Hello my baes, just letting the three people reading Sour sour times that I promise I havenât abandoned the fic, life is just running me over, I am rereading chapter 3 atm, itâs coming out soon, love you all! đđ
Youâre a college student who happens to finds herself in raccoon city at the wrong time, just when you think your world is ending, a young cop finds you and become your pillar during this horror of a night.
a/n
Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait with chapter 2, been trying to keep my editing account alive as well as write and it has been more complicated than I expected, but I'm very excited to post this one now, thank you for the attention on the first part, I hope you guys will like this one too! Also side note, I'm starting a tag list after request, so if anyone is interested, please let me know in the comments, I will gladly add you!!
TW: depiction of gore!
After the rather brief introduction, he nodded and signaled you to follow him. He started walking down the few steps of the station entry. Even the station was a mess, although the building itself was intact. Blood splattered the floor. A few stretcher beds lay all over the place, along with what used to be the reception.Â
"You live around here?" Leon's voice pulls you out of your thoughts. He slows down to walk at your pace. "Well, if you can even call it living anymore. I'm in college here." He nods slowly at your response and inspects your face, gauging your emotions. "What about you?" He sighs as he looks around. "I'm not from here. Well... I would've been. Today was supposed to be my first day as a cop here." Your eyes widen slightly at his words. He looks rather young for a cop, but youâre not complaining. You were lucky enough to be saved by one.Â
"Do you know how it started?" You figure he's talking about whatever chaos is occurring outside, and you're suddenly reminded by your friend whose life was unfairly taken. You swallow the lump in your throat as you peak. "A few days ago, I think, I'm not sure of the exact timeline anymore, I was hiding in a laundromat this entire time." He looks at you as you speak, and he can tell you've been through some shit yourself. He doesn't pry, though; it's not his place, not yet.Â
  You guys start looking around the station in silence. Some doors seem locked, you see a giant statue of a goddess, perhaps, and there are also some empty slots, three, to be exact. Leon seems deep in thoughts and you continue exploring, going back to the reception, you see a computer, leaning toward it, you turn it on, immediately, the camera monitors appear and you see a man being chased by one of those monsters, he talks about having found something, a way to get out of the station in what seems to be a small notebook.Â
You are about to call Leon over when you suddenly see him right next to you, staring intently at the screen.Â
"We've got to help that guy." He says, and you nod, moving aside to let him check the map that he clicked on the screen. For a rookie, he sure looked rather confident in his actions, and that somehow made you feel more relieved to be with him. After looking at the map he looks over to you and you guys exchange words without speaking, he grabs your wrist gently and led you both to an automatic metallic curtain, not completely shut down, you could get through the other side if you crawled, and of course, Leon went in first, laying on his stomach, grabbing a flashlight before crawling halfway, inspecting for any danger before speaking. "Alright, it's safe we can go."
  And so you did, crawling your way to the other side after him, staining your clothes with the wet blood on the floor while Leon stood, waiting for you. He extended his hand, helping you up. Once you were on your feet, an unpleasant shiver ran down your spine at the sight in front of you. It was dark; you could only see because of Leon's flashlight illuminating the corridor and the big 'exit' sign on the wall.Â
  Furniture knocked down, water on the floor, coloured a deep red, thanks to the blood, you were once again hit with the smell of blood and decaying corpses, you guessed you were not too far away. Leon must've seen you zone out because you felt a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it softly as he gave you a soft smile, one that meant 'it's gonna be okay', but you saw the fear behind his eyes and the way his lips slightly twitched, the uncertainty written all over his face. You appreciated the gesture, though.Â
  He started leading the way, gun drawn out with you hot on his heels, each noise in that eerie corridor making the hairs on your body rise a bit more. You eventually arrive face to face with a sort of huge cabinet blocking the way, you help Leon move it, and the commotion alerts one of those zombies, at least thatâs what they looked like. Your body stiffened before Leon shot it in the head approximately three times before it collapsed to the floor, greedy son of a bitch.Â
You eventually made it to the end of the corridor, and you quickly understood the scent of rotten corpses from earlier, with the massacre before you. Blood was everywhere here, up to the walls, unrecognisable faces and body parts gnawed to the bone. You tried your hardest to hold back your vomit as you followed Leon, who approached the door of an office. One thing you were sure of, this man had strong guts and huge balls. Just as he was about to open the door, you heard someone banging on a door inside, a voice calling desperately for help. You both ran inside, another metal curtain, this is where the screaming came from, Leon and you both lifted it up enough for the police officer that you saw earlier on the camera monitors to crawl his way under it. As he started desperately crawling, a zombie on the other side grabbed his legs. You started panicking as you tried to open the curtain further while Leon grabbed the officer, trying to pull him to the other side. "I got you! Come on!" he screamed. And then you heard it, the same blood-curdling scream your friend had let out, the sound of flesh ripping, bones breaking. "Leon," you said, voice alarmed, he had heard it too, but refused to give up as he pulled harder.Â
  The cop had made it, well, half of him made it, his voice now silent, his eyes still wide open, a pool of blood forming as Leon and you both stared in horror. You had let go of the curtain, letting it close back loudly. His intestines were hanging out, his face was pale, and blood was coming out of his mouth. Leon eventually lets go of the man, and you stood on shaky legs and watched as Leon's face drained of colour, staring at the lifeless body before him. You approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You did what you could, Leon." His face turned to you, and his eyes met yours. He looked sick, rightfully so. He sighed and picked up the notebook crumpled by the officer's hand and stood up. You gently tapped his back, and you guys made it back to the main hall, Leon killing two other zombies on his way.Â
  You got to the first curtain again and crawled back. You made it first to the other side, Leon following suit when he was suddenly pulled back. He gasped, turning around to see another one of them trying to pull back into the darkness. "Shit!" he screamed out as he tried to free himself. "Leon!" you gasped out as you reached out to him, attempting to pull him back to you. Suddenly, the metal curtain came down, crushing open the monster's skull as small parts of his brain fell upon his jeans. The sudden force of the zombie being gone causes you to pull him hard one last time, making you fall backwards, Leon's back colliding with your chest as you hold him tight away from the door, him clutching your forearm. You could feel your heartbeat ringing in your ears, both catching your breath as you both looked up to see the reason the curtain came down. A man, probably in his forties, a cop, judging by his uniform, clutching his side as blood seeped through his clothes and oozed from between his fingers.
"You're safe. For now," he said, leaning over and extending his hand out to Leon, who was still crashed against you. "Marvin Branagh." The man said. "Leon Kennedy," he replied, grabbing Marvin's hand. "There was another officer we couldn't- I couldn't..." he said between pants. Once on his feet, Leon held his hand out to you and helped you up gently, thanking you silently.Â
"I'm sure you did what you could, Leon," The man said, heading to sit on one of the benches, groaning painfully in the process. Leon then went on to tell him you guys had just arrived there, introducing you in the process. Marvin listened carefully and proceeded to hand him a uniform. "This will be better for what awaits you."Â
  Leon stepped away to change quickly, leaving you alone with the injured man, and you sat next to him, leaving some space in case he needed to lie down because of his injury. You saw the deep gash on his lower abdomen, and your stomach did a cartwheel at the sight; you really wouldn't ever get used to it. "Yeah, one of those assholes got me." He broke the silence, noticing you staring at the wound. "Sorry... I didn't mean to pry," You said, looking down at your feet again. "It's alright, young lady, I'm done for anyway. You're lucky not to be alone in this. Been with Leon the entire time?" You decide to go on and explain to Marvin your situation before meeting Leon, and he simply listened, letting you narrate your story. When you eventually stop talking, he deduces that you're done. "You're brave to have made it this far alone." Coming from a cop, you should take this as a compliment, but all you could think about was your friend, who was wrongfully taken away from you, you feel anything but brave, you could've maybe saved them if you were not such a coward, if your body had not been frozen with fear, maybe things would be different now, but instead you went to hide for days because you couldn't handle it.Â
"Hey," he breaks you out of your thoughts, and you feel the water running down your cheeks. You hadn't even realised you had started crying. "The past is in the past; look at the mess around you. There is nothing you couldâve done to save everyone, unfortunately. Trust me, I tried. So focus on right now, your future is more important than anything, escape this place with Leon, he will be the most important person to you right now, just like you will be to him." He says, and you nod slowly, you wish you had met Marvin under different circumstances. He seems like a good man, no doubt about it.Â
  "Okay, lieutenant, I'm ready." Leon's voice brings you both back to the current setting. He's now wearing his uniform, and you know now is not the time, but he looked good- more than good in it. You think Leon could actually be your type, even if cops are usually not your cup of tea- alright enough.Â
He walks up to you both and hands you his jacket, the one he was previously wearing. "You must be freezing," you were, your own little jacket was almost ripped off, and drenched. "Thank you, Leon," you simply replied, taking it from him as he smiled at you, a very charming smile that would've normally had you putty. You stand up and discard your old jacket somewhere on the couch and throw his over your shoulders, while he goes back to Marvin.
"Does anyone know what started this?" He asks the question he asked you earlier, to someone maybe more qualified, understandable.Â
"Not a clue." The man simply replied, eyes on a screen monitor. Great, so no one was qualified enough in this room. "But honestly, all you need to know is this place will eat you alive if you aren't careful," he adds. You share a look with Leon, a worried one, and your words die out in your throat. You let the men carry on their conversation as you separated yourself from them, not really wanting to hear Marvin explain to Leon how you guys could die tonight. No, thank you. Your eyes suddenly spot a stack of water bottles on the floor, and you swear that you could imagine the scene play out in slow-motion with George Michael singing in the background. You waste no time rushing over to it, inspecting one of the bottles to see if they were safe, not wanting to drink something poisonous, the night felt so crazy that, honestly, that scenario was possible. When you noticed it completely unoppened you wasted no time taking the cap off, downing it in one go, feeling life return to your body slowly, you noticed Leon in the corner of your eyes, keeping his eyes on you once in a while.Â
  "Yeah, well, I was supposed to start last week, and I got a call to stay away." You hear Leon carry on the conversation. "I wish I'd come here sooner." The frustration in his voice is more than evident; he would've made a great cop. "You're here now, Leon. That's all that matters." Marvin replies quickly. "Hopefully, you two will find a way out of this station." He adds, grabbing your attention as you make your way back to the two men. Marvin held up the little notebook you found on that poor cop that was ripped apart earlier, the thought making the water you had just drank almost come out. "That officer, Elliot," so Elliot was his name. "he thought this secret passageway might do the trick." He says, showing the notebookand both of you leaned over. You inspected the page with Leon, noticing the passageway was under a goddess statue, the same statue behind you, the one you immediately saw when you entered the place. You then saw on the page the three missing medallions; of course, you remembered seeing that, nothing could be easy for once. "This is good news," Leon said, sounding optimistic, which scared you a lot less. "Yeah, we can get you to a hospital," you added. Marvin looked far more in pain than when you met him earlier. "No, no i am not the priority here." He said, and Leon quickly added, "Lieutenant, we are not just gonna leave you here-"
"I'm giving you an order, rookie. You save yourself and that young lady first." The sudden authority and rise of tone made you flinch, but not Leon; he stopped talking and listened. "I'd come with you, but I'd just slow you down," he added. "Now, you'll need this." He stood up and handed Leon a combat knife. Leon almost sighed, looking at it, "I can't take-" "Stop." Marvin interrupted him once again. Leon eventually went to grab it, when his fingers closed around it, Marving yanked slightly on it, bringing him closer, looking at him first, then back at you, warning you both.Â
"And don't make my mistake," now you can imagine how he got bit, the regret in his eyes almost readable. "If you see one of those things, uniform or not, you do not hesitate. You take it out, or you run, got it ?!" "Yes, sir," Leon replied almost immediately. You saw Marvin wince in pain and quickly made your way over to him, helping him sit. "Stay with him at all costs, you only have each other now." Marvin told you, you gave him that same 'yes, sir' Leon gave him a few seconds ago.Â
  You let the poor man rest as you both stepped aside. You held out the notebook and showed him that the statue was missing three medallions.Â
"Should we split to find them faster?" You questioned Leon, who immediately frowned upon your request.Â
"Absolutely not." Before you could even ask why he reminded you of the situation. "This place might be infected by whatever we saw outside. You have no weapon on you, can't use a gun if I had to guess, and I already prevented you from becoming a meal." Well, now you felt stupid for asking, you looked down briefly, and felt his hand landing on your shoulder.Â
"You are not leaving my side, we're sticking together, and I'm gonna need you too; we need each other, we will both make it out." Well, he had a way with words. Something about Leon Kennedy felt naturally reassuring, even though he was terrified himself; he managed to make others feel seen. You smiled slightly, and he did the same. "Alright, what first then?" You asked, and he went into focus mode again.
Youâre a college student who happens to finds herself in raccoon city at the wrong time, just when you think your world is ending, a young cop finds you and become your pillar during this horror of a night.
a/n
Hello guys ! I hesitated a lot to write and actually post this. I have only written once before so please Iâm still fairly new to this, I plan on making multiple parts to follow the RE2R game, however, I donât know how many parts yet as I am still writing the rest of it. I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. I miss rookie Leon and I need more representation of him. â€ïž(also side note, I picked the name sour sour times as a reference to a portishead song, it depicts the mood this fic will have)
TW: depiction of gore!! Not suggestive for now, weâll see where the chapters take us.
27th september 1998
  Hell of a day for sure.
  You don't even remember how that thing had spread so quickly. One minute you were with your friends, hanging out after a shitty day in college, the next you were hiding in a random building, fearing for your life more than ever, hiding from those flesh eating creatures; creatures who used to be human beings; human beings with normal lives and loving families.
  The virus⊠or whatever it was had spread so quickly, you only remember running for your life with one of your friends before they were harshly ripped away from you. You heard them scream before you coud even notice their disppearance. When you turned around, your friend was on their stomach, on the hard, cold concrete, one of those creatures climbing on them as they held their hand out and cried to you, fear etched everywhere on their features.Â
Before you could reach out back to help them, the creature dived down, sinking its bloody teeth into the skin of their neck, the skin peeling away slowly with a disgusting squelching sound as a blood curling scream left their mouth. Colour drained from your face and all you could do was stand there, watching as your friend laid on the ground, screaming for their life as blood splattered on the concrete, their cries alerting more of these monsters, gathering around their almost lifeless body as they all started feasting upon it.Â
Ears ringing, you stood idly, weaponless as you stared in terror. Eventually one of them noticed you and started walking toward you, its groans and moans making your skin crawl.Â
With a final sorry to your now unrecognisable cadaver of a friend, you continued running.
  And here you were now, in a laundromat, you had barricaded the door the best you could, cried in despair, thrown up when you thought about the horrifyingly graphic way your friend had died, cried again, and contemplated if you should've just killed yourself when you had the chance to do it.Â
You had remained in the laudromat for a few days, maybe three? Your skin now dry and drained of its usual colour from the lack of light, throat dry beyond imagination from the lack of water, stomach growling. As you tried to think of a way to end this suffering differently than throw yourself at those things, a general alarm went off, slightly muffled considering you were inside. Nonetheless, your ears pearked up as you listened to the sudden voice.Â
"Attention all citizens, you are now advised to take shelter at the Racoon City police station..." The police station, it was approximately 10 minutes away away from your current hideaway plank. You proceeded to argue with yourself for about 30 minutes, wondering if going out there was worth it, considering you'd probably die as soon as you'd take a step outside.Â
  You eventually figured that if one of those creatures grabbed you, you would maybe be able to snap your neck fast enough before they could feast on you while you could feel everything.
After an additional 15 minutes of contemplating, you eventually removed the washing machine you had used to barricade the door and went out in the streets, feeling your heart beating in your ears as you heard the groans in the distance. Swallowing your fear down as best as you could, you made your way down the apocalyptic streets, cars broken down, on fire, bodies to the ground, the alarm still going off, the smell of death lingering in the air.Â
  You had taken more than 10 minutes to get to the station since you had decided to be as silent as possible. Once the station came in view, you almost sighed in relief as you made your way to the main portal.
Fate had decided otherwise though. You suddenly fell face first on the ground, hitting your head in the process, you were stunned, desperately trying to take in your surroundings as you felt a warm liquid cascading down your temple, your hand reached up to the painful area and you winced, looking back down at your fingers you saw blood.Â
Turning around to see the reason of your fall, you cried out when you saw it. Underneath a car, one of those things was gripping your ankle, you tried to kick its face as it tried to mount on you. You could almost cry just looking at it. Its white eyes staring directly at yours, its face, or, what what was remaining of it, completely ripped off, leaving behind a bloody mess as a part of its cheek was hanging down, connected to it by a small remain of thin flesh, the whole gory scenery allowed you to spot a row of somewhat white teeth where the missing part of its cheek should've been hiding it.Â
  You were almost ready to accept your fate when suddenly a loud bang resonated, a hole appeared on its forehead, the impact causing blood to splatter on your face. A gunshot, you figured as the monsters head fell on your thigh, staining your jeans more than it already was.Â
You then felt a pair of hands under your armpits, hoisting you up before you could register it.Â
"Come on, we gotta go!" A voice rang in your ears and when you turned around, you saw a young man, gun in hand, the other gripping your arm as he dragged you with him when he saw you barely move.Â
  He led you both through the portal and you regained conciousness, helping him close it hurriedly and then you both made your way inside of the police station, closing the huge doors behind you two.
You leaned back against it as you tried to catch you breath, the adrenaline pumping in your veins finally wearing off and you closed your eyes tightly, thinking of how you'd probably be left with your organs out if you hadn't been saved.Â
"Are you alright?" You heard that familiar voice again, a hand landing on your shoulder and you opened your eyes again.
This time you could inspect him, blue eyes staring straight at you, dirty blonde hair, darkened by the heavy rain, a pair of blue jeans, white shirt, and a jacket, all hanging tightly on his body also because of the unapolegetic weather outside. A pair of white sneakers, ruined.Â
"Yeah, thanks for back there." you managed to reply after getting over your emotions.
"Don't mention it." He was pretty cute, extremely so even, but you figured it was not the time or place to be thinking that. "Leon Kennedy, and you are?" He said, waiting for you to answer him. You told him your name, straightening yourself up, you must look a mess right now.Â
If only you had known at this moment that meeting Leon would change everything for you.
summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmickâunaging, unholy, unforgettableâreturns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.
wc: 13.1k
a/n: Listen. I didnât mean to simp for Vampire Jack OâConnellâbut here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!
warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally
tags: @xhoneymoonx134
likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy
Mississippi Delta, 1938
The heat hadnât broken in days.
Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkierâsoil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.
Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modestâtwo rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.
The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find youâŠif they were patient enough.
You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.
And beneath itâbeneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirdsâyou felt something shift.
A quiet. Too quiet.
You turned your head. Listened harder.
Nothing.
Not even the frogs.
Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasnât like you to be spooked by the dark. Youâd grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.
But this?
This was different.
It was as if the night was holding its breath.
And thenâ
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Not loud. Not frantic. But final.
Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.
No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one butâ
You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.
No.
He was gone. That part of your life was buried.
You made sure of it.
Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they werenât yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.
Your hand rested on the knob.
Another knock. This time, softer.
Almost...polite.
The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldnât see who was waiting on the other side. But the airâsomething in the airâtold you.
It was him.
You didnât answer. Not right away.
You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it tooâeyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didnât stir like it shouldâve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.
And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadnât let yourself feel in years.
You didnât know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyesâgold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.
And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didnât come from any map youâd ever seenâolder than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:
"Youâll know when itâs time."
You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didnât back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.
The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.
You turned it.
The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctivelyâjust one stepâand then he was there.
Remmick.
Still tall, still lean in that devastating wayâlike his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like heâd been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.
But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.
Still young. Still wrong.
Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadnât aged a day.
And his eyesâoh, God, his eyes.
They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.
"Hello, dove."
His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didnât answer. You couldnât.
You hated how your body reacted.
Hated that you could still feel itâlike something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat youâd felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.
He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.
"You remember, donât you?" he asked.
"I came to collect."
And your voiceâwhen it finally cameâwas little more than a whisper.
"You canât be real."
That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.
"You promised."
You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didnât move.
Remmick didnât step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something oldâolder than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.
He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.
"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ainât it?"
Your stomach clenched. That dress hadnât seen a neighborâs eye all week.
"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.
"Iâve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."
You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of somethingâdried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.
Not fresh. Not violent. JustâŠpresent. Like it lived in him.
"I paid my debt," you whispered.
"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didnât creak beneath his weight. "And thatâs only half the bargain."
He still hadnât crossed the threshold.
The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorwaysâvampires couldnât enter unless invited. But you hadnât invited him, not this time.
"You donât have permission," you said.
He smiled, eyes flashing red again.
"You gave it, seven years ago."
Your breath hitched.
"I was a girl," you said.
"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they canât be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didnât understand it. Your promise had teeth."
The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.
Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate nowâdragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.
"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now Iâm here for whatâs mine."
Your heart thudded violently in your chest.
"I didnât think youâd come."
"Thatâs the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."
And thenâ
He stepped back.
The wind stopped.
The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what youâd do next.
"Iâll wait out here till youâre ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But donât make me knock twice. Wouldnât be polite."
The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.
You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.
Youâd made a promise.
And he was here to keep it.
The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.
You didnât move.
Your body stood still but your mind wanderedâback to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brotherâs lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didnât breathe, didnât blink, didnât make promises the way mortals did.
It came in the shape of him.
You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dreamâhot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.
You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.
The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didnât speak again. Didnât call for you.
He didnât have to.
You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though youâd already read it twice. You tried to pretend you werenât thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.
You could feel him out there. Not just physicallyâbut in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.
You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.
Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeperâlike something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.
No bite.
Not yet.
But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.
You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.
He hadnât moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like heâd always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit youârich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.
He didnât look at you right away.
Then, slowly, he did.
Red eyes caught yours.
He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you heâd already memorized.
"Thought youâd shut the door by now," he said.
"I should have," you answered.
"But you didnât."
His voice curled into the quiet.
You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didnât move to greet you. He didnât rise. He just watched you walk toward him like heâd been watching in dreams you never remembered having.
The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.
His shoulder brushed yours.
You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.
Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.
"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.
"Since before you knew to look."
"Why now?"
He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.
"Because nowâŠyouâre ripe for the pickinâ.â
You didnât remember falling asleep.
One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.
The house was too quiet.
No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.
Just stillness.
And scent.
It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.
You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.
Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming wayâthough you couldnât say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.
But something had changed.
You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.
The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didnât dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.
You opened the front door.
The porch was empty.
The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.
A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.
You picked it up with trembling hands.
Come.
That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.
You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. Youâd never dared follow it. That road didnât belong to you.
It belonged to him.
And nowâŠso did you.
You didnât bring anything with you.
Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.
Just yourself.
And the road.
The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feetâfresh from last nightâs storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.
The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each otherâs leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacredâor something doomed.
A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didnât flinch.
There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.
And then you saw it.
The house.
Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautifulâwhite columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.
You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.
Heâd brought you here.
Or maybe heâd always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment youâd return to him without even knowing it.
A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.
You didnât run.
Your bare foot found the first step.
It groaned like it recognized you.
The door was already open.
Not wideâjust enough for you to know it had been waiting.
And you stepped inside.
The air inside was colder.
Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shadeâbut from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.
Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural senseâthere was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.
But it had been kept.
The air didnât smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.
He hadnât lit any lamps.
Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.
You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.
Your voice didnât carry. It didnât even try.
Remmick was nowhere in sight.
But he was here.
You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.
You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.
You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.
A whisper of air moved behind you.
Thenâ
A hand.
Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.
You froze.
He was behind you.
So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not coldâjust present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.
His voice was low, close to your ear.
"You came."
You didnât answer.
"You always would have."
You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.
Maybe that was why he smiled.
He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.
He looked at you like he was already undressing you.
Not your clothesâyour will.
And it was already unraveling.
Youâd suspected he wasnât born of this soil.
Not just because of the way he movedâlike he didnât quite belong to gravityâbut because of the way he spoke. Like time hadnât worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.
He didnât speak like a man from the Delta.
He spoke like something older than it.
Older than the country. Maybe older than God.
Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.
His eyes had dulled from red to something deeperâlike old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.
He studied you for a long time.
You werenât sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldnât hide.
"You look just like your mother," he said finally.
Your breath caught.
"You knew her?"
A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
"Iâve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."
You didnât ask what he meant. Not yet.
There was something heavy in his toneâsomething laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.
Youâd read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.
Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.
Others said they didnât age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.
You didnât know how old Remmick was.
But something in your bones told you the truth.
Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.
A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.
And youâd given him both.
He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.
"Yer heartâs gallopinâ like it thinks Iâm here to take it."
You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.
"You said you didnât want my blood," you whispered.
"I donât." He tilted his head. "Not yet."
"Then what do you want?"
His smile didnât reach his eyes.
"You."
He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.
You swallowed hard.
"Why me?"
His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting heâd stolen once and hidden from the world.
"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargainâs ever tasted so sweet."
Your throat tightened.
"I didnât know what I was agreeing to."
"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didnât catch up."
You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certaintyâ
But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.
"And youâve been thinkinâ about me ever since," he said.
Not a question. A statement.
You didnât answer.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.
"You dream of me, donât you?"
Your hands trembled at your sides.
"I donâtâ"
"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You donât know why. But I do."
You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.
"Fuckinâ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.â
His hand didnât move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasnât the roughness that undid youâit was the restraint.
He couldâve taken.
He didnât.
Not yet.
His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.
"Say it," he murmured.
Your lips parted, but nothing came.
"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. Youâve been livinâ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."
You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.
"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what Iâm feeling?"
His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.
"Because I do."
"Thatâs not fair."
He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.
"No, dove. It ainât."
You hated him.
You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.
He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.
Remmick moved closer. You didnât retreat.
His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.
"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "Iâm only here to collect the rest."
"You saved my brother."
"I saved you. You just didnât know it yet."
A shiver rippled down your spine.
His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didnât radiate warmth the way a manâs shouldâbut something older. Wilder. Like the earthâs own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.
"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.
His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.
"Iâll wait."
You werenât expecting that.
He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.
"Iâve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that donât mean I wonât keep my hands on you âtil you change your mind."
"You think I will?"
"You already have."
Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.
"You think this is love?"
He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.
"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."
Then his mouth brushed your jawânot a kiss, just the graze of lips against skinâand every nerve in your body arched to meet it.
Your knees buckled, barely.
He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.
"Iâm gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But Iâll be so gentle the first time youâll beg me to do it again."
And God help youâ
You wanted him to.
The house didnât sleep.
Not the way houses were meant to.
It breathed.
The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.
Youâd spent the rest of the nightâif you could call it thatâin a room that wasnât yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadnât asked for anything. He hadnât offered.
The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugsâor the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didnât recognize.
Him.
You didnât undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.
Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.
But he never came.
And somehow, that was worse.
Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didnât quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.
When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.
There was a scent in the airâcoffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.
You followed it.
The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.
Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didnât hear you enter.
You knew he had.
He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.
"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ainât got much else."
You didnât speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost heâd conjured and forgotten about.
He turned.
God help you.
Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just timeâhe looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldnât quite forget.
"Sleep alright?" he asked.
You gave a small nod.
He looked at you a moment longer. Thenâ
"Sit down, dove."
You moved toward the table.
His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.
"Thatâs the wrong chair."
You paused.
He nodded to one at the head of the tableâold, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didnât recognize.
"That oneâs yours now."
You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.
He brought the plate to you himself.
Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.
He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.
"You ainât gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchinâ you do it."
You picked up the fork.
His eyes stayed on your mouth.
The cornbread was still warm.
Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.
You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.
Remmick didnât speak. He didnât need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone elseâs feast.
The bite landed soft on your tongueâgolden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this shouldâve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.
But you swallowed.
And he smiled.
"Good girl," he murmured.
You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.
"You donât get to say things like that," you whispered.
"Why not?"
Your fingers tightened around the handle.
"Because it sounds like you earned it."
He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.
"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckinâ word after dragginâ you out that night and lettinâ you walk away without layinâ a hand on you."
You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.
"You shouldnât have touched me."
"I didnât," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."
Your breath caught.
His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.
"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.
You pushed the plate away.
He didnât flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadnât moved it at all.
"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."
You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.
"You talk about it like itâs alive."
He gave a slow nod.
"It is. In a way."
"How?"
He looked down at your plate, then back at you.
"Youâll see."
You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didnât know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.
When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.
Not hard. Not even firm. JustâŠinevitable.
"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.
You nodded.
His eyes darkened.
"Then Iâll have my taste next."
Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.
He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eyeâred barely flickering now, but still thereâand it told you everything.
He was done pretending.
You didnât move. Not right away.
His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.
You swallowed hard.
"You said you didnât want blood."
"I donât."
"Then what do you want?"
"You."
You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.
And what terrified you was thisâ
You didnât want to run.
You wanted to know how it would feel.
To give something he couldnât take without permission.
To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.
Remmickâs other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.
"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.
"You do."
"What do you smell like?"
He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.
"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that donât die right."
You shivered.
"And still I want you," you breathed.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.
"Thatâs the worst part, ainât it?"
You didnât answer.
Because he was right.
His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.
He guided you up from the chair.
Didnât yank. Didnât drag.
Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Somewhere I can kneel."
Your heart stuttered.
He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the homeâs belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.
The door at the end of the hall was already open.
Inside, the room was dark.
Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.
A ritual.
Not violent.
Intimate.
Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.
"Sit," he said.
You sat.
He knelt.
And then his hands found your knees.
His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.
The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didnât look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelightâhalf-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.
His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.
"Yer too quiet," he murmured.
"I donât know what to say," you whispered back.
His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.
"Ya ainât gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I donât want yer blood."
Your lips parted, but no sound came.
He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.
You didnât realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.
Your lungs stuttered.
His lips trailed higher.
Another kiss.
Then another.
Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasnât just undressing youâhe was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.
"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.
You shook your head.
He smiled like he already knew the answer.
"Good. Let me be the first."
He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasnât just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.
The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.
He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and saidâ
"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."
And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.
His mouth touched you like heâd been dreaming of it for years. Like heâd earned it.
No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skinâand the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.
He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.
"Sweet as I fuckinâ knew youâd be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.
Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
He didnât stop.
He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legsâeach flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.
And all the while, he watched you.
When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.
"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."
Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.
"Thatâs it, dove," he murmured. "Donât run from it. Give it to me."
He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.
You whined. Desperate.
He smirked against your cunt.
"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."
Your lips barely formed the wordâ"Please."
He hummed in approval.
Then he devoured you.
No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.
You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.
"Thatâs it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum fâr me, girl. Let me taste whatâs mine."
And when it hitâ
It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.
You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.
He didnât stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.
Then, finallyâfinallyâhe pulled back.
His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man whoâd just fed.
"Youâre fuckinâ divine," he whispered. "And I ainât even started ruininâ you yet."
The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.
Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhereâin your wrists, your throat, between your legs where heâd buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You werenât sure how long it had been since youâd spoken. Since youâd breathed without shaking.
Remmick still knelt.
His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldnât bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on youâwatchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.
He looked drunk on you.
You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.
He beat you to it.
"Reckon you know whatâs cominâ next," he murmured.
You didnât answer.
He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of itâthen licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.
You watched, breath held tight in your chest.
He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didnât fix it. Didnât move at all. The heat between your legs hadnât faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.
He stopped in front of you.
Tilted his head slightly.
"Howâs yer heart?"
You blinked.
"ItâsâŠfast," you whispered.
He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.
"Good. I want it fast."
Your throat tightened.
"Why?"
He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.
"âCause I want yer blood screaminâ for me when I take it."
Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.
He didnât touch you yetâdidnât need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places heâd worshiped with his mouth not moments before.
You swallowed.
"You said youâd wait," you whispered.
He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.
"I did. And I have. But yer bodyâs already begginâ for me. Ainât it?"
You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closerâbut that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.
You lifted your chin, barely.
"Iâm not scared."
He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.
"Good. But I donât need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."
He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghostâs touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.
"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. Thatâs where I wanna taste ya."
You shivered.
He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.
"I ainât gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."
Your fingers twisted in your lap.
"Will itâ" you started, but the question got tangled.
He smiled against your skin.
"Will it feel good?"
You said nothing.
"You already know."
You did.
Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasnât right. It wasnât holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.
You nodded once.
"Then take it."
Remmick stilled.
And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.
"Thatâs my girl," he breathed.
And then he bit.
It wasnât pain.
It was pressure, first.
A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and thenâsharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.
You gasped.
Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.
Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something elseâsomething otherworldly.
The pull came next.
A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedyâjustâŠintimate. Like giving. Like surrender.
He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.
"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythinâ warm I thought Iâd forgotten."
Your head tipped further, offering him more.
You didnât know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.
Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.
Your moan was breathless.
"Remmickâ"
He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.
"Donât speak, dove. Just feel."
And you did.
You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.
It was too much. It was not enough.
And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.
Like he hadnât fed on you.
Like heâd prayed.
The room was quiet, but your body wasnât.
You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered thereâglowing, aching, changed.
Remmickâs breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.
He looked undone.
And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didnât touch you just right.
"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.
You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.
"I feelâŠ" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "âŠwarm."
He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.
"You should. Youâre inside me now. Every drop of you."
The words rooted somewhere deep. You didnât flinch. Didnât pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasnât just lust. It wasnât just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.
"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.
He looked at you like youâd asked the wrong question.
"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, itâs ecstasy."
You stared at him.
"You mean for you?"
He shook his head once.
"For us."
Then he pulled back just enough to look at youâreally look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.
"Youâll bruise here," he said. "Wonât fade for a while."
"Will it heal?"
"Eventually."
"Do you want it to?"
His mouth curved, slow and wicked.
"No," he said. "I want the world to see whatâs mine."
And before you could replyâbefore the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itselfâhe kissed you.
Not soft.
Not careful.
His mouth claimed you like heâd already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature whoâd gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasnât letting go.
You tasted your own blood on his tongue.
And it tasted like forever.
The house knew.
It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeatâas though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.
As a belonging.
Remmick hadnât let you go.
Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like heâd been waiting for it. Like heâd never let you fall anywhere but into him.
He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.
"Donât reckon youâre walkinâ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.
You didnât argue. You couldnât.
Your head rested against the place where his heart shouldâve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifelessâjust other.
He carried you past rooms you hadnât seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.
You didnât ask.
He didnât explain.
The room he took you to was nothing like the others.
It wasnât grand.
It was personal.
The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboardâbut it had been turned upside down.
He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.
"Yâever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.
Your breath stilled.
"I thought it was the blood."
He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.
"Nah, dove. Bloodâs blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ainât why I chose."
He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.
"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.
You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where heâd fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the treesâbranches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the landâbut in here, it was only the two of you.
Only his voice.
Only your blood between his teeth.
"WhatâŠwhat was she like?" you asked.
His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocusedâjust distant. Remembering.
"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didnât know when to shut it. Always speakinâ when she shouldâve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ainât feared me even when she shouldâve."
He exhaled through his nose, slow.
"But she didnât get to finish beinâ mine."
Your brows pulled.
"What happened to her?"
He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returnedânot hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.
"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on accountâa what Iâd given her."
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
"Remmickâ"
"She didnât scream," he said, voice rough. "Didnât cry. Just looked at me like she knew Iâd find her again. And I have."
You froze.
His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.
"I donât believe in fate. Not really. But youâ" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ainât allowed to have."
You whispered against the curl of his mouth.
"And what do you think I am?"
He kissed the hinge of your jaw.
"My penance," he said. "And my reward."
You shivered.
"You said you saved me."
He nodded.
"I did."
"Why?"
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.
"âCause I ainât lettinâ another thing I love burn."
You didnât realize you were crying until he touched your face.
Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like heâd been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.
"You ainât her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."
His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.
You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didnât want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.
"I donât know what Iâm becoming," you said.
He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.
"Youâre becominâ mine."
Then he kissed you againânot like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.
When he pulled back, your breath followed him.
The room shifted.
You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.
"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."
You obeyed.
You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.
And when he climbed over you, it wasnât to take.
It was to be taken.
Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.
Youâre mine, he whispered, but didnât say it aloud.
He didnât have to.
His body said it.
His mouth said it.
And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inchâyour soul said it too.
His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didnât quite understandâuntil you looked into his eyes.
That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.
Not hunger.
Not lust.
Not even possession.
Devotion.
The kind that didnât speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.
His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.
"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.
"Youâre heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.
"Ainât even layinâ on you yet."
You didnât laugh. Couldnât. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.
He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.
"Youâre shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.
"So are you."
A pause.
Then softerâtruthfully,
"Yeah."
He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower stillâhis lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.
"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.
You didnât speak.
"Didnât think so," he muttered. "Shame."
His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you againânot rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew heâd already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.
"Tell me if itâs too much," he said.
"It already is."
He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.
"Good."
His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.
He groaned deep.
"Fuck, you feel like sin."
You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.
"Then sin with me."
He didnât hesitate.
He began to press inâslow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.
He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.
"Shitâya takinâ me so good, dove. Just like that."
You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.
"Remmickâ"
"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ainât gonna let you break."
But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.
He filled you like heâd been made for the task.
No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.
You clung to himâhands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadnât even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, tooâthe way he kept his shirt on like this wasnât about bareness, it was about belonging.
"Thatâs it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."
Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.
He buried himself to the hilt.
And stillâhe didnât move.
His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like youâd never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"
You nodded. Couldnât find your voice.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear.
"Ainât no leavinâ now. Iâll always be in ya. Even when I ainât."
You whimpered.
Not from pain. From how true it felt.
He moved thenâbarely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.
"Thatâs right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."
You didnât even know what it was anymore.
Your body?
Your blood?
Your soul?
Youâd already given them all.
And still, he took more.
But not cruelly.
Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.
He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.
Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.
"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."
You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.
"Please," you whispered, though you didnât know what you were asking for.
He did.
"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite heâd left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."
"Remmickâ"
"Say it."
You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.
"Make me come," you breathed. "PleaseâGod, pleaseâ"
His smile was sinful.
And then he fucked you.
His rhythm shiftedâno longer slow, no longer sacred.
It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.
Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the roomâthe gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.
He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.
"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.
You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.
"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.
"Yesâyes, I feel you, Remmick, Iâ"
"You gonna come fâr me like a good girl?"
"Yes."
"Say my fuckinâ name when you do."
His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like heâd owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.
Your body seized around him.
The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.
He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man whoâd waited centuries for the perfect fit.
And then he broke.
With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.
For a long, suspended moment, he didnât move.
Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.
Your sweat mixing.
Your bodies still joined.
"Thatâs it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "Thatâs how I know youâre mine."
The house exhaled around you.
The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groanedâsettling. Sighing. Accepting.
You didnât move. Couldnât.
Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadnât figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.
Remmick stayed inside you.
His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place heâd bitten, the same place heâd worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.
"Donât move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."
You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.
He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.
"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.
You nodded.
"Good," he murmured. "Didnât mean to fuck the soul outta ya. JustâŠcouldnât help it."
You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.
His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.
"Yâknow what you feel like?" he whispered.
"What?"
"Home."
The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.
He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richerâgarnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.
"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.
You blinked at him, dazed.
"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."
The silence between you was warm now.
Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the stormâs rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.
You felt it in your limbsâheavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didnât have language for.
Remmick hadnât moved far.
He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what heâd given you.
And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.
You turned your head to look at him.
His gaze was already on you.
"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
He didnât answer right away.
Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.
"You askinâ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"
You blinked slowly. "Both."
He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.
"Tonight, Iâll hold you. Long as youâll let me. Wonât leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookinâ at me like that."
You flushed, and he smiled.
"As for afterâŠ"
He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.
"Ainât never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."
"But not with me."
His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.
"No, dove. Not with you."
You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.
"Why?"
His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.
"âCause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythinâ that didnât bleed beneath me."
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghostâs sigh.
"But youâyou made me want somethinâ tender. Somethinâ breakable."
"That doesnât make sense."
"Donât gotta. Nothinâ about you ever has. And yet here you are."
You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.
"So I stay?"
He didnât hesitate.
"You stay."
The candle had burned low.
Its glow flickered long shadows across the wallsâyour bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.
Neither of you spoke for a while. You didnât need to.
Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmickâs chestâover his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like heâd stolen it back just for you.
He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.
"You still ainât askinâ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.
You paused.
"What question is that?"
He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.
"You wanna know if I turned you."
Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"And did you?"
He shook his head.
"Nah. Not yet."
"Why not?"
His fingers stilled. Then resumed.
"âCause you ainât asked me to."
You looked up at him sharply.
"Would you?"
A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.
"If it was you askinâ. If it was real."
Your breath caught.
"And if I donât?"
His gaze didnât waver.
"Then Iâll stay with you. âTil youâre old. âTil your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookinâ at me like Iâm the only thing that ever made you feel alive."
Your throat tightened.
"That sounds awful."
He smiled, slow and aching.
"It sounds human."
You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of youâbody and soulâand still asked nothing unless you gave it.
"Would it hurt?"
His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.
"Itâd hurt," he said. "But not more than beinâ without you would."
The quiet stretched long and low.
His words hung in the space between your mouths like smokeâsomething sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.
Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.
And beneath it allâ
You heard memory.
It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didnât recognize as your own. Your brotherâs blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.
You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.
Just up.
Because you knew Heâd stopped listening.
And thenâ
He came.
Out of nothing. Out of dark.
You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.
"You want him to live?"
You didnât answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldnât breathe. And heâd kneltâright there in the bloodâand laid his hand flat against your brotherâs chest.
You never saw what he did. Only saw your brotherâs eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.
And then he looked at you.
Not your brother.
Remmick.
He looked at you like heâd already taken something.
And he had.
Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.
You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.
"Iâve already given you everything."
He shook his head.
"Not this."
He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.
"This is still yours."
"And you want it?"
He didnât smile. Didnât look away.
"I want it to keep beatinâ. Forever. With mine."
You stared at him.
You thought about that alley. About your brotherâs eyes opening again.
About how no one else came.
And you made your choice.
"Then take it."
Remmick stilled.
"Donât say it unless you mean it, dove."
"I do."
His voice was barely more than a breath.
"You sure?"
You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
"Iâve never been more sure of anything in my life."
His eyes shimmeredâdeep red now, alive with something wild and tender.
"Then Iâll make you eternal," he whispered. "And Iâll never let the world take you from me."
He didnât rush.
Not now. Not with this.
Remmick looked at you like you were something rareâsomething holyâlike he couldnât believe youâd said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.
Then he moved.
Not with hunger. Not with heat.
With purpose.
He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner whoâd finally been granted absolution.
"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.
You nodded, throat tight.
"I want forever."
His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like heâd heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.
He leaned down.
His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.
"Close your eyes, dove."
You did.
And thenâ
You felt him.
His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didnât bite.
Not yet.
He kissed the mark heâd already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.
And thenâ
A whisper against your skin.
"Iâll be gentle. But youâll remember this forever."
And he sank his fangs in.
It wasnât like the first time.
It wasnât lust.
It wasnât climax.
It was rebirth.
Pain bloomed sharp and brightâbut only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything youâd ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.
He held you as it happened.
Cradled you like something delicate.
His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.
You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.
And thenâ
It stopped.
Silence.
Stillness.
And in the space where your heart had once beatâŠ
You heard his.
Thenâ
Your eyes opened.
The world looked different.
Sharper.
Brighter.
Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked youâsmoke, soil, blood, him.
Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like heâd just returned from war.
Hello everyone ! This is my first post AND the first short fic Iâm writing, this is extremely nerve wrecking to actually post but Iâll give it a try, this is kind of short and Iâm aware this lacks a lot of work still but Iâm fairly new so, please bear with me !! This was written thanks to my friend mil who gave me the inspiration because of an edit (ily mil) but anyway I hope this is still enjoyable, love u all!!
no TWâs this is all fluff. (except toward the end if you squint.)
The warm August breeze was blowing in your let down hair, the wind allowing you to take a deep breath of it through your nose as you admired the view of the sea a few meters away from you.
You were wearing a light yellow sundress with small flower patterns on it, accompanied by a pair of white kitten heels; more comfortable for long walks, as you walked down the busy streets of San Francisco. The thin material of the dress fitting perfectly for this type of weather, allowing you to not literally sweat your ass off.
You had been able to take a few days off from work, and since it was pretty rare, you decided to leave Los Angeles for a bit, leaving the city alone considering most of your friends were on vacation with their lovers. Lovers. Oh how you hated lovers. They were everywhere, showing acts of love to each other. Disgusting. You knew envy was bad, because thatâs what it was, envy. A sin, it was. But could anyone really blame you?
Putting that thought aside, there was something nice about traveling alone, maybe the peace of it ? No one there to stress you out as you packed your bags, you only had to worry about yourself, that was more than enough work already. Other nice things about it were that you could visit whatever you wanted, choosing restaurants freely without having anyone talking your ears off about going places you couldnât give enough fucks to care about.
You walked down the busy streets, your heels softly clicking against the concrete as you occasionally looked at people or cars passing you by.
You were headed to a cafe, you decided to sit down and read a nice book on a terrace, that sounded nice. You were about to round a corner when a shoulder bumped rather harshly into yours by someone going the opposite way, obviously. You turned around to see who had bumped into you, ready to complain about it when your eyes met familiar ones, who looked just as alarmed, before they widened with equal surprise.
âLeon?â You blurted out, clearly not expecting him of all people here, in san Fransisco, unless he had a last minute mission.
You were a receptionist at the agency he worked at, you always a little crush on the man and never dared to ask him out, even if he stopped quite frequently at the front desk, making awkward small talk while you mostly ogled at him. Leon was nice, you had heard by other people they he had been through fucked up shit and that he was only recently getting better.
He said your name in equal surprise, a smile spreading over his handsome features, almost reaching his eyes, not quite.
âWhat are you, I mean I didnât expect to see you here.â You said, briefly scanning over his clothes. He was wearing blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and his usual dark blue leather jacket and you wondered how the fuck was he not sweating in this.
He chuckled slightly, the sound going straight to your heart, making it beat faster.
âYeah. Iâm on vacation, finally.â He said, sounding fully relaxed for once. I agreed with him, really, agents like him worked a lot, they were always needed somewhere and Leon was considered one of the best. I mean, he did save the presidents daughter back then⊠You saw him scan over your outfit briefly, making you almost self conscious, wondering if your outfit now looked ridiculous, knowing damn well you were confident when you picked it out this morning.
âLooks like youâre on vacation too, then ?â His voice suddenly brought you out of your reverie, you nodded, voicing him that he was right, you saw him look around and then back at you.
âYouâre not here with your boyfriend or something?â He asked, sounding strangely interested in his own question. You quickly shook your head, dismissing his question with your hands. âNo, Iâm here alone. I mean, I donât even have a boyfriend so..â you said with an awkward laugh. Of course he knew you were single, he would keep that part to himself though.
And you swear you almost saw him smile at your admission.
You decided to tell him you were headed for a coffee and with whatever miraculous courage you had in you, you asked him if he wanted to come along, immediately wanting to slap yourself, but to your surprise he immediately agreed. So you both went to get coffee, the conversation then became less awkward, you guys spent the entire afternoon together, with him taking you back to your hotel towards the evening. Safe to say your book was long forgotten.
You opened the door of your room, suddenly dreading parting, what if you guys would only see each other back at the office, going back to doing awkward small talk ?
You stood at the and a small silent fell between you, making your awkwardness rise, and you could tell he felt it too as he cleared his throat, placing his hands in his jeans pockets.
âSo..â he started and your eyes immediately went to his face, meeting his. âI was thinking.. maybe I could take you out to dinner tomorrow night, if youâre still here.â He said and suddenly your face felt hot and your palms turned sweaty. âThat would be nice, yeah.â You said with a smile, being asked out by a man as handsome as Leon felt like a privilege, really.
He smiled and pulled out his phone out, handing it to you. You got the hint and, with slightly trembling hands, you grabbed it and typed in your number, handing it back to him.
He smiled again and simply said. âSee you tomorrow night then, Iâll pick you up at eight. Donât forget to lock the door.â You supposed it made sense for him to worry about these things, even outside of a mission. You nodded and replied âalright, see you tomorrow, Leon.â
He grinned and leaned down slightly, delivering a kiss to your cheek, his stubble making you almost shiver as you reddened.
He then leaned back and left with a brief wave to your direction.
You closed the door and locked it as he had asked and pressed your back against it.
Yeah, you were sure you liked him now.
The next day came around pretty quickly and you busied yourself pretty easily, you went back to your room around 6:30, deciding to get ready for the date you had tonight ? Was it even a date ? You decided to not overthink and get to work.
You picked a pretty simple outfit, another sundress, white, a bit more fitted for a date, you picked out a pair of black heels and did your hair and makeup.
Eight arrived by pretty slowly as you paced around your room.
You eventually heard a knock on your door and hurried to open it. He stood there, a warm smile on his ever so gorgeous face, wearing black jeans, a navy button up shirt, and that same leather jacket. Ever the eye candy.
âHi.â You breathed as you smiled at him, you felt his eyes roam over your form intensely but not disrespectfully.
âYou look breathtaking.â He says and you feel like a giddy teenager. You thank him and return him the compliment. He smiles and hand you his arm, which you gladly take and you both make your way downtown to a restaurant he had picked.
The evening goes by smoothly, no awkward conversation, a few flirty comments, wine glasses and stolen glances. If you had known Leon and you would get along well so quickly, you wouldâve jumped on the opportunity of asking him out way earlier.
Eventually, he takes you back to your hotel room and you almost want to invite him in, but consider the idea to be a bit too early. Instead, as you stand at your door he sneaks his hand beneath your jaw, pulling you in as he leans down and he delivers a sweet and slow kiss that feels like last forever but way too short to your liking. Before you can return it more passionately, he leans back with that same, beautiful smile, this time it reaches his eyes.
âGoodnight. Lock your door.â He says as a reminder and he steps out of your personal space with one last look back at you and he leaves.
You step into your room and closes the door lightheaded. You canât help but think about the fact that despite the perfect date, Leon looked alarmed the entire time, like something wasnât right. He kept looking around you two the entire night.
With that thought, you drift to sleep.
You forget to lock your door that night.
The next morning, you wake up and your thoughts drift back to last night, a dopey smile stretching across your lips as you get out of bed and go to the bathroom to shower.
As you step out of the shower, the sound of the door opening makes your heart drop to your ass. You grip your towel and hurriedly step out of the bathroom, holding your hairbrush as aâŠweapon I guess.
Youâre met with Leonâs back facing you as he closes the door.
âLeon??â You suddenly call out, gripping your towel, more than aware of your attire. He turns to you, not paying attention to how youâre âdressedâ, simply frowning at you as he reaches behind him and lock your door.
âI told you to lock your room.â He only says.
âI forgotâ you notice him locking the door âwill you tell me what the hell youâre doing here? Get out !â You say, face red at how embarrassing this whole ordeal is.
âIâm not going anywhere, and neither are you.â
With that, he walks over the to the curtains, closing them as he looks for your bag, once he finds it, he grabs it and starts gathering your stuff.
âWhat the fuck is going on Leonâ youâre beyond confused and now irritated. You walk over to him, grabbing his shoulder and he suddenly grabs your wrist, a bit too harsh to his liking apparently as he softly ease his hold on you.
âWe need to leave. Now. Something is going on here and I canât have you risking your life.â His eyes are soft but hold a sense of urgency in them.
He slowly lets go of your wrist and trace his hand up your arm.
âSomething is going on at Alcatraz prison, itâs coming here and weâre too close to it. I canât go investigate it knowing something could happen to you.â His words make you both afraid at the situation but ignite an unfamiliar warmth in the pit of your stomach.
âPlease, get dressed, Iâll pack your things and get you out of here, I promise.â He says, and as if to seal it, he presses his lips to your forehead.
You donât know it, but heâs always had a soft spot for you, ever since you arrived in his life. He realised how intense it was when he got hunninganâs call, he didnât head for the prison, but for your hotel, muting her calls in the process.
You obey his words, turning away from him just as he does, dressing yourself in jeans and a shirt as he finished packing your bag at a crazy speed.
Once this was out of the way, he quickly grabbed your hand and bag, leading you down the stairs of the hotel and outside where you saw his bike parked. You swallowed thickly, you liked bikes, just not particularly being on them. You felt his hand squeezing yours in a reassuring manner as he handed you his helmet.
âWhat about you?â You asked as he placed the helmet on your head and secured it for you.
âAs long as youâre safe, I couldnât care less.â With that, he gets on the bike with you following suit and wrapping your arms tightly around his waist as he roars the engine to life as he proceed to drive you both out of the town.
He led you both away and far from the town, where he judged you could be safe.
You both drove almost the entire day, only stopping for gas and then he eventually stopped at a motel when the sun started to set.
Getting off the bike, he asked you to stay where you were and not move.
You nod and watch him leave as you get off the engine, taking off the helmet and stretching your limbs, groaning in the process as a few joints popped.
After a few minutes, he came back with a key, grabbing your bag and asking you to follow him as he led the way for you.
He unlocked the door and you walked in to see a rather small room with a small bathroom and a singular queen sized bed.
You both take a few minutes to take in your surroundings, Leon double checking the room before judging it safe.
You eventually speaks first. âThank you for earlier, leon. But why didnât you go to Alcatraz if you had a mission there ?â You ask and he sits on the edge of the bed, you take a seat next to him, knees touching.
âIf I hadnât known you were in san Fransisco, I would be there right now most likely. But Iâm glad I ran into you, I couldnât leave you behind. Not you.â He says and he looks at you, his face is so close, and suddenly you wish you could read minds. âNot me.â You repeat, voice not above a whisper.
âNot you. I⊠I care about you.â He says and your heartbeat picks up. Suddenly youâre more aware of his presence, the warmth of his body, your knees and shoulders touching.
âI always have. I just didnât know how to approach you and I didnât want to include you in my mess of a life.â His words touch the deepest part of you.
Youâre not sure who leans in first, but his lips suddenly find yours and heâs all you can hear, smell, feel. And you need more. So much more.
And as he pulls you closer, making you straddle his lap as his hands grip your hips desperately, deepening the kiss, you think that you wouldnât mind being included in his life, no matter how messy it could be or get.
woke up from my second nap and this shit formed so eliquently in my mind, yet my valentine's special is just staring at me unfinished oops
wc: 873
cw: rough, somehow feels more crude than anything else i've written idk why, p in v sex, mating press (fav position sue me), mentions of creampies, overstimulation, mild (not so mild) dumbification, crying kink bc mmm yeah, i think that's everything of note..
enjoy?
It didn't hurt. That's what kept running through your head despite the tears running down your face. You weren't in pain, you just felt too good and your default reaction is to practically sob your eyes out over it. You'd always been a bit of a crybaby. Leon liked it. Loved it, actually.
The way you'd cry when overwhelmed and overstimulated. The way you would push at his head and damn near claw at his scalp when he ate you out, trying to pull free before you burst into tears. The way you would hiccup and tense up trying to bite back the tears when he fucked you into the mattress, only to end up with the sheets covered in tears and come anyway.
It was fucking delicious. Itâs what he aimed for honestly. Heâd never admitted it up until now, but he loved watching you cry. It gave him a rush he didnât understand but couldnât get anywhere else.Â
It was all he was thinking about when he came back from work, particularly pissed off. Some rookie had fucked up exponentially and he was the one who had to stay later and fix his mistake when all he wanted was to go home and cuddle his cute girlfriend. Needless to say, he wanted something a little more stress relieving that cuddling now.Â
You were all for it, of course, the caring girlfriend you are. You wanted him to be healthy, happy and stress free. So you didnât protest when he was impatiently tugging off the cute outfit you wore out with your friends earlier, didnât protest when he bit your neck harder than he usually did, bit down your protest when he tore your favorite panties and bra. You sure as hell didnât complain when he was pressing his hands underneath your knees, pressing your legs up to your chest as he stuffed his cock so deep inside you, you swore you could feel it in your chest.Â
No, the complaints only came with how good it felt, as always. His body caging you down against the mattress, holding you open as he thrusted over and over and over again with no end in sight. He wasnât gentle about it and fuck, if that didnât only make it feel ten times better. He kissed you, unabashedly groaning against your mouth as he fucked you so good your saw stars. Maybe that was also from the lack of oxygen as he kissed you.Â
Either way, it wasnât long before it became too much for you. Wasnât long before you were pushing against his thrusts, your lust-drunk mind incapable of forming the right words to tell Leon you were going to come so you just did. Clamping down so tight around him, he knew you came, but that didnât make his relentless pace stop, and thatâs when the waterworks started.Â
Your hands met his shoulders with no malicious intent, even as your nails sunk into his skin, pushing as tears built up in your eyes, clouding your already hazing vision. His thrusts only jostled them free, sending them free falling down your cheeks and the sides of your face. You stuttered out incomprehensible words, something or other about it being too much and needing a break, yet your pussy fluttered and sucked him back in so welcomingly that he couldnât help but not believe you.Â
He tutted down at you, slowing his pace as if to give you the recess you thought you craved, yet as his thrusts slowed, the strength behind them increased. âYou feel so fucking good around me, sweetheart. So tight and warm, do you really want me to give you a break?â Whatever you babble in response is met with a particularly deep and hard thrust that just seems to pull the tears right from your eyes along with a pretty little sob from your lips too.Â
âAnd look how pretty you are,â he coos, leaning down over you and pressing more weight down onto you as he just admires you. His eyes are sharp as they trail your figure from this close up position. How youâre wrapped so tight around him, the way your chest heaves, your smudged lip gloss that heâs sure heâs rocking too, all the way up to the mascara running down your cheeks thatâs chased by more tears. He canât help himself when his tongue slips out, lapping at your tears and groaning at the salty taste as he bucks into you. âYouâre a fucking vision, baby. I love seeing you cry for me.âÂ
While that wouldâve been alarming to hear from any other person, it was intoxicating to hear from Leon. It was enough to make the overstimulation worth it. It was enough to stir you back up when his thrusts picked back up with a fervor and more weight behind them, his mouth down by your ear. âI wannaâ see how you cry when I come inside you, baby. Wannaâ see your pretty face covered in tears when I stuff your pretty pussy full over,â a thrust, âand over,â a deeper thrust, âand over again.âÂ
His words leave no room for misinterpretation. Youâre not getting a break, and neither are your tear ducts.Â
warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f!receiving), dirty talk (a little bit), overstimulation, face riding, fingering, multiple orgasms
a/n: i know he gives the best head. i just know it. (because he gave me some last night)
title taken from honeypie by jawny
âLeon,â you sighed breathily, his name coming out as more of a moan than a command, as you intended. You tapped his head, your fingers still tangled in his hair. Your back was arched, your eyes squeezed shut. âI have to go to work.âÂ
âI do, too,â Leon mumbled, only pulling away from your pussy enough to speak, the vibrations from his voice still shooting throughout your body. Your fingers gripped the sheets, fighting yourself from letting a moan come tumbling out. A moan would only encourage him.
But anything would encourage him, honestly. It was impossible to not encourage him when what he was doing felt so good. His fingers dug into your hips, the prints burned into your skin from how hard and long he had been holding them there. He pressed your hips into the mattress, keeping you as still as possible. He shoved his tongue out of his mouth, flicked it along your folds, letting it slip inside. He pressed his nose against your clit, shaking his head from side to side, teasingly lapping at all the wetness that covered a layer over his tongue.Â
You squirmed slightly, pushing his head away again. His eyelashes fluttered as he looked up at you, his fingers stretching along your hips.Â
âThen shouldnât we be getting ready?â You asked, trying to sound as genuine as possible.Â
âOne more,â Leon begged, his voice soft and cooing. He pulled at your hips, pulling you closer to him. You let out a small whine, your fingers tightening on his hair.Â
Letting Leon do one more was basically letting him do fifteen more which was basically letting him do thirty more. He had already been between your legs since he woke up, immediately sliding down and spreading them apart, making comments about how you were already wet for him. He knew every spot that made you tick, knew where to kiss to get your hips bucking, knew just how to push his tongue inside you slowly and firmly enough to get your mouth to only be able to form his name.Â
That was two hours ago. Usually, Leon woke up early to take a shower, but this morning it was to eat you out until you werenât able to walk for the rest of the day.Â
âLeonâŠâ Your voice trailed off, anything else that you were going to say cut off because Leon had now shoved his face back between your folds, his nose shoving up against your clit. He licked a long stripe on your slit, then he placed a wet kiss on your hole.Â
âYou have one more in you, donât you?â he pleaded, his big blue eyes staring at you with anticipation and neediness. âPlease, baby, just one more.âÂ
You looked down at him. He knew that giving you that look made you melt and youâd let him do anything he wanted. That was how he got you in this position anyway, on your back with your legs spread for him, him eating you out as if it was his last meal- he looked at you with his pleading eyes and said how much he needed you, how he had dreamed about you all night, how he craved your taste.Â
How could you possibly say no to him?Â
âO-one more,â you said, your voice shaking. You lowered your back onto the mattress, feeling Leon smile against your pussy. You gulped, sliding your hands through his hair and pressing your palms against the back of his head. He liked when you played with his hair while he was doing it, and even though your brain was hazy from cumming more times than you could count, you tried your best to pet his head.Â
But Leon knew how to eat pussy, so it was hard to stay focused. He slid his hand down your hip and then wrapped it underneath your thigh. You felt his hands, warm and sweaty from gripping onto you for so long. He pushed your leg up, raising it so that it was hanging over his shoulder. He moved his other hand, sliding it down and pressing his fingers against your other thigh. He gave it a shove, pushing it further apart so that he could press his face even more against your cunt, as if that was even possible.Â
You felt him place a messy kiss against your slit, gentle and reassuring, telling you that he knew what he was doing. Then, he shoved his tongue out, letting out a low moan from deep within his throat. It was amazing that he could get off so much from eating you out that he couldnât help but let out his own whimpers. Just that thought alone could probably make you cum, but at this moment it only added to the pleasure of feeling him plunge his tongue inside you. He curled it, pressing the tip up to a sensitive spot that he knew you liked. He pressed hard, smiling to himself. Your throat was dry as you heaved, every moan in your body having already been clawed out of you by the face between your legs.Â
He pulled his tongue out, pushing the flat part of his tongue against your wetness and licking up. His tongue found your clit, and he circled the tip around for a moment before leaning back. He glanced up at you, and then you saw him purse his lips. A second later, you felt the feeling of your pussy getting more wet than before and then Leonâs fingers moved from your thigh, rubbing his spit into you. You moaned, squirming, and you felt his other hand press against your hip, holding you down on the mattress. He tutted to himself, shaking his head slightly, but still keeping the smile on his face. He ran his finger along your pussy lips and then moved his hand back to your thigh, pushing your leg apart once again.Â
Then, Leon wrapped his red, plump lips around your clit and sucked hard. Your back arched, your body leaving the mattress. Leon let you, but only because your grip on his hair tightened and you pushed his face further into you. He moaned, sending vibrations throughout your body as he continued to suck your clit. You felt his fingers move again, and then he pushed them inside you. You felt his nose press against the fat part of your pussy, his face fully shoved against you.Â
Two fingers pushed in and out of you, Leon having already made you cum enough that he could easily fit them inside. It wasnât like his fingers were small, either. They filled you up, the rough calluses scraping against your walls, sending sparks throughout your body. His lips, wet with your slick and his spit, sucked your clit, easing it every few minutes with a kiss and a soft lick, only to go back to sucking. A few times you felt him spit more, using it to push his fingers further inside you, reaching a deepness that you didnât even know was possible to get to with just fingers.Â
You pulled his hair, swearing out moans and groans, saying his name mixed with a few âplease, donât stopâs. And he didnât. He didnât stop pumping his fingers into you, didnât move his mouth from your cunt. Your body was on fire and you felt the coils in your tummy tightening. You clenched, pulling his hair particularly hard and shoving his face against you. Then, the coils came loose and so did you. You came undone around his fingers, bucking your hips up into his face. He continued to slowly thrust his fingers inside you, lazily planting kisses all around your pussy and thighs. When your grip loosened on his hair and your body fell against the mattress, Leon pulled away.Â
âWork?â he asked, looking up at you.Â
You raised up slightly, looking down at him. His face was a mess, his lips bright red and swollen. His cheeks were flushed bright, his hair hanging in his eyes, which were big and full of stars, his pupils filling up the entire iris. His lashes fluttered, his lips slightly parted. He licked them, tilting his head with a quizzical look. One corner of his lip was curved upwards in a slight smile.Â
âOne more,â you breathed, letting your upper body fall back against the mattress. You tangled your fingers in his hair again, pushing his face against you once more.Â
He let out a breathy laugh, but then got right back to work- if it was up to him, this would be his real job.Â
âMaybe I should pay you,â you breathed.Â
âNo need,â he said, placing a small kiss on my clit. âWe all gotta eat to survive, right?âÂ
You let out a groan at his lame joke, but it was cut off by a moan brought about by another kiss to your sensitive bud.Â
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
