"My Immortal"
Summary: Married to the night, Clark Kent hides his hunger behind charm and devotion, until you give in to the dangerous intimacy of his bite. Pairing: Vampire!Clark kent x reader Tags/cw: blood/blood drinking, biting/feeding during sex, possessive behavior, marking Wc: 851 |kinktober masterlist|
The mansion was quiet, lit only by the flicker of candles you hadn’t lit yourself. You knew what that meant. Clark was home. “Long night?” you called softly, closing the heavy door behind you.
“Too long.” His voice came from the parlor, low and velvety, carrying that strange resonance that always made your heart skip. When you stepped inside, he was waiting by the window, shirt undone at the collar, dark slacks clinging to his hips. The moonlight poured over him, catching in the faint gleam of his teeth when he smiled.
But the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was pinned on you, sharp, unrelenting. Hungry. You felt it in your body before you understood it, the tightening of your chest, the pulse that quickened in your throat. His eyes tracked the movement, jaw tight, and the air between you snapped taut. “You’ve been gone all day,” he murmured, voice dropping as he stepped toward you. “Do you know what that does to me?”
Your lips parted. “Clark…” He was in front of you before you could finish, hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His other hand gripped your waist, already pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the rigid line of his body against yours.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he whispered, leaning close enough that his breath tickled your neck. “I could hear it from the garden before you even opened the door. Sweet, fast, begging to be taken.” Your breath hitched. You should’ve been afraid. You weren’t. Not anymore.
“You fed last night,” you whispered.
“I did,” he admitted, lips skimming the column of your throat. He pressed a lingering kiss to your pulse, and you shuddered. “But nothing tastes like you.” A whimper escaped before you could swallow it down, and he groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“Then take it,” you whispered, tilting your head back, baring your throat.
Clark froze, grip tightening on your waist. His eyes burned, fangs catching on his lower lip. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” Your fingers tangled in his undone collar, tugging him closer. “I trust you.” That broke him. He kissed you first, a bruising, desperate clash of mouths, his tongue sweeping past your lips, tasting, claiming. His hands roamed everywhere at once, cupping your ass, sliding up your back, pulling you against his hardness.
And then he couldn’t hold back any longer. His mouth moved to your throat, soft kisses giving way to sharp nips, then finally, finally, the deep, aching sting of his fangs sinking in.
You gasped, clutching his broad shoulders, knees threatening to give out as molten heat spread through you. The pain melted into something heady, overwhelming, and your hips rolled instinctively against him. “God, sweetheart,” Clark groaned against your skin, drinking deep, each pull matched with the grind of his body against yours. “You taste like sin. Like heaven. I’ll never stop needing you.”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him to you as your thighs clenched around his hips. “Clark, please.” He pulled back, blood staining his lips, his mouth wet as he kissed you hungrily. The copper taste was there, metallic and intoxicating, and you moaned into him. He swallowed the sound greedily.
“Bed,” he rasped, already lifting you as though you weighed nothing. He carried you upstairs in a blur of speed, setting you down on the edge of the bed with a reverence that contrasted the hunger in his eyes. Clothes fell away quickly, his shirt ripped, your dress shoved up, lace torn. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open, and he bit along the soft inside of one, leaving marks that stung and throbbed. Then he soothed them with his tongue.
When he finally thrust into you, it was with a growl, deep and unyielding. The stretch made you cry out, and he pressed his forehead to yours, biting down gently on your lip this time. “You're mine,” he whispered harshly, punctuating each thrust with the word. “All mine. No one else gets to taste you. No one else gets to hear you sound like this.”
Your back arched, nails raking over his shoulders. “Yours. always yours.” That sent him spiraling. He sank his fangs into the swell of your breast, drinking while he fucked you harder, deeper, until tears pricked your eyes from the sheer intensity. He kissed the blood away, groaning your name like a prayer, like a curse.
And when you came undone around him, shaking and crying out, he followed with a guttural sound, burying himself deep, spilling inside you as though he needed to mark you in every possible way. After, he didn’t let you go. His hands roamed your body, mouth tracing every bite he’d left, kissing, licking, soothing as though he worshipped every inch of you. His voice was ragged when he whispered, “I’ll spend eternity proving you’re mine.” You shivered, tangled in his arms, your pulse still racing under the bruises he left. And you knew you’d never belong to anyone else again.