Not all of the people reading your x reader fics have white skin
Just a gentle reminder before you write characteristics that assume whiteness and exclude your black/indigenous/poc supporters-specifically in 'x reader' works.
I love and appreciate writers, but this is a recurring avoidable issue (going on for decades now).
"your dusky pink nipples" "your face turned just as red as his" "he could see the blush on your face" “your cheeks furiously blushed” “your ears burn bright red” “The look in your reddened face” “your knuckles white with effort” “bruised purple against your light skin”
Describing the physical feeling instead of the visual change helps include your readers while also elevating your writing IMO.
Anyone can say "Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment" or "Your face flushed" but wouldn't you rather say "A burning heat rushed across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling right underneath the surface. You look anywhere but him, hoping your newfound interest in the buildings ceiling tiles will ease the fire tightening beneath your skin" And instead of the other character pointing out that the readers face is red, they can point out the obvious flustered facial expression/body language.
If you want your reader insert to have white/fairskin, then just label them white!reader or put the mention in the warnings/summary.
↪I have reached out to writers I favored/supported before and sometimes I have been met with severe hostility and defensiveness. I often wonder if people are doing this purposefully or for some reason think only white people read their fanfics (?)-if that's the case then be upfront and label your reader inserts as white!reader or something PLEASE. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like black women and other POC aren’t wanted or considered in these fandoms because it comes off like that in your writing. If you need a different motivation, just know you're missing out on more interactions, reblogs, and a bigger reader base. I don’t know why white is the default for so many writers in unspecified x reader/reader insert fics-the people on your blog following, reading, and supporting you aren’t all white and fair-skinned.
I am not talking about OC fics or fics where race/skintone is x specified in summary or warnings. This is specifically about unspecified "x reader" where whiteness is assumed as the default
Put in the comments good replacements for writers to use!
Summary: you meet Lion in the bar after one of his fights, he's clearly been pent up for a very long time.
Warnings/Themes(18+ Themes MDNI): existence of random friend so Stan can be busy elsewhere, bar, drinking alcohol, general awkwardness of meeting a new person, Smut, porn with some plot, oral male receiving, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie and then some, multiple orgasms, male whimpering, soft dom reader if you squint, Lion is needy, sex in a place that's not the comfort of your own home, no use of y/n, no mention of race, no beta reader
Words: 10.4k
inspired by this beabadoobee song
"A fight, like boxing," your friend had pitched to you, leaning across the sticky diner table, her voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated with barely contained energy,
"but like, no gloves."
A wide, unhinged smile came over her lips, and her pupils were dilated, a giddy anticipation seemed to buzz in the air between you. She shoved a crisp, golden fry into her mouth, a greasy smear left on the corner of her lips.
"It's called bareknuckle," she informed you, the words muffled slightly.
She, of course had wanted you to tag alongside. Not for any real reason. You hadn't once shown interest or perked an ear up at the events she talked about. you knew that after enduring awkward conversations and engaging with questionable individuals all night, she'd likely just dump you, opting for some new guy she'd picked up that night. One who'd held you captive by his endless, droning stories you couldn't care less about, and then he'd start touching her, but his greedy eyes never leaving yours.
You still agreed, like always. Partially, it was how worried you'd be you if you weren't to follow her. Ensuring her safety and keeping her out of too much trouble was a priority. But another part, despite the outings being questionable, held a quiet curiosity about the world you got to dip your toes into every so often. It wasn't as if your life was all that exciting, or that you had anything better to spend your time on.
Last, because she was your friend, despite the flaws in her decision-making skills, and the way her tunnel vision hinders her from thinking of others.
It seemed like a hardly legal affair. The place was humid with breath and sweat, in a warehouse you had somehow never noticed in town before, filled with the roar of many voices at once crammed together under flickering industrial lights. A mess of sweat, blood, and testosterone. A makeshift ring sat in the center, ropes sagging pathetically.
Spectators, managers — if you could even call them managers, shouting, shoving money into hands, drinks sloshing from styrofoam cups being passed around, the red glow of string lights hanging half-assed off the rafters, girls with the cigarettes tucked behind one ear selling shots from a tray.
The only chairs to sit on were the folding type, metal and rusted, or the flimsy plastic type, old stained white plastic. Most of them are already taken, so you opt to stand, anyway.
Fighters are already busy at work, and it seems they had been for a bit before you arrived. Taped fists, their eyes locked in a kind of primal focus. The thud of skin hitting heavy and hard bounced off the walls, the crowd bursting into energy every time something brutal happens.
“That was a clean hit,” your friend nudges you, pointing at one fighter. “Dude’s got skill.”
You couldn't deny that, as she singles out the boxer. What he didn't have in height he made up for everywhere else, clearly strong, clearly skilled. He filled the ring with power and precision. Dark hair slicked with sweat, his compact, stocky build moved with surprising agility as he sends jab after jab at his opponent. He wasn't just doing this for fun, or for the love of the sport. There was something charged behind every punch. Something bigger than this fight.
"He's going to win."
Your eyes are trained completely on him when you told her this. You don't know what exactly compelled you to make this prediction. You knew very little about boxing, the strategies, or even the rules of the sport. But a certain type of confidence fills you after you speak.
It was the boxer, how he took every punch, his blue eyes unwavering as he swung relentlessly at his rival.
and you were right.
Eventually, the boxer threw one final punch to the jaw. An upsetting sound rings out when the hit lands, and then the opponent goes down like a rag doll; limbs splayed against the floor of the ring, defeated. The referee rushed in, the crowd's excitement reaching its peak, cheering, noise.
All you remained focused on was the boxer's unwavering blue eyes. Even after victory, the hardened determination hasn't dissipated.
Just as quickly as it had begun, it was now over. People began filing out into the cool night air, their conversations turning down to a low hum.
Your friend's hands found their way to your shoulders as she slams her body against your back affectionately.
"God, I need a fucking drink." She groaned into your ear as she pushed you gently towards the industrial metal door, and out you went.
That's how you got here.
As you sipped, observing the worn wood grain in the bar like it was anything special, your gaze drifted towards the entrance. And then you saw him.
The boxer. He pushed through the door. Not alone, a taller man trails a half step ahead of him. His hair is a shade or two lighter, his beard longer, his outfit more thought out. He stood taller than the boxer, a cocky smile on his face — like HE'D just won the victory, not his companion.
You looked at the boxer. He was physically bigger up close, but his energy seemed so much smaller, subdued; out of his gear, out of his element, it looked like.
His hair was still damp, clinging to his forehead, the scrapes on his face looked as though there was a half-assed attempt to clean them, blood crusting around the edges of the cuts as they begin to dry and scab over, and even in the dull light of the bar you can tell that fresh bruises blooming across his face and arms, overlapping old ones he'd already possessed.
It's like he doesn't fully know what to do with himself outside of the ring. He fidgets nervously with his hands. Every muscle pulled taut and close to his body as he enters, lumbering next to the man he had arrived with, following him to the table of his choosing without question.
He slumps down into the seat, his posture mirroring the same way you had been slumped over the bar just moments before he had walked in. Bored, uninterested, wanting something else.
"Oh, hey, wasn't that guy at the boxing thing?" your friend asks, her gaze on the door from the moment it had opened, like a hound. She nudges your shoulder to get your attention, but you're already looking in that direction. You nod at her, confirming her question.
You watched as the taller man, with his confident demeanor, flagged down the lone server immediately. He ordered his drink loud and clear, and "one for my brother, too." while the boxer sat silently beside him, still fidgeting, his blue eyes darting around the room but never quite landing on anything.
He looked less like a boxer who'd just won his fight, and more like a child dragged somewhere he didn't want to be. He didn’t speak. Not even when his brother laughed loudly at something, clapping him hard on the back, nearly knocking his untouched drink into his lap.
"Hey," your friend whispered, her elbow knocking into your arm to get your attention. You tore your gaze away, startled by the tension you hadn’t even realized had built in your body.
Then your eyes met hers, the familiar predatory hunger that had been sweeping the room was still there, but now it was sharpened by a fierce determination. Her gaze locked unblinkingly on the cocky guy.
"I think he's cute," she admits with a satisfied purr.
Following her line of sight, you saw the taller man, who was already returning her look with a slow, up and down of his own. It made sense. Showy types had always attracted her, and she often mistook a lustful gaze, like the one he was offering now, for a yearning one, for something deeper, more significant.
"Okay? go then." You tell her, your voice devoid of real encouragement or genuine surprise. Already knew how this night would end, or at least how her part of it would.
"Wait, you won't come?" she whines, a pout forming on her lips as she looks at you with begging eyes.
"Can't you go keep Eeyore company while I do my thing?" she pleaded, subtly gesturing with her chin towards the sullen, silent boxer still slumped at the table beside her new prospect.
You know that another night you would've followed her to their table. Most nights you would have the willpower to do so, combined with you true curiosity for the boxer, but the guys he was with: you could hear his voice from here, every word seeping with a confidence that doesn't come from him — but from the bundle of muscles kept on a tight leash he had sitting beside him.
He hadn't earned anything he had. You could tell that without speaking to him yourself. He was a drain, not a contributor, stealing energy from the room.
You shake your head. "Nope, go get em', tiger." You tell her plainly as you kick your leg to the side to shove her feet off the footrest of her stool, turning your back and sending her off behind you with a surprised yelp quickly stifled by a laugh. She rolls her eyes at you but doesn’t resist.
You hear the moment she arrived at his table, her flirtatious laugh, the sharp scrape of a chair being pulled out, the cocky man’s superficial greeting. And then, silence from the boxer. He didn’t so much as lift his head. And you can't help but turn back to look again, even if just to confirm the scene you already knew would be at play.
Your friend, draped across the boxers brother, leans in seductively while he undresses her with his eyes, and the boxer's gaze averted shyly, staring down at his drink.
Like he felt your gaze on him, he looks up at you. You offer him a small, tight-lipped smile, you sucked the air in between your teeth, a sharp, almost involuntary hiss of air, a small, sympathetic sound. Then you turn back to the bar.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Lion doesn't know what compelled him to move. A twitch in his gut, a subtle shift in weight, and suddenly his feet were carrying him away from the table Stan had them sitting at.
Maybe it was because of Stan, whose hand kept making repetitive slaps against his shoulder, over and over, boasting about the win of the like he was the one throwing punches. The empty physical contact, the self-righteous praise, they grated on his nerves like sandpaper. Or, maybe it was your friend, who sat down without a second thought and tossed him a look like he was some roadblock to work around and not a human person.
Maybe it was because you looked at him, and when you did, it wasn't demanding. You expected nothing. The way your eyes just rested on him, acknowledging he was there — that he was real. He knew he couldn't sit beside Stan any longer, and he moved before he had a plan. Stan didn’t even look up, just let out a distracted, “You good, bro?” as he slid his hand a little higher on your friend’s thigh.
Lion doesn’t sit next to you right away. He just lingers awkwardly a few feet to the side, eyes scanning the shelves behind the bar, looking at the worn labels. He hasn’t looked at you yet, and for a moment you think he might turn around and walk back to that table, back to his brother and your friend and whatever they were doing. He scratched at his knuckles, red, swollen, when they weren’t clenched into fists, looked lost.
You tilt your head toward the empty stool beside you, not looking directly at him. A silent offer. You sip your drink, eyes forward.
He doesn’t hesitate. Not really. Just a brief pause before the stool scrapes softly across the floor and he’s there. Closer than you expected, but still keeping his distance, like he’s trying to disappear.
You steal a quick glance at him. The yellow light almost enhances the bruises on his face, and you notice the slight tremor in his fingers as he grips the edge of his glass.
“Sorry if my friend scared you off,” you tell him quietly.
He looks up, surprised, like he hadn’t expected you to say anything. His eyes hold the same sharp focus you’d seen in the ring. They flick to you for a second, then drop back to his untouched drink. His jaw tightens.
“Oh… no, it wasn’t her,” he says, voice low and rough, barely overpowering the noise of the world surrounding you.
Your friend hadn't been at fault. She'd hardly even acknowledged that Lion was there when she had first sat down, just a polite smile before she made moves on Stan, who greedily and excitedly lapped up any female attention. It was just how he operated: Every night, every city, every motel, he's always looking for someone to waste time with while Lion sits alone.
"It was Stan."
You twist to look thoughtfully towards the far table. "So that's what you call him."
Stan. you don't say his name out loud, as if he would hear it and be summoned across the room to the two of you. But you draw it out long and hard in your mind. Sounds like a name belonging to a sleazy guy, or an office worker, but looking at the way he had carried himself since walking in the door, and how he holds your friend like she's an object. You can safely assume your first thought of GREASEBALL was correct.
He gives a curt nod.
"And what do they call you?" you press, your eyes leaving the distant scene to settle back on him.
He clears his throat, his gaze dropping before he speaks.
"Lion."
You ponder the name, tasting it on your tongue without speaking it aloud.
It doesn’t sound like a nickname he picked out himself, tell you can't tell if it's a name he wears with pride. It sounds gifted, maybe even imposed, something he was expected to live up to. You won't press about it, you'll call him what he wants.
When you say your name to Lion, he doesn't speak. He repeats it, over and over again in his head, memorizing it. He shifts in his seat, his hands gripping the glass, raises it to his lips, but he hardly takes a sip before it comes back down against the bar.
After a moment, he realizes you were at the fight. He hadn’t noticed it right away, too wrapped up in the match to pay much attention to anything else, he tells himself. Now he remembers you were off to the side. His eyes linger on your face as it comes back to him. Those quick flashes from earlier. You talking with your friend. Watching the ring.
It was only a few seconds, barely anything. But now it clicks.
You hadn’t mentioned being there, not a word about it. You didn’t ask him if it hurt, didn’t cheer about his victory, said nothing about the fight at all. It was likely the only thing that had been spoken of all night, the preparation, the fight itself, the win, the bar, his bragging brother — but not you. With you, it was as if the entire violent spectacle had never occurred. You didn’t need to say anything about the fight. You didn’t need to give him what everyone else tonight was already shoving at him without him having asked for it.
He taps the side of his glass with a scarred finger, quieter this time, a hesitation. He wanted to say something. To mention it — that he saw you. But then a flicker of doubt crosses his face, and a wave of self consciousness befalls him. Maybe you didn’t bring it up because you just didn’t want to bother. Didn’t want to waste your time on him.
But maybe there was a small chance that you DID want to bother, that you'd nodded to the barstool for a reason. He opens his mouth, then, quietly, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to ask:
“You saw the whole thing?”
You lean on the bar, propping your head up with your elbow as you turn to face him fully.
“Somewhere in the middle, I think,” you say, your eyes look upwards — the ceiling, as if trying to place the moment. “We got here a little late.”
You nod toward your friend in the distance.
“She brought me. She always knows where… interesting things are happening.”
Lion follows your gaze, watching your friend for a moment, though his expression doesn’t change. He nods slowly, as if that made perfect sense to him.
His eyes settle back on you, and there’s something softening beneath the hardened exterior,
“Why didn’t you say anything? I feel embarrassed talking to you and I didn't even know you saw me tonight." He asks you quietly, gaze averted, like it costs him something to admit it.
He can't help but notice when your tongue briefly wets your lips before you speak, your eyes steady on his, calm but unreadable. You shrug at him, offering no better answer.
"It just felt like you didn't want to be known for that for a second." You say quietly.
His eyes search yours intensely, not to catch you in a lie, but to spot a crack, like deep enough somewhere he will find some confirmation that you just didn't care. That you think he's boring, and you'll realise that this conversation isn't worth your time or energy. But it doesn't exist there.
You swirl your drink. “You were good,” you say finally. It isn't praise, you're not saying it for the same reasons everyone else is.
Silence falls between you again, quiet, but not uncomfortable. The noise of the bar fades to a background hum, the jukebox’s song muffles, and the bartender leaves you both alone, like you’re in an imaginary bubble for just a moment. It feels safe, being in this temporary space with him.
You’re snapped back to reality when Lion flinches at your friend’s loud, flirtatious laugh. It cuts through the room, pulling everyone’s attention. Eyes drift toward her, perched on Stan’s lap, pressed close as he whispers in her ear.
“At least they’re having fun,” you offer with a shrug. You know it’s not much, but it brings slight comfort in knowing that for now, she’s happy. It doesn't matter what you think of Stan, it’s what she wants.
He swallowed, then a clumsy, "Do you… have fun?" tumbled out, followed by an immediate, throat-clearing sound of mortification and a head shake as he looks back down to the bar.
He couldn't comprehend why he'd asked, but he knew he wasn't being fully innocent with the inquiry. The implication of the question hanging heavy as it exits his mouth.
Your gaze falls over to the table where your friend is, draping herself over Lion's brother, Stan.
"Not with guys like that." You declare, shaking your head with an air of displeasure in your tone as you spectate the scene.
You didn't want fun from a loudmouth type like that. Prideful for absolutely no reason, annoying and boisterous. Taking credit for accomplishments that aren't his, a person who hadn't earned a single thing but felt they were owed everything.
Your attention had always gravitated towards the more reserved. Quieter types, who listened when you spoke, as opposed to speaking just to hear himself talk. You prized the men who didn't just hear your words, but genuinely absorbed them, and from their deep attentiveness, you found a distinct strength and a profound sense of safety in these introspective types.
"Do you?" you return the question in genuine earnest, gaze holding his unlike when he had skirted yours nervously before.
He shrugs, and then glances over to his brother — who seemed to be having trouble keeping his hands to himself, even in front of all the bar patrons; he watches Stan pulling your friend to her feet with exaggerated flair. She squeals at something you can’t make out and follows him toward the back of the bar, their laughter fading as they disappear into the shadows. He shakes his head.
"Nah…no, not really," he tells you.
He knew he could. With how many women push their numbers into his hand with closed fists after his fights, or the waitresses in diners who give him lingering glances, on nights in bars like this. He can see their glances, the way they lean against him in conversation, the invitations. He was respectful; he listened well and was nothing short of kind to them.
But the instant the energy shifted, and the moment intimacy presented itself as a real possibility, something would stop him — hold him back. It’s not that he doesn’t care. But caring hurts. Caring means letting people close. And that’s not something Lion knows how to do.
Maybe because all Lion's versions of love has been twisted into obligation. Stan held family over his head like it was a contract, taught him that everything he could give would be taken without thanks, and that everything he couldn't give would be held against him in some way.
Everything was transactional. A warped version of brotherhood was all he'd ever had. There was no room for warmth, for softness. It was all about the transaction, the give and take. Nothing was unconditional.
"Is it because you're shy?"
You'd noticed his nervous demeanor the moment he had entered: the fidgeting hands, the restless shifting, the inability to be completely still.
His eyes snap back to yours as he thinks about the question. He had never considered himself timid, not exactly. Awkward, perhaps, in certain social settings, but never genuinely shy. He could hold a conversation, could look people in the eye. Plus, shyness felt a little too simple and innocent of a word to define the tangled mess inside him. He shakes his head at first, then he shrugs.
"Maybe," he replies, dodging a full answer. "Are you shy?"
You shook your head. Shyness wasn't it, although some people would insist on the fact. You were just quiet — and that was only sometimes. you paid attention to the world, and people around you, and you spoke when you felt like you wanted to talk. You spoke up for others when you heard wrongdoings happening; you asked attentive questions about the topic at hand — only when you truly had questions to ask, you could speak about things you were well informed on, You were also content to listen, to learn, to remain silent when a topic lay outside your field of knowledge. It was a careful balance; it was far from shy.
"No. Just picky." You tell him.
You notice his expression change slightly, not a smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch just a little. He traces the wood grain on the bar with his fingertip softly, nodding thoughtfully. He hasn't taken another sip of his drink; you feel like he doesn't intend to finish it.
So you were picky. Selective, intentional. So when you chose him — to give him your time, he felt it. He could tell that getting your attention isn’t easy, and keeping it is even harder. But he was holding it well. He'd had your attention since you'd seen him come through the door — even when you first saw him in the ring, brow cut and bleeding.
“Picky’s good,” he says, quietly. “Means you know what you want.”
He says it with a quiet sort of respect, or maybe even admiration. He shifts beside you, not awkwardly now, but like he’s trying to make space for that kind of honesty. You can feel his presence now, not just beside you, but with you — like he’s not trying to be smaller anymore. and maybe he’s letting himself exist independently at this moment.
"And do you know?" You prod softly, an eyebrow raises as you ask him. "What you want?"
His jaw tensed. His eyes dart around, looking at his glass, the floor, the bar, sweeping over every surface in the room, every object, anything but you.
Did he know what he wanted? Or was he just overwhelmed and unsure what to do, letting things slide while he got more and more off track?
To stop fighting, to be still, He just wanted to clear his head for once, to feel some real peace. To stop pretending everything was fine all the time and take the chance to actually trust someone…to look at you a little longer.
He shrugs.
"I know I don't want to be here." The words hung between you, a flat, undeniable statement of discontent.
You pressed your lips together, a thoughtful, subtle purse.
It wasn't a solution, not even close, it was a declaration. It meant there was a point to push off from. It was something.
Your head bobs up and down, eyes away from him, and you tip the glass back, draining the last in a single gulp.
You clear your throat quietly, barely noticeable over the background noise. Your voice came out softer than you expected.
"Well… we could go."
Lion’s head snapped up, his eyes finally meeting yours. The suddenness of your suggestion seemed to pull him from his internal monologue. He just stares at you for a second, brow furrowing ever so slightly.
He looks around, like he's checking for witnesses, then back at you. His gaze was looking for something, trying to see if you were serious, if this was just some offhand comment or a genuine offer.
The thought of leaving this place, escaping the way they expect him to be cheery, and the tension in his brother’s presence would be a relief. Still, the idea of going somewhere else, with you, was something he hadn’t expected at all.
"Go…like, leave?" he asks, his voice was quiet, almost breathless. He didn’t seem excited, but he no longer looked so resigned. It wasn't a question of where, not an agreement. More like a question of how, and why would you offer?
You nod at him subtly, barely bobbing your head. gesturing vaguely around with your hands and shake your head at him.
"I mean, yeah. If you don't wanna be here." You clarify.
He swallowed hard. Then, barely above a whisper, he said,
“Okay.”
It was a quiet agreement. He didn’t ask where or push for details. Just leaving seemed like enough for now. He looked at you, like he was asking something without saying it — or maybe just showing he was ready.
That was all you needed. You slid off your stool, feeling a lightness you hadn't expected.
Lion followed your lead, pushing off his own stool with a slower, more deliberate motion, like he was still testing the reality of your offer. He didn't look back at the spot where his brother had been. His focus was now entirely on you, on the promise of departure.
He doesn't walk right beside you, trailing close — just a step behind you on the way out of the bar. You stepped out onto the sidewalk, Lion coming out behind you. His hand stays still on the door handle for a moment before letting it close with a soft click.
It was dark out, the cool air drifting around you softly. streetlights sending down warm halos of light onto the sidewalk.
"So," your voice cuts through the silence, your neck craned to glance at lion — standing like he doesn't know what to do with himself.
"We're free now. What to do?"
You say the question light, but it had never felt more loaded to Lion than it did coming from you right now. He looked at you, then away, his gaze shifting to the empty street. The shadows pooled under cars, the dark sky above. His hands, usually fidgeting or clenched, hung useless at his sides, unsure where to go, what to grasp.
"I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
He looked genuinely lost. He had no idea where to go. His admission hangs between you two like a plea for guidance.
“I just… dont wanna go back inside.” He added, a small, almost unnoticeable tilt of his head, and shrugs.
“What do you want to do?” He was offering it back to you, a reflex—the kind that comes from always letting someone else make the call.
"We could just walk," you suggested, your voice soft. You took a small step forward, a gentle invitation to motion.
"No particular place. Just… out here. Get some air. You said you liked it out here more."
You didn’t look at him. Giving him a moment to think— to figure out if just moving forward, without a plan, was what he needed. You started walking slowly, hands in your pockets, letting the quiet settle gently between you once more.
Lion stayed still, watching you walk away. His shoulders relaxed. Then, like something was quietly pulling him forward, he started walking too. Not too close to you, still a step behind. He said nothing, just walked, head slightly tilted like he was listening to the hum of the city.
Within a few blocks, you sense him closer, the distance between you shrinking from a full step to just half. A small sigh escapes him, so slight it would've gone unnoticed it if you weren't so aware of every subtle shift he was making.
After another block or two, the half-step became even less, until you could sense him almost shoulder to shoulder with you, his arm occasionally brushing yours with soft, accidental contact.
You stayed quiet, and so did he. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It felt easy, like you were just sharing the moment. Despite how you were so very aware of him walking beside you, the sound of his footsteps, the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
You look over, catching him in the soft glow of a storefront window. His head is still slightly tilted, but his gaze isn't darting around nervously anymore. It felt so routine, and normal, and maybe you really were enjoying it— this brief connection you're feeling.
"I know somewhere." You suggest suddenly, turning your body fully to face him in the dark. His head perking up and his eyes settling on you, narrowed in consideration.
"Where?" he asked, his voice still low, but with a thread of genuine curiosity now, not the unsure whisper from the bar.
You smiled softly, inhaling with anticipation before you continue.
"It's not far. Just a few more blocks." You started walking again.
You turned off the main street, leading him down a more residential area, a road lined with trees. The houses here are older and set farther back from the noise of the city that was fading behind you, replaced by the soft sound of leaves moving in the breeze.
You were searching in the dark intently. You knew this area well enough just by memory— you could tell you were close to what you were looking for.
"There," you nod, pointing ahead with your chin. Your sights set on the old rec center just ahead— a low-slung concrete building with weather-stained walls. The sign out front is faded, a few letters chipped or missing entirely.
You didn’t need a key. Around the side, there was a small door— it used to be kept shut with a thick chain. But the lock had broken years ago and no one ever really fixed it. It was a kind of secret, something only a few kids who were now adults knew about— you included.
You push the door open slowly; the hinges creaking a little, and hold it so Lion could slip in behind you.
"Watch your step," you murmur, stepping around the room by memory. Opening a set of heavy doors, the main gym floor stretched out before you, a dark expanse of polished wood reflecting slivers of moonlight. It was completely empty, silent.
Lion stepped in behind you, and you let the door swing shut with a thud that echoed and bounced off the empty walls, shrouding the room in even more darkness now. You take a few steps towards the centre of thy gymnasium, doing a spin slowly around as you take it all in.
"I used to come here a lot when I was a kid," your voice cuts through the silence, travelling across the entire room, up the walls.
He could just make out your shape, a darker silhouette against the shadowy room. You stood in the center. He didn’t move to join you right away, instead letting his eyes adjust, trying to make sense of the new surroundings.
"For after-school programs and summer camps." You add.
Lion finally took a small step forward, followed by another, his footsteps surprisingly soft. He walked towards you, not stepping into the center, he stops a few feet away, taking in your stance as he looked around.
"It's quiet," he tells you, his voice a low hum. He was taking in all of its emptiness, its potential.
You nod in agreement, then smiled, a genuine, soft curve of your lips that even in the dim light, he could sense. “Yeah,” you affirmed, a quiet warmth in your tone.
“It used to be full of noise, always. Kids yelling, balls bouncing, whistles blowing. Now…” You gestured around the empty room.
“It’s just… here. Calm.”
Lion nodded slowly, his eyes moving from you to the basketball hoops, their nets hanging slack, then to the worn lines on the floor. He could almost hear the sounds you’d mentioned, like a faint memory hanging in the air. Now, it was just quiet. Really quiet. And he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that— a break from all the pressure and noise.
"I used to sneak in a lot, like we're doing right now," you inform Lion, sighing slightly as you recall your teenage years. "Like, at night or just on days with no programs running."
You took a few more steps, then sat down without thinking about it. Leaning back on your hands and stretching your legs out in front of you. The wood felt cool and smooth under your palms. You look up at the dark space above.
Lion watched you, still standing while you sat there, completely relaxed. He hesitates, then took one careful step onto the court. The floor creaked under his weight. Then another step. And another — like something was quietly pulling him forward.
He didn’t sit right away. Instead, he walked slowly to the faded lines in the wood and traced it with the toe of his shoe. He looked up, then over at you, like he was about to ask something.
“and you liked it? Here?” Lion asked, his voice still a low murmur, with an underlying question that wasn’t just about the physical space. He looked at you, then back at the lines on the floor, as if trying to connect the worn paint to your memories.
“Yeah,” you affirmed, a soft smile touching your lips. “More than just ‘liked it.’ It was… a kind of secret hideout.”
You glance up at him. He was still standing, his eyes on you, his expression unreadable against the harsh shadows and the dark. After a moment, his gaze drifted from you to the basketball hoops hanging silent, then back to the lines on the floor he’d been tracing.
“Just relax, Lion,” you whisper, eyes looking to the ceiling. “There’s nothing to do here. No one to impress. No one telling you what to do. Just… be.”
Slowly, he moved. He didn’t sit with the same grace as you, lowering himself stiffly to the polished floor a few feet from where you lay, not leaning on his hands, sitting with his knees bent, his back still straighter, tenser.
You tilted your head to look at him, though his features were still largely obscured by the darkness.
“Here… no one bothered me. I could just… read a book, or just lie here, like this, and watch the dust dance across the rays of sun."
Lion was still quiet, his eyes fixed in front of him, across the gym floor. He didn’t immediately offer any reciprocal vulnerability, or even a simple acknowledgement.
But you didn’t expect him to. You weren't fishing for anything from him; it was about sharing a piece of yourself, offering him a glimpse into the quiet refuge you’d found.
You feel a strange, automatic pull to him, a desire to close the distance. Your eyes trace the outline of his jaw against the dark. He still isn't looking at you, his gaze fixed ahead, but the tension had bled out of his shoulders, a tangible relief in the air around him.
You shifted, rolling onto your side, propping your head up with one hand, elbow resting on the cool wood. Now you were facing him fully. He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting yours in the near darkness. They were dark, indecipherable, yet you felt an invisible current pass between you.
“What about you, Lion?” you whispered, your voice barely disturbing the air. “Where did you go to escape?”
He held your gaze, and for a moment, he said nothing. The silence was heavy with unspoken words, the weight of his guarded past. You just waited, allowing him the space he clearly needed.
Then he moved. Not a big movement, a slight shift, turning his body to face you more directly. His hand, now rested flat on the polished floor between you. Your eyes dropped to it, then back to his face.
“Nowhere like this,” he admits, his voice rougher now, a raw confession.
“I never really had a place like this. Always… someone I had to be, or something I had to do. I couldn't really just… be.”
He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor, then back up to your face, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
“Until now.”
The silence wasn’t like the usual quiet of the empty gym. It was heavier, filled with something unspoken. His eyes, shadowed and hard to read, stayed locked on yours. And you felt it— a pull, strong and sudden, tightening something deep inside you.
"until now?" you echo softly. asked like a question, but the implication of his words felt like more.
It wasn't just a place he'd found, it was you. This quiet, unexpected sanctuary was the space you were creating, just by being here, together.
You didn’t look away from his eyes. Your free hand moved without thinking, lifting from off your side and resting on his chest. Your palm pressed firm over his heart, feeling it beat hard and fast beneath your fingers, matching the sudden rush of your own pulse.
He let out a quiet sound, almost a groan, as your touch sank in. He leaned closer, giving you every chance to move away. But you don’t. You lean in too, pulled by something you couldn’t explain, until your foreheads nearly touched. His skin was warm, rough.
You understood. This was Lion, hesitant and unsure, even of his own desires. He wouldn't ask directly. He needed you to lead, to offer, to assure him it was alright.
“Lion,” you breathed—his name coming out like a whisper. "Can I give you anything? Right now?"
He blinked slowly, then gave a small, gentle nod. It wasn’t much, just a slight dip of his chin. It meant yes. A real yes.
“Okay,” you speak softly, your voice steady in the quiet tension between you.
“But I need you to tell me, Lion. Even if it’s just a nod or a sound. If something doesn’t feel right, or if you want me to stop… just let me know, alright?”
You looked at him, serious and open.
“This is for you. Only for you.”
His gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t nod, but his eyes said everything— quiet, desperate, full of need. He wanted. He just didn't know how to ask.
You took a quiet breath, then slowly leaned in, your eyes still on his, looking for any sign of hesitation. But there was only that raw, aching need. You kissed him—lightly, testing the moment. It wasn’t pushy, just gentle and open.
At first, he didn’t move. Then, little by little, his lips relaxed into yours, answering with careful, unsure warmth.
His kiss was still a little clumsy, a little unpracticed, but it was his. You guided him, deepening the pressure, encouraging him to meet your rhythm, to lose himself in the moment. He breathes shakily, a soft groan escaping him as he finally leaned into you fully, his body relaxing against the cool wood.
He broke the kiss for a frantic second, pulling back enough for his forehead to rest against yours. His eyes stay closed, a shiver running through his body.
“God,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, raw with need. “I… I didn’t know I needed this.”
His words send a vibration against your forehead, a tremor through his big frame. He was right. He didn't know he needed this. He’d never been allowed to need anything, had he?
“You deserve to feel good, Lion,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look at him, your gaze searching his face.
“And you deserve to know what feels good, without worrying about what you ‘should’ be doing.”
He opened his eyes, meeting yours. The vulnerability there was almost heartbreaking. It was a look that pleaded for instruction, for permission.
You shifted slightly, sitting up enough to run your hand down his body, over his shirt, down his taut stomach. He stiffened slightly at the movement, but he didn’t pull away. It was a reflex, a learned caution, not a rejection.
You pause at the waistband of his jeans, and slowly unfasten the button, then you pull the zipper, easing the denim down his hips. He didn’t help, didn’t hinder, just watched you, trust shining in his gaze. When the material was bunched around his thighs, you looked up again.
“Are you sure, Lion?” you whispered, the question heavy with meaning. His answer was a ragged breath, and a subtle shift of his hips towards your hand. A silent plea. You took it as your answer.
You slid your hand inside his jeans, finding the warm, thick fabric of his boxer briefs. He was already hard, making a heavy weight against your palm. A quiet groan sounds in his chest.
You hummed, a soft question, looking up at his face. His eyes were still closed, his jaw clenched, but his head tilted back slightly, exposing the strong column of his throat. A small whimper escaped him.
You didn't rush. This wasn't about speed. This was purely for his own pleasure, his own release. You savored the thick, warm fabric of his boxers, rubbing your thumb over the tip of him, feeling him throb in response.
"Does this feel good, Lion?" you murmur, your voice a soft provocation, your fingers tightening, then releasing the fabric of his boxers. You feel every small tremor that runs through his body.
His eyes are closed, a rough sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, leaves his throat. His hand, resting flat on the floor, curled into a fist, his knuckles white against the dark wood.
You pressed your palm more firmly against him, letting him feel the pressure, letting him know you were there, that you were touching him, feeling him.
"Lion," you murmur again, a soft whisper against the quiet hum of his distress and desire.
You watch his face, his brow furrowed in pleasure, his lips slightly parted, the faint shine of sweat on his skin. This was a good discomfort, the kind that bordered on unbearable need.
You teased him a little more, sliding your hand enough to pull the fabric tight against his tip, then letting it fall slack, a maddeningly slow dance.
Another guttural groan, deeper this time, escaped him. His hand lifted, fingers curling, like he wanted to grab onto something, to anchor himself. But he didn't touch you, not yet. He was still waiting, still trusting you to lead.
You dragged your fingers, still gloved by the soft cotton of his boxers, slowly down the length of him, then back up. He bucked, a sudden, involuntary jerk, his body arching slightly. A groan tore from his throat, loud in the quiet gym.
This was it. This was him. You slide your hand down, pushing the thick fabric of his boxer briefs lower, past the rigid length of him, until they were bunched around his thighs, alongside his jeans.
His cock sprung free, thick and throbbing, a vein pulsing along its length. You take him into your palm, feeling the heat, the smooth, taut skin, the strength of him. A whimper, thin and high, escaped his throat.
You looked at him, your gaze lingering on his face as you stroked him, a slow, reverent motion. Your thumb traced the sensitive tip, circular, teasing. His breath hitched.
You understood. This was a man who had been taught to compartmentalize sensation, to endure pain, to channel instinct into controlled aggression. Pure, unadulterated pleasure, given without expectation, was a foreign concept, almost overwhelming.
You lowered your head, your hair brushing against his inner thigh, the scent of his arousal filling your senses. You kissed the base of him, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that made him gasp.
His hand, still clenched on the floor, rose, fingers splayed, hovering above your head as if he wanted to touch, to pull you closer, but couldn't quite give himself permission.
You traced the length of him with your tongue, a slow, deliberate line from base to tip, tasting him. You feel him leaking, taste the faint, metallic tang of his arousal.
You loved making him feel that good. You watch him as he tenses, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut like he was lost in it. He was finally just… there, feeling everything for himself, for once.
You parted your lips, warm and wet, taking the thick, hard head of him in your mouth. A shudder racked his body, his noises and breaths echoing in the quiet gym around you.
You drew him deeper, your tongue circling, tracing, suckling.
His hips lifted off the floor, grinding against your mouth, an instinctual reaction. He wasn't trying to control you, just responding to the overwhelming pleasure. You shifted with him, taking more, letting him press into you.
Your hands rose, wrapping around his thighs, steadying him as he bucked. His fingers, still hovering above your head, clenched, burying themselves in your hair, a soft tug that wasn't painful, a desperate anchor, pulling you closer.
You felt his pre-cum, his warm, salty taste coating your tongue. Every sound he made, every shudder of his body, was a triumph. Bringing you closer to him, encouraging you.
You drew him deeper still, letting him test the boundaries of your throat, to fill your mouth. He was reeling, his hips instinctively pushing harder, an almost violent surge of need. You met him, taking more, letting the thick, pulsing length of him press against the back of your throat.
"fuck," you murmured against him, your voice a vibrating whisper against his skin,
"You feel so good." You drew him in again, guiding his thrusts, letting him fall into the rhythm he so desperately craved. You wanted to hear him, to feel his pleasure echo through you.
His fingers tightened in your hair, pulling gently, anchoring you, anchoring him. He bucked again, a deep, uncontrolled thrust, his thighs trembling against your hands.
In a quick move, he pulled back, hands still on you, holding firm. He was breathing like he'd just run a mile, chest still going. His eyes were hazy, slowly opened and found yours.
His voice was just a low, shaky whisper. 'I… I need…'
He couldn't quite finish his sentence, his gaze flicking down to his cock, then locking back on your eyes. He licks his lips and swallows hard.
“Please,” he rasped, his eyes pleading, his whole body leaning into you, a subtle shift in his hips. “Please… I… I want… I want to be inside you. Can I… fuck you? Please?”
This was the vulnerable underbelly of him, the part he so carefully guarded, finally bared. You knew he was used to conquering, to performing. This was different. This was surrender.
You met his gaze, a soft smile on your lips, the warmth of your palm still cupping him. “Anything you want,”
You unwrapped your hands from his thighs, rising to your knees, then shifted onto your back, laying against the floor. He followed, his movements still a little clumsy, a little dazed by the sudden shift in control, from you dictating the pace to him needing to navigate.
His gaze dropped to your clothes. You didn't hesitate. With one swift motion, you reached for the button of your jeans, fingers fumbling slightly in your eagerness.
He watched you, every movement, his chest still heaving, a low growl rumbling in his throat as your jeans unzipped. You pushed the denim down, along with your underwear, past your hips, not bothering to completely remove them, letting them bunch around your ankles like his boxers, creating a soft, warm cage for your lower body. You could feel how wet you already were, just in anticipation.
He shifted closer, his knee nudging yours. He was still waiting, just watching you, his eyes hot and fixed on your body, your belly, your thighs, where you could feel yourself getting wet. You could feel him throbbing, hard and obvious, showing just how much he wanted you.
“Do you want me, Lion?” you whispered, a final confirmation, wanting to hear him say it again, to truly own the craving.
He nodded, a sharp, almost violent jerk of his head. “Yes,” he breathed, the single word torn from his chest.
His honesty, his vulnerability, was its own kind of ecstasy. It was exactly what you wanted to hear. You arched your back slightly, lifting your torso, making it easier for him to reach.
He doesn't hesitate this time. His large hands, surprisingly gentle, land on your waist, then slide up, tracing the curve of your ribs. His thumbs brushed against the thin fabric of your shirt. He finds the hem, gripping it.
He pulled it over your head, and for a moment, you were tangled. A soft laugh escapes as the shirt was finally yanked free. It landed somewhere behind you, forgotten.
He took you in, your heavy breathing as you lay on your back, waiting for him. His gaze sweeps over your breasts, your nipples already hard and puckered in anticipation. his eyes are dark with a hunger that challenged yours.
“Beautiful,” he muttered, his voice rough, before he lowered his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of your throat.
His tongue flicked out, tracing a hot, wet path down your sternum. A gasp caught in your throat as he reached your breast, his mouth closing over one nipple, taking it in with a soft, eager suckle.
He reached for your navel, pressing a wet kiss to your lower belly. His breath was heavy against your skin, and you could feel his large hand, calloused from countless hours in the gym, drift lower, hovering just above your core. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, a low whimper escaping his throat.
“Lion,” you breathed, your voice a ragged whisper, sensing his momentary paralysis, his innate struggle with asserting his own will. “You can touch me. Please.”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze swept over your body, admiring every curve, every inch of exposed skin.
He shifted, rising a bit, his body leans over yours. His cock brushes against your inner thigh— your breath hitches and you instinctively spread wider, inviting him in. He kneels between your legs, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones.
He sucked in a breath, eyes locked on yours, still silently asking if he could just take it. All that pent-up desire was right there in his eyes, breaking past years of holding back.
You bite your lip hard, suppressing a whine as your body writhes for him.
"Please," you whispered, reaching up, pulling him closer.
"Inside. Now, Lion. Please." It was a desperate need, your knees trembling against the gym floor.
Then he was there, pressing against your damp entrance. He sucked in a breath, a soft whimper escaping him as he held still. His eyes, hazy with want, locked onto yours.
you nod.
His cock, slick and throbbing, nudges insistently against your wet folds. You gasp, a sharp, involuntary sound, as the tip pressed against your opening, hot and demanding. With another low groan, he pushes. The first inch was a slow, calculated stretch. Your body welcomed him, molded around him, stretching to accommodate his impressive length.
Your body convulsed, clenching instinctively, drawing another long, shaky breath from him. His head fell back, resting against the floor behind him, revealing the strong column of his throat, now working with every rapid breath. He paused there, fully sheathed inside you, trembling.
“Oh… God,” he rasped, the word barely a whisper, a stark contrast to the powerful thrust that followed.
He pulled back, almost completely, and then plunged into you again, a deep, full stroke that sent a jolt of pure sensation through your core.
He started moving, falling into a steady rhythm. No finesse, just a raw, undeniable urge. Each push went deeper, hips slamming into yours, a heavy beat that resonated through you.
He was breathing hard now, gasping as he buried himself all the way.
“Fuck… fuck,” he grunted, the words strangled, his head still thrown back, eyes squeezed shut.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently, to show him just how much you were his.
His body was a tense coil of muscle, slick with sweat, every flex and release resonating his want. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, a low, continuous whimper rumbling from his throat. He wasn't just fucking you— he was devouring you, trying to absorb every inch, every drop of you into himself.
You arched to meet him, a low moan forming in your throat as you felt him hit that impossibly tender spot, again and again. You buck against him, meeting his every thrust, wanting to give him all of it.
His large frame trembled over you, every muscle in his powerful body at work, sweat plasters his hair. His breathing harsh, ragged gasps, broken up by deep, animalistic growls that vibrated against his throat.
You knew, instinctively, what he needed. He was so close to shattering, but even now, there was a flicker of that innate hesitation, that ingrained need for permission. He had to know it was okay to take, to release fully.
You cried out as the pressure built, tight and hot, coiling in your core. You clenched around him, your muscles tensing around his shaft with every desperate thrust he delivered. You felt your own climax building, swirling and tightening in your belly.
You tightened your legs around him, pulling him even closer. Your hand in his hair guides his face to your lips. You nod at him.
"You can, Lion." you moan out, giving him the authorization he needed to let go.
He nods desperately, his powerful hips slamming into yours, over and over; in a furious, blinding spur of thrusts. Each one deeper, harder, more eager than the last, drilling into you with an intensity that stole your breath. Every inch of his length finding purchase inside of you.
“Ah… fuck!” he moans, the words coming out half-choked. His hips slam into yours as he releases. He whimpers in your ear, his body shuddering helplessly above you. His hips slammed into yours again and again, even as he emptied himself deep inside you, a torrent of hot, thick cum flooding you.
Every muscle in your core tightened, squeezing him, as your own climax took over at the same time; a bright, hot white sensation that left you gasping, your body trembling around him.
He didn't pull out. He just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his weight pressing into you. His breathing was still ragged, heart hammering against your chest.
He hooked his arm under your waist, pulling you closer, as if needing to feel every inch of you. He was still trembling, a deep tremor that gave away his exhaustion.
“Lion?” you whispered, running your fingers through his damp hair. You felt the warmth of his seed still pulsing gently inside you, a testament to his overwhelming need.
The sheer desperation of his orgasm had left you reeling, your own body shaking in its aftermath.
He groaned again, a softer sound this time, a whimper of contentment rather than urgency.
He didn't answer you. Instead, he started to move again, His hips pumping, hard and heavy, a relentless, almost frantic rhythm. He was still deep inside you, his cock still throbbing, still full, and he fucked with a renewed urgency, as if he had to wring out every drop of the intensity that had built up within him.
He pushed deeper, harder, grunting now with each impact, a continuous, low rumble of sensation in his throat.
You could feel the shift, the slightly frantic edge to his movements. It was as if his body refused to acknowledge the release had come, still seeking to purge something vast and unarticulated.
"God, Lion," you shudder, bucking up to meet him, trying to ease the frantic edge from his movements by giving him more, welcoming him deeper. Your body throbbed, still tingling from your own climax, but your focus was still only on him.
You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, drawing him into you as if to absorb the wild storm raging within him. Your fingers cling to his slick hair, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "It's okay. You're okay."
He grunted in response, a desperate, pleasured sound, and plunged deeper, a long, drawn-out groan ripping from him. His body trembled violently above you, a full-body shudder that started in his shoulders and traveled down his spine. He wasn't just thrusting anymore; he was grinding, twisting; a primal need to rub himself into you, to feel every possible inch.
You understood. For him, this went deeper than just physical release. It was like he was shedding something, pushing out all the stress and tension he’d been carrying around. He just needed to get completely lost in the moment, to let the raw sensation quiet all the chatter in his head.
"Let it out," you murmured, your voice rough with emotion, tilting your hips to meet his frantic strokes. You whine softly as he stretches you, your nails scraped gently at his scalp, a grounding sensation, trying to pull him back to the present, to you.
He responded with renewed aggression, his hips slamming into yours, a cadence that threatened to shatter you both. His face was still buried in the crook of your neck, his jaw clenched, the muscles working under your fingers.
He whimpered again, a soft, helpless sound. His cock was still hard, still thick, and he was pushing against your cervix with every stroke, finding new depths, new angles.
The pressure built quicker, hotter, a searing inferno in your core. You cried out, a sharp, choked sound as your body clenched around him. You flexed, squeezing him tight, urging him deeper, more. Your vision blurs again, stars bursting behind your eyelids as he plunged again and again, burying himself, twisting, grinding.
A second orgasm ripped through you, hotter and deeper than the first, echoing the frantic energy that still coursed through Lion. Your back arched, muscles spasming, a helpless cry tearing from your throat as your body bucked against his.
His hips were still going hard and steady, but you could feel the franticness drain out of him. The moans changed, becoming softer, winding down.
His muscles were still tight, but that rigid tension melted away. He wasn't moving with the same frantic energy now, but with a deep, full-bodied rock still embedded within you, savoring the feeling of being completely enveloped in you.
He buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his teeth gently scraping your collarbone, a desperate, low moan escaping him.
When he looks back up, he leans in, putting a quick kiss on your forehead, then your temple, ending with a soft one on your lips. It was his quiet "thanks" for helping him out.
When he pulls out, you felt a hollow space. Warm cum leaking out as he moved off you. You were slick between your legs, everything down there sensitive and tingling.
You were soft and spent, totally satisfied. Your thighs were a little sore from clenching, and your core felt warm, still buzzing from how good it was.
Every muscle felt deeply relaxed and content. You were sweaty, some of his cum still warm inside you, a sweet reminder of that raw connection you’d just shared.
He didn't move far, just rolled to his side, still holding you close, his arm still hooked under your waist, keeping your hips pressed against his. You simply held him, stroking his damp hair, allowing him to breathe.
The gym floor was cold beneath you, but his body, your shared heat, was everything. This was Lion, stripped bare, his power given over to a different release, in the only place he felt safe enough to truly let go.
summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.
But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.
Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.
wc: 5.4k
a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333
warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
You've never let him in. Not once.
And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.
Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.
You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.
“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.
“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”
His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.
“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.
“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”
Your just watch him, tilt your glass.
“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”
He nods, drooling harder, trembling.
“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”
You don’t answer him at first.
Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.
The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.
Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.
Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.
“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”
You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.
Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.
“You look like shit, Remmick.”
He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.
“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”
His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.
But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.
Not unless you say the word.
You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.
He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.
“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.
“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”
And oh, how he sounds ruined.
You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.
A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.
“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”
You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.
“You already are wicked.”
He smiles, wild and ruined.
“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.
Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.
But you say nothing.
You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.
And Remmick?
He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.
| six months ago |
You didn’t move here expecting silence.
You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.
But not the silence.
Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.
The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.
But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.
And the silence? You’ve started to like it.
Until one night, it breaks.
It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.
You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.
And then—
“Evenin’, darlin’.”
You look up.
There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.
You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.
In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.
Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.
He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.
“You look like you could use some company.”
You don’t invite him in.
You don’t say much at all.
Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.
But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.
You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.
First, it’s flowers.
Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.
Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.
Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.
Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.
Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.
You don’t see him again for a week.
And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.
You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.
Ripe.
He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.
“You ain’t said my name yet.”
“I don’t know it,” you say.
He smiles like that hurts him.
“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”
It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.
The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.
And there he is. Again.
You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.
He doesn’t knock.
He never does anymore.
Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.
You don’t speak.
You just watch.
The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.
You’ve seen how he suffers.
And you love the way he suffers.
He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.
When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.
He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.
“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.
His voice is shredded. Used up.
“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”
You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.
His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.
“Please.”
The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.
“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”
You shift in the doorway.
Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
He whimpers.
“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”
You don’t respond.
Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.
“You want to come in?” you murmur.
His breath catches.
Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.
“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”
You tilt your head.
“Why?”
He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.
“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”
He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.
Your stomach flips.
You almost say it. Almost.
But then you pull back.
And he breaks.
He wasn’t always like this.
You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.
Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?
Now?
He’s a wreck.
On all fours.
Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.
His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.
You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.
He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.
It’s pleading.
Pathetic.
Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.
You tilt your glass. Take a sip.
He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.
“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”
You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.
His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.
“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”
You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.
“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”
He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.
“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”
You stay silent.
Let him spiral.
Let him beg.
Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.
His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.
Then—
“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”
You watch him twitch.
You don’t speak.
And that silence?
It undoes him.
He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
It’s late.
Later than you usually sit up for him.
The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.
The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.
But he’s louder.
He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.
But when he hears the door creak, he moves.
Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.
“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”
You say nothing.
He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.
You step forward.
And he growls.
Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.
“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”
You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.
He chokes.
You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.
And then you whisper it.
Soft. Small.
The word.
“Come in.”
He doesn’t believe you at first.
His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.
“Wh-what?” he croaks.
“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”
And that’s all it takes.
He lunges.
Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.
He weeps.
On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.
And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.
“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”
You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.
He sees it.
And loses what’s left of his composure.
He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.
Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.
And you do.
Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:
“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”
You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t even pause.
Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.
You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.
“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”
He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.
“Tell me I can fuck you.”
You nod.
He breaks again.
And then—
He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.
He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.
“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.
You nod again.
“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”
And he pushes in—
Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.
He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”
You clutch his shoulders.
He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.
Then he growls.
Low. Deep. Possessive.
And moves.
One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.
“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”
He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.
Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.
His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.
You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.
“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”
He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.
He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.
“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”
And he does.
He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.
You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.
“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”
You nod.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.
It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.
You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.
You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.
“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”
And he does.
Hot and thick and endless.
He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.
He finally stills, trembling.
Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.
And then—
He kisses the bite.
Soft.
Gentle.
His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.
“You saved me,” he breathes.
And for once, you don’t correct him.
You don’t know how long you lie there.
Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.
You feel it when he finally starts to move.
Just a shift.
The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.
You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.
He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.
There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.
You glance down.
He’s watching you.
Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.
You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.
“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”
You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.
“Don’t get poetic on me now.”
“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”
He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.
“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”
You nod. You did.
And you meant it.
He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.
“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” you whisper.
And he moans.
Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.
You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.
Neither does he.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.
And you?
You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.
The blood on your neck has dried.
The slick between your thighs has cooled.
But his body stays warm against you.
And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.
No birds. No blue.
Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.
Because he can’t survive the sun.
And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.
Not exactly a scene in your fics, but whenever I think about your writing, I always think of happy endings and weddings, no matter what. Maybe because you love fluff and romance 😁 So, here is the sweetest fluff I can create, just for you, my beloved bestie 💋
huge fan of the depth of a good purple but another area that draws me is definitely around aquamarine/turquoise/seafoam. you can not go wrong once the green starts getting just a tinge more blue. a gal could certainly do worse than to pull over there and stay a while
this is actually HILARIOUS because both domestic rabbits and domestic cats practice dominance-related social grooming but for wildly different reasons.
if you're a rabbit, the boss rabbit is the one who gets groomed by its subordinate rabbits.
but if you're a cat... the boss cat is the one that grooms the other cats.
BOTH these idiots are going "aw yeah, it's good to be on top >:) "
