Summary: You never sought kindness in return for your own, even when aware of the risks. What truly stunned you was the man you saved, who kept returning, an unsettling predator drawn to you.
A/N: I'm back from the short smut hiatus simply because I need this man in ways that are incredibly unholy to mankind. This was so much longer than I intended it to be, and dare I say some of the best smut I've written. Nearly 10k words.
TW: Blow job - Fingering - Anal - Riding - Gay sex - Praise - Biting - Blood - Overstimulation - Multiple orgasm - Vampire on Human - Females DNI - Minors DNI
The shadows were an old, familiar friend, a suffocating blanket woven from your mother's fervent warnings. She hadn't preached of conventional demons, no fire-and-brimstone sermons or whispered sins from a pulpit. Her gospel was far more chilling: a world teeming with entities that defied the light, beings whose survival hinged on the very lifeblood coursing through human veins. This wasn't a faith to be embraced, but a terrifying truth to be endured. She'd meticulously stitched this dread into the fabric of your being, rendering you perpetually on edge, wary of every whisper, every touch, every nascent connection. Trust became a dangerous luxury, a gamble with the most precious currency imaginable: your own life. To open your heart, to let someone past the carefully constructed walls, was to invite the predator in, to offer your throat to the insatiable thirst your mother had so vividly described.
And then he appeared, a wraith materializing on your porch like a perverse answer to a forgotten prayer. His skin, a ghostly canvas of extreme pallor, was marred by angry blisters, testament to some unseen ordeal. Blood, sticky and dark, clung to his sweat-sheened body, his shirt a tattered testament to a struggle. But it was his voice, a low, resonant rumble, that truly unraveled you. It was a siren's call, sending a primal shiver down your spine, raising goosebumps on your arms like tiny sentinels of impending doom. You, the cautious, the perpetually suspicious, were a fool, a complete and utter fool, swayed by the desperate plea in his eyes, the raw vulnerability in his tone. The moment you unlatched the door, the moment it clicked shut behind him, sealing you both in, was the moment your carefully constructed world shattered. His hands, surprisingly gentle yet impossibly strong, found your throat, his nose pressing against your neck, inhaling deeply. An earthy scent, the sweet tang of your sweat, the faint, lingering fragrance of rosewater – he savored it, a connoisseur of forbidden delights. He craved the way your breath hitched, a tiny, helpless gasp, the tremors that wracked your body as he pressed his lean frame against yours.
His tongue, a shocking ribbon of warmth, dragged over your pulse point, lingering there as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as you choked out a desperate, instinctive prayer. "You don't believe a word ye saying darlin'," he mocked, his voice laced with amusement, and he was right. You didn't believe in the archaic words, the dusty tenets of a forgotten faith. But you believed in him. You believed in the stark, terrifying reality of his presence, the undeniable truth of what he was, pressed against your trembling form.
Since that night, a single, persistent question has gnawed at your soul: Why? Why hadn't he bitten you? Why hadn't he condemned you to his eternal, monstrous existence? It couldn't have been kindness; monsters, by their very nature, were devoid of such human frailties. He was a creature of darkness, utterly bereft of compassion. Yet, you remained, untouched, unchanged.
He continued to return, a haunting specter at your windows, his eyes glowing a faint, predatory red in the inky blackness, his mouth stretched in a wide, unsettling smile that bared his teeth. Some nights, you remained blissfully unaware of his vigil, only discovering his presence in the harsh light of morning: muddy footprints marring your porch, books inexplicably disturbed on your shelves, even articles of clothing in your wardrobe subtly rearranged, as if he'd been in your very room, watching you sleep. The silent, unsettling question lingered: What was his game? And what, ultimately, did he want from you?
Then came the night. The night you finally found your answer, not in a dusty tome or a whispered prayer, but in the chilling reality of his presence. The flickering candlelight, your only companion, cast long, dancing shadows that stretched and twisted with every breath of the wind. You were engrossed, a forgotten world unfolding between the pages of your book, the soft glow illuminating the delicate curve of your back, the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the hem of your pants. Your eyes, usually wide with apprehension, narrowed in focused intensity as you delved deeper into a particularly intriguing passage. You could feel his gaze before you saw him, a prickling sensation on your skin, a shift in the air that spoke of a foreign presence. The shadow, elongated and distorted by the dim light, stretched across the floor, an undeniable testament to his arrival.
You peered over the top of your book, your eyes, now fully narrowed, taking him in. He stood there, as he always did, with that same unsettling smile plastered on his lips, a grotesque parody of human emotion. His dark curls, damp with an unseen moisture, clung to his forehead, framing a face that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. His linen shirt, grimy and well-worn, clung to his powerful frame, the deep V-neck offering a tantalizing glimpse of his sculpted chest. He was, in his own monstrous way, breathtaking. A creature born of shadows and fear, yet possessed of a raw, untamed beauty that defied explanation.
You held his gaze, a silent challenge passing between you. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, the only sound the soft crackle of the candlewick. This was it. The culmination of nights spent wondering, of days spent fearing. The answer you craved, the reason for his continued torment, was finally within reach.
He moved like a shadow detaching itself from the deeper darkness, a slow, deliberate glide that drew your gaze. His fingers, long and elegant, trailed idly along the spines of your books, then brushed against the cool plaster of the wall, a whisper of a touch that sent an odd vibration through the quiet room. The corners of his lips quirked further, that same chilling smile, as he stopped mere feet from you, the candlelight casting his face in stark relief.
"Were you waiting for me?" His voice was a low murmur, a silken question that seemed to wrap around you. His eyes, those unsettling pools of red-tinged darkness, devoured you, trailing slowly from the top of your head, down the curve of your throat, lingering on the subtle rise and fall of your chest, before finally resting on the soft, vulnerable skin of your inner thigh where your pants rode up slightly. The intensity of his gaze was a physical weight, pressing in on you.
He chuckled then, a soft, dry sound that was entirely devoid of mirth. "I've spent countless nights, you know. Watching you. Every breath you take, every shift in your sleep. I've memorized the way the moonlight paints your hair silver as you toss and turn, the way your brow furrows when you're caught in a dream. I've pictured it, over and over, how you'd feel under my hands once more, the faint tremble of your body, the quickening of your pulse. It's been a sweet torment."
His words, laced with a possessive intimacy that sent a fresh wave of shivers down your spine, echoed in the stillness. You slowly set your book aside, the pages falling closed with a soft thud, a stark contrast to the pounding of your heart. The name, one you'd only whispered in your most terrified nightmares, slipped from your lips. "Remmick," you murmured, your voice barely a breath.
You straightened, meeting his gaze, trying to project a defiance you didn't entirely feel. "What exactly do you want from me, Remmick?" Your voice, though trembling slightly, held a surprising edge of desperation. "Why do you insist on watching? Why haven't you... why haven't you taken what is so easily taken by a man like you?" You gestured vaguely, encompassing your very being, the blood that flowed beneath your skin, the life he so clearly craved. "What is it you're truly after?"
He was in front of you in a heartbeat, a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track. One moment he was by the bookshelf, the next he was invading your personal space, so close you could feel the residual chill radiating from his body. One hand, cool and surprisingly gentle, hovered just above the hollow of your throat, a silent promise of the power he held over you. The other splayed against your bare chest, right over your sternum, and you felt the shocking contact of his skin against yours. Your heart, already a frantic drum against your ribs, quickened even more beneath his touch, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
His face moved closer, invading your vision until his features filled your world. You could see the subtle shift of the red in his eyes, the faint lines around them, the surprising length of his dark lashes. The tip of his nose brushed against yours, a feather-light contact that sent a jolt through you. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of you, his chest expanding against yours.
"I want you," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through your bones. "Everything. Your mind, every tangled thought, every secret fear, every hidden desire. Your body, every curve, every shadow, every pulse point. Your soul, the very essence of what makes you, you." His gaze, burning with an ancient hunger, bored into yours. "I want to taste you. To know how you sound in the most intimate ways, when your breath hitches and your voice breaks. I want to know how you taste, the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your blood, the unique flavor of your life. I want to know how you feel, every tremor, every shiver, every desperate clench of your muscles." His thumb, still pressed against your chest, began to trace slow, deliberate circles, each revolution a quiet declaration. "I want you." The final two words were a raw, guttural growl, a primal claim that left no room for doubt.
His declaration hung in the air, a heavy, tangible thing that pressed against you as surely as his body did. His eyes, fixed on yours, were depths of pure, unadulterated hunger. It wasn't just the physical closeness, the threat of his power, that rooted you to the spot; it was the chilling realization that this monster, this creature of the night, wanted you. Not your blood, not a fleeting meal, but something far more insidious and terrifying: your very essence.
Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The fear, a cold, familiar knot in your stomach, began to twist into something new, something almost… magnetic. It was the terror of being truly seen, truly desired, by a being utterly devoid of human empathy, a predator who saw you as the ultimate prize.
"You... you can't have me," you choked out, the words a futile defiance against the crushing weight of his presence. Your hands instinctively came up, pressing against his chest, a desperate attempt to create space, though his touch remained light, almost teasing, above your throat and over your heart.
A low, guttural laugh rumbled in his chest, vibrating through your fingertips. "Oh, but I can, little bird," Remmick purred, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And I will. Every last piece of you. Do you truly believe that after all this time, all these nights I've spent watching, waiting, that I'd settle for anything less?" His thumb, still on your chest, pressed slightly, a subtle punctuation to his words. "I've carved you out for myself, piece by delicious piece. You just didn't know it yet."
The implications of his words settled over you like a shroud. He hadn't just watched; he had chosen. He had stalked. He had claimed. The questions that had plagued you for weeks, why he hadn't bitten you, why he hadn't turned you, suddenly dissolved into a far more terrifying truth. He hadn't taken your blood because he wanted something infinitely more profound, more consuming. He wanted all of you.
His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, a predatory gleam in their depths. "Tell me, little bird," he murmured, his voice a silken thread, "do you still believe you have a choice?"
His question hung in the air, a silken noose tightening around your already constricted breath. "Do you still believe you have a choice?" The words were a challenge, a taunt, and a chilling truth all at once. Your mind, usually so sharp, felt sluggish, caught in the terrifying vortex of his presence. Choice. The very concept seemed absurd, laughable, in the face of such raw, ancient power. His hand, still splayed against your chest, felt less like a threat and more like an anchor, holding you captive in the moment.
A tremor ran through you, not entirely of fear, but of a profound, disorienting surrender. The fear was still there, a cold, hard stone in your gut, but it was now laced with a strange, undeniable fascination. He wanted you. Not your death, not merely your blood, but the intricate tapestry of your being. It was a terrifying, yet strangely compelling, form of desire.
You swallowed hard, your throat feeling dry and constricted. Your gaze, which had been locked with his, flickered down to his hand on your chest, then back to his eyes, searching for something, anything, beyond the predatory hunger. There was nothing, only the vast, unsettling depth of his purpose.
"No," you whispered, the word barely audible, a fragile admission against the overwhelming force of his will. The defiance you had clung to so desperately for weeks, for months, finally crumbled. It was a liberation of sorts, shedding the burden of fighting the inevitable. "No, Remmick. I don't."
A slow, satisfied smile stretched his lips, a genuine smile this time, and it was far more terrifying than any snarl. It was the smile of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey, of a being who had laid claim to what was rightfully his. He leaned in further, his breath, cool and faintly earthy, ghosting over your lips.
"Good," he murmured, the word a soft caress, a chilling affirmation. "Because you don't."
His free hand, the one that had been hovering above your throat, now moved, his fingers gently curving around the back of your neck, his thumb resting just beneath your ear. The touch sent a jolt through you, an electric current that made your skin prickle. You could feel the warmth of his palm, the surprising softness of his skin against yours, even as your instincts screamed danger.
"And now," he whispered, his voice dropping to a seductive rumble that seemed to bypass your ears and settle directly in your chest, "now we begin."
Your heart hammered against his palm, a frantic, desperate rhythm. The fear, though still a cold tendril in your gut, was now intertwined with a dizzying rush of anticipation. There was no escape, you knew that now. Only surrender.
His head tilted, his gaze still locked with yours, and then, slowly, inexorably, his lips descended. They were cool at first, almost surprisingly so, a stark contrast to the burning intensity of his eyes. A soft, exploratory brush against yours, a tentative test, as if he were savoring the moment before truly taking it. Your own lips parted on a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, a soft, involuntary sigh.
Then, the gentleness vanished. His mouth claimed yours with a sudden, devastating hunger, a silent roar of possession. It wasn't a tender kiss; it was a consumption. His lips moved with an ancient, practiced expertise, plundering, demanding. You felt a dizzying pull, a sensation of falling into him, into the darkness he embodied. His free hand, still cradling the back of your neck, tightened just slightly, tilting your head to better accommodate the angle of his kiss.
You could taste him: something wild and earthy, like damp soil and a hint of something metallic, coppery, that sent a thrill of forbidden knowledge through you. Your hands, which had been pressing against his chest, now found purchase, gripping the coarse fabric of his shirt. Your fingers clenched, crumpling the linen, as if trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, in the swirling vortex of sensation.
His tongue, warm and impossibly smooth, traced the seam of your lips, seeking entry. Without conscious thought, yours parted further, granting him access. He plunged in, a deep, invasive exploration, swirling with yours, tasting, learning. A soft, involuntary moan escaped your throat, quickly swallowed by his mouth. He deepened the kiss, pressing his body even closer, until there was no space left between you, his lean, hard form a searing brand against your softer curves.
The subtle rosewater scent on your skin mingled with his earthy scent, creating a heady, intoxicating mix. You felt lightheaded, breathless, every nerve ending screaming to life. Your hips involuntarily arched against his, a primal, unthinking response to the raw, untamed desire he radiated. He chuckled against your mouth, a low, pleased rumble, and you felt his body tense in response to your unwitting invitation.
His hand on your chest moved, his fingers splaying wider, pressing firmly over your chest. Not roughly, but possessively, as if mapping the contours of something he already owned. You gasped into the kiss, a shiver running through you that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a bewildering, dangerous pleasure. His teeth scraped lightly against your lower lip, a promise of something sharper, something more devastating to come. It was a kiss that devoured, that claimed, that left you utterly breathless and undeniably, terrifyingly, his.
The kiss deepened, a swirling vortex of sensation that obliterated everything but the raw, electric contact between your bodies. His hand, still pressed possessively against your chest, began a slow, sensual caress, his thumb brushing over your nipple, coaxing a sharp, involuntary gasp from your throat. He took the sound, a soft, needy cry, into his mouth, devouring it as if it were the sweetest nectar. Your head fell back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat, an invitation, a surrender.
His lips left yours then, trailing a searing path down your jawline, his teeth scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. He moved to your ear, his breath stirring the fine hairs there. "Sweet," he rasped, his voice a low growl that sent shivers of both fear and an unsettling pleasure dancing down your spine. "So exquisitely sweet."
His teeth nipped gently at your earlobe, sending a jolt through your entire body. You whimpered, a soft, strangled sound, as his tongue flicked out, tracing the delicate curve of your ear, before moving lower, towards the pulse throbbing frantically at the base of your throat. He lingered there, his breath warm against your skin, and you could feel the subtle shift as his fangs, sharper than anything human, elongated. A primal terror seized you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the strange, magnetic pull he exerted.
His hand that had been at your chest now slid lower, over your stomach, tracing the delicate line of hair that disappeared beneath your pants. His fingers were surprisingly gentle, yet firm, exploring the contours of your body with an intimate knowledge that belied their first true physical encounter. Your hips arched again, a desperate, unconscious plea, and he chuckled, a low, satisfied sound against your throat.
"You want this, little bird," he murmured, his voice a dark lullaby that bypassed your logic and spoke directly to something primal within you. "Just as much as I want you."
The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. He was right. Amidst the terror, the confusion, there was a undeniable current of raw, unbridled desire, a dangerous fascination with the monster who held you captive. It was a terrifying, exhilarating, utterly forbidden truth.
Remmick pulled away, his breath still ghosting over your skin, leaving a searing trail in its wake. His hands, with a fluid, almost casual grace, found the hem of his dirty linen shirt. In one swift motion, he pulled it up and over his head, the fabric rustling softly as it came away from his skin. He tossed it to the floor without a glance, the dim candlelight catching a faint gleam of a silver chain around his neck, a stark contrast to the raw, untamed power of his bare torso.
He was magnificent. Muscles rippled beneath pale, almost luminous skin, sculpted and powerful. Every line of his body spoke of strength and ancient grace. And you hated it. You hated how right he was. You hated how the sight of him, unadorned and predatory, sent a hot, undeniable surge through you, how your cock twitched in your pants with a desperate, unfamiliar ache. You hated how badly you wanted him, just as much as he wanted you. The truth was a bitter pill, yet it ignited a burning fire in your veins.
Your gaze, wide and unblinking, met his. The fear was still there, a thin, persistent hum beneath the roaring desire, but it was overshadowed by a primal acknowledgment. "You're right," you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible. The admission felt like a surrender, a breaking of chains. "I... I want you too, Remmick. Just as badly."
A slow, predatory smirk stretched across his lips, revealing the tips of his sharp canines. It was a look of triumph, of a hunger fully recognized and reciprocated. Before you could even register his intent, his hand shot out, clamping around your throat. It wasn't a violent grip, not yet, but a possessive one, his thumb pressing firmly into your Adam's apple, a direct, undeniable claim. He pushed. Not roughly, but with an irresistible force that sent you sprawling backward from the rocking chair you'd been perched on. The chair teetered, then clattered against the wooden floor as you landed, with a soft thud, on the mattress of your bed. He followed, a dark silhouette against the flickering candlelight, looming over you, his eyes burning with an ancient, insatiable desire.
Remmick was a shadow above you, blocking out the dim glow of the candlelight, his presence a heavy, thrilling weight. He didn't waste a moment. His lips, still swollen from your shared kiss, began a searing, deliberate descent down your throat, trailing a path of fire across your skin. You arched instinctively, a desperate, almost primal response, as his tongue flicked out, a warm, wet ribbon against the hollow of your collarbone. Each lick was a claim, a slow, sensual consumption that pulled a soft moan from your lips.
His breath, cool against your heated skin, accompanied the deliberate exploration. He moved with the unhurried precision of a creature savoring its meal, a master of delayed gratification. His teeth, impossibly sharp, began to graze your skin, a series of light, playful nips that sent shivers through you. He bit, just hard enough to leave a faint, reddish mark on your delicate flesh, a temporary brand of ownership, but never enough to break the skin, never enough to draw blood. Each gentle bite was a promise, a whisper of the ultimate hunger he held at bay.
You gasped, a sharp, choked sound, as his lips closed over your Adam's apple, not biting, but sucking gently, creating a tantalizing vacuum that pulled at your breath. It was a terrifying intimacy, the monster playing with his prey, pushing you to the very precipice of terror and desire. Every moan that escaped your throat, every helpless whine, was a sweet melody to him. He seemed to drink them in, absorbing them with a profound satisfaction, as if each sound fueled his ancient hunger.
His hand, which had clamped your throat, now slid downwards, slowly tracing the line of your chest, pausing to press lightly over your nipples. You convulsed beneath him, a silent plea for more, for less, for something to break the exquisite tension. His eyes, glowing faintly red in the gloom, watched your reactions, a silent, predatory gleam in their depths. He was a conductor, and your body, your very senses, were his orchestra, playing out a symphony of desperate pleasure and terrifying surrender.
Remmick's hands, hot and demanding, slid down from your chest, finding purchase on your hips. His fingers, surprisingly dexterous, fumbled for the waistband of your pants, clutching at the fabric. With a swift, practiced motion, he yanked them down, along with your boxers, peeling them away from your skin. A low gasp escaped your lips as the cool night air, in stark contrast to the burning heat of his body, caressed your suddenly exposed cock. You felt a wave of vulnerability, thrilling and terrifying all at once.
His hands, firm and unyielding, gripped your thighs, pulling them apart, splaying you open to his gaze. He lowered his head, his dark curls brushing against your stomach, and began a slow, deliberate descent. His lips, still swollen from your kisses, moved over your inner thigh, tasting, licking every inch of skin with an insatiable curiosity. You could feel the slight tug of his tongue, the warmth of his breath, as he explored the sensitive flesh.
Then, a sharp, searing pain. He bit, hard, into the soft skin of your inner thigh. You cried out, a choked gasp, as his teeth broke the surface, and you felt the immediate, hot rush of blood. It trickled down your skin, a vivid, crimson stream against your flesh. Your body tensed, a tremor running through you, but before you could fully react, his tongue was there, a surprisingly tender rasp, lapping up the warmth. He consumed your blood, smearing it across his lips, mingling it with the moisture of your skin, a grotesque and intimate communion.
He pulled back just slightly, his eyes, dark and gleaming with a primal satisfaction, fixed on yours. His lips, now glistening with your blood, stretched into that unsettling, possessive smirk. "My little bird," he purred, his voice a low, rough rumble. "My sweet, sweet pet." He licked his lips slowly, savoring the taste. "You taste... divine. So utterly, intoxicatingly good. Every sound, every gasp, every little whimper you make... it's pure music to me. Keep making them, little love. Keep making them for me." He leaned down again, his tongue once more tracing the now-scarlet path on your thigh, claiming you with every taste, every lick.
Remmick’s touch on your thigh grew more insistent, his fingers digging into your flesh as his teeth sank in again, deeper this time. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, louder, more desperate. You could feel the warmth of your blood, no longer just a trickle, but a steady flow, welling around his mouth. He didn't just lap at it now; he drank, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest as he pulled, his powerful suckling sending shivers through your entire being. It was a terrifying, yet undeniably primal, sensation—the monster consuming your very essence. Your body tensed, arching into the bite, a bewildering mix of pain and an almost unbearable intimacy.
He lingered there, drawing deeply, until you felt a strange lightheadedness begin to set in. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he pulled away, his lips glistening with crimson. His eyes, now a deeper, more vibrant red, met yours, brimming with a possessive satisfaction.
Without breaking eye contact, he began a slow, deliberate ascent. His tongue, still wet with your blood, dragged a searing trail up your inner thigh, over your hip, painting a stripe of scarlet against your skin. He continued his upward journey, licking across your stomach, circling your navel, then moving higher, over your ribs, until he reached your chest. Each lick smeared the blood further, painting your body with a macabre masterpiece of his consumption. His breath hitched as he reached your collarbone, his tongue tracing the delicate hollow, before continuing up your neck, leaving a damp, coppery path.
Finally, his lips met yours again, covered in the taste of you. This kiss was different. It was a brutal melding, a frenzied claiming fueled by the blood he’d just taken. His mouth devoured yours, his tongue plunging deep, mingling your fresh blood with his own ancient essence. You tasted metallic heat, wildness, and something deeply, terrifyingly magnetic. Your hands moved, scrabbling to find purchase on his bare, muscled back, pulling him closer, pressing yourself against his strong form.
As your mouths tangled in a desperate, hungry dance, Remmick’s hands went to the waistband of his remaining clothing—dark, fitted trousers. With a powerful twist of his hips, he unfastened them, the soft rasp of fabric a counterpoint to the wet sounds of your kiss. He shifted his weight, expertly kicking off his pants, which landed with a soft thud beside his shirt. Now, truly naked against you, the hard planes of his body pressed into every curve of yours. The sheer, unadulterated sensation was overwhelming, igniting a wild, unthinking fire deep within you. He was all solid muscle and cool skin, a terrifying force of nature, yet in this moment, inextricably bound to you. His kiss deepened further, an unspoken promise of every desire he had whispered, now within reach.
Remmick pulled away, his lips reluctantly leaving yours, a wet, smearing sound the only trace of the raw consumption. You gasped, pulling in ragged, desperate breaths, your lungs aching for air that suddenly felt thin and insufficient. Your body was alive, humming with a frantic energy, every nerve ending screaming. He pressed a final, possessive kiss against your Adam's apple, the faint taste of your own blood a startling reminder of what had just transpired.
A low, throaty chuckle rumbled from deep within his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. And in a sudden surge of something fierce and undeniable—part desire, part a desperate need to reclaim some semblance of control—you pushed him back. Your hands splayed against his bare chest, firm, determined. He yielded easily, surprisingly so, allowing you to shove him gently onto the bed. With a surge of newfound power, you moved, settling on your knees between his spread legs.
From your new vantage point, you could see him fully, laid out beneath you, his eyes gleaming red in the dim light. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, the silver chain glinting against his pale skin. He looked up at you, his smirk widening.
"Look at you, little bird," Remmick murmured, his voice a low, knowing rasp that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His gaze dropped, sweeping over your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your thighs. "Your thighs are trembling, can you feel it? Shaking with it." He chuckled again, a soft, satisfied sound. "And your eyes... I can see the desire there, blazing like a wildfire. Just as I knew it would."
His eyes then dropped lower, a slow, deliberate journey that made your breath catch. "And your pretty cock," he continued, his voice a possessive purr, "so hard, so eager. It hardened, didn't it? When I bit you. When I tasted your blood. You felt it, didn't you, the way it swelled with every drop I took?" He reached up, his fingers gently tracing the still-wet trail of blood on your inner thigh, a ghost of the exquisite pain he had inflicted. "You liked it. You crave it. Just like I crave you."
You let out a shaky exhale, the sound ragged and raw in the stillness of the room. Leaning forward, you began to trail sloppy, open-mouthed kisses across Remmick's neck, then down to his chest. Your tongue, still faintly tasting of your own blood, licked at his skin, a desperate, seeking motion. You could feel the warmth of your blood seeping into the soft fabric of your sheets beneath you, a dark stain blossoming on the white. It was drying on your thighs, a sticky testament to his earlier claim, and the trail he had licked up your body felt cool and tacky against your skin.
Your whole body trembled, a deep, internal tremor that rattled your bones. Your lips parted in a silent moan, a soft, helpless sound that was swallowed by the sudden shift in his demeanor. His hands, which had been resting on your hips, moved with surprising speed. One gripped your hair, not cruelly, but with an undeniable force, yanking your head back. Your eyes snapped to his, suddenly wide and vulnerable.
The deep, unsettling red that had glowed in his gaze was gone. His eyes were now a rich, deep brown, startlingly human, framed by long, dark lashes. They held an intensity that was just as potent as the red, but now it was a focused, almost piercing gaze that seemed to strip you bare.
"Say it," Remmick commanded, his voice a low, rough whisper that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet of the room. His thumb, still holding your head back by your hair, pressed lightly against your scalp. "Say that you're as bad as I am. Say that you love this. All of it. The pain, the taste, the hunger." His brown eyes bored into yours, demanding absolute honesty.
You stared at him, caught in the sudden intimacy of his human gaze, yet bound by the monstrous truth of his words. The blood still tacky on your skin, the raw ache in your thigh, the undeniable tremor in your body – they all screamed the truth. The fear was still a distant echo, but the roaring desire, the strange, terrible thrill of being completely consumed by him, overshadowed everything.
"I..." Your voice was a mere rasp, caught in your throat. You swallowed hard, the admission a bitter, thrilling taste on your tongue. "I'm as bad as you are," you whispered, the words a raw confession. "And I... I love this."
"Good boy," Remmick hummed, the words a low, vibrating caress against the sudden stillness. A wave of both shame and profound satisfaction washed over you at the praise. He knew. He had always known. His hand, which had held your head captive, dropped from your hair, finding purchase on your hips once more, a firm, possessive grip.
You leaned forward, your resolve solidified by your own admission, and began to trail sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down his chest. Your lips, still tasting faintly of your own blood and his wildness, pressed against his pale, taut skin, exploring the hard planes of his muscles. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the coolness of your own blood drying on your body. Your hands, still trembling slightly, moved from his hips, gripping his thighs, the muscles beneath your palms hard and unyielding.
You kissed lower, past his abdomen, above his naval, your breath growing ragged with anticipation. Your lips brushed the very top of his pubic bone, the fine hair there tickling your skin. You could feel his eyes on you, a burning weight, even with your head lowered. A subtle shift in his body, a barely perceptible tightening, was the only indication of his rising arousal.
Your hand, still trembling, hesitantly wrapped loosely around the shaft of his cock. It was thick, hard, and utterly dominant in your grasp. A gasp tore from your throat, mingling with your ragged breathing. You felt the subtle pulse beneath your palm, the warmth radiating from him, even as your own blood continued to seep into the sheets.
You lowered your head further, your breath fanning over his tip, hot and eager. Your tongue, a traitorous thing, lolled out of your mouth, brushing against the beaded precum that glistened at the top. The coppery taste of your blood was still on your tongue, mingling now with the salty, musky scent of his precum. The world narrowed to this single, intense point of contact, a horrifying, exhilarating fusion of hunter and prey, desire and consumption.
You began to slowly stroke Remmick's cock, your hand moving with a hesitant, yet increasingly confident rhythm. The velvet head, slick with his precum, felt impossibly foreign and yet intensely familiar in your grasp. You leaned forward, your breath catching in your throat, and pressed your lips against his tip. The salty, musky taste was potent, intoxicating, mingling with the lingering metallic tang of your own blood.
You licked the head of his cock, a slow, deliberate swirl of your tongue, feeling the immediate response ripple through his body. He leaned his head back against the worn wooden headboard of your bed, his eyes narrowing down at you, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. You could see the tension coiling within him, the cords in his neck standing out. He inhaled sharply, drawing in the scent of your blood, the aroma clinging to your breath and skin.
A low growl rumbled from deep within his chest, a primal sound that vibrated through the mattress and into your very bones. It was a sound of pure, untamed pleasure, a stark acknowledgment of the sensation you were evoking. Emboldened, you opened your mouth wider, your lips wrapping around the swollen head of his cock. Your hand continued its slow, steady stroke along the shaft, feeling the increasing heat and hardness beneath your touch.
The first tentative suck was met with another, deeper growl from Remmick. His fingers clenched in the sheets beside him, bunching the fabric. You continued, your mouth moving with growing confidence, drawing him in as far as you could, then slowly releasing. The taste of him filled your mouth, a potent aphrodisiac that drowned out the last vestiges of your fear. This was intimacy, raw and untamed, a connection forged in blood and desire. You could feel his gaze burning down on you, a silent acknowledgment of the power you held in that moment, even as he remained the dominant force.
Your mouth continued its rhythmic pull, a slow, deliberate suction that drew a shuddering breath from Remmick. You felt his body tense, his hips subtly bucking beneath you, a silent plea for more. Your hand, still clasped around his shaft, mirrored your mouth's motion, stroking him with a practiced ease that belied your inexperience. You could taste the coppery tang of your blood, mixing with his musk, a potent, intoxicating cocktail that fueled your own desperate hunger.
He let out another growl, deeper this time, a raw, guttural sound that vibrated through you. His hands, which had been clenching the sheets, now moved, reaching out to grasp your neck. His fingers dug in, not gently, but with a possessive strength, pulling you closer, pressing your face more firmly against him. He wasn't just receiving; he was demanding, urging you deeper, faster.
You felt his cock swell even further in your mouth, pressing against your throat, challenging you. You met the challenge, drawing him in as much as you could, your cheeks hollowing with the effort. Every sensation was magnified: the slippery heat of him, the frantic beat of your own pulse against your teeth, the ragged breaths tearing from his chest.
A sudden, sharp contraction of his muscles, a low, drawn-out groan from his lips, signaled his climax. You felt the warm gush fill your mouth, a hot, thick rush that made you instinctively swallow, taking him in fully. He shuddered beneath you, his hips bucking again, a deep, satisfied sigh escaping him. His hands on your neck tightened, holding you fast, as he rode out the last tremors of his release.
You stayed there, mouth still encompassing him, breathing heavily, feeling the last throbs against your tongue. The taste of him, potent and undeniable, lingered in your mouth, a final, definitive claim. Slowly, reluctantly, you pulled away, your lips slick, a faint sheen of his cum coating your chin.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide, breath coming in shallow gasps. Remmick lay beneath you, his eyes, still a warm, intense brown, fixed on you. A triumphant, almost reverent look was etched on his face. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray drop from your lip, his touch surprisingly tender.
"Mine," he whispered, his voice hoarse with satisfaction. "All mine."
You moved, shifting your weight, now truly straddling Remmick’s hips. Your hands, still trembling slightly, came to rest on his broad shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tautness of his muscles. His eyes, still a deep, mesmerizing brown, held yours, a silent, knowing gaze.
His hands slipped from your neck tracing a searing path down your spine before gripping your ass. He pulled you into him, hard and fast, initiating a sloppy, breathless kiss that tasted of his recent climax and your lingering blood. It was a raw, unfiltered expression of ownership, and you met it with an answering fervor, your body humming with a dangerous mix of exhaustion and rekindled desire.
A low whine escaped your lips as you felt the unexpected, yet thrilling, pressure of his finger pressing against you. He didn't hesitate, pushing in slowly, deliberately, a single digit invading your warmth. Your nails, without conscious thought, dug into his shoulders, tiny crescent moons biting into his skin. Your body, with a mind of its own, instinctively ground down onto his finger, a soft friction that sent a jolt of pleasure through you. He pumped it in and out, a slow, sensual rhythm that made your breath hitch in your throat.
He pulled his head back, just enough for his lips to brush your ear, his voice a low, raspy whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "So tight, little bird," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "Exquisitely tight."
Then, with agonizing slowness, he added another finger, pushing it in to join the first. You gasped, your hips grinding harder against his hand, your body desperate for the fullness, the invasion. His fingers moved together now, a deeper stretch, exploring your slick depths.
"Perfect," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're absolutely perfect. My perfect, little pet."
The praise, the whispered words of possession, ignited a strange, burning heat deep within you. You could feel his fingers, now two, pressing against you, stretching you, and your body, against all rational thought, simply craved more. Your hips continued their desperate grind, urging him deeper, faster, a silent plea for the friction, the fullness he offered.
Remmick’s other hand, moved to cup your jaw, tilting your head back. His thumb brushed over your still-swollen lips, then wiped away a smear of drying blood from your chin. His brown eyes, still intensely human, bore into yours, a silent challenge, a question.
"Ready for more, little love?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent shivers of anticipation down your spine.
You couldn't speak, your breath hitched in your throat, but you nodded, a frantic, eager movement. Your gaze was locked with his, a shared understanding passing between you that transcended words. The primal hunger in his eyes mirrored the desperate ache in your own body.
His fingers withdrew, a sudden absence that made you whimper. Your hips instinctively bucked, chasing the sensation, and he chuckled, a low, satisfied rumble. Then, with agonizing slowness, he slid a third finger inside. You gasped, a sharp, choked sound, as the stretching intensified, a sweet pain that bordered on overwhelming. Your nails dug harder into his shoulders, your legs trembling even more violently.
"So good," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours, watching every subtle shift in your expression, every flicker of emotion. He began to pump the three fingers in and out, a more substantial, more profound rhythm that made your head spin. The friction, the fullness, the sheer raw intimacy of it all, was consuming. You pressed down against his hand, your body desperate for the complete invasion, the utter surrender. He was taking you apart, piece by piece, and you were letting him, even craving it. The boundaries between pain and pleasure blurred into an indistinguishable, intoxicating haze.
Remmick's head lowered, his lips once more claiming your neck. This time, there was no gentle exploration. His teeth scraped lightly against your Adam's apple, a soft, deliberate rasp that sent a shiver of profound vulnerability through you. It was a promise of a bite he still withheld, a terrifying control. You arched into the sensation, a strange blend of primal fear and desperate longing.
As his mouth worked its magic on your neck, his other hand moved with agonizing slowness. His fingers, still slick from your earlier contact, began to press against your lips, urging them apart. You parted them instinctively, and with a terrifying deliberation, his fingers pushed past, sliding into your mouth. The intrusion was startling, unexpected. Your jaw instinctively dropped, and a soft, wet sound escaped you as his fingers explored the soft, sensitive tissues within. Drool immediately pooled at the sides of your lips, thick and warm, dribbling down your chin to stain your neck and chest. It was a messy, undignified surrender, and yet, in his eyes, you knew it was perfect.
Your body, already vibrating with a thousand sensations, stiffened. A choked sob tore from your throat, raw and desperate, as his fingers, still deep inside you, brushed against your prostate. It was a slow, agonizing motion, a deliberate tease. The sensation was immediate, overwhelming, a sudden, piercing pleasure that shot through your core, stealing your breath. Your hips bucked involuntarily, grinding down against his hand, seeking more of that exquisite pressure. The world narrowed to that single, intense point, every other sensation fading into a distant hum.
The choked sob that escaped you was a testament to the raw, visceral pleasure Remmick was eliciting. His fingers, continued their relentless assault on your prostate, a slow, excruciating dance of sensation. You could feel the pooling drool, warm and thick, running down your chin, a testament to your utter lack of control. Your body was a slave to his touch, arching, trembling, every muscle strained with a desperate need.
Remmick's mouth remained at your neck, his teeth still lightly grazing your Adam's apple, a constant, low-level threat that somehow intensified the pleasure building within you. You could feel the vibrations of his low growls against your skin, a primal hum that resonated deep in your core. The scent of your mingled blood and his musk filled your nostrils, intoxicating and overwhelming.
Your hands, still clenching his shoulders, dug in deeper, your nails leaving angry red marks on his pale skin. You were a mess of contradictory sensations: desperate pleasure, overwhelming vulnerability, and a terrifying surrender. Every pump of his fingers within you sent a fresh wave of exquisite agony, pushing you closer and closer to an unknown precipice. The world was a blur of sensation, sound, and touch, all centered on him, on the monster who held you so completely in his thrall.
Remmick's fingers, a relentless torment and exquisite pleasure, brushed your prostate once more, a deliberate, agonizing pressure that stole your breath. This time, the sensation was too much. You choked on a moan, a raw, guttural sound that tore from your chest. Your body, already a taut wire of sensation, began to shake uncontrollably from the sheer overstimulation. Your thighs, still splayed and exposed, trembled violently, and a profound, convulsive shudder rippled through you as you came.
A strangled cry escaped your lips, quickly silenced by the fingers still deep within your mouth. Tears welled in the corners of your eyes, hot and sudden, blurring the dim outlines of the room as your body surrendered to the overwhelming release. Remmick, a dark silhouette, watched intently, his brown eyes, so intense, absorbed every tremor, every desperate gasp. Even as your orgasm racked your body, he continued to pump his fingers gently, curving them in and out, milking every last wave of pleasure as you rode out the crest of your climax.
Finally, as your body slowly began to settle, still trembling with the aftershocks, he pulled his fingers out from inside you. The sudden absence left a lingering, hollow ache, a testament to the intensity of his touch. He then slowly, deliberately, pulled the other fingers from your mouth, leaving your lips slick and swollen, your chin wet with drool.
He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear, and his voice, a low, satisfied rumble, was the only sound in the aftermath of your tumultuous release. "Good boy," he murmured, his tone thick with a profound, possessive triumph. "So beautiful. My good, good boy."
Your head, heavy and dazed, fell against Remmick's shoulder, your breath still coming in ragged gasps. Your body was a trembling, aching landscape of sensation, yet a deep, insistent need pulsed through you. His hands, now gripping your hips, nails digging into your skin in a firm, possessive hold, felt both painful and utterly grounding.
Then, with a fluid movement, Remmick lifted you slightly, a gentle shift that positioned you perfectly. A gasp tore from your throat as you felt the blunt, hot tip of his cock press against your entrance. You sobbed, a raw, primal sound, your body overstimulated to the point of exquisite agony, now from the feeling of his cock beginning to push inside you. It was a slow, deliberate invasion, stretching you, filling you with an aching fullness that stole your breath.
You moved your head, desperate for his mouth, your lips brushing against Remmick's, seeking his taste, his heat. "Oh god," you mumbled, the words slurred, thick with desperate pleasure. "You feel so... so good." You tightened your grip on his shoulders, your fingers digging in, a frantic anchor. "Please, Remmick. Fuck me." The plea tore from your throat, raw and unashamed, laying bare your utter submission.
He answered with a heated, sloppy kiss, his mouth claiming yours in a desperate tangle of tongues and teeth. He groaned against your lips, a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. And then, he began to move. Slow, teasing thrusts, in and out, just enough to fill you, to stretch you to your limits, before pulling back, denying you the full depth of his penetration. Each withdrawal was a torment, each slow push forward an agonizing pleasure, driving you further into the depths of your own unraveling.
You whimpered, a raw, needy sound swallowed by the deep, heated kiss. Each slow, teasing thrust was an exquisite form of torture, pushing you to the brink, then pulling back, leaving you aching for more. Your body, already trembling from the overstimulation, quivered with every agonizingly slow withdrawal, every deliberate, teasing push. You gripped his shoulders tighter, your nails digging into the hard plane of his flesh, seeking an anchor in the storm of sensation.
Remmick groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through your lips and down into your very core. His hands on your hips tightened, holding you captive, dictating the pace, even as you instinctively arched against him, desperate for the full, consuming thrust. You could feel the rigid heat of him, stretching you, filling you, a sensation that was both overwhelming and utterly addictive. The scent of sex, blood, and primal desire filled the air, a heady perfume that dulled your senses to everything but the exquisite torment he inflicted.
Driven by an instinct deeper than thought, you started to move your hips, a slow, tentative grind at first, then gaining confidence as the pleasure intensified. You rode Remmick, meeting his slow, teasing thrusts, taking control of the rhythm, even as he was the one driving deep inside you. Each downward slide of your body brought a groan from your lips, each upward push a gasp. The friction, the fullness, the delicious ache of him stretching you, was overwhelming.
Remmick pulled away from the heated kiss, his mouth leaving yours with a wet, smacking sound. His eyes, still the deep, captivating brown, were fixed on yours, burning with an intense satisfaction. He watched your face, every tremor, every flush of desire, as your hips continued their desperate rhythm against his.
"God," he rasped, his voice thick with raw pleasure, "you feel so good. So unbelievably good around me." His hands on your hips tightened, mirroring your movements, subtly guiding, subtly controlling. "I've thought of this moment. Countless nights, little bird. Imagined it. How perfect you'd be."
He let out a low, guttural growl, his voice dropping to a possessive whisper that bypassed your ears and resonated directly in your core. "Always imagined you like this. Riding me, desperate and wild. Mine. And only mine. My good, beautiful boy." With each whispered word, he punctuated the sentiment with a deep, deliberate thrust, emphasizing his claim as he fucked you, making sure you felt every inch of his possession.
His words, thick with possessive triumph, ignited a wild, untamed response deep within you. Each thrust that punctuated his declaration drove the truth deeper, embedding it in your very core. You no longer just rode him; you demanded him, your hips grinding with an almost frantic energy, pushing down, pulling up, meeting every inch of his powerful thrusts.
The pleasure became a roaring inferno, consuming everything else. You arched your back, throwing your head back, a silent cry tearing from your throat. Your hands, still clamped on his shoulders, dug in deeper, your nails desperate anchors against the storm of sensation. His grip on your hips tightened, mirroring your intensity, pulling you into a rhythm that was both animalistic and perfectly synchronized.
The sounds in the room became a symphony of raw desire: the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin, the ragged gasps torn from your lungs, the deep, guttural groans that rumbled from Remmick’s chest. The air grew thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and the faint, lingering coppery tang of your blood. Every nerve ending in your body screamed with pleasure, stretched taut to the breaking point. You were lost in the moment, a creature of pure instinct, utterly consumed by the monster beneath you, and by the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that you wanted nothing more than to be consumed.
The world had narrowed to the raw, urgent rhythm of your bodies. Remmick's cock, a hot, insistent presence, brushed against your prostate repeatedly with each powerful thrust. The sensation was electric, pushing you closer to a precipice you both yearned for. You clenched around him, a desperate, involuntary tightening, as a raw moan tore from your lips, his name, "Remmick," a breathless plea on your tongue.
His thrusts grew harder, more primal, losing their earlier teasing precision for a raw, sloppy urgency. He bit down, a sudden, sharp pressure, onto your shoulder. You cried out, a mix of pain and pure, unadulterated sensation, as blood immediately welled from the wound, trickling down your arm, staining your chest.
Then, his cock hit your prostate with a harsh, undeniable force. The pleasure, sharp and overwhelming, sent you over the edge. You cried out his name again, a desperate, guttural sound, as your body convulsed, seizing around him. Your climax ripped through you, waves of intense pleasure making you clench around his pulsing cock as he continued his relentless rhythm inside you.
Remmick, too, was lost in the throes of his own release. He continued his sloppy, powerful thrusts, his body rigid, groaning deep in his chest. You felt his hot, thick release deep inside you, filling you completely as he rode out his own orgasm. Even as he climaxed, his mouth worked at your shoulder, lapping up the blood, his tongue a warm, rough caress against the wound. The taste of your blood, hot and fresh, mingled with the potent taste of his own release, a true, visceral communion.
The raw, primal sounds of your shared climax slowly faded, leaving only the ragged gasps of your breathing and the rhythmic thud of your hearts in the sudden stillness of the room. Your body, utterly spent, trembled violently, a prolonged aftershock of the intense release. You collapsed against Remmick, your head falling against his sweat-slick shoulder, the fresh wound on your skin throbbing with a dull ache. The warmth of your blood mingled with his cooling skin, a stark, visceral reminder of the depths you had just plumbed.
Remmick’s strong arms, which had been gripping your hips, now wrapped around you, pulling you impossibly closer. His breath was ragged against your hair, his body still shuddering with the last tremors of his orgasm. He pressed a possessive kiss into your scalp, then trailed his lips down to the wound on your shoulder, a soft, almost reverent lick that both soothed and stirred the raw skin. You could feel the subtle shift in his muscles, the lingering tension slowly easing, replaced by a profound, almost peaceful contentment.
The scent of sex was heavy in the air, musky and sweet, intertwined with the metallic tang of blood. Your legs, still wrapped around his hips, felt like jelly, utterly boneless. You were draped over him, a heavy, exhausted weight, and he held you effortlessly, as if you were made for this exact position, this exact moment of intimate collapse.
Time seemed to stretch, moments blurring into an eternity of quiet connection. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, painting a distorted tableau of your entangled forms. The world outside, with its sun and its rules, felt impossibly distant, a forgotten dream. Here, in the dim glow, with the monster who had consumed you, was your new reality.
He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt your chin up with his thumb, his brown eyes, now soft and deep, meeting yours. There was no longer the burning intensity of hunger, but a quiet satisfaction, a profound sense of accomplishment. His lips, still full and slightly bruised from your shared frenzy, curved into a gentle, knowing smile.
"See?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, laden with contentment. "I told you. Mine." He paused, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "And you, little bird… you wanted it. Just as much as I did. More, perhaps."
The words hung in the air, a final confirmation. And as you looked into his now-human eyes, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, the ache of your raw skin, the lingering fullness inside you, you knew he was right. The terror had been real, the power undeniable, but so too was the dark, consuming desire. You were not just prey; you were a willing participant, drawn into a world your mother had only ever warned you about. This wasn't salvation; it was something far more compelling, far more dangerous. It was belonging.
He shifted again, pulling the sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking it around you both as if settling in for a long, quiet night. You felt a wave of exhaustion, heavy and sweet, pulling you towards sleep. But even as your eyelids grew heavy, you knew this was not the end. It was only the beginning of a different kind of darkness, a different kind of life, irrevocably entwined with the monster who had claimed you, body and soul.
⸸ ) dark romance ?? blood mentioned, stalking, obsession, reader is hinted to be poc, accents, remmick being a creep
You didn't plan on finding a dead man, hell, you didn't plan on finding anyone this late. The dirt road was empty, quiet around these parts, it made you feel like you were the only one dumb enough to be out here tonight. You should've kept walking, mind your own business, that was the rule for a man like you, wasn’t it? But the sight of him stopped your tracks.
A white man laid on the dirt, practically dead with a dark pool of red underneath him, his eyes were closed, very pale. You should've turned around if it weren't for your heart who said otherwise.
Cursing to yourself, you quickly pulled his limp body up. He was much heavier than he looked, all dead weight while dragging him through your door took a lot work than you wanted to admit. You settled him above your bed, a soft surface in the cabin and immediately got to work.
The gash on his ribs was a wide thing, still dripping blood, it was a shock he didn't bleed out on the road. You weren't a miracle worker or anything, just a lonely man with steady hands, you stitched the best you could. Once you were done, you whispered a prayer to no one in particular, more out of habit than hope.
Days passed, then weeks and before you knew it, you were put into a strange cycle; checking his bandages, feeding him between his cold lips, watching him without meaning to. Sometimes you talked to him out of comfort. "You got family?" You asked, or, "Reckon you'll even thank me..." He never answered.
His quiet presence became a part of your life, you don’t question it for how long though, too anxious to think about it.
Today, you headed into town for some fresh fruit, it was also the first time you left him alone for more than an hour. After hours, you headed home later than usual, expecting to see him on the bed still resting, it was empty. The sheets were a mess, the cup of water you left beside him was gone, he...dissappeared, as if he didn't exist.
Disappointment hit you, you wanted to at least get his name. Maybe it was better this way? No questions to ask, no debts he could've offered, (you didn't wanted him to offer anything anyway). You shrugged off the feeling, a small smile on your lips. He walked again, it was enough to let him go after you found him, a stranger on the road.
You hoped wherever he was, he was safe.
The man you saved had a name, Remmick. Not that you ever known it. He was not a man at all, not really. He was what people called immortal, some say cursed, something that walked this earth for centuries, feeding on the living, leaving things behind. In all his years of living, no one had ever helped him without any questions.
He remembered in a flash you didn't flinch at the blood, still dragging him to a warm bed. He left anyway by the time the moon was set out of necessity in what he called "business," teeth sinking in, a hunger to satisfy. He also took note of the old cabin. There was nothing special about it, not enough to stay longer except for the human living in it.
He told himself he would forget you.
Remmick didn't.
Deep in the woods, he sank his teeth deep into someone's neck, some traveler who made the mistake walking too far off from the main road. The blood was warm, an easy target usually made him forget everything else until he heard a soft hum in the trees. His fangs slowly pulled back, the body dropped hard from his grip with a loud thud, already forgotten.
He tilted his head, ears perked up at the sound, that voice...he recognizes it. His feet moved before his mind could think, stepping over sticks, somehow silent. Reaching the sound, there you were, the same dirt road you found Remmick bleeding out, walking slow while humming some old tune he heard a lifetime ago.
For the first time, he didn't feel hungry.
Then you felt it. It was a prickle at the back of your neck, a heavy weight of being watched. You stopped mid-step and turned your head over your shoulder, heart beating fast. For a split second, you saw it, meeting two bright eyes gleaming in the dark focused on you.
You blinked once, they were gone.
"What...?" You muttered, brows furrowing.
You rubbed the back of your neck, scanning the area to see if you saw it again. "I could've sworn..." Probably an animal, you hadn't been sleeping well after the stranger's dissapearence. Too many nights staring at the empty bed, wondering if you dreamed about the whole thing. Shaking your head, you turned back and kept walking home.
Remmick stayed still at the spot until your figure disappeared. Slowly, a smile grew on his bloodstained lips. He'd killed more people than he could count, moved to countries, seeing drunk kings and beggars alike. Mississippi was supposed to be another pass by town for a feeding ground.
Now he couldn't leave thanks to you, finding himself drawn to your cabin night after night, slipping pass so he could watch from a distance. The first time it happened he told himself it was curiosity, the second it was out of boredom, at this point he stopped making excuses entirely.
His red eyes watched you from the kitchen window swaying to a almost broken record player, the same old blues he remembered from the 1920s, back when the world was much simpler. You danced, unknown someone was watching, he leaned against a tree, arms crossed and let himself feel something he wasn't used to.
What a goddamn angel, that one...his smile turned wide, sharp and dangerous.
You've been reckless, bringing a stranger into your home was a stupid way to die. Kindness like that would get you killed in a world full of peices of shit. That wasn't going to happen, not while he was still alive for many years to come. Making a final decision right there, he decided he wasn't going to kill you. Not now, not ever.
He was going to have you.
Remmick would introduce himself properly this time. Not a bleeding man you saved, as something else, someone worthy of your time. At least he will keep you safe by protecting you from the monsters walking around in the dark.
Even if he was the worst kind of all.
-
You never thought you would see that man again. After a few months passed by, you more or less made peace with it, thinking it was one of those strange, one-time things life throws at you when you weren't looking. He left without so much as a "thank you" or a "goodbye," you told yourself it was for the best, no strings attached. Here you were, staring back at him in the darkness of your kitchen.
You've been over at a friend's place, helping her patch up a hole in her roof when lost track of time like you always did. Didn't matter nothing anymore. it not like anyone was waiting for you at home, or that's what you thought. Coming in to kick off your boots when your eyes caught a dark figure.
A man sitting right there at your little table, slouched back on a chair in your own home. You let out a yelp so loud it could've damaged your throat, your heart nearly jumped out of your body.
"Jesus Christ!" You gasped, palm flat against your chest.
You blinked hard once, twice, thinking maybe the heat from the sun messed with your brain. He was still there, a solid form. Remmick raised his hands up slow, a lazy, mocking surrender at the jumpy behavior he saw before. The darkness in the room clung his face, barely made out the smile on his lips.
"Whoa there, darlin'," he drawled, voice low and smooth, "ain't mean to scare you none, just thought I'd passed by."
You stared at him, feeling yourself coming in short, shaky breaths. It hit you with a flash when you saw the angle of his jaw, your eyes went wide. "Oh...it's you," you let out, the words barely coming out. You took a hesitant step, squinting in the dark to take a closer look at him. "I-how'd you get in my house? I locked that door, I know I did."
He tilted his head, those bright eyes of his catching the faint moonlight through the window, they were a different dark color, if that was even possible.
"Door ain't much of a obstacle for a man like me."
You swallowed hard at the way he said it, sweet, almost affectionate. It sent a chill down your spine but not in a way it came from fear. You studied him closer now to notice he looked better, stronger than before. That pale, near-dead color you saw earlier was gone from his white skin, he looked alive, better than ever.
"Lord have mercy," you muttered. "You done 'bout gave me a heart attack, you know that? Sittin' here like some kinda ghost."
Remmick chuckled, he rose from the chair slowly in a way that seemed like he had all the time in the world. His eyes flickered around the room, taking note of small details: the single bed in the room, one plate on the table, boots near the door, the lack of a woman's touch anywhere. He would be lying if he said he didn't felt satisfied.
"Ain't got nobody else here, do ya?"
You crossed your arms, finally finding a sense of fierce in your backbone. "That ain't none of your business. Now you gonna tell me what you doin' here or do I gotta kick you out with my shotgun?"
Remmick's smile widened at the threat, showing a little hint of crooked teeth. "Shotgun?" He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Oh, that ain't gon' do nothin' but make a whole lotta noise and piss me off." You felt your jaw tighten at the lack of fear. "You ain't answerin' my question."
He stepped closer, and you noticed something with the way he moved, it reminded you of water slowly flowing down a river. He came to a stop a few feet away, you finally got another good look at his face under the light. Handsome, in a dangerous sort of way, his eyes went back to the same blue color, this time it had hunger to them.
"I come back to thank you proper," he said, his drawl stretching out each word. "And to get to know the only soul in my years who patched me up and didn't ask for a dime."
You snorted, trying to play it cool even though your heart was still beating out of your chest, not from a simple scare this time. "Well, you done thanked me, now you can see yourself out." He didn't budge, instead, he glanced back at the corner where your little record player sat, the one you were dancing to in all those nights.
"I seen you," he said quietly, "in the window, dancin'."
Your blood went cold, "what you talkin' 'bout?"
He finally met your eyes, a slow reverent look went across his face. "I been watchin' you, darlin'. For weeks now, couldn't stay away if I tried." He took another step, close enough to smell the scent of earth on him, "sweetest man I ever laid eyes on. You just movin' around this little shack, hummin' them old songs, lookin' so...good."
You stumbled back a step, your hip hitting he counter. More memories came back at that prickle on your neck out on the dirt road, the two bright eyes in the woods vanishing when you blinked for a second.
"It was you," you whispered, your voice shaking, "out there...in the woods that night." The vampire didn't deny anything, he looked down with a small smile still on his lips. "I told you, I ain't much good at lettin' go of things that matter." Feeling your throat dry from the unexpected confession, despite the fear, you needed more answers.
"Why? Why you followin' me? I ain't got nothin' you want."
He laughed, a soft sound with pity in it. "Oh, but you do, darlin', you just don't know it yet."
Before you could ask what he meant, he moved fast, filling the space between you. Suprisingly, Remmick didn't touch you, boxing you in against the counter instead. "I'm fixin' to stay a while," he murmured, his voice drop-pin to a sweet whisper. "If you'll have me and even if you won't." Your hands curled into fists at your sides, you couldn't move at the vulnerable spot you were in.
"You saved my life," he reached out slow to touch a stray curl from your forehead, his long fingers felt cold.
"Now I'm gonna save yours."
You opened your mouth to say anything, the words died in your throat because when he smiled again, you saw them. There were two fangs, sharp enough to be knives, poking out in the dark and you realized with a cold dread, the man you nursed back to health was something far worse than any human you've ever encountered.
He was a monster.
And he was looking at you like you were the only one who mattered.
Summary: He heard your voice once through the rain and decided you were his. The pub is emptier every night until you’re ready to learn what it means to belong to a monster.
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. Dark Remmick. Non-con/Dub-con. Strangers into lovers. Stalking. Minor characters death. Vampire x Human sex. Monster fucking. Blood drinking. Blood kink. Spit kink. Lots of drooling. Heavy and messy make out sessions. Possessive and obsessive behavior. First time. Top Remmick. Dominant Remmick. Bottom male reader. Overstimulation. Anal sex. Riding.
Request sent by an anon, hope you’ll like this
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 - gif
Words count: 5000
A pub sat at the crooked end of the street, squat and yellow-windowed. Rain had been falling for three days straight.
The cobbles glistened, gutters ran black and somewhere down the lane, slouched against the brick of a closed bakery, a man stood very still and watched the door of O'Halloran's.
He'd been watchin' three nights now without fidgeting or shifting his weight because the cold meant nothin' to him and neither did the wet.
His dirty tank top was beaded with rain, dark hair plastered flat against his forehead in damp strings while he observed with a small, patient smile playing about his mouth.
The threshold was always the trouble with these places since pub was a home of sorts, therefore he needed an invite.
Remmick had stood at this very curb for two nights running, leaning on the lamppost and listenin' to that music.
He'd heard fiddlers his whole long life and he was older than the pub along the age of every leaving being inside that place.
But he had never, not in all his thousand-and-some years, heard a voice like yours.
He'd come into the lane on the first night by accident, drawn by hunger and a tip from a girl he'd met at a crossroads whose throat he'd opened soft as warm bread and last whispered words had been the pub down by the river with lots of folk, after that he'd stopped dead in the wet street the moment your voice reached his advanced hearing.
He'd stood there in the rain like a fool, mouth slightly open and he'd listened.
You'd taken some old melody and done some twist for it, made it yours.
It had made him feel his dead heart contract, especially when through the glass he'd seen you.
A flush in your cheeks from the heat of the room, hair a bit damp at the temples and shirt open one button too many as the lamplight caught the slip of skin at your throat which caused Remmick to make a small, soft sound at the back of his mouth.
‘Oh,’ he'd thought. ’Oh, would ye look at that, now.’
And he had not been able to stop lookin'.
The first night he didn't get in but just stood by the lamppost till closin' time, watching every silhouette through the smoked glass and tracking your moving shape between sets, watching you laugh with the barmaid while tilting your head back to drink from a tall glass and exposin' the long line of your throat.
He'd had to bite the inside of his own cheek till it bled to keep from doing somethin' stupid, it had only made him hungrier.
Watching you walk home through the rain, he'd followed three streets behind and memorized everything, standing in the wet alley across the way and watching your shadow move behind the curtain as you took off your shirt.
He could've taken you that night while counting down the seconds as you approached the door of your place and have your throat under his teeth before you'd even finished the gasp.
But that would've been a waste because Remmick had developed, over a very long lifetime, certain refinements of appetite and when somethin' rare is found, he was going to take care and savor it.
So he stayed there outside the whole night and understood why you stayed so late at night in that pub.
Wrath overwhelmed his expression at the bruise on your ribs that he knew ached every time you took a breath deep enough to sing properly.
The second night he tried the door, coming earlier this time, at the soft blue hour just before full dark, and he'd washed his face in a horse trough and combed his hair back with his fingers.
The farmers he had killed had a cleaner shirt he put on along a pair of suspenders with only a little blood at the cuffs.
He stood at the threshold of O'Halloran's and he couldn’t cross it.
A man came staggerin' out, sloppy with drink, clappin' his hat onto his head.
"Beg pardon, friend," Remmick said politely with that sweet brogue of his. "D'ye know the pub? Is the landlord about?"
"Yeah," the drunk said, swayin'. "Sean's behind the bar."
"Listen, could ye do me a kindness? Could ye step back in and tell Sean there's a fellow at the door, name of Tomás Byrne, with a message from his cousin in Cork. Tell him I'm to be let in for a moment, just to deliver it."
The drunk blinked as Remmick caught his eye and held it while fighting the urge to just drain his bloodstream.
"Sure," said the drunk dreamily. "Sure, man. Imma tell him."
He went back inside, two minutes passed before the door swung open and there was a big red-faced man with a bar towel over his shoulder. "You the Byrne fellow? From Cork?"
"That's me, sir."
"Well, come on in, then, ye're lettin' the heat out. Welcome— "
The invisible wall crumbled and Remmick stepped across the threshold, feeling the warmth of the place close around him as his hungry currently blue eyes scanned the place in search of the only one who mattered.
He found you in the corner by the hearth turning up between sets, lips pursed in concentration.
The firelight was on you, picking out the down on your cheek and soft curve of your bottom lip.
Remmick took a small table at the back by the wall, a girl came to ask him what he’d like and he simply mumbled a pint without taking his sight off of you without blinking.
You performed with your instrument for an hour without stoppin' And the crowd loved you.
They stamped and threw coins in the cap by your foot. A pretty girl with red curls leaned on a post and made eyes at you and a bigger lad with a beard slapped the table along with the reel.
Remmick sat in his shadow and watched them all and he began, very rapidly, to hate every set of eyes in the room that looked at you.
You'd been his since the first note he heard through the rain and they were contaminating you with their attention.
When you finished the set and came down off the stool, mopping your brow with your sleeve, Remmick was already at the bar just as you reached for your water, meeting your eyes.
"That last one," he said softly, almost shy. "Was it 'The Maid Behind the Bar'?"
You blinked before smiling and up close you were even worse than from across the room, there was a bead of sweat at your temple that he wanted to lean over and lick.
"It was," you said. "Good ear."
"Ah, no, sir, I've a poor ear, I just know that one. My mam used to hum it." He let the brogue come thicker, the way the people liked. "Ye play it lovely."
"Thanks." You laughed a little, embarrassed, looking down at your glass. "Most people prefer it loud and fast."
"Most people are fools," he said and he held your eye when you looked back up.
For one moment somethin' passed between you and he saw your pupils widen when really noticing him.
"What's your name, sir?" You said.
"Remmick."
"Just Remmick?"
"Just Remmick."
"Well, just Remmick, I've got another set in a couple of nights. Any requests?" You smiled at him.
He thought about it, warm pint in his hand as he let his eyes drift from your eyes to your mouth and he watched you notice that, a flush starting up under the collar of your shirt.
"Play me somethin' sad that'll break me heart."
You laughed, uneasy now, and picked up your glass, nodding at him as you walked away. He watched the line of your shoulders as ye went and glanced back once just for a second before you disappeared into the back room.
By the third night he'd stopped needin' to be invited and the old wards on O'Halloran's recognized him now as a regular.
He took his table in the corner and took another pint he won’t be drinking, nor did he speak to anyone but you and only briefly when you came to lean on the bar between sets.
Always gentle, soft-spoken, askin' about the tunes and where you'd learned them.
Falsely speakin’ bout his father bein’ a hard and terrible man who used to take the strap on ‘im for nothin' at all, you'd looked at him with empathy and Remmick had almost laughed out loud at how easy it was to make a beautiful thing pity ‘im.
He thought a great many things in those long quiet nights at the end of the bar, watching you.
How yer skin would smell up close, thinking of a smell faintly of soap and sweat along a particular fragrance that all the truly sweet ones had, blood that had been wrung out by sorrow until it was rich.
He could see how your pulse looked when you performed from across the room, a faint flutter under the soft hinge of your jaw.
He wanted to put his mouth there and feel that flutter against his lips, let the want of it build for a while.
Patience made the meal better.
He did thought about what it would taste like when he finally did sink in, imagining the first hot copper rush of it, how your body would jerk and then slacken, as a surprised gasp would feed straight into his mouth.
Those eyes shimmered red at the thought of peeling you out of those plain shirts you wore and seeing what was under them, the bruises he was already plotting murders for but also wanted to kiss every one of before he ever marked you himself.
Your back would look great when bent over for him, hole tight due to being made of muscle of a body that had never been used, the give of it when he forced his way in.
The noises ye'd make as he pounds into you to than lean down and put his teeth in you while he was still fucking you.
He knew that the moment his fangs broke skin your whole body would clench up tight as a fist around his cock and he would feel it from the stones to his crown. He wanted to drink you while you ride him and hear you sing for him.
About the others…
Remmick had marked the redhead who'd made eyes at you. He'd waited for her one night after closin' three streets from the pub and he'd been very kind to her, lying on how he was lost and asked for directions before taking her by the wrist and walking her into an alley, hand over her mouth before she'd even known to be afraid.
He'd drained her slow while thinkin' of you the whole time, body left in a heap behind a bin.
The bearded lad whose hand had clapped your shoulder too many times got his throat slashed in a quick swing of Remmick’s elongated and sharp claws as the galumphin' bastard thrashed and gurgled.
Many more had been victims of Remmick’s jealousy and by the end of the second week the regulars at O'Halloran's had started to thin drastically, pub half empty by that time.
By the fourth week there were six people in the pub on a Friday night while you, on your stool, looked out at the thin scatter of bodies with unease in your face.
That night, you finally played a slow air for him, looking at him a long moment from your stool before playing somethin' your mother had taught you, sweet and aching that he'd had to put his hand over his mouth as memories of his kin resurfaced.
When you finished, the six people in the pub clapped softly and you looked straight at Remmick, offering a small private smile and Remmick felt somethin' inside him snap.
He couldn't wait any longer.
His teeth were achin' in his gums.
‘Tonight,’ he thought. ’Yer playin’ yer last set in this pub. From now on ye play only fer me.’
He waited till closin', standing at the end of the night and laid a golden coin on the bar and he tipped his head to Sean before stepping out into the rainy lane and going around the back of the building, standing under the eave by the kitchen door where the bins were and waited in the perfect dark with his hands in his pockets, head tilted and listenin'.
He heard you sayin' goodnight to Sean, the little hop you did down the back step along a soft splash as you landed in the puddle by the door.
You came around the corner with your collar turned up against the rain, arm covering your head and Remmick was already movin'.
He came up behind you on the silent feet of his kind and he got one hand around your mouth, lifting you off your feet
Thrashing beautifully in his grip he felt how you were stronger than you looked and Remmick almost laughed out loud against your hair because that was exactly how he wanted you
"Shhhh," he breathed against your ear and his breath was cold. "Shhhh, lad, easy now. I got ye now."
You tried to bite his hand and pressed harder, crushin' your jaw shut as he carried you like a doll across the lane and into the black mouth of the alley beyond.
He pressed his face into your hair and breathed soap and sweat along the faint cheap cologne you dabbed on your throat.
Underneath it, the warm rich blood was goin' wild in your neck, just a quarter inch from his open mouth while you were makin' little sounds against his palm.
"Don't ye be afraid, now," Remmick crooned, almost lovin'. "I'm goin' to take such good care of ye. We've got time, lad."
He shifted his grip and pinched the soft place at the side of your throat and your body went heavy in his arms.
The last thing you saw before the dark took you was his face hangin' over yours with somethin' wet and red just startin' to glint behind his lower lip.
You came back to yourself in stages.
First the cold needles of rain on your face and the strip of throat above your collar. Then the sound of your own ragged breath pluggin' in and out of your nose.
A cold hand clamped at the back of your neck, fingers long enough to wrap halfway round and meet themselves at your throat.
"There's me lad wakin' up just in time, aren't ye?"
Christ, you trashed and threw your weight back against him and it felt like fightin' a stone wall with the way he didn't budge or even breathe harder.
He just laughed against the shell of yer ear and walked you three more stumblin' steps down the lane.
"Easy, easy. None of that, now. I’be been so patient with ye, lad. I was goin' to take ye a proper place, lay ye out on a bed and everythin'. Be a gentleman."
You made a noise against the palm clamped over yer mouth and he pressed harder, thumb diggin' under your jaw, his other hand slidin' down off yer neck to rest possessively over your ribs.
"But I can't. The things ye do t’me…"
He suddenly hunched you back on your feet and pushed forward, causing your knees to hit an old wooden fence runnin' down the side of the lane, separatin' the cobbles from the bit of weedy grass that backed up to the river.
Nobody's lane, pub a hundred yards behind you and not a soul in any window as Remmick bent you over the creaky thing.
One hand on the back of your neck and one between your shoulder blades as he folded you forward on the top rail.
The rail dug into your hips, rain running down your face and into your mouth while making a high thin sound ye didn't recognize as yer own.
"Shhh. Listen to me." His hand left your mouth and clamped down on the back of your head, mashin' your cheek to the wet wood. His other hand was already at the back of your trousers, workin' at the belt. "I'm goin' to take what's mine right here like a beast ‘cause ye've turned me into one. D'ye hear what ye've done?"
The belt came open with a clink, button popping and you felt the cold air on yer lower back as he yanked the trousers down past your arse and a sob came out of your mouth.
"Please—please, sir, please, I— "
"Oh, now he talks with his pretty mouth." Remmick laughed, breathless, half-wild. "Say ’please’ again.“
"Please don't—"
His hand left the back of your head and you heard from behind the rasp of his own belt followed by a wet slap of skin as he pulled his cock out and gave it one rough stroke against the cold air.
Somethin' big and thick against the back of your thigh, slidin' up and leavin' a wet trail of his own drool gather in his hand with how profoundly he was drooling.
"No. No no no no, please, Remmick, I've never—"
"Never?" His voice went soft and crooning, pressing his chest down against your back, cold mouth findin' the shell of your ear as the heavy and blunt head of his cock nestled itself right against your hole. "Never, lad? Oh, ye don't know what ye've just told me."
The points of his teeth bit your earlobe to draw a single bright bead.
"Ye don't know what ye've just given me."
He pushed, driving forward in one long brutal shove, hand on the back of your neck pinnin' you flat, his other arm hookin' under your hip to hold you still and the thick length of him forced its way into you inch by tearin' inch.
A silent scream that got muffled by the wood beneath your mouth.
"Oh, lad, ye're tight—fffffuck"
He bottomed out and your hips were crushed against the rail while he was flush to your arse and you could feel every inch of him buried in, throbbing and enormous, splitting your whole lower body that was now a single hot bar of pain.
You were sobbin' open-mouthed against the wet wood, drool stringin' down your chin and mixin' with the rain.
He held still to feel it, his cold cheek pressed to your hot one, breath comin' fast and shallow against your temple and he was makin' little broken sounds.
"There," he whispered. "There's where I've been wantin' to be fer a month and ye're better than I dreamed, ye're so fookin' warm."
He pulled back, drag of him out that made your eyes roll up with the way it felt bein' turned inside out and you sobbed again and pushed up weakly on your arms but the hand on your neck slammed you flat.
"Stay down fer me. Be good." Each thrust that followed after was a full long stroke, pullin' nearly all the way out and slammin' back in, hips meetin' your arse with a loud wet slap every time.
The fence under your abdomen groaned and creaked with every shove. Each sound of pain timed with a thrust and wet smack of his hips, that punched air out of your throat.
He was deliriously happy in a way that was somehow worse than rage and his thrusts got faster. He'd found his rhythm and he was workin' you on it, all his weight comin' down through his hips into your poor torn arse, cock stretchin' you to the absolute edge of what you could take.
Christ help you out, your own cock was hard.
Not knowing when it'd happened, you were sobbin' from pain and terror, but somewhere in the brutal slidin' of him in and out he'd brushed against that sweet button and now, every thrust and long stroke was directed to your prostate dead-on, draggin' the head of his cock right across it and your own prick was hard as iron between abdomen and the wood of the rail, smearin' precum onto the wet slats with every shove.
Crying from the shame of it and betrayal of your body, Remmick felt your cock against the back of his hand where he'd reached around to grip your hip.
"Oh, lad. Look how he likes it."
"I don't—please—"
He wrapped his cold hand around you and, again, you tried to twist but he gripped tighter.
God, his fingers, when had they got so long?
They wrapped all the way round and overlapped, tips starting to feel pointy where they pressed against the underside of your hot cock, the contrast from his cold hands lit you up.
He stroked you in time with his thrusts and the fence rattled with how force he was putting.
Horrible thing, you were gettin’ close and there was nothin' you could do to stop it.
"That's it, lad, give it to me. I want to feel that little arse squeeze me when ye—"
Your whole body locked, back arching up into him as much as the hand on your neck would allow, cock pulsing in his fist and you spilled hot all over the cold wet slats of the fence, all over his cold long fingers and your arse clamped down on him in a long ripplin' clench that made him snarl into your hair.
He didn't let you come down, fucking you through it even harder and now every thrust into your over-sensitive body was a fresh agony of pleasure, sobbin' open-mouthed as the fence creaked harder, a nail popped somewhere in the rail under your abdomen and a slat split with a dry crack.
His cold and wrong hand was still wrapped round your cock and to your absolute fucking horror you were staying hard.
He fucked you toward the second one with the cold drag of his fist and the brutal pound of his hips along the cold filthy stream of words he was pourin' into your ear.
“That’s me lad takin’ it like he was made fer it, every other man who looked at you… they’re all of them dead fer lookin’ at what’s MINE—“
A whole section of the fence gave under the force of him drivin' you into it, top rail splitting lengthwise with a crack and the slats below sheared off their nails, whole thing pitching forward with you on top of it and Remmick came down on top of you on the wet weedy grass.
The impact drove him another wet crushin' inch deeper into your guts and sudden punch to your insides made you come again with a scream.
Your cock spurted into the grass and into his fist while you saw stars at the edges of yer vision, rain blurrin' into long bright streaks.
"Me good lad, ye perfect…" He was laughin' breathlessly into the back of your neck, pulsing cock still buried to the hilt in your sobbin' body, his whole weight on top of you in the wet grass.
He pushed up off your back and his cock slipped out of you with an obscene wet sound making you whimper at the loss.
What was wrong with you?
"Up," he said. "Come on. Up."
He sat down on the grass, back against the wreck of the fence and cock standin' up red and impossibly long as he hooked his cold hands under yer arms and dragged you up with horrible easy strength to turned your body around and pull you down onto his lap.
You were facin' him now, thighs spread over his as the large crown of his cock was nudgin' up against your used-open hole.
Now you got a proper look at his face for the first time since the alley and you made a sound in your throat at witnessing his red eyes.
Bright color all the way through and the lower half of his face was a wet smear of your own blood and viscous drool that the rain hadn’t managed to wash clean, mouth hanging open and the eye-teeth were long curving, hooked over his lower lip on either side.
A long string of drool was hangin' from one of them.
His fingers on yer hips were too long, each fingertip endin' in a sharp black point now, a claw, prickin' little crescents of blood out of your skin where they dug in.
"Ride me," he purred, sound rattling in his throat when he spoke.
"R-Remmick, please, I— "
"Ride me, lad." He smiled and it was a horror, all those long teeth on display, drool runnin' down his chin in two thin streams.
His clawed hand came up to the back of your head and pulled you down inexorably toward his open mouth that soon came up and met yours in a kiss.
Dangerous mouth of his a swamp, flooded on drool spilling out of the corners of his lips into your mouth the second he opened you, copper-tinged and tastin' of your own blood.
The long teeth scraped your lip as his tongue pushed in, shovin' to the back of your throat and the drool kept pourin' out of his mouth into yours as he held your head pinned.
A long and prolonged hungry kiss till your lungs were burning and were beatin' weakly at his shoulders to try and turn your face away.
He let you up just before you blacked out and you sucked in air in a great whooping rasp, face plastered with his drool and your blood all poorly washed away by the rain, all of it streakin' down your chin and your throat to create the most beautiful piece of art he had ever seen as he observed with those red red eyes shinin', mouth open in that long-toothed grin.
"Now ride me," he said. "Or I'll turn ye." His clawed hand at your hip squeezed, and ye felt warm wet tricklin' down yer thigh where the points dug in. "I'll bite yer neck and bleed ye dry and ye'll be mine forever. I'll fuck ye every night fer the rest of eternity and I'll never stop, lad."
He smiled.
"D'ye want that?"
You shook your head with the lack of words forming inside your throat.
"I’m struggling no t’ do that to ye, lad." His clawed thumb stroked yer cheek, almost gentle, smearin' the blood deeper into your skin. "Ye're me little blood pet, me sweet warm barrel. Won't that be lovely?"
He grinned wider, drool running down his chin.
You were tremblin', his cock was nudged up against your hole again, slick from your own blood with help of his clawed hands along and his own spit and your cum.
"Ride," he said. "Now."
You sank down on him because there was nothin' else to do and his hands at your hips were already pressin' ye down, thighs shaking too hard to hold ye up.
Sinking down on his huge cock and taking every inch of him with a long broken whine through your teeth and when you’d taken him to the root your own prick was hard again between you two.
"There he is. There's me good lad." He lifted yourself on shakin' thighs and back down again and again while tears were comin' hot down your cheeks, his clawed hand was at the small of your back guidin' you and his other clawed hand was at the back of your head guidin' you too, red eyes devourin' your face, drinking every twitch and flutter of your eyelashes.
He bent his head forward and bit your shoulder, setting those long curvin' teeth against the meat of your shoulder, the points dimplin' the skin before he pressed and they slid through your flesh.
You gasped, hips jerking involuntarily and driving yourself down on him harder, causing him to make a deep hum of pleasure into yer skin while drinking.
It was the worst pleasure you’d ever felt. There was pain in it and your head went heavy, hips movin' on him like they'd forgotten how to stop, ridin' him slow and dazed now while he drank out of your shoulder in long even swallows.
His arm wrapped round your waist to lock you against him, greedy of all the iron-liquid that fed your cells while you lost count of your own thrusts up-and-down on his cock.
The world went swimmy at the edges.
He pulled off your shoulder with a wet sound and licked the wound before he bent down and put his teeth into the meat of your arm.
Your hole clenched on him in waves and your cock bobbed between your abdomens as your mind was a soft warm fog of pain.
His face was a wet mask when he finally let go of your arm, lower half black-red and shinin' and his red eyes were brighter than ever, hips jerkin' up to do all the work now, clawed hands grippin' you too tight, drawin' fresh little crescents.
He reached between you and wrapped that long-clawed hand round your cock again, three strokes that ended up being the final element for you to cum, dry this time, just empty bone-deep convulsions, sobbin' open-mouthed against his bloody throat and the squeeze of you was too much for him, nowhere left for his cock to go with how deep he pulled you down, no inch not buried in you.
He was already too big with the way he had split you open ‘round him, but his cock thickened inside you in one long throbbin' surge, head fattenin' against your prostate, shaft swelling to fill out every last bit of slack and you sobbed into his throat from the stretch of it, hole clamping down again helplessly and that was what tipped him.
He came with a grunt into your collarbone, thick length of him kicking inside you, first long pulse of him painting your insides white.
More came in as he emptied himself into you in heavy spurts, each one shovin' a little deeper because he was crushed up against your chest and there was nowhere for it to go but in, fillin' you till you could feel the warmth of it spreadin' through your belly where he was packed inside.
A thin trickle of it started to escape round the seal of his cock and slide down the inside of your thigh.
His hips kept jerkin' in aftershock thrusts, each one squelchin' wet with his own cum and the slow seep of your blood from where his claws had opened you at the hip.
That was what he'd been usin', you realized in a far-off dim way, what had gone slick down the length of him before he'd even pushed in.
He tore his teeth out of your shoulder, fangs coming free with a fresh hot rush of blood that welled up out of the four neat puncture holes, runnin' down your collarbone in two thick streams and Remmick made a desperate broken noise, tongue coming to lap at the wound, gatherin' up every drop, tongue dragged broad and wet across your skin and coming back even redder.
All the slurping he made was the filthiest sound you’d ever heard in your life while the drops kept beading.
Your head was hangin' low, chin almost on your own chest, hair stuck to your face with rain and sweat.
His clawed hand came up under your jaw to lift your face up, long black points of his nails pricked little crescents into the soft underside of your chin as he turned you to him and your head lolled in his grip and allowing you to see a fresh dribble of your blood runnin' wet from one corner of his lip down into his stubble.
This right before devouring your mouth, tongue shoved straight in past your slack lips and the taste of copper exploded inside it along his drool runnin' viscous and stringy out the corners of his mouth and pouring down into yours, smearin' across your cheek where his lips slid wet over your skin, paintin' your chin and jaw along the underside of your nose in a thick streaky red film.
He grunted into your mouth, hips jerking up under you on instinct, drivin' his still-half-hard cock another half-inch into your used and stuffed hole while you whimpered weakly into his tongue and your poor exhausted body clenched on him again.
The fangs nicked you in small cuts on the soft inside of your lip above the line of your teeth and blood welled up in small drops that made the monster moan, tongue suddenly frantic, lashin' inside your mouth, dartin' under your tongue and scrapin' along the cut on your lip, chasin' every bead.
His hand on your jaw tightened and the claws drew thin red lines as he kissed you harder, nose mashed flat against yours, stubble bristly against your chin, ropy strings of it spillin' from the corner where his mouth couldn't seal to your and runnin' down both your jaws.
You couldn't breathe, chest hitching weakly against his and he held you there, drinkin' the little leakin' cuts inside your mouth with the desperate single-mindedness of a monster.
When he finally let your mouth go, a thick rope of pink-red drool stretched between yer lips, swayin', before it broke and fell wet onto your chest.
Remmick sighed, long and satisfied.
"Good lad," he murmured and licked the smear off your chin in one possessive swipe. “Y’ wanna come in wi’ me, now?”
You couldn't move or speak while lyin' against the cold dead chest of the thing that had taken you and you were thinking through the fog about what was waiting for you at home.
Your head fell against his cold shoulder and Remmick made a soft pleased sound.
"That's it, sweet thing. Ye rest now. I'll get ye a home in a wee bit."
Remmick rocked ye in his lap and hummed, very softly, the slow air you'd played for him on the stool and you closed your eyes against his cold cold throat.
Summary: Your boyfriend was supposed to keep you safe. He wasn't supposed to leave the back door unlocked on the night a hungry Irish thing passed by. Remmick came for blood and walked out with something he liked better while he made sure your boyfriend had a front row seat to watch you figure out who'd been fucking you wrong all along.
Tags: Male reader. No use of Y/N. Dark Remmick. Non-con/dub-con to want. Cuckolding (forced witness). Minor character death. Implied stalking. Possessive Remmick. Obsessive Remmick. Sadism. Size kink. Dom top Remmick. Bottom male reader. Mild humiliation. Degradation pet names. Blood drinking. Blood kink. Blood used as lube. Biting. Fangs. Neck biting. Throat fucking. Deepthroating. Face fucking. Forced voyeurism. Light bondage (the boyfriend). Restraints. Manipulation.
A request that I got
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 - gif
Words count: 4000
The house sat at the dead end of a gravel road, hemmed in by pine trees that swayed black against a bruise-purple sky. One porch light. One window glowing yellow upstairs. Cicadas drilled their summer racket into the dark and somewhere a hound bayed at nothing.
Remmick stood at the tree line with his hands in the pockets of some trousers that didn't quite belong to him.
He tilted his head, listening past the cicadas until he caught two heartbeats inside that house, one thudding slow from slumber, the other quicker.
He smiled and his teeth glinted.
‘Two fer the price o' one, that'll do nicely.’ He thought to himself.
He'd been hungry since dusk, gums aching and jaw twitching while he stalked the highways and the truck stops.
The lock on the back door wasn't even that strong. He pressed his palm against the wood and felt the threshold push back, now just two soft mortal animals breathing inside, ripe and unguarded.
“Kyle! Is tha’ you?” Your voice reached his ears, mild curiosity mixed with a hint of disinterest.
Remmick stayed in silence while listening to your heartbeat across the room, going from a small spike given by a surge of surprise to slowly calming down and reaching a normal rate.
“Come on in, wha’ you’re wait in’ for? Could have swore I spotted some wolves outside this mornin’…” you mumbled the last part wi’ an hint of annoyance.
Could you have really wished tha’ the other person in this house had met said beasts?
The old vampire, who now stepped through the invisible force that would have had him locked outside, had his interest spiked up.
The kitchen smelled like cheap beer and he moved through it without making the floorboards groan, steps silent as cat paws. The living room was dim, old TV still on, throwing blue light over a sagging couch.
He paused at the staircase and listened upward, slow heartbeat was up there in the bedroom, snoring, even.
Pathetic.
Someone steps inside his residence and he doesn’t even have the sense to investigate.
The other quick heartbeat was closer, down the hallway and behind a half-open door, where amber lamplight spilled across the hardwood.
Remmick padded toward it, drawn like a moth to light.
He stopped just outside the doorframe and looked in.
You were sitting on the floor in front of a low bookshelf, knees folded under you, a paperback open in your lap while wearing an old t-shirt soft from a hundred washings, collar stretched out from lots of use and baring one of your collarbones.
Loose sleep shorts and bare feet, hair mussed from running your hand through it while your lips moved a little as you read.
The lamplight caught the side of your throat, vein there pulsing visibly, a pretty blue line under skin Remmick suddenly wanted to taste more than anything he'd wanted in a hundred years.
He went very still as the hunger didn't go away but deepened and twisted into something that hadn't been there on century of being alive.
Observing the way your bottom lip dragged between your teeth and how one of your hands rested on your thigh, fingers idly stroking the skin there without you even noticing.
"Well, fook me sideways," he breathed.
Killing you would be a waste.
There were better uses for a mouth like that.
His blue eyes turned red as his gaze caught a framed photo on the wall displaying the handsome lad in front of him with another man extremely close.
Claws began to replace the fingers of his hands as he looked back over his shoulder at the dark stairs where your boyfriend was up there, snoring, unaware. Some sour-breathed lump of a man who got to come home to this every night and probably didn't even notice what he had.
Probably rolled over and went to sleep without touching you.
Remmick could smell the loneliness on you from across the room.
You were starved and you didn't even know it.
A slow, mean smile spread over his mouth.
"Oh, lad," he whispered to himself, "we're gonna have ourselves a long night."
He turned and went up the stairs first.
The bedroom door creaked as he spotted a broad-shouldered individual sleeping shirtless.
Remmick stood at the foot of the bed and considered the easy kill by just opening his throat and being done with it.
But he'd already decided to be cruel tonight.
He moved fast, one hand clamping over the man's mouth as the other dragged him bodily out of the bed by the hair.
Sad man came awake thrashing, a muffled roar against Remmick's palm, fists swinging at empty air.
Remmick took a punch to the ribs and laughed.
"Easy now, big fella," he crooned, dragging him toward the door. "Yer in for a treat. Don't go ruinin' it."
The man got an elbow loose and swung and Remmick caught his wrist and twisted, bones popping with ease thanks to his supernatural strength and your boyfriend screamed into Remmick's hand, tears springing up in his eyes.
"There," Remmick said, almost gently. "Now we c'n talk."
He hauled him down the stairs and his feet thudded each step, dragging while kicking weakly.
Remmick was smaller than him by a head and yet handled him like a sack of potatoes as he brought him into the living room, dumped him on the floor and before the man could try to crawl, Remmick was on him again.
A knee in his back, hands at his arms, a length of telephone cord ripped from the wall already in his grip.
He bound the boyfriend's wrists behind him so tight the rope-burn started bleeding right away, then his ankles before hauling him upright by the hair and throwing him into the wooden chair in the corner.
A swipe of his clawed hand left deep marks on the man’s naked chest until the man was a trussed-up roast staring at him with bulging eyes.
Remmick stepped back and admired his work.
"Cozy?" He asked satisfied right before hitting him with a backhand that snapped Kyle's head sideways and split his lip wide open.
The man spat blood and started to shout and Remmick hit him again, harder.
By the time he was done, the boyfriend's nose was crooked and weeping, one eye was swelling shut and his teeth were stained pink.
He sagged in the chair, wheezing.
"Now," Remmick said. He bent down so they were nose to nose and his eyes had fully crimson around the edges. "Yer gonna sit there an' be a good lad. Watch an' when I'm finished, I'll do ye the kindness o' makin' it quick. Y'hear me?"
The addresses man made a noise that wasn't a word.
"Grand," Remmick said. He patted the man's cheek, scooping a bit of iron liquid and licking it with his tongue, grimacing at the stale taste.
He stood up and turned toward the hallway. "Now, where's tha' pretty lad got to."
You'd heard the noise and you'd already stood up, paperback dropped and heart kicking hard against your ribs while halfway to the door where the phone was when the door pushed open and Remmick was right in front of you.
He was lean with a sturdy built behind the blood-soaked shirt, damp dark hair curling against his forehead.
"Hello, darlin'," he smiled at you maliciously and you bolted without even thinking, ducking past him into the hallway. You got three steps before his hand closed around the back of your neck.
One second he was in the doorway, the next he was behind right behind and he lifted you up onto your toes with a single one hand, walking you into the living room like a kitten carried by the scruff.
"Don't be like tha'," he was saying, mouth right at your ear, breath strangely cold and stinky of iron. "I just wanna get to know ye."
He shoved you into the middle of the room and you went sprawling.
When you scrambled up, the first thing you saw was your boyfriend tied to the chair, bleeding, one eye swollen and looking at you with such a desperate animal panic that your stomach dropped clean.
Remmick caught you around the waist and pulled you back against his chest the second you tried to go towards Kyle and free him.
He was cold and strong, an arm across your abdomen that bent you back against him like you weighed nothing.
"Uh-uh," he tutted against the flesh of your cheek and he fought with himself to not take a bite at how delicious you smelled. "He's not the show tonight, sweetheart. You are."
Long pale fingers spread across your throat, thumb under your jaw while tilting your head back against his shoulder so you had to look up at the ceiling.
You felt his nose drag along the line of your neck as he inhaled.
He was making low pleasant rumbles while you were breathing in short, panicky bursts. Across the room your boyfriend was making a muffled, awful sound, kicking his bound feet against the chair legs.
"Please," you got out. "Please don't, please—"
"Shhh, shhh, shhh." Remmick's lips brushed the shell of your ear. "Tha's not the word I wanna hear from ye yet. We'll get there."
His hand on your abdomen slid down, past your navel and over the soft cotton of your sleep shorts. He cupped you through the fabric, palm flat, fingers curling and your whole body locked up in a horrified jolt.
"Oh, would ye look at tha'," he purred right before turning you around in his arms easily and now you were facing him, hands settling on your waist and his face was right there in front of yours.
He was handsome in such a blasphemous way that it made your skin crawl.
High cheekbones, a mouth that turned up at one corner with sharp fangs in sight, up close his eyes were too red.
"Now, sweetheart," he said. "I've a question an' I want ye t' answer me honest. Can ye do tha'?"
You didn't speak, couldn't actually.
"When was the last time," he said, dragging one thumb along your cheekbone, "tha' fella over there made ye feel good?"
You made a small wounded sound.
"Hm?" Remmick tilted his head. "I'll wager it's been a while. I c'n smell it on ye all tha’ sadness." He clicked his tongue. "Sad an’ wasteful."
Your boyfriend was shouting through the gag of his own swollen mouth now, a guttural, rage-soaked howl and Remmick didn't even glance at him.
"It's alright, pet," he murmured. "I'll see to ye proper."
Right after he kissed you, mouth landing on yours and prying it open with the press of his tongue, cold as the rest of him when it slid against your warm one.
He held you up with his hands at your waist, tasting heavily of iron and his teeth scraped your lower lip sharply from the prick of fangs.
When he pulled back you were dizzy, lip bleeding and he licked the smear of red off his own mouth with slow satisfaction.
"Mmm, sweet."
He walked you backward, your bare heels skidded on the rug right before your back hit the wall and his body pressed into yours, all that lean cold weight pinning you. He was hard already, could feel him through his jeans, a thick bulge against your hip that made your stomach flip with a sick, confused heat.
"Look at him," Remmick said.
You shook your head.
"Look at him, sweetheart." His hand came up and gripped your jaw, turning your head until you were facing the chair and your boyfriend's good eye was wide and wet. He was struggling, ropes biting into his arms, chair scraping the floor. "Yer gonna keep yer eyes on him while I do this."
"Please," you whispered.
"Tha's not the word."
His other hand caught the hem of your t-shirt and dragged it up, cotton scraped over your nipples and you shuddered while he made a low pleased sound at the back of his throat. He pulled it over your head and let it drop, air hitting your bare chest and your nipples drew up tight.
"Ahh, would ye look at tha'." His knuckles dragged down your sternum lightly. "So handsome"
His mouth went to your neck open-mouthed, wet thing sucking bruises up under your jaw, dragging fang-tips along the artery without breaking skin and you couldn't help the noise that came out of you that sounded too much like a moan.
Across the room your boyfriend made an absolute strangled noise of fury.
"Oh, he heard tha'," Remmick said, delighted. "Good lad. Make tha' noise again fer me."
He bit down lightly to break enough skin for fat beads of blood to well up and your back arched off the wall into him. He sucked hard and the way he moaned into your skin was obscene.
"Fookin'… y'taste like ye were made fer me." He pulled back and both lips sharp teeth were red almost of the same tone eyes his eyes were, the iris swallowed up in it.
He looked drunk and feral-hungry while looking at you like you were the only thing in the world.
"Down," he said.
“Look… please just let us go—“ He pushed your shoulders and you slid down the wall to your knees, hardwood cold under your kneecaps as he stood over you, undoing his belt with a bit of goofy difficulty from using one clawed hand while his other was still in your hair.
"Yer gonna keep watchin' yer fella," he said. "But yer gonna do this with me first, hm? Open."
The belt clinked, button on his jeans popping and the zipper rasped down.
He shoved his jeans and shorts down over his hips in one motion and his cock sprang up against his abs, slapping your face once free.
He was huge, quite pale and veined heavily, head flushed an angry red that didn't match his color anywhere else. It curved up against his abdomen, longer and thicker around than your boyfriend's. A bead of clear precum hung at the slit from how excited the monster hovering above was.
"Open," he said again, Irish lilt music to your ears as your mouth watered against your will as he made the wet top kiss your sealed lips tauntingly.
When you opened your mouth with shame burning your face and chest painfully, he first dragged the head of his cock across your lips, painting them slick before sliding the head onto your tongue and holding you there.
"Suck."
You closed your mouth around him and sucked and the long, broken Irish swear he let out was almost worth it.
He let you have him slow at first, working just the tip, tongue laving the underside, lips stretched wide around the flare of him as he stroked your hair, almost tender.
"There ye are," he murmured. "There's a good lad. Look at how y'take to it."
You couldn't help the glance you gave the chair where your boyfriend had stopped struggling and staring at you with a look hollowly.
"Aw, he doesn't like seein' tha' mouth wrapped 'round somethin' that ain't his. Tha's fair, I wouldn't either, if it were mine to lose."
Then he pushed deeper, head of him hitting the back of your throat and your eyes welled up immediately, head smacking the wall behind and your hands flying to his thighs to push, but he was solid under your palms and didn’t budge, letting you choke and breathe slightly through your nose so you could adjust.
"Easy, pet. Y'can take it." His thumb traced the bulge of himself in your throat from the outside, marveling.
"Yeah… y'were made fer me."
He pulled back and let you suck in a breath right before pushing in again, deeper this time and holding.
Pulling back and pushing, rhythm patient yet cruel and his cock made your jaw ache around it, every time the head pushed into your throat you felt your eyes water and nose running while your own cock started to swell against the front of your shorts.
You didn't want to be hard but he was hitting some place in your brain that had been hungry for years and the obscene, full feeling of him in your mouth was making your thighs shake.
His eyes had drifted down between your legs and his mouth curled in a slow, knowing grin.
"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed. "Would ye look at tha'. Yer gone all hard for me an’ I've barely started."
He pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop and a long string of saliva connected your lip to his cockhead till it broke and dribbled down your chin. He wiped it off with his clawed thumb and pushed the sharp tip into your mouth and you sucked it without thinking.
Delighted, he laughed.
"Up. C'mon." He hauled you to your feet by the arm and walked you to the couch, bending you over the back of it, bare chest pressed into the worn upholstery so that you were facing the chair where your wet faced boyfriend, with tear-tracks cutting through the blood, was restrained.
His good eye fixed on you and unable to look away.
Remmick hooked his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts and dragged them down.
He bared one cheek of your ass and made a soft, pleased noise, letting the shorts fall around your ankles and he ran his hand reverently up the back of your thigh, over the curve of your ass before squeezing.
"Beautiful. Fookin' beautiful, lad."
You felt his cool palm part there and you squeezed your eyes shut.
He gather the endless amount of drool that pooled inside his mouth and traveled down his chin.
Some drops splashed on your naked back as his thumb pressed against your hole, slick and cold, circling and rubbing it as he worked the viscous solution into you with his thumb, then with two fingers followed by a third, his other hand stroking up and down your spine.
His fingers were in you now, three long and cold things crooking against a place that made you jolt and let out a noise you immediately hated yourself for.
Your boyfriend's face crumpled.
"There it is," Remmick said. "Tha's what's been goin' untended, eh?"
He pressed it again and again, working his fingers in deep and dragging them out before shoving them back, your hips started to move without your permission, pushing back against his hand and a hot mortifying flush ran up your chest.
"Tha's right, lad. Yer body knows what it wants even if yer head don't." He crooned and pulled his fingers out.
The thick blunt head of him press up against your slick opening.
Before he pushed in, he leaned down over your back and reached out, hand closed on your wrist, guiding it toward his face. He pricked it on his fang and a sharp gasp traveled all over your body.
He smeared the blood thick across his palm, mouth closing around your thumb and sucking with a low rumble in his throat while reaching down between your bodies and slicking himself with it, hand wrapped around his cock.
It was hot now thanks to your blood, almost feverish. It went into you slick and strange, a buzzing, electric warmth that made your insides flutter as he pushed in and the blunt head spread you wide as you cried out, nails clawing at the upholstery.
Your boyfriend lurched in his chair and Remmick groaned, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades.
"Oh fook, lad, yer tight."
He pushed deeper inch by inch, very slick but you still felt every ridge and vein from the thickness of him.
The stretch burned and ached as it went on and on. Just when you thought it had to be all of him, more went in as he kept feeding it into you, hips inching forward and cock splitting your walls as you bit down into the upholstery to keep from screaming.
His hips finally met your ass to indicate he was fully seated, pulsing inside you in a heavy throb that seemed to fill your whole pelvis.
It made you feel both impaled and rearranged.
He held still and let you breathe, kissing and lapping with his tongue the back of your neck.
"Sweetheart, the rest is just fer ye."
He pulled out dragging every inch and sparkling sensation that made you whine, all before pushing back in.
On the third thrust he angled himself and hit your prostate just where his fingers had found, your whole body lit up absurdly.
You sobbed not only from pain, cock throbbing between your stomach and the back of the couch and every drag of him inside you sent a pulse of positive feedbacks through you nerves.
His thrusts deepened and the slap of his hips against your ass got louder as he fucked you slow and deep and he made sure every stroke dragged across that spot, tears were running down your face now but so was something humiliating you couldn't stop.
Your boyfriend, with his split lip and his ruined eye and the ropes biting into his arms, was watching and his face had gone past horror into something blank but you couldn't look away from him because you'd been told not to.
Being observed was making it worse… and better.
It contributed to your cock leaking against the couch in a steady drool that left a wet patch on the fabric.
"He's never had ye like this, pet?" Remmick murmured at your ear, riding your orgasm slowly.
"Stop," you choked. "Stop, please—"
"Stop?" Remmick's voice was a sweet thing. He thrust deep and you sobbed. "Y'sure tha's what y'mean, lad?"
He hit that spot again and ye whined.
"Cause yer prick is sayin' somethin' different. Y'see this?" His long and dangerous hand came around to wrap around your cock and you nearly came right there with the way you leaking thick and steady over his fingers.
So hard it hurt.
He stroked you lazily in time with his harsh thrusts.
"Stop's not the word," he whispered. "C'mon now. Try again, use yer pretty voice."
You couldn't and he fucked you harder and the head of his cock was hammering your prostate with every stroke, your knees were buckling, only his hand on your hip was keeping you up.
Somewhere in the middle of it, in the dazed humiliated dark of your own head, the thought of how this red-eyed monster using you was so much better than your boyfriend.
It crept firmly and got stronger the more he fucked you.
Not like the restrained man who got on and off in five minutes, never asked what you liked. Your boyfriend, who hadn't touched you in two months and didn't seem to notice. Remmick had been inside you for ten minutes and he had already found every nerve you owned and pulled noises out of your system you didn't know you could make.
Some sick part of you was grateful and you hated yourself for it.
He drove into you hard as deep as possible and you cried out.
"Y' just figured out tha' yer fella over there hasn't been doin' his job. Yer just figured out tha' an’ I'm givin' ye what he was supposed to."
"No—"
"Don't lie to me, pet." His hand left your cock and came up to your jaw, turning your face so you had to look at the chair again and meet that hollow staring eye. "Look at him an' tell me I'm wrong."
You couldn't make a sound, your throat had closed up and Remmick made a sound of soft, satisfied wickedness.
"Tha's what I thought."
His mouth found the side of your neck and his fangs went deep, a hot punch of pain that bloomed instantly into more pleasure.
While you felt him drink in avid pulls as he drank, his hips kept moving, large cock always hitting your prostate.
You came untouched, your cock spasming and spilling all over the back of the couch in long thick pulses, your whole body wrung out into one shaking knot. You made a noise that might have been the red-eyed monster drooling on the wound he made on your neck.
Across the room, the chair scraped as your boyfriend was making an awful sound.
Remmick pulled off your neck with a wet gasp, his lips and chin smeared red as he kept pumping himself into you and faster, clawed fingers digging bruises into your hips before he was coming too with a long curse in a language you didn't know, cock pulsing inside you so deep you felt it in your stomach, hot and endless, filling you up until it leaked back out around him.
He stayed in you, bent over your back and panted against your shoulder, his cool body finally a little warm, hair damp against your skin and drool traveling down your back.
"There," he breathed. "Tha's a good lad."
He pressed a kiss to the bite mark on your neck and it throbbed.
"Y' did so well fer me."
You were shaking, tears running into the upholstery and you couldn't tell anymore which part of you was wet from what nor could you look at your boyfriend.
Remmick pulled out and you whimpered at the empty drag of it, cum and blood running out of you down your thighs. He looked down at the mess he'd made and a quiet, pleased sound rumbled in his chest.
Then he turned and looked at the chair, your boyfriend had gone very quiet, head hung and shoulders shook.
Remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red across his jaw while walking over.
"Darlin’," he addressed you without sparing a look at your messy state. "Here's the question."
His thumb traced your bottom lip.
"D'ye come with me, or d'ye stay here?"
You didn't answer but your hands had crept up without permission and curled themselves into the front of his shirt.
"Aye," he murmured. "Tha's what I thought."
He bent his head and kissed you, mouth tasting like iron that you were sure you’ll need to get used to.
Suddenly Remmick full vamp-speeded towards your boyfriend, harshly pulling at his hairs to expose his neck before driving his fangs there, taking a big chunk of flesh and bathing his head in the geyser of artery’s blood for a millisecond.
The other type of hunger that first drove him here took over as he drank everything the body below was spraying at him until said person stopped emanating muffled ugly noises.
Weakly you had turned around to not see the second Remmick’ fangs sank in the flesh and atrocious screams of pain echoed inside your ears.
It took one blink of an eye to see Remmick right in front of ye, clawed hands gripping your waist an’ pullin’ your weak body into his sticky warm one, mouth tinted in crimson liquid engulfing your own and parting your lips for an avid kiss, his tongue immediately breaching in and cradling your own as a purr rumbled from his throat into your open mouth.
Note: hope you liked this @locustabortiontechnician8
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄— y'all, i keep getting distracted with these scenarios, i'm so sorry! everybody say thank you @atomicpaperbrat for making me dream about this headcanon!
𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃.
Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who reunited with you after demobilization, under less than ideal circumstances.
‣ Steve wanted to surprise you a few hours early.
‣ It was the hopeless romantic in him talking—dreaming—imagining you practically jumping into his arms after he unexpectedly arrived a few hours earlier than he had originally told you.
‣ If you were daring, you'd let your tears fall uncontrollably, sink down onto your knees like the tears had weight to them, and a spotlight would zero in on your complete elation.
‣ A round of applause the audience would have given you if you were an actor in one of those plays you'd taken him to before.
‣ That wouldn't be enough, Steve reconsidered.
‣ A kiss would do it. It would show you—how truly magnificent you were. Waiting for him for so long, writing back to him without delay, sending in snacks from the recently opened grocery store down the block—you constantly raved about their state-of-art coolers that made the air feel all-so perfectly breezy.
‣ "You won't believe it, Steve. Ma and I felt like the cucumbers themselves. We're going there as soon as you come home!"
‣ A kiss would also simply assure you that he was here now, and you wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. It would fend off any doubts about him that you'd have festering in the meantime he was away from home.
‣ If they ever returned, Steve was more than willing to find another way to completely dispel them.
‣ After all, he was a soldier—a man of honor.
‣ Instead, the door was left opened when Steve arrived at their apartment unit like you'd been expecting him.
‣ No room for surprises, huh?
‣ Even if it was a foil on his plan, that didn't mean that Steve was any less of excited. Seeing your backside made all sorts of palpitation rattle within him.
‣ He couldn't possibly imagine what it would feel like when he would come face-to-face with you.
‣ Death, most likely? A coma being the best case scenario.
‣ "Ma, you're not helping. You always said I should be taking care of myself more—no, don't come. Why?! Because you'd only try to take over! Really? Watch my tone? Coming from the woman who almost got arrested when—will you stay put? Steve and I will visit tomorrow. He'll probably be tired when I pick him up. If dinner turns out bad, then I'll get something at the deli and we can have a proper one at your pad. Hey, you do know that I'm your son... right?!"
‣ Steve was always charmed by the banter between the man that he loved and the woman that raised him to be the exact replica of her.
‣ Hearing your voice over your mother's and her voice over yours—she was clearly winning over the telephone—it was beginning to register just exactly how much he missed you.
‣ Missed this.
‣ From the living room, he'd been watching your backside for minutes now yet so much has happened within the time span. You were a busy bee for him.
‣ All four burners were on. One stove was warming up a cast iron pan, another had potatoes boiling in water, and the other two—
‣ Steve never got to peek what was in those two pots because his thoughts were punctuated with a throttling scream.
‣ Maybe there hadn't been a foil in his surprise after all.
‣ "Steve?! What in the world?! What?! I was supposed to—what?! Why are you?! Here?!"
‣ "That's certainly one way to greet a loved one."
‣ As frequent as Steve pictured the perfect reunion, nothing could ever come close to the feeling—the actual feeling—of your arms wrapping around his broad body, pulling him chest to chest.
‣ It'd been so long since he held someone like this. Someone like you. Someone he cherished.
‣ Steve's hands roamed over your back muscles, pleasantly foreign in his palms—he was instantly reminded when you wrote to him that you had been going on more runs to make up for his absence.
‣ No matter how much you complained about Steve's keen desire for you to join him on his runs before the crack of dawn, you still did it and roused sleep off one step at a time.
‣ That was what husbands did.
‣ It was a strange feeling, recognizing what was familiar—like your tendency to massage his nape whenever you went in for a hug or something as simple as your smile—and then having his reconciliation cut short when Steve noticed your hair styled in a different way that made you look sharper.
‣ Maybe it was a one-time, a new look for this special occasion, but it fit you well. Everything did.
‣ So beautiful, so pretty, so handsome. Steve brushed one hand over your temple and held you there, kissing you once on the lips after.
‣ No words could describe you perfectly. Steve could look through a bunch of thesauruses and glossaries all day, but it would further support his theory that your beauty was simply undefinable.
‣ If it was up to him, he'd create an entirely new set of glossaries that was curated based on your likeness.
‣ For now, he settled on sublime. Your beauty was sublime.
‣ Something outer-worldly that took every muscle and fiber holding his body and turned it into vapor to feed your beauty.
‣ You kissed him back, and he was solid again, returning back to reality.
‣ There would be no killing, only nurturing. You weren't like other gods—you were kind and generous, especially with Steve.
‣ Steve felt your heart race against his own, laughing into your lips at how dangerously oblivious you could be to your surroundings.
‣ "You truly didn't notice me? I was going to surprise you, but I thought you beat me to it."
‣ He inhaled the appetizing aroma of onion, garlic, and tomatoes wafting from your apron, and in midst, detected his favorite cologne on you. The base notes always smelled better on your skin.
‣ "Are you kidding? All I can see in my vision are onions, Steve. Tears! Cutting fifteen onions is a death sentence in itself..! Why did you have to like my mother's French Onion soup so much?"
‣ He sighed at how he missed those lips of yours, silently suffering to control himself from stilling the soft and supple moving pair. It was all overwhelming with so many wants and needs. What would be prioritized first?
‣ Your ramblings were ticklish on his mouth, and that reignited an irresistible impulse to kiss you, to properly kiss you.
‣ "The department of fresh vegetables would like for me to apologize on their behalf—preferably with my mouth. Would that appease you then, Mr. (M/N) Rogers?"
‣ He loved how your name sounded with his last name.
‣ "Appeasing means that I'm demanding for some type of compensation, Mr. Steve Rogers. Does it look like I'm demanding?"
‣ "No, but your lips seem like they're still recovering from the aftershocks from those terribly, malicious onions. Might I say... they look lonely, too?"
‣ "Hm... I guess—I wouldn't be opposed to being relieved of my multitude of troubles..."
‣ Holding your cheeks in between warm, calloused palms, Steve captured the last remnant of your breath and let the yearning—for your lips, for your presence—to seal and hold you shut, against him and over him, all within his strong arms.
‣ It all felt natural. His body responded to yours like he had never left. Memories came flooding back in guidance where to hold you, cherish you with every touch he could remember.
‣ Your lower back. You liked being held there, and so Steve does. You liked it when he fluttered his lashes against your nose too—it sent you into a fit of laughter no matter what mood you were in—and so he does after breaking the kiss.
‣ "Well, I thank you for your service."
‣ Laughing when you laughed, smiling when you smiled.
‣ You arched forward, impossibly closer to Steve's body—satisfied, triumphant as your handsome solider returned back in one piece, safe and sound.
‣ One hand of yours curiously surveyed his body—much more muscular than you had last remembered on the day of his drafting.
‣ "Feels good to be home?"
‣ "It feels... incredible."
𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐂𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐍𝐒.
Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who relished in all things quiet and loud on condition that you would be by his side at all times.
‣ More often than not, you and Steve were too exhausted from work to actually plan something for the weekend.
‣ However, if there was one thing that Steve cannot abide, it was doing stuff without you.
‣ "Hold that thought, fellas. I'll need to check with my hu—roommate—friend. He loves getting a drink or two, so..."
‣ It wasn't like you two were inseparable, but those years without you had been agonizing and Steve wanted to make the most of every moment.
‣ Regardless of whether he was having a blast catching up with Bucky and his friends, you were always on his mind.
‣ Drinking at the bar? Steve could hear you remind him to not give into peer pressure and drink however much he pleased.
‣ Though—like it was much difficult to stop in the first place, he was never fond of the taste of gin and Bucky knew that firsthand—buying him a round of cherry soda instead.
‣ You always made sure to thank Bucky by treating him to a couple of drinks yourself.
‣ Grabbing lunch with some co-workers? Steve made sure to buy an extra sandwich or two to take home for dinner. If you liked it, he'd mention the rest of the menu, and suggest what you'd ought to try next.
‣ "Darling, how about we have lunch there tomorrow? You'd be a real goner for the fries."
‣ "That's an incredibly profound proposition you're making there, Steve-o. Extra crispy and salty, straight from the fryer just like how I like 'em?"
‣ "All of that... and brace yourself—your favorite: cold ketchup on the side."
‣ "Steve-o... forget lunch. We're going now!"
‣ Wherever his mind wandered, Steve would always find his way back to you.
Secret Husband!Steve Rogers whose favorite pastime was filling the silence between you two with a vinyl record.
‣ Steve felt safest in his apartment.
‣ So, it was irrefutable to say that his ideal date was simply being at home with you.
‣ Calmly dancing to his favorite record by Jo Stafford, 'The Things We Did Last Summer'.
‣ The early morning hike / The rented tandem bike / The lunches that we used to pack / We never could explain / That sudden summer rain / The look we got when we got back
‣ There was no fear in holding your hands, no trepidation in wrapping his strong arms around your body or kissing you on the neck and lips, all while you held yourself against him and swayed.
‣ The leaves began to fade / Like promises we made / How could a love that seemed so right go wrong?
‣ "I never realized how melancholic the song is, Steve-o."
‣ "It's bittersweet, isn't it? Reflecting upon a love you thought was forever..."
‣ "Is that how you'll think about us for the foreseeable future? Something that was?"
‣ "Well, I can't promise you forever, because that's not nearly long enough. But I can promise that I want to walk with you to our eternal forever. Would you be willing to join me in my search?"
‣ "I'm willing—more than happy to join you, Steve."
‣ "Every step of the way? Even if you can't walk anymore?"
‣ "I'll crawl. If I can't crawl, you're strong enough to carry me the rest of the way. I trust you won't abandon me in purgatory."
‣ "I won't. I would never."
‣ You would follow him to any horizon, and Steve would do the same for you, regardless of what hindrances might lie ahead.
‣ In the end, it felt like home with one another.
‣ And home was the only place where you two could be yourselves.
𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘.
Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who reveled in the deprivation of your peace of mind.
‣ Steve was always a gentleman.
‣ If you had anyone to boast to, that would be an asset of him you would plaster all over billboard signs if you could (or had the budget to, regardless).
‣ So, it was quite expected of Steve to take his time with you, preparing you for one of those nights.
‣ "Steve—honey, come on..."
‣ "I don't want to hurt you, daring. Be patient."
‣ Part of the reason why he took so long was because of how you acted.
‣ Under normal circumstances, you were already impatient as is—so, could you blame him for luxuriating in the sight of your hole desperately clenching for more of him? Whining into the bed as you slumped your chest forward, and taunted him with a wiggle of your ass?
‣ "Look at you. You know how beautiful you look right now? Opening yourself up for me? Being all keen for me?"
‣ Three fingers was what Steve used to stretch you open as you were knelt on the bed on all fours.
‣ One hand stroking your hard wet cock was what made you respond in slow rhythmic cadence.
‣ "I wouldn't know... how about you show me how much you enjoy my ass? Preferably with your impressive cock filling me up...
‣ "Language."
‣ Your body was beautiful—always had been—but exceptionally so as you writhed because of his fingers working inside of you.
‣ Swelled because of his hand fisting your cock.
‣ Sank because of his mouth laving your bloomed opening as a token of appreciation—for gracing Steve with your vulnerabilities.
‣ "You taste so good. I could eat your for breakfast. For Lunch. For dinner. I'd reckon I could make a better meal out of you, darling. I'd have my fill and be satisfied, all because of this sweet confection that's your body, (M/N)."
‣ "Steve—oh, right there—just like that... keep talking to me like that."
Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who sinned with another of his kind, who forced another being to sin with him and exulted him in sin.
‣ Steve was a gentleman, but that didn't mean the man never had any inclination to ravage you.
‣ Only with you—that he would indulge himself fervently like this.
‣ He liked sticking close to your body.
‣ All positions did it for him, but he heavily favored spooning you, pressing his muscular chest to your writhing backside, and withholding you from escaping him—hands by your hips, piling your cavity with a tremendous fill.
‣ No other position could provide Steve the gratification of making love to you like this.
‣ Hearing your disheveled pants, grunts, and moans altogether in his ear.
‣ Feeling you ardently grind back against him as if he wasn't already balls-deep, and losing your sense of rhythm in the process.
‣ Sucking on a patch on your neck and tasting the salt of your skin, of the sweat that Steve and you had collectively harvested together like they were an open orchard.
‣ It all nurtured his pride, feeding into his strength and into the praises you'd graciously honor him as the pleasure of his cock pounding inside of you bellowed.
‣ "Your cock feels so good inside of me, Steve—you feel so good inside of me. Reconstructing my insides with your thick shaft, renewing my body with your mouth, your hands—r-reclaiming my body with your love. God, I'm in love with you. You fuck me so incredibly well."
‣ Your ramblings again, something he'd gotten used to, something he was absolutely smitten with—but this was on another level.
‣ Regarding profanity, Steve made an exception for these occasions.
‣ Fiery, passionate, delirious. Your mind and body was on fire, and Steve was the furnace, pummeling harder, faster—igniting your combustion.
‣ "I'm in love with you."
‣ Steve kissed you with all his might, drowned you in his love, all sorts of emotions beguiling your body to work into overdrive, your mouth to empty a vault of pure contentment.
‣ "Shh, shh. Walls are thin..."
‣ It happened more often than Steve could count—where your uncontrollable moans resounded through the apartment.
‣ You woke the elderly woman next door once and unsurprisingly quelled the woman's worries with your kindness, as lazy as your attempt at lying was, "Must've been the... the wind! Y-you know it is these days... It's been storming quite frequently. Want me to come over and check for any leaks, ma'am? It wouldn't be a bother at all."
‣ As much as he loved hearing you—Steve couldn't take the embarrassment, nor the increasing suspicion on who exactly were the tenants in Room 304.
‣ The better solution would've been to ease his thrusts, slow the pace his hips while making sure you felt every inch—every vein—of his cock throbbing inside of your body.
‣ But this was equally as enthralling—his hand champed shut over your mouth, squeezing at the lower half of your face in a ferocious trial to muffle your pleading moans.
‣ Harder—pounding and filling you amply while his hand restricted you the outlet of your emotions.
‣ "Mfggh, S-Steve!"
‣ "Shh... quiet, You'll wake up the neighbors like you did last time, remember?
‣ "M-mm-mmf—"
‣ Steve got off to this, it was his indulgence—merciless as he was unrelenting in delivering you the utmost pleasure, in submerging himself deep inside of you until you simply came hands-free from the nth time Steve's cock hit that sweet spot of yours.
‣ Your warnings were inaudible, but that didn't mean you didn't at least try. You licked his palm, bit into the thick part of his hand, and he only held you tighter—and that really set you off.
‣ You choked on your own moans, the credence vibrating in Steve's wet palm, and your cock suddenly spurted thick shots of cum.
‣ Steve's spading cock drew every rope out of you, into the air, and onto your stomach and chest.
‣ You turned the mess of your body into a beautiful disaster, and Steve couldn't fathom how he could restrain himself any longer.
‣ "Oh, christ—(M/N)..."
‣ You breathed a deep relief when Steve released your mouth in favor of painting your body with your own cum.
‣ His hand smeared the pool of semen over your stomach, and then upwards to your chest, rubbing the evidence of the love you had for him into your body.
‣ Into his mouth when Steve sucked his fingers to taste—to savor.
‣ And finally into yours, where you eagerly cleansed him off, finger by finger.
‣ Steve watched close, panting and marveling over how pretty your lips looked sucking his fingers, and that was enough for him to erupt inside of your body.
‣ Warmth, you felt his cum flooding inside of you like lava as Steve buried his deep and guttural moans into your neck.
‣ "Feel so full, Steve..."
‣ "Don't let it leak. Squeeze around me..."
‣ You felt the tremors of his body—of his voice—when he resumed his thrusts, albeit slower and much more languid this time around, and milked himself inside of your painted, clenched walls.
‣ "O-oh, I'm so deep inside of you, Darling. Hold me. Hold my loving cock and never let go."
‣ Obscene sounds of Steve's cock creaming you from the inside and out made your sensitive cock jolt, even as you felt him softening within you.
‣ Slowly but surely, Steve's body finally registered with his ultimate high, and exhaustion hit him like a train alongside the melt of your muscles against his.
‣ You exulted in Steve's orgasm, while Steve did the same with yours.
‣ His hands cradled your sensitive cock, tenderly massaging while the other smoothed over your chest.
‣ You turned to watch him in between recovering breaths, delightfully triumphant despite the risk of being with someone like Steve—a complete sin.
‣ Breathing as two, bonding as one.
‣ "I won't let go."
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my work.
and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
Drabble Request: Steve hides his sketches because he doesn't want you to know he's drawing you.
- Zombie
Ahhh! Zombie thank you! This was SO much fun to write and went a little differently than I originally thought haha!
Steve Rogers x Nude Model!Reader
Word count- almost 900 oops
Author's Note- thank you @thezombieprostitute !!
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“Why don’t we give our model a break for a little while, yeah?” The art teacher clapped her hands a few times to gather everyones attention and it was like a deep breath went through the room.
You were grateful most of all as you sat up from your reclined position, stretching the knots in your upper back and releasing the tension from your legs.
You really needed to stop convincing yourself laying down was more comfortable than any other position. 20+ minutes stuck in any of them was gonna make your muscles scream.
The art teacher handed you the robe to give yourself some modesty (as if everyone in the room hadn’t been painting you naked) and you tied it around your waist snugly.
A lot of the artists left their stations, either to fill up their water, pee, or get a snack, and you liked to use that time to meander and see what they’d been working on. It was always a little jarring to see yourself painted or drawn from so many different angels. Most people thought it’d be the whole “seeing yourself painted in the nude” that freaked you out, but you got over that really fast.
It was intersting to see yourself from the lens of so many others. What parts of your face or body they chose to capture in detail, the creative liberties they took with form and color, or even if they bothered to draw you at all. There were always a few people who’d work more on the blankets on the stage or wooden floors.
You started your usual rounds, but you were really doing so as a courtesy so you could see his art.
Steve Rogers.
You’d talked to him maybe all of once even though he’d been present at most of your sessions. He was a reserved man and strikingly beautiful. Brilliant blue eyes, blond hair with streaks of warm gold when the sun (or the studio lights) hit it just right, and the tallness and muscles were a definite added bonus. Though he, much like you, wanted to be present but not seen. But only one of you could get away with that at these lessons.
Steve seemed marginally startled as you fully skipped past the person next to him to view his canvas. He snapped shut a small blue notebook and let it drop to the floor by his bag.
“Hi.” You offered a small smile, meeting his gaze.
“Hey,” he replied by also saying your name just as softly before looking at his painting. He sat a little straighter, and you watched his adams apple bob as he swallowed. You followed his move and looked at what he’d made.
“Oh, wow!” It was hard to control your impressed reaction. Time and time again people had drawn and painted you as objectively as possible, but this was the first time you felt that he’d manage to capture something more.
“Is that your main medium?” You asked curiously, gripping your robe tighter around you as you leaned in closer to the painting. It still smelled heavily of oil and turpentine but you’d grown mostly accustomed to the scent.
From Steve’s point of view, you were perfectly horizontal, but he’d decided to focus on your body from the ribs up. Your head was turned away from him, towards the window that was letting in soft light, and your arm was acting as a pillow for your head.
“No, not at all,” Steve dryly laughed, “I’m a whole lot better with pencil.”
He must’ve not liked his own reply because he quickly turned his head and cleared his throat. You weren’t overly skilled with painting yourself, but he was clumsy enough with the tools that it was obvious he was hiding something.
“You must be a Michelangelo with pencils then, holy shit…” You whispered. It mightve been a little egotistical, but you wanted to take his painting home with you. It was like those photos you’d take of yourself during goldenhour, or the mirror selfies youd take after getting a new shirt. The photos that were just for you and no one else.
You wanted to pry further, ask him how he painted you with such clarity and reverence. You wanted to know more about this man who was so different from eccentric older men, middle aged moms, and young college students doing this for extra credit. But you didn’t get the chance to as the art teacher beckoned you back to the center of the room.
And so there you posed off an on for another thirty minutes, this time sitting in a more comfortable chair leaning your upper body against a painted crate.
And Steve was -- for maybe the first time ever -- very glad you weren’t faced towards him. It gave him the ability to slip his sketchbook into his bag without feeling caught.
Sure, it wasn’t weird to draw the model in his art classes… but a better first impression was one where you didn’t see the multiple pages he’d spent trying to perfect the smile lines on your face and the scrunch of your nose when you laughed.
He was almost the opposite of Michalangelo, really.
He saw the angel in the room with him, and was trying desperately to capture its beauty onto a canvas or paper.
Just read your Nightwing x Cat burglar mreader fanfic and I was wondering if you could do Jason Todd version? Like he caught mreader again but let's him purr and meow his way out because jay couldn't resist him. I apologize if I'm a bother and I hope you're doing well!
I NEED CATNIP
Jason Todd x Male Reader
Jason really should’ve known. The alarm had gone off on the west wing of the museum's rooftop—the same exact way it had the last three times you’d broken in. And just like every other time, when he finally cornered you, it felt less like crime fighting and more like wrangling a stray cat with too much charm and zero remorse.
He landed on the roof with a heavy thud, red helmet gleaming under the moonlight, gun holstered but ready. "Y/N."
Meanwhile you were crouched by a skylight, bag of precious artifacts at your feet, while your tail shaped climbing rope dangled behind you. You blinked at him. Slow. Dramatic. Then:
“Mrrrow?”
Jason’s shoulders dropped. “No. Nope. Don’t even start with that.”
You tilted your head, scooting toward him on all fours with ridiculous feline fluidity. You rose to your knees in front of him, lightly head butting his chest; the cat version of a kiss. Your hands slid up his jacket, claws tracing patterns into the leather, and purred louder.
“You're cheating.” he snarled, but to your ears it sounded like whining. It just made you grin sinfully.
“And this?” You nuzzled into the hollow of his throat, warm breath brushing his skin. “Is this cheating too?”
Jason exhaled sharply, gloves sliding to your hips before he even realized he’d touched you. “Absolutely. Completely. 100% cheating.” A beat. “…Do it again.”
You didn’t need to be asked.
You purred louder, body vibrating against him, and Jason groaned like a man losing the last of his resolve. He dragged you into his arms with a low curse, helmet knocking against your shoulder as he muttered:
“I should arrest you.”
You licked a stripe up his jaw. Jason choked.
“You’re—fuck—okay, okay, stop—no, don’t stop—god, I hate you—" You tugged the helmet off in one smooth motion. Jason blinked at you, stunned, stupidly handsome, and officially defeated.
You cupped his jaw, leaned in, but at the last moment darted past him with a playful slap to his ass. “Thanks, handsome,” you called, already sprinting to the edge of the roof, bag of stolen goods in hand. “See you next time!”
“HEY—!”
Jason ran a hand down his face, watching as you disappeared over the ledge. “I swear to GOD, I’m bringing catnip next time.”
Masterlist: Chrysalis | Male ”Gwen Stacy variant” Reader series
Summary: While you’re celebrating christmas at home with your father you get a surprise visitor at the door…
(A/n: A christmas chapter in January… Well YES!)
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•. • + * • • . + . • * • • . + *. . * + • * +
As you and your dad were sitting in the living room, enjoying a late afternoons cup of hot chocolate. There was suddenly a ring from the doorbell. You and your father shared a look both confused as who could be at the door.
”Are we expecting anyone?” you asked curious.
”No. Not that I know off” he said sounding just as curious.
You put your cup on the table and stood up. You went to the front door, unlocked and opened surprised to see Peter standing there. Hands behind his back. ”Merry christmas” he said with a smile.
”Peter!” you exclaimed in shock. But quickly threw your arms around the brown eyed boy in a tight hug. ”What are you doing here?” you questioned.
”I just wanted to stop by and give you your christmas present” Peter said, bringing out a wrapped present he’d been hiding behind his back. You stared at the package.
”You came all this way just to give me my present?” you questioned.
”And so that I could see your face when I surprised you” he added. You accepted the present. ”Thank you, Peter” you said gratefully.
”Please come in, we just made some hot chocolate. You can meet my dad” you said and pulled Peter inside, taking his jacket and hung it on the coat rack.
Peter looked around the apartment curiously. ”Wow, your apartment is big” he said in amazement. ”You should see where Harry lives” you said.
You pulled Peter by his arm towards your living room where your dad waited in his armchair. ”Dad, look who stopped by, this is Peter, my roommate. Peter, this is my father, George Stacy” you said.
”Pleased to meet you, Peter” your father said, standing up and shaking Peter’s hand, he had wanted to meet Peter for a while now. ”Pleased to meet you too, Captain Stacy” Peter said formally.
”Oh please, no need for that, George, will do just fine” your father said. ”Alright… George” Peter said shyly. ”I’ll go and get your present, it’s in my room” you told Peter, leaving him with your father. Walking to your room to get the present you had bought for Peter. You hoped he would like it.
When you came back Peter was chatting with your father. As your father spotted you he said ”Y/n, take Peter to the kitchen and give him a cup of hot chocolate”. ”This way” you told Peter leading him to the kitchen.
”Merry christmas, Peter” you said giving him the present. You took the present he’d given you. ”Shall we open them together?” you asked, he nodded. So you both tore up the wrapping paper off your gifts.
Under the wrapping paper was a book you had been wanting too read that had been out of stock for ages. Which you had audibly complained to Peter in your dorm about not being able to find anywhere.
”You remembered” you uttered delightfully, flicking quickly through the pages.
Peter didn’t say anything as he was staring at his own gift. ”Don’t you like it? I have the receipt-” you started worriedly but Peter interrupted saying ”Y/n… how much did this cost?” Peter said.
He was looking at the box that contained the brand new watch you had bought for him.
”That is not relevant” you said sternly.
”Y/n, I can’t accept this, this is too much” Peter said trying to give the box back to you.
”Not happening, Parker, you said you ”needed a watch” so I got you a watch, case closed” you said confidently.
”But-” he started.
”No but’s, the watch is yours, I’ll burn the receipt if I have too” you said finally.
Peter then caved, smiled and said ”Thank you, Y/n” and the two of you embraced in a hug.
You got Peter, his cup of hot chocolate, you once more joined your dad in the living room. Where you all sat in conversation for a while. When Peter finished his cup and checked the time and said ”I have to get back to Aunt May but thank you so much for letting me stay for a bit Captain- I mean George”.
You followed Peter towards the front door, he stopped suddenly in a doorway stopping to look at a picture on the wall. ”Is that you as a kid?” he said looking at a picture of a younger you, smiling with some baby teeth missing.
”Yeah, I’m about 7 in that” you said.
”You were so cute” Peter teased looking at the photo.
”Were?” you said in fake outrage. Peter turned to you with a smile on his face.
Suddenly you noticed something overhead, something hanging from the ceiling. A familiar little green plant. You nudged him and he followed your gaze up.
”Looks like we stopped right under the miseltoe” you said.
”Yeah… looks like we did” Peter said in return.
”Oh! What the hell! Come here, Pete” you said and pulled him into a quick little kiss, his lips were soft and warm, you almost didn’t want to pull away but you did.
Peter just smiled at you for a bit until you reminded him ”Peter… Aunt May, is waiting”.
That jogged his memory. He said ”Right”, put his coat on, he gave you a quick goodbye hug. He then said outloud to your father ”Nice meeting you, George”, hearing a ”You too, Peter” from down the hall. He then said one last goodbye to you before hurrying out the door.
You went back to the living room and looked at the book Peter had gifted you. You thought blissfully to yourself ”Oh Peter, what did I do to deserve a friend like you?”.
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