to bring your head aloft. “Come on, love. Stay wit’ me.”

The ghost of a smile crossed your perfect mouth. The teeth inside were still jagged, kin to the shredding likeness of his own. “Until the end and after.”

“Until the end an’ after.”

He laid his head back on the uneven metal. It still sang with heat that made his already-splitting skull throb in time with your pulse. He let your head lower into the crook of his neck as you curled your body into his. Let your fastened hands lower against his battered chest.

You wanted, so badly, to be able to shield his body with your own. To drape yourself over him until your blood in his veins worked well enough for him to move unfettered, but the sun, and the scent of garlic on his proffered clothes, promised that recovery would take time. Time you didn’t have. You gave him everything you could in order to keep him alive, and it hadn’t been enough.

At least a silver bullet to the head would be quick. They might even have the sense to shoot you both at once.

“Bhfuilis soranna sorcha,” he tried to sing, though the words mangled in too many teeth, “Ach tagais 'nós na hoíche, trína chéile le chéile, claochlaithe.” Although you are the light, you come to me like nightfall; together, transformed.

“I love that,” you whispered, your own voice hoarse. “I love how you sound when you sound like you.”

He loved those words. How closely they resembled your name. You transformed something in him, you and he together…

The old truck’s tires slowed.

There was no point in mentally cursing, though he did; every sawed-off, hateful thing that could rise to him in the moment tightened his grip as he pulled your body closer by the hem of the shirt he’d worn two nights before. He was weak, but he would fight. He would fight because you couldn’t, because you deserved the chance to live—

“I love you,” you whispered, and the decision was made. You had not moved despite the tacky blood dried on his skin, the lingering scent of burning flesh. He still smelled like himself, underneath. People only thought of rot in terms of fresh decay; he smelled like soil. Like life in its first stages.

“I love you,” he agreed. It was both apology and promise. This time, no one would run. Not as the driver’s door opened. Not at the approach of boots on soil.

You squeezed his fastened hand. He laid his cheek against the top of your head.

And the blanket gave to blinding day.

. Neshoba County, Mississippi

. April 13th, 1932

The rocking chair creaked, slow and even.

Chayton’s shotgun was within reach. The tip barely kissed the glass of his daughter’s bedroom window – so close, yet left at a great enough distance to only pose a threat. Some part of you wondered if it was meant to be that way. If he thought about it when he set himself up for nights like these. The Blackberry Moon had only just surpassed the canopy of new leaves, peering down upon one of the last still-cool nights. It cast him in silver pallor down to the plaits of his braid. Made the chips in his tin cup glint when he raised it for a drink.

The coffee smelled burnt. He always burned it when he did it himself.

“I can see you,” he called. He never bothered to raise his voice. He knew he didn’t have to.

You stood and stretched, disturbing the leaves, unfurling a body much too long and large for its old skin. You were the color of smoke above the fire, with eyes as bright as the harvest moon. Your bones crinkled when you moved, decompressing; hands too large, fingers too long, too sharp, Not Right, like the way your spine sometimes pressed too close to the surface. Like an animal not quite starving.

He did see you, then. You always knew when his eyes found the shape of you in the dark. His heart always betrayed him.

You emerged from the brush with practiced patience, deliberately slowing down your steps. The sort-shorn grass was wet with dew, tickling underfoot.

There was meat on the last step. Deer, freshly dressed on its own hide. No hickory smoke, just the raw, red meat and sharp, white bone.

Not enough to sustain you. But he had a family to feed.

You settled where the grass was worn thin at the base of the steps, where his daughter must’ve run between the house and the freshly-turned garden when the sun was high. You could still smell them on the wood and in the water; the way his wife must’ve lingered near that spot.

Scent could only tell you so much. Had she been the one to lay a cover down to keep the wood from staining? Did his daughter even know what it was they prepared for? What did he tell them? What did he tell anyone?

Your teeth came down on the first set of ribs. The sound was enough to call your thoughts home.

Chayton watched. The rocking chair’s even rhythm persisted.

You looked up at him from time to time. You lay like a dog – chest to the ground, arms up on the soft hide. It must’ve unnerved him to see you alternate between eating like an animal and using your hands. Must’ve, though his expression betrayed nothing; he drank the coffee. Looked at you. Looked up at the distant sky.

You said little to one another.

You picked the carcass until it was as near to clean as it could be left. It never took long. Then you gathered the edges of the hide and rolled it inwards, folding the dented bones into a neat pack. Tucked it against the railing with the hem on the bottom so it wouldn’t unfurl.

Your brother moved in your periphery. Set his half-empty cup on the windowsill.

You stilled.

He had unanswered questions. Ruminations that could’ve, should’ve, broken the communal silence.

The tension coiled in your stomach burned his face into your eyes. He was starting to look his age. Older than your father ever got to be.

“Kayla…” he began. A dozen thoughts started and stopped. When you left, you would not return until the moon was yet again at its fullest; he wasn’t sure he would know you outside of your wolf-skin. He hoped you did. He hoped that you did not mistake fear for apathy, distrust for disdain. He hoped you knew that the only thing yet capable of rendering any of your people, in their proud legacy of oration, inarticulate was you. He hoped that you knew your people still called you his sister.

It was the only way they felt comfortable referring to you.

You waited long enough to ensure he was not going to pick up the shotgun before you moved. You backed off slowly, refusing to take your too-bright eyes off of him until you’d put in enough distance to slink back into the shelter of the dark.

Neither of you heard the other let out the breath you’d been holding.

The deer sat like carrion in your stomach until you were satisfied with your aloneness. You kept your breath light and steps soft while you listened to the other night-creatures pause at your passing. How quickly they resumed reassured you that only animals used the slick stones of a tenderly trickling creek for a footpath; that the deviation in routine did not a coordinated ambush bring.

It still felt wrong.

It all felt wrong to you. Why had he waited until now to try to break a silence more than fifteen years in the making? How could he look at you from the same place, month after month, year after year, both of you seemingly unchanged beyond the presence of a thicker coat, and say nothing?

You would’ve liked to meet Dinah. Properly. Birdie, too, though she was far less wary than her parents; you’d seen the top of her head crest the window ledge when she was small. Her eyes were wet-earth-brown, nose short and flat – or, at least, it had been while she was still growing into her features. She slept better, now. Slept like you did when you didn’t have to make sure a war party wasn’t in your future.

A half-rotten, lightning-split log marked the spot where the creek became home. Your spine rolled pleasantly as you stood. You combed your wet hands through your hair only to bend again, gathering a cupped handful of the shallow water to wash away the worst of the blood.

You had a month to mull it over.

You’d let the wolf-skin slip by the time you’d reached the field around your home. All that fur harbored more ticks than you were willing to deal with; you’d much rather run soap over your skin beside the outdoor spigot than bother with the wash tub and comb. You’d left the kitchen-bar wrapped in a towel on the porch, and you swung yourself around the banister to get it before anything that had crawled onto you could crawl off instead of getting drowned in the tap.

The water was cold. The air dressed you with gooseflesh. You bathed until the earth squished underfoot. By the time you’d made your way inside, you could smell a distant fire.

He’d skipped another meeting to see you. Just one more thing to add to the never-ending list of things they could hold against you.

You dressed for bed in a button down older than you were, whose threadbare elbows would do nothing to block the cool that had seeped into the wood of your favorite porch chair. You had a routine, however loosely committed you were to it: you started a fire of your own in the woodstove, just enough to get the house warm, and gathered up the book you were reading for the third time to go sit outside until your still-wet hair became unbearable. It wouldn’t be long until the pleasant chill gave to oppressive heat, and you intended to savor every moment.

So you did. You went back outside and sat in a curl with your ankles tucked behind the old chair’s arm rest, holding the book from the top. The world was quiet enough that you almost expected to catch the rhythm of a distant song.

“Hey, there!”

The sound of another person tore you back into reality as abruptly as though the book were yanked from your grasp. You sat up, the old chair creaking; never once had you doubted your senses, but whatever fleeting blame you’d placed on being too interested fled at the smaller, softer noise.

There was a white man cutting across your yard.

There was a white man cutting across your yard and he wasn’t making a sound.

The grass brushed against his pant legs, of course; his steps were soft, but they were there – gently treading. You could hear him breathing, but not…

Not the sound of a heart. Not the way it should’ve beat. Something moved blood in that man’s veins, made the breath from his lungs feed his still-flushed body.

He saw you looking and raised a hand to wave, like he’d expected your wide-eyed silence. Like he was neutralizing the threat of his presence before he’d gotten anywhere close to the porch – which some part of you reminded you that he absolutely should not do.

You didn’t move.

You were too busy reeling. You should’ve heard him coming long before he’d become visible, even from inside the house.

He didn’t give you long to wonder what manner of spirit he could be. The scent of him reached you before he did – of rot, rich and cool like turned earth, like leaf-mold and spent bergamot. Nothing human, but nothing without form. There was blood on him, in him, somewhere. You could smell it under the starch in his clothes.

He stopped several paces from the porch.

He caught scent of you, too, and you were mouthwatering. Sweet and deep like viscera pulled apart by starving hands. Like lovers’ tangled embrace. The violence of birth, the cradle of death, and the ash-and-tallow soap meant to keep it buried.

You unfurled yourself slowly, unhitching each ankle from behind the chair’s arm. Adjusted to set your feet on the floor. Your heart beat your ribs like an animal in a trap, but you managed to fold down the corner of your page and set the book on the chair when you stood.

“Evenin’.” The word came in an accent you didn’t know and carried more weight than it should’ve.

“Little late for evenin’,” you replied.

He wasn’t dressed for this. There were no roads close enough to wonder if he’d been in a car that had broken down; he would’ve walked for miles, and there were no dirt stains, no clinging insects, no grass awns or exertion-rumples. It didn’t even look like he’d worked up much of a sweat. Certainly didn’t smell like it.

“S’pose so.” He was watching you, too. Trying to understand what it was that some part of him recognized. It was no labor to look at you. He tried to be subtle about it, though the movement of his eyes could only be so contained. Most people were beautiful in some way or another, that was true – but most people, at least in this age, also wore more than a shirt repurposed for a nightdress. Your husband must’ve been tall. The way the fabric clung to your upper arms didn’t match the way the aging hem brushed your lower thighs. Aging hem – maybe not a husband.

“I didn’t mean t’ scare you. I didn’ think anybody lived this far out.”

The cadence of his voice didn’t match. You weren’t sure how you knew that, the words just didn’t have the right rhythm. The longer he stood there, the more certain you were that nothing good could come from this.

“They don’t.”

You tried to draw a boundary with those words. You meant to say, in no uncertain terms, that this was your land – he was not the first white man to come onto it and he would surely not be the last, but none had ever been welcome.

What you said, to him, sounded a little more to the tune of no one but me.

That would’ve made things easier, had he been able to figure out what it was about you that made him feel like he should retreat.

“You Choctaw?” he asked. Quite possibly the most idiotic thing that could’ve come out of his mouth – he knew it even before the look that crossed your face said more than either of you managed to convey in words thus far.

“What are you, the census bureau?”

His mouth betrayed him. You saw the flicker of a smile make it twitch – he thought you were funny, even if he knew he couldn’t laugh.

(It gave you some bare-bones pleasure to know you could still trade quips.)

His posture eased just a little. You weren’t sure if you liked that, but you had to allow it. “That’d be a shame. I’m lookin’ t’ meet with the tribe, an’ it might be forward of me, but—”

“What do you want with the tribe?” You had to kill whateverwas about to come out of his mouth before it went somewhere it couldn’t come back from.

He should’ve known a well-placed barb wouldn’t ease your skepticism. Rightfully so. He prepared to speak in half-truths, to let you in just enough—

But you noticed the way the moonlight hit his eyes. The flash of sanguine red.

“What are you?”

The redness vanished. He blinked. He quirked his head like he didn’t know what you meant, though you knew he did.

You let your own eyes brighten. Let the anxiety hammering your heart into your ribs become the emergence of thick claws and too-sharp teeth. “I’m not gonna ask again: what are you?”

He held up his open palms a little further ahead of him than a simple surrender necessitated. Some part of him must’ve recognized that you were as much of a threat to him as he might’ve been. “I’m not lookin’ for a fight.”

“Then answer me.”

There was no version of this standoff where either of you got out of this unscathed, was there? He must’ve known what you were the whole time, and he still never faltered. Your only consolation was—

“I need t’see your Fire Keeper,” he finally said.

Now the rhythm of the words made sense.

“I came here, from Ireland, twenty-one years ago.” His breath was a little shallow; he couldn’t find the balance between the truth and the gentler version, though he tried. “The land of my father didn’t exist anymore. Invaders kept comin’ – stealin’, pillagin’, takin’ away what made us who we were. Your people an’ my people went through horrors at the same time – ours wasn’t a famine no more than your people willin’ly left their land.”

That didn’t answer your question. Either of them. Not fully. It put a pit in your stomach that you couldn’t force down, but it didn’t – couldn’t – make you stupid.

You started to ask why those things were connected when he continued, “Your Fire Keeper can conjure spirits. Me, I’m trapped here – what I am doesn’t get the privilege of seein’ home again.”

“That’s not true.” You didn’t know if it was, but you didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to.

“It is. Half’a Ireland was wiped out less than a hundred years ago. More an’ more before that. We used t’ be able to reach the other side ourselves.”

He was looking at you, but he wasn’t just looking at you. That pit in your stomach was a gaping chasm; you felt naked, laid bare and vulnerable in a way he never should’ve known you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was just you. Maybe he had no idea that he was not looking at you, not looking through you, but seeing you.

It scared the hell out of you.

“Your people sent help when you had nothin’. I came t’ask for help one last time. I’ve got no family left. There’s barely anythin’ like me.”

You believed him.

“I’ve been alone for a long time. I jus’ need t’see my people. Just once.”

You believed him. There was absolutely nothing in his tone, or his posture, or the unnaturally fluid way he moved, or the way his words lilted in his human-looking mouth that gave you any inclination of insincerity, and that frightened you worse than a stand-off.

“Please.”

He touched the porch railing. You didn’t fully process how close he’d gotten until he was there, until you should’ve been pushing him away.

“What are you?” you repeated.

“I thought you weren’t gonna ask again,” he quipped back.

It didn’t dissolve whatever was between you this time. You took a step forward of your own; you felt uncertain of your legs, but that wasn’t how it looked. Not to him. Your hand reached out to brush the railing not too far above his as your bare feet landed on the step, and you were so close that the radiant heat of your body felt like summer on his skin. You were so close that he could’ve stroked your claws.

“Vampire,” he replied. “An’ you?”

There was another name for it, but you doubted he knew a word of your language. “She who wears wolf-skin.”

“Werewolf,” he said, almost automatically. There were plenty of names for it, maybe as many as there were for him.

“I guess.”

You didn’t move and neither did he. He was different, up close. Less average looking than you’d thought. His face was sort of round, sort of chiseled, neither angular nor plain. His ears were a little big, hair a little too neat. The things you didn’t like about him were the ones that seemed the most contrived. His shirt didn’t fit him properly, straining across his chest like it was meant for a man with less broad shoulders.

You were so beautiful he felt as if he were staring into the sun. The soft, fresh-earth brown of your eyes had lightened to a rich, unnatural amber. Your mouth was soft, hair the satin of a raven’s wings falling in a curtain down your back. A little spilled over your shoulder. Your curves were softness upon muscle, and the shape of your face was meant to be held in someone’s palm.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you said, though you shouldn’t have.

You really shouldn’t have.

He stared at you like he had no idea what you were talking about.

“You need to be patient,” because you knew there was no way you were going to pull this off, “But—”

“Thank you.”

He said it on a breath, on an exhale, like he had never dreamed you’d say yes. He had no idea how many barriers still stood between him and his purpose, but one of them – arguably the most important – no longer did.

“Thank you, miss…?”

“Kayla.” You’d never heard yourself say your name like that before. “Kayla Marsh.”

“Remmick,” he replied.

You nodded, aware that it was only one name, but not asking. Not yet.

“Kayla.” You had also never heard anyone say your name the way he did, like it was something meant to be savored. “Thank you, Kayla.”

You were still looking at him as his fingers ascended the railing. It was a slow gesture, one you should’ve caught in your periphery; you didn’t realize he’d moved until he was touching you. His fingers weren’t as warm as they should’ve been, and they startled you, and you did absolutely nothing about it as he, so carefully, so deliberately, moved them under and around your own in order to take your hand in his.

“May I?” he asked on another breath, and you nodded without thinking.

The step he took didn’t just put him in your immediate proximity, it put the two of you nearly chest to chest. Your hand pressed to his shoulder on instinct; you weren’t sure if you were trying to stop him, or yourself, or just this, because you weren’t stupid, you did know what this was, what was between you, and why you should not do it.

His eyes were the color of blood on the surface of a fresh wound. Ironic, considering that was how he made you feel.

“May I see you?” His fingers moved along the seam of your shirt, ascending your thigh from the bare skin just above your knee. He was asking and inviting all at once, and some horrible, greedy part of you wanted him to reach out and start undoing your buttons one at a time.

“Only if I can see you, too.”

He brought your knuckles to his lips. His eyes glinted with promise.

You let your hand fall. The tips of your claws made thin runs in the fabric of his shirt, only half-noticed; his lashes lowered in response to your touch. You thought about recreating that flash of fantasy on him, flicking each button open even if it meant you’d sever every piece of thread. It was the only thing you could think about; he was more solid than he’d seemed. You ran your palm down his chest. Over his stomach, which quivered when you passed his ribs.

You stopped short of reaching his belt.

His eyes returned to focus as you, still holding his hand, retreated back up the steps. The tether of your touch coaxed him to follow you, to let himself be guided, though he only managed to last until he’d reached the solid floor.

With no warning, your back collided with the nearest beam. His hands were under you, boosting you onto the railing’s edge.

You obliged, settling against it. His eyes caressed the expanse of new skin bared to him as your shirt hitched up.

His hands went to his. It took him no time at all to liberate the neat, white undershirt beneath. His suspenders fell, like reigns, against his thighs. The chain he wore looked old. Expensive. You couldn’t focus on any one thing if you wanted to pay attention to the way his deft fingers flicked open the buttons at his cuffs. It bordered on obscenity.

He, too, stopped just short of his belt; you’d drawn your lower lip in between your sharp teeth like you’d forgotten they were there. He hoped you didn’t have faith that he could stop himself if you broke the skin.

He couldn’t take that chance.

One last, low breath passed between your lips and his. His mouth closed over yours – softly, at first. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, claws carding slowly through his hair.

He kissed you like you deserved to be kissed. Coaxed your lips apart with the gentle brush of his tongue. You obliged, even if you had to bite back the urge to recoil in disgust at the viscosity of his saliva. The taste of it wasn’t the problem, though you knew that familiar red-meat game had been born of foreign reason. It was the way it touched your tongue. Like plasma.

He rutched your shirt a little higher. The cool air found where you were warmest, and you felt a full-body flush come over you. You really should’ve waited, should’ve grabbed up your book and taken him inside even if it was in no way wise.

He drew back just enough to lick the wonderfully rough callouses on the pads of his fingers, and every hesitation quieted under the weight of a hitched-breath, “oh.”

He met your eyes as his dampened fingers traced the seam of your cunt. His touch was unhurried – you were soft, warm and wet; he felt your inner muscles flutter and savored parting you around the first knuckle of two fingers.

“D’y’like that?” he murmured. The pad of his thumb brushed over your clit, and the gasp it caused made all of his blood gather in his cock.

“Yeah,” you managed. “Yes.”

He kissed you again. Harder, this time.

His fingers rocked inside you as your nails pressed into his upper arm. You couldn’t get enough of him. Didn’t want to. You flicked your tongue against his to invite it back into your mouth, and he moaned. You’d never heard a man moan like that. Fuck, you’d never heard a man moan at all. You wanted him closer, wanted to push your feet through the loops he’d made of his suspenders and –

He dropped to his knees. The thin band of saliva that connected his mouth to yours drew taut until it broke.

He held your hips against the railing as his fingers withdrew; you would’ve broken the grasp of a mortal man. He rubbed damp circles into your skin as he leaned in to nuzzle the sweet little button of your clit. It made your thighs twitch. His tongue darted out to taste you, and the sound you made as your heels hit the wood was all the encouragement he desired.

That’s right, he coaxed with gentle, persistent ministrations; he let one of his too-strong hands fall to your thigh to boost it over his shoulder. There you go. He kept you there, a hand on your hip and one on your thigh, so close that your throbbing pulse deafened him.

His tongue fucked you slowly. Flattened. Curled. Fit to your clit like he was made for you as he drew it between his slick-wet lips. He kissed your cunt like he was kissing your mouth, and your strung-taut muscles and quick, shallow breaths sent the thrill of praise through him.

“There,” you gasped, your hand knotting in his hair without warning. You pressed him closer, demanding he keep pressure on the spot that made your vision hazy.

He obliged, of course. He ate you slow and messy, flicking his tongue, teasing that spot that made your eyes roll back and your hips arch against his mouth. You were losing your senses, consumed with the wonderful heat building in your nerves. That’s it, he coaxed, the words sending wonderful vibrations into you, through you, your heel pressing into his back to spur him forward.

He loved that. His teeth grazed your clit, just soft enough to tease. Just sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

You didn’t, couldn’t, warn him. You just came.

He groaned like your orgasm brought upon his own. The sensation of it, of his encouraging, persistent licks made you clench and quiver. Made your thighs close in as he buried himself between them, tasting your release like it could sustain him.

It took him a moment to let go of you. His inhuman claws had begun to emerge, unnoticed until then; they pressed into the swell of your hip until blood beaded at their points. It was just enough to wet them, to leave the taste of you in two different forms on his skin.

“Was that alright?”

You laughed. Wasn’t much of one, considering how hard you had to fight for the ability to breathe, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “You’re the only other person who’s ever made me cum, so. Yeah. More than alright.”

He thought you were joking. He rubbed the small, quick-healing marks where his claws had pierced your skin as he stood. The tenderness of the gesture kept you quiet.

It also made you look at him like he hung the moon, not that either of you were willing to acknowledge that.

“I don’t know why you asked to see me,” you said, maybe just to break the silence. “We never finished taking off our clothes.”

“Didn’ mean it like that,” he replied, voice thick like honey. “I wanna see you as you are.”

It took him a moment, but he let himself change. It started with his hands – they shifted from the blunted shape he had known as a mortal man into the claws of a predator. It went in stages, sharpening and lengthening until the shifting bone felt as if it had re-settled into its proper place. His teeth did much the same in a jaw that had to dislocate in order to make room for all of them. He was unnatural. Inhuman. His eyes were like coals in the fire, lit, somehow, from within. It was different from the redness he’d already shown you.

It was the first time you’d ever seen a face like your own in someone you didn’t know.

You reached out – without hesitation, he noticed. Your fingers brushed along his jaw as if searching for a new swell in the still-tender flesh. You didn’t ask if it hurt; your eyes were softer. A little darker, but still bright. Still not human.

You held out your upturned palm. It took him a moment to recognize that you wanted him to place his hand into it. Your fingers lingered upon his face, and it struck him as a cruel irony that they were in no way calloused. You healed from all wounds, then, even the ones made to protect you.

He lay his palm tentatively into yours, spreading his fingers so that the sharp, dark claws would frame your wrist.

“You’re beautiful.”

He laughed. It was low, bitter, and a lot more intimate than it should’ve been.

It made sorrow twinge in your chest.

Your fingers did the same, around his. You brought him close to you, again, by the gentle hook of your claws against the heel of his palm. His lashes lowered over his back-lit eyes, and the sight of him, so sincerely devastated by simply touching you…

You kissed him. Again. Your soft mouth was so patient with his; he did not know if he could handle kissing you like this, but your tongue was careful as it passed his parted lips. You brushed it along the points of his teeth like you were taking note of how sharp they were, that all of them were. You were still cradling his jaw, the claw on your thumb raised just enough to avoid breaking the skin.

His arm encircled you. He drew you to the edge of the railing, almost right against the simple buckle on the leather belt he wore. He’d pilfered. He wore clothes from several different men, few of which fit as well as he’d hoped.

You let your hand drop from his to undo it, and he had to help you lest you stop touching him. He had no reason to worry about that – he’d barely started taking off his pants before your warmth found the spot where his cock strained against the fabric. A low, needy moan escaped him.

“May I?” you asked without retreating, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

He nodded rather fiercely. He was so hard he ached.

You tugged his unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, then his undershirt over his head. He undid your buttons quickly, only fumbling a little; he could not resist the urge to put his mouth on your collarbone the moment it was bared to him. To move from it to your shoulder, then up your neck – kissing, tracing his sharp teeth along the path of your pulse until you were so close to him that you couldn’t even shiver without him feeling how it raced through you.

You stroked his cock the way you’d stroked his jaw, your hand cradling his length as your thumb traced a path from about-midway to the ridge of his tip. It jumped a little, leaking as readily as his drool had connected your mouths.

You found that undeniably hot.

“Kayla,” the chest-reverberating timbre of his voice drew your eyes back to his. “Please…” You’d let his tip linger near your clit, and the urge to gently buck his hips – to take over, slip inside of you and fill you – consumed him.

You brushed your nose against his. Were you nuzzling him? He could hardly process it before you had your thighs settled at his hips.

“Take it slow.” You let your hand return to one of his strong arms as he settled himself against you. He rocked his hips lightly, watching your eyes change as you felt him slick himself in the wetness he’d caused. He liked them brighter, like this. You were so beautiful, but somehow more, still, when there were no barriers between you.

He nodded. Slipped a hand under you to brace you where he needed you to be, and slid inside of you like he belonged there.

Your claws broke skin. It was one thing to touch him, another entirely to feel him seat himself to the hilt inside of you – his cock pushed your limits in all the right ways.

“Easy,” he breathed, but it was so wrought that you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or himself. He rolled his hips shallowly. The railing creaked. The claws of your free hand sunk into it like the wood had gone soft. Your eyes were aglow behind your half-lowered lashes, and only you seemed to be aware that his had gone ember-bright.

Again.

The railing protested. Your breath caught on a little moan. You were trying not to dig your claws in, but there was so much of him it made you lose track of yourself.

Again. Your toes curled. Pleasure shot through you like sparks, made all the worse by the heavy, delicious drag of his thrusts. You were so wet for him, so welcoming; your body didn’t want to feel him retreat.

“Remmick..”

The sound you made of his name drove him half-wild. He shifted his angle slightly, but all for the better – you keened like an animal as your head fell back. He did it again and again, the tempo of his steady rhythm increasing. You were senseless and nothing but your senses, both overwhelmed by him and enraptured with him. You let go of the ledge to wrap yourself around him, to let him lift you up off of it so he could hit that perfect spot that made you moan like he was the only man who could deliver such pleasure.

“Feels so good,” slipped out.

“Yeah?” The word was almost automatic. He tried to gather himself enough to express a coherent thought, but the desire to put his mouth back on your skin, to taste the frantic throbbing of your pulse, won, instead.

“Yeah…”

You lost yourself in the sweet little licks he left along your throat. The way his teeth asked permission for something you weren’t sure if you wanted to give, but would’ve. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses from the hollow of your throat to the spot just below your ear only to keep going along your jaw, back to your mouth. Back to another round of smoldering kisses that made it all the harder to resist the hot flush that came over you, made pins and needles intensify in the backs of your calves. It felt like changing, like you were on the cusp of where your skin and the wolf skin were about to alternate though you knew you weren’t.

“Please,” you breathed into his mouth, your knees pressing into his sides just above his hips. “Remmick, please—”

His thumb brushed your clit. You cried out, your back arching as he held you as close to him as he could make you stay. Your claws dug into his back to form thin, quick-healing slashes. He was so close, all of a sudden – it was too much to feel you and to feel how even a light touch worked you toward your peak. You were clutching him the way your cunt clutched his cock, and he wanted nothing more than to join you at the heights of ecstasy – so much and not enough.

He pulled your hips flush with his and ground into that soft, perfect place that alighted every nerve. You howled. Your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, demanding he join you, begging for him not to pull away, to fuck you through it, to keep going even if it made no sense to.

Your orgasm pushed him over the edge. He had to brace you against the porch railing so his knees wouldn’t buckle; he made a plaintive sound that might’ve been your name.

His cum didn’t feel the way you thought it should’ve. It wasn’t cold, at least. Friction had probably warmed him up enough to make it not-tepid, though it didn’t exactly feel right.

You shifted a little. His hands flexed, keeping you firmly where you were. He was too overwhelmed to move, yet; his heavy breath and slackened muscles needed another few moments’ recovery.

You stopped trying to move when he held you still. Tried, and failed, not to dwell on how insufferably hot it was to have his hands on your hips while he twitched inside you. While he filled you with his cum. You had no business enjoying it.

He met your eyes again, after a moment, and the way his widened with surprise at the intensity of your gaze should’ve made you blush. Should’ve, but didn’t; turns out, you really did like the half-ruined look on a man.

“I was just about to settle in for the night, if you wanted to stay.”

He blinked. Quirked his head just a little, like, after all that, he still wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly.

You picked up your shirt from where it had been draped, forgotten, over the railing. The way your body shifted made Remmick’s lashes lower again, though he knew he ought to withdraw. You were surely going to dress for bed, again, and…

You draped your shirt over your arm as you sat up, bracing a hand on the nearest beam so you could kiss him. It wasn’t deep, wasn’t lingering, but you kissed him of your own volition all the same. It left him reeling so intensely that he did nothing to stop you from separating your bodies, climbing off the railing and grabbing your book off the chair. You hesitated, just for the length of a heart’s beat, before grabbing his clothes, also.

He really shouldn’t let you do that. He didn’t know what you knew, let alone what you might think when you found out the extent of his limitations. What left him vulnerable to you, let alone the cool, night air.

You reached the door before he’d even taken a step to follow. “Are you coming?”

That was an invitation. One you arguably shouldn’t have made. He nodded, pausing to gather his shoes before he did. As if bending didn’t make you tilt your head to admire him in all the ways his un-altered pants didn’t convey.

You waited. Only when he’d joined you did you let yourself in, and Remmick, ever grateful, closed the door behind you.

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#remmick (sinners)#remmick x oc #remmick x choctaw werewolf oc

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