jayce-snipes

[jayce-snipes]

Welcome to Kinktober 2025!

As there wasn’t an official Kinktober prompt list last year, we’ve put together an unofficial one for 2025, along with an AO3 collection. The graphics were all made by @latte-cucumber, and she's also made a banner that you’re welcome to use for your Tumblr Kinktober posts:

More information

Kinktober is an October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.

Our askbox is open for questions about how the challenge works or what the prompts mean.

Prompts

Masturbation – Orgasm Control – Incest

Coming Untouched – Ageplay – Kidnapping

Threesome – Nipple Clamps – Alien Abduction

Voyeurism – Sounding – Hypnosis

Finger Sucking – Wax Play – Dacryphilia

Outdoor Sex – Humiliation – Intoxication

Blindfolds – Chastity – Bloodplay

Webcam – Figging – Cages

Exhibitionism – Shibari – Tentacles

Oral Sex – Punishment – Consensual Non-Consent

Come Licking – Handcuffs – Somnophilia

Sex Work – Kneeling – Sissification

Dildos – Dom Bottom/Sub Top – Medical Play

Omegaverse – Possessive Sex – Choking/Gagging

Semi-Public – Object Insertion – Sex Pollen

Remote Control – High Protocol – Fire Play

Messy Sex – Service Kink – Anal Hooks

Size Queen – Dom/Sub – Genital Torture

Creampie – Sensory Deprivation – Electricity

Mirror Sex – Golden Shower – Dubcon

Rimming – Forced Orgasm – Monsterfucking

Quiet Sex – Crawling – Gunplay

Biting – Praise Kink – Enemas

Anal Sex – Gags – Noncon

Double Penetration – Impact Play – Pillory/Stocks

Lingerie – Cuckolding – Sex Robot

Hair Pulling – Animal Play – Gangbang

Multiple Orgasms – S&M – Needle Play

Body Worship – Omorashi – Full-Body Bondage

Breeding – Fucking Machine – Degradation

Hot Tub Sex – Foot Fetish – Writer’s Choice

Bonus prompts:

Aftercare

Fisting

Wall Sex

Sugar Baby

Uniform Kink

Free Use

Temporary/Permanent Marks

[jayce-snipes]

Dean x Male Reader Synopsis: You and Dean work together on a hunt, and the aftermath includes you patching him up. (Established Relationship)

“Stop fussing, I'm fine,” Dean complains as you drag him over to the couch. The two of you had just returned to the bunker after a mission involving a poltergeist. It had thrown Dean down the stairs, resulting in several cuts and soon-to-be bruises, particularly a cut above his eyebrow that he insisted “looked worse than it was”. (You were convinced he would need stitches.)

“Stop being a big baby and let me take care of you.” You say, rolling your eyes as you grab the first aid kit. Normally, Sam and Dean go on hunts together, but they and Bobby were investigating a vampire case a few states away, so Dean had begrudgingly allowed you to take Sam’s place.

You return with the first aid kit and sit down next to him. You start to clean the cut on Dean’s face, right above his eyebrow, before his hand catches your wrist. 

“You know, instead of doing this,” he says, motioning to all the medical supplies “You and I could be making much better use of this empty bunker.” He raises his eyebrows suggestivly as he presses a kiss to the inside of your lip. 

“Yes, we could.” You say pulling your hand back and leaning in, biting your lip as you look into his eyes, “but then you would get blood on everything.” You finish, flicking his nose before leaning back and dabbing the cut with hydrogen peroxide, causing him to wince.

“How did I end up with such a mean boyfriend?” Dean pouts,“ I bet you don't even love me.” He sniffs. It's clear that he's joking, I mean, if you didn't love him, would you be cleaning the blood off his face? His stupid face. His stupid, adorable face.

“You are such a baby.” You say instead, rolling your eyes. “Do you want me to kiss it better?” you ask in a teasing tone, puckering your lips.

“Yes.” He says, simply, closing his eyes. When you don't immediately kiss the cut that you just finished cleaning, he opens one eye. “I’m waiting.” He says, promptly shutting his eye again. 

You sigh, rolling your eyes before pressing a kiss to the top of his brow. You pull back, “Is that bett-” Before you can finish, Dean grabs your face, pulling you in to kiss you on the lips. The kiss tastes faintly of the coffee he had this morning (and the beer he chased it with), with a twinge of iron, probably from the split lip he was currently sporting. 

You bite his lip, properly tasting fresh blood on your tongue. Dean melts, his hands clutch the front of your jacket as he kisses you until you're both breathless. When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing heavily, and Dean has a teasing glint in his eye.

“Now it's better.” He says, smirking. For the rest of the time, he sits still, letting you take care of the various cuts that he has, as long as you kiss them afterward. When you guys are finally done, he insists that the two of you cuddle. 

You make him promise that it's only cuddling, as you firmly believe that he needs rest to feel better. This does not, however, stop him from groping your ass as you lie next to him. He says that it's better than therapy. Prompting you to roll your eyes.

“You know I love you, right?” You ask suddenly as the silence of the bunker was getting to be too much. You bit your lip as you waited for a response. I mean, you just wanted to make sure.

“Of course I do,” Dean replies with a chuckle. “I mean, who else is going to put up with my shit, take care of me, and give me great sex?” You scoff at this, swatting his arm. “I must have the best boyfriend ever.” He says, kissing the top of your head. 

“And I love you too.” He says, smiling. As the two of you lay there in comfortable silence, you felt peace as you ran your fingers through his hair, and Dean, he was already asleep.

[jayce-snipes]

Tony Stark x GN Reader Synopsis: You’re a new assistant at Stark Tower, and Tony’s been hitting on you since you started. The only problem: You haven’t noticed, and a few of the Avengers are starting to get fed up

Tony was extravagant, and that extravagance always started to center around you.

You had started working at Stark Tower roughly a month and a half ago. During that time, you had gained a Rolex, a new car, and your rent was paid in advance for three months (the rest of your lease, with the promise of a nicer apartment to follow).

Honestly, you chalked it up to your boss being nice, if not a bit overbearing. The rest of the Avengers, however, did not think this.

“Are you serious…” Clint groaned as he saw the newest gift from Tony, a new laptop, after he stated that yours was ‘too old to be efficient’.

 “You are so dense,” Natasha added on, observing with a knowing glance on her face, a slight smirk playing on her face. 

“He’s just being nice, I mean, the laptop is from my high school years. All the other things were all necessities”, you said, shrugging.

“You idiot, he's been hitting on you this whole time.” Natasha said, suddenly putting down her phone and pinching her nose bridge. “All the gifts, and I mean he paid your rent for God's sake, bought you a fucking car, it's clear he's into you.” 

You blinked, thought, and then it hit you. Oh my god. Oh my god. Your face suddenly felt hot. You heard Clint and Natasha laughing, but then your worst nightmare came true. Tony walked in asking about the laptop that he bought for you. 

“What's going on with the two of you? What's so funny?” Tony asked, observing Natasha and Clint's laughter with a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing, nothing, don’t worry about it,” Clint said. The two of them left the room, smirking and laughing at each other. 

The room is now empty, well, almost empty besides Tony. You are hyper-aware of your breathing and heartbeat. You wondered just how long Tony had been trying to hit on you,

“So what's going on, why’d Birdbrain and Natasha leave?’ He asked, moving to stand in front of you.

 His brown eyes looked deep into your eyes, almost like he was looking for something, and you felt your breath hitch. It was like you were seeing him for the first time. God, was he always so hot, you wanted to run your fingers through his hair.

“Um, so, you have a…crush on- me?” You say your face is hot, you honestly could barely bring yourself to look at him. Your mind was racing with all these confusing thoughts. What if he wasn't flirting with you, and Clint and Natasha were trying to confuse you? It seemed impossible, I mean, he could have whoever he wanted, and he wanted…you? It made your head spin; you didn't even realize that he was trying to talk to you.

“-Kiss you?” You only heard the last part of Tony’s sentence; he wanted to kiss you. Wait, he wanted to kiss you. 

“Me?” You asked dumbly, baffled at the thought of Tony kissing you. You could almost imagine what it would taste like. Bitter, similar to the coffee he always drank, but still slow and passionate.

“Yes, you,” he says with a chuckle, I’ve been waiting since you started working here.” He seemed so calm, so relaxed, in comparison to you, who was sweating and panicked.

You couldnt even speak, only nod. Suddenly, his mouth was on yours. You were right, sort of. He tasted like coffee, but sweet coffee, with cream and sugar, not black like you assumed. Kissing him felt like kissing straight cocaine; it was addictive, and you wanted more.

When you eventually pulled back, you were out of breath. He smirked at you, running his thumb over your cheekbone.

“I’m glad you finally realized how bad I want you.”

[jayce-snipes]

idk if you answer to these kind of asks but (at least for me) if you're eating something that my dog wants she'll try and eat it out of your mouth (It's a fight and a half) but I feel like hybrid soap would do the same thing just to piss us off

Yes, wolf!soap would totally do this to human!reader, but what abt the other way around???🤔

You get to the mess late for whatever reason and soap literally took the last brownie. Sure, they kinda taste like chemicals, but you kill for any amount of chocolate you can get on base. Unfortunately soap sees the way ur eyes zero in on the delicious food in his hands and decides that the best course of action is to shove the whole thing into his mouth. Hes not even savoring it! He just doesnt want u to have it!

So u outright growl at him, and gaz has the common sense to shuffle over so you can properly grab at and manhandle soap. He expects you to maybe shake him around in anger a bit, still laughing with a full mouth. He does not expect you to grip his mohawk in one hand while bully the thumb of the other into his mouth.

You wrench his lips apart and with a move that has ghost audibly gagging you lick into his mouth and scoop as much as the brownie as u can out and into urs. You dont care at all that soap let's out a moan and goes pliant, ur still roughhousing him as you dive back in and lick along the back of his teeth. Its totally disgusting and filthy, but by the end of it ur mouth tastes of brownie and soaps spit.

You pull back to see ghost looking like hes about to die, gaz like he wants to throw up, and price has just totally left. A few other tables have totally gone silent around u and we're just watching, most of them baring a scrunched noses and frowns. Glancing back at soap, though, he doesnt seem all that upset. Not if ur judging by the way his eyes are half lidded and hes sporting a full and very obvious hard-on.

[jayce-snipes]

hiii i was wondering if u could share some of ur fav fics on this platform? im just really curious! love your work btw <33

hi anon!! list below (some of these are OLD)

historically accurate camboy (oc x male reader) by @writtencrone - this was a HILARIOUS READ, i read i yesterday and reread it again today lol. this guy has now become one of my fav authors on here 😍

yandere! professor x himbo reader by @sleep-0-deprived - LOVED THIS ONEE, this inspired me to write the professor sangwoo fic lol [here]

family trip (delinquent oc x ftm reader) by @servicpop - this is one of the first authors i followed i think, love all of their works!!

Maknae (kpop idol oc x male reader) by @sooniebby - i remember this fic vividly bc i was reading it on the metro with my friend when it released. (the rockstar series too!) all danny's works are spectacular btw!!

punch my v-card (boxer toji x male reader) by @hikaurbae - OH MY DAYS THIS WAS A GOOD READ. i was throbbing at the end of it lmaoo

in the king's embrace (multiple m!ocs x male reader) by @zolass - this was TEAAAAA. go read this guys stuff NOW.

27 club (gojo x m!reader x geto) by @burgojo - all his works bring tears to my eyes and my pussy NO ONE SAW THAT

HOT DEMON BITCHES NEAR U! (gojo x m!reader x geto) by @hurlingdown - this fic was GOATEDDD

yandere mafia boss by @scap34

yandere rockstar x manager reader by @moyazaika - this literally got me into the yandere genre lmaoo. good stuff + DESI OC??? i am SAT!!!!

there are wayyyy more fics that i rlly loved on this app, but if i showed yall all of them, tumblr wrould crash lmao

this is the stuff that emerged from the top of my head lol- enjoy reading!! GIVE THESE WRITERS LOVE

(also check my #odin recs tags, bc i reblog all the fics i like over there)

[jayce-snipes]

Kill Him, Love Me Part 4: The Final Showdown

Horror story involving Steve and the other Avengers with a male reader (Request).

A/N: OMG the last offical plot pointttt, this request is offically finished!! I hope everyone enjoyed my writings, im not sure what I will be writing next...looking forward to wrting something new though, maybe some fluff or smth idrk. This isnt super gory and honestly i wasnt sure how to write the final fight but yeah enjoyyyy.

TW: one slur (F slur)

WC:1916

It had been a quiet few days, and you and Steve had been cautious. You knew she was coming for you; the thought filled you with anxiety. Everything you did, you felt like you were at risk, you hadn't left the house, and you were honestly afraid to be alone. Flashes of what happened to Tony replayed in your mind. You realized that if she was out there, she could snipe you, blow your brains out while you were sitting at the kitchen table, and you would be none the wiser. You didn't doubt that Steve would protect you, more than he even needed to. It made you feel like shit, honestly, you wished that she would just be obsessed like a normal person. You thought about how this all started, when the whole team was still here, your friends, Steve's friends. The guilt was eating you alive, the fact that if you had never been with Steve, this never would have happened. You were kind of curious as to who she could be; she must be someone with advanced knowledge of the Avengers, being able to track us down, and well, kill them. You were in the living room, your head on Steve's lap. A random nature documentary was playing on the TV. Honestly, the whole thing was so domestic and would be cute if not for the fact that you were being hunted… 

As if the devil himself heard your thoughts, you got a text from that same unknown number.

Unknown Number: Did you miss me? I missed you, tormenting you that is.

Unknown Number: It's been too long, I think I'll pay a visit

Unknown Number: *Image Attached*

You blinked and clicked to open the image. It was a screen showing Google Maps, with your address in the search bar. You felt your stomach drop, and you sat up, silently passing the phone to Steve. You bit your thumb deep in thought, already thinking about preparations, would you fight her, run away, or call Fury for backup? Steve grabbed your hand, pulling you from your thoughts as you turned to look at him. “We can handle this.” He says, running his thumb over the back of your hand. “We can deal with her, and I promise I won't let anything happen to you,” he says soothingly. “I know you won't”. You say with a smile,

You and Steve spend a while planning what to do when she arrives. Steve is adamant that she not even know you are there, while giving him time to neutralize her. Honestly, you didn't like the plan, I mean, like obviously she had stated her love for Steve many times, but what if she decides that it's no longer worth it, and she tries to hurt him? Super soldier or not, you would still be worried about your boyfriend. Using your stealth training as leverage, he agreed to let you help, but only ifit'ss dire, the final plan for you to hide in the bedroom with a gun. Only to use it if necessary.

It had been a tense few hours, due to both of your statuses with you working and SHIELD and Steve being an Avenger, the property had cameras and a security system. It was fairly advanced and would alert both you and Steve if someone was registered on the cameras or if someone opened a window or door. Steve had been glued to the cameras, already prepared for a fight. The anger and grief from the loss of his teammates were bubbling under the surface; he was hurt and angry. It was kind of scary to see him like this; it reminded you that despite the constant contact that you had with the Avengers, you were not often with the team, usually working alone.

A *ping* went off on your phone, and your breath caught in your throat. You turn it on, seeing the unknown number again. Steve looked up at you sharply, “Is it her?” he asked, focusing on you instead of the cameras. You nod, logging into your phone, and you check the message.

Unknown Number: Little pig, little pig, let me in. 

Unknown Number: *Image attached*

You open the image with trembling fingers, you almost drop your phone, it's a picture of your house, from a distance, but still. You steel your nerves, “She's almost here, Steve.” He looks, stands up, walks over, and checks the message: “You should go, hide, and be ready.” He pulls you into a tight hug, running his hands up and down your back, “I know I should, but I don't want you…” You mutter, pressing a kiss to his lips, “I love you too much,” You say, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Y/N…we already agreed.” He says with a warning tone. He carefully untangles himself from you, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. Before he can pull away fully, you catch his lips in a slightly more passionate kiss. “I love you, Steve. Please be careful, don’t die.” You punch him in the arm with a slight smile. “I love you, too, you brat, now get out of here.” He says with a smile, gently pushing you.

You enter the bedroom, closing the door behind you. Realistically, it wouldn't do much besides warn you that she was there. Honestl, it's a good thing that Steve forced you to leave because at that moment you got a notification. *Back window opened* She was here, you knew that Steve had gotten a matching notification. The back window was in the kitchen, meaning she would go through that before entering the living room, where Steve was waiting. Then, if she was going to attempt to get to you, she would have to go upstairs to the bedrooms. Thankfully, all the upstairs doors were closed, so you would have a little bit of time before she arrived. You would hear each door open until she reached the end of the hall on the right, you.

Honestly, the closet was boring, you didn't risk texting Steve, and you had powered off your phone to prevent her from hearing it if she came into the room. You waited for what felt like 20 minutes, panic was setting in, did she kill him, did he kill her? Then voices. You thought you imagined it for a moment, but no, Steve and her arguing, getting closer. You heard her stomping up the stairs, then throwing open the door. “Where the fuck is he, Steve? I know that little fag is here somewhere,” She fumed, then at your door. She opened the bedroom door, stomping in, her anger forcing her to ignore Steve trying to diffuse the situation. He threatened to stop her if she kept destroying the home, but she didn't listen. She took pictures off the wall, making comments about how you didn't deserve to share a room with him. “I just don't understand why you choose him when someone like me is right here,” she says, the snark clear in her tone. “I don't even know who you are.” Steve retaliated, you heard a snort, “You do know who I am, you're just not thinking hard enough.” Then silence, then a loud crash. You assumed that the fighting had started. Both Steve and the woman were grunting, and you heard things crashing and falling. They were yelling at each other, the converstantions slightly muffled by all the noise “...you killed my- teamates” steve said with a grunt, resulting in a pained noise from the woman “you murdered them in cold blood, you deserve no mercy, and your sick if you think that that would make me fall in love with you.” You heard several thuds, presumably fists hitting flesh, sh then silence. Was it over? You heard the doorknob rattle. “It's over; she passed out.” You heard Steve's voice as he opened the door. He was beaten up. He had several cuts and blood running from his nose. 

The two of you brought her to the kitchen, restraining her. The two of you had strong restraints that could be used in case of emergency; the whole team had them just in case. The two of you called Fury first, to which he responded that he would be sending agents to take her in. He also asked you to confirm her idenitconfirm her identity. You admitted you wanted to know who she was, too, the woman who was able to defeat so many of your friends, and do it without a sliver of remorse. You pulled the mask over her face. “What the..” you muttered, you realized. You and Steve did know h;r, she was She-Hulk, also known as Jennifer Walters. You were in shock, honestly, you couldnt believe that she was the one who caused the team so much panic and caused so much carnage. She had worked with SHIELD before, which explained her ability to gain access to the locations and your phone number. She groaned, opening her eyes, realizing that her mask was off and the jig was up; she deflated. You and Steve interrogated her, well, Steve did, she refused to even look at you besides adamantly stating that your existence was the only reason that she and Steve weren't together. She cursed at you, saying that if it weren't for the restraints, she would have torn you limb from limb. In response, you slapped her hard, clear across the face. 

“Fuck you,” was all Steve said when she finished her sob story. “I will never, ever love you, I never did, and you are a terrible person for what you did to my friends, and you will rot in hell.” You were honestly shocked, Steve never spoke like that, it shocked her to because she broke down, ugly crying while blubbering about how the two of them were meant to be. Fury arrived and took her away with a group of SHIELD soldiers. You and Steve collapsed on the couch, and the blood dried on his face. You stood silently again, getting the first aid kit and cleaning the various cuts that littered his face. He closed his eyes, seemingly at peace, “Thank godit'ss over…” He muttered, wincing slightly at the hydrogen peroxide that you put on the wounds. “I agree,” you say, sighing. He sat up, pressing kisses all over your face, “At least I have my nurse in shining armour here to patch me up.” He says with a smile. He presses another kiss to your lips before settling back down against you, content to sleep just like that. You looked down at him, his golden locks, kissable lips, all of him. He looked so peaceful, like he didn't just deal with an insane, obsessed stalker woman who killed his team. You gently brushed some of the hair out of his face. You just tilted your head back against the couch with a slight smile on your face.

You knew that your work was far from over, press conferences to deal with the fallout from the unmasking of Jennifer, planning the funerals from the rest of the crew and moving on without them, and the fact that your name was now going to be out there and the very real possibility that you were going to be blamed for the deaths of the rest of the Avengers. You could deal with all that, though. Because you had Steve, and that was enough.

@vibrantsavagerydoom

[jayce-snipes]

friend just told me that he and his siblings used to play a game called "abraham lincoln and the slimy slug" wherein one person is abraham lincoln, with a full range of motion, and one person is a slimy slug inside a sleeping bag

and they would fight. and of course abraham lincoln would just beat the absolute shit out of the slimy slug

[jayce-snipes]

Kill Him, Love Me Part 3: Go Out With a Bang

Horror story involving Steve and the other Avengers with a male reader (Request).

AN: Hi guys, alot of this is fluffy because I've been feeling a little bit of writer's block and writing fluff makes me feel more creative... Anyway, once this is finished if there is any other reqs for stories ill probs work on them, but if not I'm thinking about doing some date everything...

TW: suicide, one slur (F slur)

WC:1538

You and Steve were trying to relax, as much as one could in this situation. Steve had insisted that you shower while he made something for the two of you to eat. You didn't have much, but Steve was able to put together some pasta and garlic bread with the bread that you had frozen the last time you were at the cabin. You emerged from the shower in a towel, the steam curling around your frame as the towel sat low on your waist. You went into the closet that the two of you shared and pulled out one of Steve's sweatshirts. You liked to wear them when you felt stressed and vice versa. You also put on fresh boxers and sweatpants before proceeding out to the kitchen, where the smell of pasta filled your nose.

“Steve, this smells amazing,” you say as you wrap your arms around his waist. He's standing over the stove, warming up the sauce while the pasta finishes cooking. “It's honestly nothing,” he says, chuckling, “just me using what we have lying around”. Despite the cool response, you know that he loves it when you compliment him. You squeeze him gently before pressing a soft kiss to his neck with an affectionate nuzzle. “Whatever you say…” you add, trailing off before sitting down at the table, which was also already set. 

Steve plated the pasta in front of you before serving himself, and also sat next to you. After sitting and eating in silence, for a few minutes he pauses, his silverware clattering against the wooden table as he sets it down on the wooden table. “How have you been?” he asks ...honestly because I think that we should talk about everything thats happened.” You pause, considering how you were. I mean, you felt like shit even after a full body scrub in the shower. You felt guilty because your teammates were dead, scared, at what would happen next, and angry that you couldn't do anything about it, stuck in this house. “I-...” You explain your feelings to Steve, but his food was forgotten as he was engrossed in your words. You watch the expression on his face change as he becomes more and more worried about you. “I just feel like this whole thing is my fault, because I'm with you.” You finish with a sigh before going back to your (slightly colder) pasta, pushing it around your plate as you focus on the wood grain on the table. 

“I love you.” He says, “I don’t care who else wants me, or what anyone else says. I choose you, I love you.” He grabs your hand from across the table, and you look up, meeting those blue eyes that only ever seemed to look at you with care. “I understand how you feel, but I also want you to know that one deranged fan isn't going to suddenly make me break up with you.” You smile at him. “Go, what did I do to deserve a boyfriend as amazing as you?” you ask with a sigh. “Funny, I find myself asking the same thing.” He teases back. He stands up to get rid of our dishes, the pasta having gone cold at this point. You stand up and wait for him to put the dishes in the sink before hugging him. You wrap your arms around him, squeezing tight as you press your nose into the crook of his neck, his smell bringing you that familiar comfort. He chuckles, reciprocating, applying gentle pressure as he wraps his arms around your waist. 

“Let's cuddle, I wanna hold you.” You declare pulling him towards the bedroom. You collapse on the bed, splaying out, waiting for him to settle beside you. Once he does, you cling to him, sliding your hands under his shirt, desperate for any bare skin you can get your hands on.

“Handsy today, are we?” he muses, holding you close. “It's okay, I don't mind.” he presses his lips against yours, one hand settling on your waist, with the other cradling your head. You climb on top of him, continuing to kiss him. You don't care, you need an escape, you press your mouth against his harder, groaning. Your kiss is filthy, spit connecting the two of you, his tongue in your mouth exploring, pressing against yours. You pull back, both of you panting. You have only a moment's respite before he's pulling you down again, his hand wandering from your waist to the hem of your sweat pants. He teases the hem, sliding a finger underneath. You groan, encouraging to keep going. He pulls back slightly, breathless, as a trail of saliva connects you. 

“Are you sure you want this?” He asks, tracing your hip with his thumb. Jesus Christ, was he ever not the most considerate boyfriend ever? “Yes, I want this.” You say pressing your hips against him. “I want this so bad, I want you to make me forget about all of this.“ You press a kiss to his neck. “I want-” You get cut off by your phone buzzing on the nightstand. Your blood runs cold. Fuck you just wanted a few hours, maybe one night, to have peace. 

You roll off Steve and pick up the phone. It's a FaceTime request from…Bruce, huh, weird. I mean, you and Bruce were friends, but only in the co-worker sense. You engaged in work, you had laughed at Tony's mandated happy hours, but you didn't have a close relationship. Steve is looking over your shoulder as you pick up the phone. You see Bruce sitting in a room, looking somewhat distressed. “You need to break up with Steve,” He says. “It's gone too far.” You blink. You didn't expect this. Not from Bruce, before you or Steve can open your mouth to say anything, he's ranting. About how it's your fault that Natasha is dead, and how you're selfish for putting you and Steve over the well-being of the team. By the time he's done, there are tears in his eyes, and you realize that you're crying too. Steve was able to reassure you when it was you versus your thoughts, but when it's someone else, the floodgates open. Steve wraps his arms around you in a semi-hug before looking at Bruce, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed.

“Listen here, Banner. It's not Y/N’s fault that someone else is taking it too far. This could have happened to any one of us. It could have been Thor and Jane just as easily. I simply won't stand for you making him feel like it's his fault.” He's breathing heavily, his composure gone, a far cry from the man you were about to get intimate with moments earlier. 

“Your fault…” He says, sobbing, “You took her from me, and now I have no one.” Then it hits me. Natasha, all of this is about Natasha. “Bruce, I'm so sorry. I miss her too.” I started before he cut me off. “NO YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!” He was frantic, his face red and tears streaming down his face. “You drove me to this.” He continued, suddenly calm and quiet, seemingly looking at someone beyond. “Bruce, what are you talking about…Do you need help?” I asked before all the words died in my throat. A gun, in his mouth, then a bang. I retch. Steve flinches. The camera doesn't show everything, but there was a mess on the walls behind him. His skull and brain matter painted the wallpaper, while his skull looked like something created by an abstract painter.

“Jesus…” Steve mutters, but then he pauses. Someone else starts to walk into frame. Her. “Look what you made me do, Stevie…your poor friend driven to killing himself, with just a few words.”  She was wearing the same costume as last time. She grabbed the phone, bringing it closer to her face. “I’m tired of waiting for you, Stevie. I’m coming to you next.” She giggles manically. “Next time, Y/N…next time, I'll kill you, and if Steve still won't have me, I'll wear your skin, then he’ll have to love me.” She laughs before hanging up the phone.

You lay back against Steve, your body heavy from all of this. “Steve, I'm scared…” I say quietly, closing my eyes, “Me too.” He agrees. You don't know what you're going to do, I mean, what are you supposed to do? This woman claims that she's going to find you and kill you to date your boyfriend. I mean what the fuck. Your mind races. Does that mean she knows where you are? Your blood runs cold. What if she can see you right now? “Relax, I won’t let her hurt you, I promise.” He reassures you. The two of you lie down, and you let Steve hold you. Your mind is still racing, but you feel better with the feeling of Steve surrounding you. Your eyes close as you think about what is to come. Unknown to you, far after you go to sleep, you get another text message. 

Unknown number: That's right, you annoying fag, Enjoy your last night with Steve. I’ll see you soon to claim my prize.

@vibrantsavagerydoom

[jayce-snipes]

affirmations for writers: i know how to write. i have seen sentences before, and i know how to make one. i can identify up to several words and their meanings. i am not afraid of semicolons.

[jayce-snipes]

Updated Masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━⊱༒︎ • Supernatural⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━⊱༒︎ • ⋆⁺₊⋆

Dean Winchester:

X Male Reader HC

X Male reader Short Story

X Male Hunter Reader

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━⊱༒︎ • Marvel⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━⊱༒︎ • ⋆⁺₊⋆

Tony Stark:

X GN Reader HC

X Oblivious GN Reader

Steve Rogers:

X Male Reader HC

I told you to bring an umbrella dumbass (Oneshot)

Kill Him, Love Me (series): Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt4

[jayce-snipes]

Kill Him, Love Me Part Two: Hide and Seek

Horror story involving Steve and the other Avengers with a male reader (Request).

AN: okay, hi guys, im back from Europe, it was a fantastic trip but i was itching to write, I honestly want to write some oneshots about meeting a character on the streets of Rome or smth... anyways I hope everyone enjoys part two, i fear that im a tad rusty so sorry, next part is going to be an entire chapter of fluff and maybe a little spice between the reader and Steve so be prepared.

WC: 1775

It had been an hour, and you had been locked in that stupid meeting room, pacing and planning. It had been decided that you guys would temporarily go into hiding until this could all be dealt with. Being Avengers, most of you guys had your own off-the-grid houses to stay at. Fury had decided that discreet cars would be taking all of you with additional drones surveying and reporting back in case the killer attempted to follow you. Anxiety twisted in your gut, what if she gets someone else… You thought, considering that it was a very real possibility. Your mind drifted to Tony, the visceral image of your teammate, your friend, burned into your head.

“We should all update each other with texts and calls, but only in our secure chatrooms,” Natasha says, her voice calm and collected. You were envious of her ability to take control of the situation. You nodded, fearing that if you spoke, your voice would crack; you hadn't spoken in hours, the whole situation leaving you hollow, leaning against Steve's shoulder, his hand holding yours, and attempting to soothe you. “I agree, this is the best course of action,” Bruce says. he helped Tony create a secure messaging network for all of the Avengers, plus Fury a while back following the Ultron situation. “This way we can make sure that we are all safe…just in case,” he adds. He didn't need to elaborate; we all knew what threats now lurked. She was advanced, and who knows what resources she had access to.

“Okay, people, Cars are downstairs in the garage, we will have surveillance on you at all times once you leave this building, and I expect check-ins every few hours at least.” Fury's voice boomed, the delicacy of the situation leaving him with much to be desired. Steve’s hand tightens around yours as the two of you stand up. You were going to be going to a small cabin in Vermont that the two of you shared. You had planned on proposing to Steve there at some point, but that thought was nowhere in your mind at the moment. You knew where some of the others would be, but Thor was going off the grid with Jane, though you weren't worried about him. Natasha was going…somewhere, the spy had been vague with her location; however, you were fairly confident that Fury knew the location. Bruce was going to Texas for reasons unknown, and Bucky would be returning to Wakanda with T’challa, who was still a dear friend and respected ally to the Avengers. 

The team hardly spoke as they filed out of the room, faces grim as they prepared themselves to leave the safety of the tower.r

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━ Time Skip━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━⊱༒︎ • ⋆⁺₊⋆

It had been nearly five hours in the car, the driver sitting in the front, saying nothing as you and Steve sat in the back. You were holding hands, it brought you a sliver of comfort, the driver pulled up to the house, the driveway was long and winding. Normally,y the sight brought you joy, a promised weekend getaway, time alone without fear of being called to work or missions, time with Steve. Now, however, it just reminded you of the messages she sent playing over in your head. You didn't want to admit it, but her words had gotten to you; you felt a slight rift forming between you and Steve, and you were afraid that your insistence to stay together would result in someone else getting hurt.

The two of you entered the house, doing a quick scan, just in case. It looked normal, albeit with a slight layer of dust over everything. You looked at the chat logs from the rest of the group. Everyone arriving besides Bucky, you weren't exactly sure how long it takes to get to Wakanda, but you assumed he was fine. You sent back a brief message, “Steve and I arrived, the house is all clear”. Slowly, the team sent responses, thumbs up or hearts. You felt arms around your waist. “Are you okay?” Steve asked, his voice low, as if he knew that you were delicate. “I know that this has been a lot”. Damn, you thought even now he was more worried about you than himself. You felt him placing kisses along your neck, guiding you towards the bedroom. “You need to lie down and rest,” he says. You nod numbly. As you lie on the bed, you feel his arms wrap around you. It feels safe, “I love you.” Your voice was soft, tired, you felt outside of your body, aware of the sleep consuming you, but unable to fight it. “I love you too,” he says, squeezing you slightly. You close your eyes with a contented sigh.

You awake to buzzing. You try to ignore it, assuming it to be the group chat, but you check it anyway, just in case. It's her, the unknown number has sent a string of texts, you clumsily open your phone, your tired thumbs miss your password several times, it's you and Steve's anniversary, you read her message:

Unknown Number: Trying to run, huh? It's okay, I don’t mind the chase. 

Unknown Number: You must be just as sick as I if you would rather let your teammates die than let him go, but it's fine, I’ll have him eventually

Unknown Number: Be ready for the next one, I'll make it gory.

You pass the phone to Steve, His eyes conveying concern and fear as he reads the messages. This time, both of your phone's buzz; it's the group chat this time. Natasha texted, “She's here, I'm going to kill her.” The group chat explodes; messages telling her to hide and keep updating us. Natasha sends a photo of a window, slightly ajar, with footsteps in the snow outside it. She must have gone to the mountains somewhere. You and Steve share a look, “She can do this, she's strong.” Steve reassures you. The two of you were now sitting up, focusing solely on the group chat, around 10 minutes passed, and you're starting to get worried. Another 10 passes before another message, this time a video. You open it on your phone, angling it so that both you and Steve can see it.

The scene is disturbing. Natasha is tied to a chair, a gag in her mouth, the woman stands just in frame, her back to the camera. She's wearing a costume, a crude recreation of Steve's suit, it's red, white, and blue from what you can tell, but you can only see the back. Natasha looks like she's been in the chair for a while, a jagged cut runs above her eyebrow, with several bruises and smaller cuts along her body. “See y/n,” the woman says, turning, her face concealed with a mask, “I told you I didn’t mind chasing”. She turns and unceremoniously jams the knife into Natasha's thigh, resulting in her letting out a scream of pain around the gag. “You’ve been so mean, keeping my Steve away from me, you evil man.” She pulls the knife back out, blood oozing from the wound. “You know that you’re making me do this, if you just left him I would have to hurt the rest of your team, but you are just too selfish, so now I have to punish everyone else.” She turned again, sticking her finger into the wound, Natasha letting out a scream, gritting her teeth as she fought against her restraints. The woman pressed the knife against Natasha's throat, moving to stand behind her so that the camera could see her face. “Do I kill her, or do I keep playing with her…” The woman said, pretending to think. “I think I'll kill her now, but only because I have to travel to get to the rest of you, oh, who to kill next, I do wonder”. The blade pushed deeper into Natasha's neck, a trickle of blood spilling down before quickly pivoting and ramming it into her gut. Natasha's eyes bulged. “I'm doing this for you, Steve,” The woman said, with a crazed smile on her face., She stabbed Natasha over and over, until blood and viscera pooled everywhere, all the while laughing and expressing her love for Steve and her hate for you.

Eventually, she stops. Natasha's eyes are glazed over, dead, and the woman is standing behind her still, breathing heavily. She walks over the phone, dropping the knife, looking into the camera. “I love you, Stevie, and I won’t stop until I have you, no matter how many of your friends I have to kill.” The video ends, and you stare in shock, your mouth is open, and you don't even realize you're crying until you taste the salty tears running into your mouth. The group chat shows several people typing, but no messages are sent. Everyone is in shock, you think, Steve hasn't said a word, you look over at him. His face is pale, and his jaw is clenched. “This is bullshit,” He says, anger in his voice, “Who does this woman think she is, what does she want?”. He's rambling, his fists clenched. The group chat lights up with an incoming call from Fury, everyone picks up except for Bruce, you assume that he's not taking this well, and you half expect to see the Hulk rampaging on the news later. “This is deeply unfortunate” Fury speaks his voice surprisingly remorseful “This woman is a pro, being able to take down one of our best agents as well as determine her location.” Fury clears his throat, “while we were able to detect her on our drones and warn Romanoff it seems that this was not enough, keep a vigilant eye and I will inform you of any updates.” Fury ends the call, it feels like a slap in the face, a teammate died and all he has to say is to wait for updates, it makes you feel sick. Steve wraps his arms around you, pulling you in. “We’ll be okay,” he mutters, his hands rubbing up and down your back. “I won't let anything happen to us”. You want to believe him, you do, but at the moment, all you feel is dread and fear for the future. Who's she going after next? When will it stop? Your mind races, only slightly quieted by the comfort of Steve's arms around you and the scent of his cologne in your nose. I guess all you can do is wait for an update and hope, pray that the rest of the team is safe.

Requested by: @vibrantsavagerydoom

[jayce-snipes]

Hi, could you do one about Remmick from Sinners? Context: The reader has an ethereal beauty and is a wonderful dancer. Remmick saw him dancing one night and became obsessed with the male reader. So, he pretended to be attacked and stopped by the reader's house. The reader allowed him into his house. As time went on, the reader discovered he was a vampire, but ended up falling in love anyway. Then, Remmick and the reader began having a very pornographic and bloody night. (At the end, the reader could be transformed by Remmick, please, and Remmick could have a Greek kiss fetish, please 🙏🏻).

Tainted Bliss

Remmick x Male Reader

Summary: His unfiltered desire for you led Remmick down a path from which he wouldn't return until you were his, bound to him for eternity.

A/N: Hadn't a single clue what Greek Kissing was, but when I looked it up it seemed more like a kink or honestly just sexual foreplay? I'm not sure how to put it. Anyway I did my best with the ethereal beauty and dancing part, hoping it turned out how you wanted. It also ended up being oddly soft, like that wasn't my intention at all when it came to the smut.

TW: Fingering - Anal - Gay sex - Biting - Brief Greek Kiss - Blood - Praise - Vampirism - Females DNI - Minors DNI

Words: 12.8k

From the deepest shadows, Remmick watched, captivated. There was an otherworldly quality to you, a beauty so profound it transcended the mortal, touching upon the ethereal. Your very presence was a breathtaking vision, a surreal masterpiece that stirred even his unliving heart, making it thrum against his ribs with a sensation he hadn't known for centuries. Every delicate curve of your form, the gentle allure in your eyes, the way your long lashes caught the moonlight and shimmered like spun silver—each detail was a stroke of divine artistry. Your lips, so soft, held the promise of an enchanting smile, and your nose, with its perfectly unique curve, rivaled the idealized sculptures of ancient Greece. Your hair, a cascade framing your face, seemed to weave itself into the moonlight, creating an aura of unparalleled grace. The silver glow caressed every perfect contour, and Remmick, a creature of shadow and night, found himself utterly consumed by it. He loved the sight of you, loved such breathtaking beauty, loved it with an intensity that demanded possession.

Each night, he returned to his hidden vantage point, drawn by an irresistible force. His initial hunt, the search for a family to claim, had been utterly forgotten. His purpose had shifted, narrowed, focusing solely on you. The shadows became his sanctuary, a veil behind which he could indulge his obsession. He was mesmerized by the fluid grace of your movements, by the effortless way you danced across the worn wooden floor. It seemed to transform beneath your feet, becoming a stage built just for you, a testament to your innate rhythm and joy. The pure, unburdened elation radiating from your face as you danced, free of any earthly worry, was a beacon in his desolate existence.

He watched as you swayed, a silent melody echoing in his mind, mirroring your every turn. Your hands, expressive and lithe, gestured with a captivating elegance. The fabric of your clothes shifted with your movements, a whisper of material against skin, highlighting the lean strength of your frame. A stray strand of hair would sometimes fall across your forehead, and the unconscious, graceful way you’d brush it back only tightened the invisible bonds that were forming around Remmick's cold heart. He noted the slight tilt of your head when you seemed lost in the music, the soft hum that sometimes escaped your lips, carried on the night air like a private blessing.

With each passing night, the possessiveness grew, a slow, insatiable hunger taking root within him. The desire to simply observe transmuted into a fierce, unwavering resolve. You were not merely a beautiful sight to be admired from afar; you were an epiphany, the missing piece of his endless, empty eternity. The thought of anyone else laying eyes on such beauty, of anyone else experiencing the warmth of your smile or the lightness of your spirit, became an unbearable torment. You were meant for him, and him alone.

The moon, a silent conspirator, continued to cast its silver net over you, illuminating every perfect detail, every ephemeral quality that drew Remmick deeper into his fixation. He no longer sought a family; he had found his eternity in you. This ethereal man, this breathtaking vision, would be his. He would claim you, not with force, but with an inexorable pull, drawing you into his world, into his endless night. He would safeguard that beauty, that joy, that unparalleled essence, keeping it for himself, forever. The shadows that had once concealed his existence now became the borders of his burgeoning domain, with you at its radiant, captive center.

The nights bled into each other, each one deepening Remmick's desperate need. It was no longer enough to simply watch, to admire from afar. A gnawing hunger had taken root in his ancient being, a primal craving that transcended mere obsession. He needed you. He needed to feel the warmth of your skin, the delicate curve of your body pressed against his own, a stark contrast to his perpetual cold. He craved the taste of you, a sensation his unliving palate had never known but now imagined with an intensity that bordered on agony. This was a need that no whispered prayer could answer, a desire no god, merciful or vengeful, would ever sanction. It was a dark, consuming fire that demanded satisfaction.

He needed you beneath him, pliant and yielding, to trace every exquisite line of your form with his hands, to commit to memory the unique landscape of your flesh. He yearned to know the subtle rise and fall of your breath, the soft sighs that would escape your lips. He envisioned the silk of your hair fanned out against his skin, the delicate pulse in your throat beneath his touch. Most of all, he needed to know your taste—to savor the very essence of you, to claim it as his own in the most intimate, undeniable way.

Remmick, a creature of calculated moves and ancient cunning, knew exactly what had to be done. The physical barrier of your home’s threshold, an age-old protection against his kind, was the first obstacle. He couldn't simply take you; he had to be invited in, to bridge that sacred boundary. And to do that, he had to earn your trust. It was a delicate dance, one he was prepared to lead with infinite patience and cunning. He would weave himself into the fabric of your life, a subtle thread at first, then an indispensable part of your existence. He would offer solace, companionship, understanding—whatever you unconsciously yearned for.

He would make you believe you needed him too. He would peel back the layers of your polite resistance, find the hidden desires buried deep within your soul, the unspoken longings you might not even admit to yourself. He saw the spark of something wild and untamed in your eyes when you danced, a yearning for freedom and passion that mirrored his own dark intensity. He knew, with an ancient certainty, that deep down, you craved the same all-consuming connection, the same surrender to a powerful, undeniable force. And he, Remmick, was that force. He would orchestrate events, subtly manipulate circumstances, until the moment was perfect. Until you, willingly and irrevocably, gave in to his every being, gave into the potent, inescapable pull between you. You would be his, not by force, but by your own awakening desire, your own profound need for him, an eternity of ethereal beauty locked in his shadow.

He found his way in through your politeness, a vulnerability he had long since mastered exploiting. The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, its final, fiery kiss a calculated risk Remmick willingly embraced. He needed to be invited, and for that, he needed to appear vulnerable, a stark contrast to the predator he truly was. He knew you would let him in, that your inherent kindness would override any caution. He knew you would care for him unlike the others, those fleeting shadows of his past who had either fled in terror or fallen to his true nature. And so, with a grim determination, he prepared for his performance.

He tore at his old linen shirt, the coarse fabric giving way with a satisfying rip. His movements were swift, precise, as he covered himself in the fresh, still-warm blood of a goat he'd slaughtered moments before. The coppery scent was strong, sickeningly sweet, a macabre perfume that would sell his charade. He worked quickly, smearing the dark liquid across his face, his bare arms, letting it seep into the torn cloth. Then, he stumbled towards your home, the last fiery rays of the sun beginning their final descent. They licked at his pale, ancient skin, a searing caress that burned with a ferocity he hadn't felt in centuries. The pain was sharp, agonizing, but he welcomed it, knowing it would lend authenticity to his suffering.

A guttural cry, more animal than human, tore from his throat as he collapsed onto your doorstep. "Help me!" he rasped, his voice raw with feigned desperation. "Please, someone... anyone!" He twisted his body, making sure the tattered shirt and the fresh blood were undeniably visible. He let out a pained groan, clenching his fists and digging his nails into his palms, the self-inflicted pain adding to the realism. He knew the sun was still singing him, felt the sizzle of his skin, but he held his position, his eyes fixed on your door. He waited, a silent predator masquerading as prey, his heart pounding a rhythm of anticipation against his ribs. He knew you would open it, knew you would step into the trap he had so meticulously set.

The soft murmur of your footsteps approached, hesitant but resolute. Remmick heard the click of the latch, the slight creak of the door as it opened, a sliver of light spilling out onto his feigned agony. He forced a shudder, a pained gasp, making his body seem to convulse slightly. "Please," he choked out again, his voice barely a whisper, yet laced with an urgent, desperate plea.

Then, you were there, a silhouette against the warm glow of your home. Your eyes, wide with concern, immediately fell upon his blood-soaked form, the raw, sun-scorched skin, the desperate vulnerability he so expertly projected. He felt the soft brush of your hand against his arm, a tentative touch that sent a jolt, not of pain, but of exhilarating triumph through him. "Oh, my gods!" you gasped, your voice a blend of shock and genuine distress. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Some…..men," Remmick mumbled, letting his head loll to the side as if losing consciousness. "Got caught...trying to make it back..." He let out another pained groan, allowing his body to sag even further. He knew the concern in your eyes was real, a purity he had almost forgotten existed. It was exactly what he needed.

He felt your gentle hands on him, helping him shift, trying to find a comfortable position. You were asking more questions, your voice laced with worry, but he only managed to offer more fragmented, pained sounds in response. He knew you wouldn't leave him out there. He knew the warmth of your compassion was too strong to resist.

"We need to get you inside," you murmured, and the words were music to his ears, the sweet chime of victory. You carefully maneuvered him, your strength surprising, as you began to pull him across the threshold. The moment his body crossed the boundary, the lingering sting of the sun's touch vanished, replaced by the cool, comforting air of your home. He let his weight rest heavily against you, savoring the feeling of your body supporting his. The subtle scent of your skin, the warmth radiating from you, enveloped him, a heady mixture that made his still heart thrum with a dark, satisfied rhythm.

You guided him to a soft armchair, gently easing him down. He kept his eyes mostly closed, feigning weakness, but not so much that he couldn't take in the details of your living space: warm, lived-in, filled with an inviting comfort that spoke of genuine care. As you knelt beside him, your touch tender as you began to assess his 'wounds,' Remmick allowed himself a small, internal smile. The bait had been taken. You were inside, and so was he. The game had just begun.

From that night forward, Remmick understood he had you ensnared, a knowledge that only deepened his resolve. The memory of your hands on his skin, so gentle and sincere, was a persistent echo. He recalled the profound compassion in your eyes, a stark contrast to the truth of his being, a truth you remained utterly oblivious to. The subtle scent of your skin became a constant, almost tangible presence, a phantom comfort that fueled his growing obsession.

He began to return each night, his visits cloaked in the guise of gratitude. He claimed his thanks could only be expressed through music, a talent he feigned discovering within himself purely for your benefit. He would play for you, soft melodies that filled the quiet evenings, watching as your face softened, your guard lowering with each note. He pretended not to know of your dancing, acting surprised and delighted when you moved with such effortless grace. This charade, however, was a mockery; he knew intimately the way your body flowed, every sway and turn ingrained in his memory from countless nights spent in the shadows, observing.

He memorized the slight curve of your lips when you smiled at him, a genuine warmth that made his calculated deceptions feel almost real. He had taken to calling you "little bird," a tender endearment that seemed to delight you, eliciting that captivating smile. He recalled the first time your hands met his, the perfect fit as you danced together, a seamless connection that sent a dark thrill through him. Your laughter, bright and unburdened, was another detail he meticulously cataloged, a sound he now craved above all others.

You were perfection in his eyes, everything he had ever desired and more. You transcended the simple concept of family, becoming an all-consuming entity that permeated his every thought, every waking moment, and every lingering shadow of his unlife. You were the culmination of centuries of unfulfilled longing, a singular focus that had replaced the vast emptiness of his existence. Remmick reveled in this consumption, this profound absorption, finding a twisted pleasure in the absolute control he believed he wielded. He had you, completely and utterly, and the thought was a sweet, intoxicating poison.

Then came the night. Remmick stood at your door, a silent sentinel as he had so many times before, a soft, expectant smile on his lips. But this time, something was different. Your eyes, usually so soft and welcoming, held a knowing look, a flicker of something he hadn't seen before – not fear, not anger, but a profound, almost sorrowful understanding.

"You can't come in," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with an authority that stopped him cold. The air between you crackled with an unspoken truth. The familiar warmth that usually radiated from your home felt like a physical barrier, a shimmering wall he couldn't breach.

Remmick's carefully constructed composure shattered. His eyes, wide with disbelief and a dawning dread, searched yours frantically. "Wh-what's wrong, love?" he stammered, his carefully cultivated accent slipping, a hint of his true, ancient brogue creeping into his voice. "What in God's name are ye talkin' about?" He instinctively reached out, his hand extending towards you, towards the warmth, the life, the very essence he craved.

But as his fingers neared your form, an invisible force repelled him. It wasn't a physical push, but an undeniable, unyielding barrier that prevented his touch. His hand hovered in the air, trembling, unable to bridge the infinitesimal distance between you. A cold dread seeped into his being, colder than any crypt. He tried again, pushing against the unseen wall, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Let me in, darlin'! What's this madness?" His voice was laced with a raw desperation, a panic he hadn't truly felt since his turning. He tried to take a step forward, but his feet felt rooted to the spot, held fast by an unseen power.

You watched him, your expression a mixture of sadness and quiet resolve. The knowing in your eyes deepened, mirroring the despair that was now blossoming in Remmick's chest. The unspoken truth hung heavy between you, a truth that had been whispered on the wind, perhaps, or revealed in a forgotten dream. The magic of his carefully crafted deception was dissolving, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and utterly bewildered by this sudden, impenetrable barrier. The world, which he had so confidently bent to his will, was now defying him, and the source of that defiance stood before him, the very person he had intended to claim forever.

Your voice, though soft, cut through Remmick's growing panic. "I was so naive," you began, your gaze unwavering, holding his in its steady grip. "So incredibly foolish." A slow, knowing shake of your head accompanied your words. "I dismissed the strange hours, the unnatural pallor of your skin, even the way you healed from that 'injury' on my doorstep, faster than any human could. I wanted to believe the story you spun, the vulnerable man seeking help."

You took a deep, fortifying breath, the very air around you seeming to solidify with the weight of your realization. "But the nightmares started. Not of you, not exactly, but of something cold and ancient, shadows clinging to the edges of my waking thoughts. And then... the stories. The old tales my grandmother used to tell me, whispers of creatures that couldn't cross a threshold uninvited, of eyes that held centuries of secrets." Your voice dropped, heavy with a heartbreaking certainty. "It all clicked into place, Remmick. You're... you're a vampire, aren't you?"

The word hung in the air, a stark, undeniable truth that pierced through his carefully constructed lies. Remmick flinched, not from your accusation, but from the raw, open honesty in your voice.

You stepped closer to the invisible barrier, your eyes pleading now, a new vulnerability in their depths. "Why, Remmick? Why go through all this trouble? The music, the 'little bird,' the dancing... the feigned injury." A tear tracked a path down your cheek, catching the faint moonlight. "Tell me, if you're truly what I think you are, why haven't you... why am I still human? Is it because..." Your voice hitched, thick with emotion. "...is it because you love me, the way I've come to love you? Is that why you're playing this game? Because if not, if this is all just a monstrous ploy, then I don't understand."

Remmick's chest ached with a sensation he hadn't known was possible for his kind—a profound, gut-wrenching pain. Your words, your tears, were more potent than any sun he'd ever faced. He yearned to bridge the gap, to touch you, to wipe away your tears, to pull you into his arms and silence your doubts with the truth of his dark affection.

"Ah, little bird," he rasped, his voice raw with a desperate plea, his Irish brogue thick with genuine anguish. "Please, darlin'. Just let me in. Let me explain everything to ye, from the very start. I swear on all that's unholy, I'll tell ye the truth. Just... let me in." His hand reached out again, trembling, hovering an inch from the invisible wall, his eyes fixed on yours, pleading for the invitation that would allow him to cross the threshold and lay bare the centuries of longing that had finally found their anchor in you.

You took another shaky breath, your gaze unwavering from his. Slowly, deliberately, you stepped aside, opening the doorway wider. As you moved, Remmick's keen eyes caught a glint in your hand—a sharp piece of wood, clutched tight. A stake, he realized, his ancient instincts flaring, but quickly subdued. This wasn't the terrified scream and wild swings he was used to; this was controlled, desperate courage.

"Come in, Remmick," you said, your voice low and laced with a tremor, but firm. "But you better not try anything stupid. Not one single thing."

Remmick moved, a predator stepping into a cage, though the cage was of his own making. He walked past the threshold, every fiber of his being tingling with the sensation of truly being inside, invited. His hands instinctively rose, palms open, a gesture of surrender. "I swear on me life, little bird, I wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, tinged with his thick Irish brogue. "Not a blessed thing."

He stepped fully into the room, then turned to face you, his eyes locking onto yours, desperate to convey the truth of his centuries-long yearning. He lowered his hands slowly, carefully, not wanting to spook you. The stake in your grip remained steady.

"Ah, my little bird," he began, his voice softening, a profound ache echoing in every word. "Do ye know what drew me to ye? Not just the beauty, though God above, yer like a piece of the heavens fallen to earth. It was the way ye moved, dancin' there in the moonlight, free as a spirit. I've watched ye, ye know, for weeks. Every night. Yer laugh... it's like music I've never heard before, pure and bright. And yer eyes, darlin', they hold such kindness, such light, even when they're lookin' at a monster like me."

He took a slow, deliberate step closer, stopping just out of your reach, his gaze never leaving yours. "Ye've no idea what it's like, livin' as I do, year after year, with nothin' but the cold. And then there ye were, this vibrant, bleedin' miracle. Every curve of yer body, the softness in yer eyes, the way yer lashes turned silver in the moonlight... I memorized it all. I want nothing more, sweetheart, than to feel ye against me. To know every blessed inch of yer skin under my hands. To taste ye, little bird, to taste the life and warmth of ye, and to make ye mine."

His eyes, dark and ancient, burned with an intensity that promised both eternal devotion and an insatiable hunger. "Not as a meal, never as a meal, not my perfect, precious boy. But as my own. My eternity. My comfort in the endless night." He finished, his voice a low, desperate plea, his vulnerability as stark as the moonlight that now streamed through your window, illuminating the unspoken truths between you.

The air in the room hummed with the raw intensity of Remmick's confession. The stake in your hand felt both heavy and insignificant. His words, delivered with such a fervent, ancient passion, painted a picture that was both terrifying and undeniably magnetic. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden, profound silence.

You stared at him, taking in the sincerity in his dark eyes, the desperate plea in his stance. This was no longer the charming stranger, or the injured victim. This was something vast, something otherworldly, laying bare a terrifying devotion. The thought of being his, his "eternity," his "precious boy," sent a shiver down your spine that was not entirely of fear. There was a strange, undeniable pull, a recognition of something primal in his hunger that resonated with a nascent longing you hadn't known how to name.

"My precious boy," you whispered, the words tasting foreign on your tongue, a mirror of his own. You couldn't tear your gaze from his. "You... you want to make me yours? What does that even mean, Remmick? What would that make me?" The questions tumbled out, urgent and unbidden, born from a swirling mix of terror, fascination, and a startling, dangerous curiosity. The stake in your hand trembled almost imperceptibly. "And what about the sunlight? The blood? Everything that comes with... with being what you are?"

You paused, your mind racing, trying to reconcile the monstrous truth with the gentle hand that had nursed his feigned injury, the lyrical music that had filled your evenings, the captivating smile he'd offered. "You say you've watched me. That you love me. But how can you love something human when you... you are so far removed from humanity?" Your voice cracked with the weight of the impossible choice laid before you. This was not a choice between right and wrong, but between life as you knew it and an eternity intertwined with a creature of shadow and endless night.

Remmick was in front of you in an instant, a blur of motion that defied human speed. His hand shot out, not violently, but with an ancient certainty, closing around your wrist, just enough pressure to make your fingers uncurl. The stake clattered to the wooden floor, a stark sound in the heavy silence. Before you could react, his other hand rose, cupping your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin. The touch sent a jolt through you, a blend of alarm and a strange, undeniable current.

He leaned in close, so close you could feel the cool breath ghosting over your lips. His eyes, moments before a warm, if unnervingly deep, brown, now glowed a brilliant, pulsating red. The color was mesmerizing, terrifying, a raw manifestation of the primal being lurking beneath the veneer of the gentle musician. The shift was stark, undeniably monstrous, yet his touch remained tender, almost reverent.

"Ah, my little love," he whispered, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. The Irish lilt was thicker now, more pronounced, carrying the weight of centuries. "Humanity? What has that got to do with any of this? With the way I crave ye? With the way I love ye?"

His gaze, burning red, bored into yours, demanding comprehension, demanding surrender. "I could show ye, darlin'. Show ye exactly what it means, what it feels like, to be truly desired. To be consumed. Humanity has naught to do with the things I could do to ye, the pleasures I could give ye, the depths we could reach together." He paused, his gaze dropping to your lips, lingering there with an intensity that promised both ecstasy and oblivion. "And if ye gave in, my precious boy, if ye let go, just like I know ye want to deep down in yer soul... I'd give ye everything. Everything that the living can only dream of. An eternity of us. Of me and you, forever."

The air thickened, charged with his dark promise. His words, delivered with such fervent conviction, painted a vivid, dangerous future. The red glow from his eyes bathed your face in an unnatural light, pulling you deeper into his orbit.

You reached a shaky hand up, your fingers trembling as they made contact with his cool skin. Your thumb brushed over the corner of his lip, wiping away a bead of drool that had formed there, a startlingly human detail on his inhuman face. He leaned into your touch, his eyes, still burning red, fluttering half-lidded, a deep, primal contentment washing over his features as he stared at you. The intensity of his gaze was a physical weight, pinning you in place even as your mind reeled.

You leaned closer, your breath ghosting across his lips, the air thick with unspoken desires. "Then show me," you whispered, your voice a fragile thread, yet laced with a dangerous challenge. "Show me how much you crave me. Make me want it, Remmick. Make me want to be with you... for eternity." As the last word left your lips, you pushed his face gently away, breaking the spell of his proximity, the intensity too much to bear for another second.

A low, guttural chuckle rumbled in Remmick's chest, a sound of profound satisfaction. He watched, eyes glittering with triumph, as you fully pulled away from him, taking a deliberate step back. Your hands, still trembling slightly, found the hem of your simple linen shirt. Slowly, deliberately, teasingly, you began to pull it upward. The fabric rose, revealing the smooth expanse of your stomach, the subtle definition of your abdominal muscles, toned but not overly muscled, hinting at a graceful strength. The shirt continued its ascent, sliding over your chest, revealing the delicate curve of your collarbones, the gentle slope of your shoulders.

Then, with a soft rustle, the linen was pulled free, tossed carelessly aside. You stood before him, bathed in the faint moonlight that spilled through the window, an ethereal vision stripped bare. Your skin, pale and luminous, seemed to drink in the silver light, giving you an almost translucent quality. Your form was slender, lithe, every line and curve flowing with an innate elegance. There was a fragile beauty to your frame, a delicate strength that Remmick had only dreamed of possessing. Your hips curved softly, leading to long, elegant legs that seemed to stretch endlessly into the moonlight. Every sinew, every bone, every inch of you was a masterpiece, sculpted by some divine hand.

Remmick's red eyes devoured every detail, his ancient heart pounding with a renewed, ferocious rhythm. This was beyond beauty; this was perfection incarnate, laid bare before him. You were truly his "little bird," fragile and exquisite, yet with a strength that defied your delicate form. His lips parted slightly, a low growl of pure, possessive pleasure escaping him. He wanted nothing more than to feel that skin against his, to claim every inch of you as his own, forever.

Remmick's red eyes burned with a hunger that was both ancient and utterly singular. He took a slow step forward, then another, drawn by an irresistible force. His earlier caution had evaporated, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming desire to touch. Your pale skin, illuminated by the moonlight, seemed to pulse with an invitation only he could truly feel.

"Ah, my love," he breathed, his voice a low, rough murmur. He reached out, his long fingers trembling ever so slightly as they ghosted over your hipbone, then the delicate curve of your waist. His touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, yet it sent a shiver through you, a cascade of goosebumps rising on your skin. He traced the line of your ribs, his touch lingering over the soft hollow of your stomach. "Ye've no idea how long I've waited to feel this."

He moved closer still, until the warmth of your body was a tangible presence against his perpetually cool form. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the unique scent of your skin, a fragrance that was already more potent to him than any blood. His head dipped, his gaze dropping to your chest, then traveling slowly upward, over your collarbones, along the elegant line of your throat.

"Every night, watchin' ye from the shadows," he whispered, his voice thick with unbridled longing. "Every movement, every breath... it was a torment and a delight. And now... now ye're here, my precious boy, laid bare for me." His voice grew husky, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Ye asked me to show ye. To make ye want it."

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, his red eyes blazing with an intoxicating promise. He closed the last fraction of an inch between you, his body pressing gently against yours. You felt the hard planes of his chest, the unsettling coldness of his skin, yet beneath it, a strange heat seemed to emanate from his very presence. His hand tightened imperceptibly on your waist, drawing you infinitesimally closer. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken desires and the potent, dangerous magic of his true nature.

Remmick's red eyes remained locked on yours, a silent, blazing question. Then, with a fluid grace that belied his ancient power, he sank to his knees before you, his gaze never breaking contact. His hands, cool and strong, found your thighs, gripping them gently, possessively. He leaned forward, resting his head against your ribs, his breath, cool and faintly metallic, stirring the hair on your chest. From this vantage point, he looked up at you through the fringe of his dark lashes, his eyes still glowing with that mesmerizing, terrifying crimson.

Your hands, almost without conscious thought, rose to his hair. Your fingers tangled in his dark curls, surprisingly soft and thick, as you instinctively brushed a few stray strands behind his ear. His head pressed more firmly against you, a silent plea for reassurance, for acceptance.

Then, his lips, cool and exquisitely soft, found your bare skin, just beneath your ribs. He kissed you, a tender, lingering touch that sent shivers through your entire being. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, subtly bunched into the fabric of your trousers, a silent testament to the intensity of his restraint. He moved his head slightly, his lips tracing a path upward, pausing at your sternum, his voice a low, guttural whisper that seemed to emanate from the very core of him.

"Look at me, little bird," he rasped, his eyes burning into yours with an almost painful intensity. "Truly look at me. And tell me, darlin', do ye truly want this? Because once I start, once I let go, there'll be no goin' back. No stoppin' what we're meant to be. This ain't a game, sweetheart. Are ye sure ye want to know what this eternity, what we, truly mean?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with consequence, a final, solemn warning before the plunge into the unknown.

The air thickened, charged with the weight of Remmick's question. His red eyes, unwavering, held yours captive. You could feel the cool brush of his breath against your skin, the subtle shift of his fingers bunching the fabric of your trousers. This was the precipice, the point of no return, and a profound certainty, startling in its intensity, settled over you. All the fear, the doubt, the ingrained human caution, seemed to recede, leaving behind an undeniable yearning.

Your hand, still tangled in his dark curls, tightened, pulling gently. You leaned down further, until your lips were just a whisper away from his, your breath mingling with his ancient scent. "Yes," you breathed, the word a soft exhalation of surrender and desire. "Show me, Remmick. I want to know. All of it. I want you."

The crimson in Remmick's eyes deepened, intensifying until they seemed to burn with a raw, triumphant joy. A low, guttural sound, somewhere between a growl and a sigh of profound relief, escaped his lips. His grip on your thighs tightened, and without breaking eye contact, he moved. His head tilted, and his mouth, cool and impossibly soft, finally found yours.

The kiss was an exploration, a claim, a promise. It began gently, a tentative brush that sent shivers through your entire body, electrifying every nerve ending. Then, it deepened, becoming more insistent, more consuming. His lips molded to yours, moving with an ancient expertise that left you breathless. You tasted something wild, something profoundly alive and terribly dangerous, yet utterly intoxicating. His hand left your thigh, sliding up your bare back, pulling you closer, pressing your body fully against his. You felt the shocking cold of his skin against yours, a chill that paradoxically ignited a furious heat within you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer still, wanting to drown in the sensation, to lose yourself in this raw, undeniable connection. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice husky, laced with triumph, his Irish brogue thick with unleashed desire. "My little bird, my precious boy. You are truly mine now."

He lowered you then, gently, carefully, until your backs met the cool, smooth wood of the floor. The moonlight, now streaming fully through the window, bathed your joined forms in a ghostly glow, highlighting the stark contrast of his dark hair against your pale skin, his ancient strength against your delicate frame. He leaned over you, his eyes still burning red, devouring every inch of you with a possessive adoration.

Remmick leaned over you, his red eyes blazing, devouring every inch of your moonlit form. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His lips, still cool but now infused with a thrilling warmth, descended.

"Ah, my beautiful boy," he murmured against your skin, his voice a husky whisper, thick with his ancient brogue. His mouth found your sternum first, a lingering kiss that sent a jolt through you, spreading warmth despite the cool contact. He moved slowly, deliberately, his lips tracing a path down your chest, each kiss a delicate exploration. He praised you with every touch, every breath.

"Yer skin, sweetheart," he breathed, his lips ghosting over your ribs. "Like spun moonlight, it is. So soft." He moved lower, his hands gripping your hips gently, possessively. His tongue flicked out, a quick, almost imperceptible taste against your abdomen, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. He heard it, a sound of pure pleasure, and a dark smile touched his lips. "And the taste of ye... sweeter than any nectar, my love."

His kisses continued their journey, exploring the subtle definition of your abdominal muscles, the delicate curve of your hipbones. He nipped playfully, gently, at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a thrill of exquisite sensation shooting through you. You arched into his touch, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer, deeper into the intoxicating swirl of sensation.

"Every curve, every line," he praised, his voice a low, reverent hum against your skin as his lips found the sensitive hollow behind your knee, then moved up your inner thigh. "Perfect. Utterly perfect. Ye were made for me, my little bird. Made to be adored, to be cherished, to be... consumed." His kisses became more fervent, more demanding, yet never losing their exquisite tenderness. He was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of cool skin and burning desire, mapping every inch of your exposed form with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He was claiming you, marking you, making you his in a way that transcended the physical, binding your eternity to his.

Your hands, almost independently, slid down Remmick's back, finding the hem of his linen shirt. With a decisive tug, you pulled it upward, revealing the pale, sculpted expanse of his back. The fabric gathered at his shoulders, and in a swift, fluid motion, you pulled it over his head, tossing it to land beside your own discarded shirt on the floor. A cool breath hitched in Remmick's throat as the last of his covering was removed, and that breath, against your skin, sent a delicious shiver tracing a path down your spine.

His arms, now unhindered, hooked around your waist, strong and possessive. With an effortless grace that belied his kneeling position, he pulled you up from the floor, bringing your body flush against his. The shock of his cold skin against your heated flesh was a jolt, yet it was undeniably exhilarating. He began to walk you backward, slowly, deliberately, his every step mirroring the hypnotic rhythm of his kisses.

His lips moved from your chest, trailing upwards along your throat, finding the sensitive skin of your jawline. Each kiss was a promise, a claim, interspersed with the tantalizing, almost painful graze of his teeth. Not a bite, not yet, but a whisper of the power he held, the delicious danger that now defined your connection. You gasped softly, your head tilting back, giving him more access, your fingers tangling in his short, dark hair as a silent plea for more.

He guided you, step by measured step, past the quiet living room, the moonlight casting long, dancing shadows around you. The air around you thrummed with a raw energy, a silent symphony of desire and ancient hunger. Then, you felt it – the soft give of the mattress, your knees hitting the edge of the bed. A silent command, an undeniable invitation to surrender completely.

Your knees met the edge of the bed, a soft, yielding surrender. Remmick didn't hesitate. He followed you down, his body a cool, commanding presence against yours as he pressed you back onto the mattress. The moonlight, now a silent, voyeuristic witness, bathed the room in a soft, silver glow, casting long shadows that danced with your intertwined forms.

His mouth found yours again, hungrier this time, more urgent. It was a kiss that devoured, that consumed, demanding a response you willingly gave. Your fingers dug into his dark hair, pulling him closer, deepening the connection until there was no space, no air, between your lips. He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your mouth, and you felt a wild, untamed thrill ripple through you.

Then, he bit you. Not a savage, tearing bite, but a deliberate, possessive nip on your bottom lip. It was hard enough to draw a pinprick of blood, a warm, coppery tang blossoming in your mouth. Remmick groaned again, a deeper, more profound sound this time, as the minute drop of your blood touched his lips, mingling with his own cool taste. It was everything he craved, everything he had waited centuries for. His body stiffened, a tremor running through him, a raw, almost agonizing pleasure. He pulled back just slightly, his red eyes burning down at you, reflecting the moonlight and the intensity of his desire. His thumb, still on your cheek, brushed gently over your now swollen, bleeding lip, smearing the crimson just a fraction.

"Ah, my precious boy," he rasped, his voice thick with a triumphant hunger, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "This... this is what I craved." He lowered his head again, not to kiss, but to lick the tiny bead of blood from your lip, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a shockwave through your senses. He savored the taste, his eyes closing for a moment in what seemed like pure bliss, before opening them again, fixated on you. His gaze was possessive, utterly consumed, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that you were entirely, irrevocably his.

The taste of your blood, a mere hint of crimson on his lips, seemed to ignite something profound within Remmick. His red eyes, still blazing, held a newfound depth, a mix of triumph and an almost reverent awe. He pulled back slightly, his body still pressed against yours, his gaze devouring your face as if seeing you for the first time, truly, irrevocably his.

"Mine," he breathed, the word a low, possessive growl that vibrated through your chest. He moved then, not with haste, but with a deliberate, sensual slowness. His hands, no longer just gripping, began a fervent exploration of your body. One hand slid from your waist, down your hip, then along the length of your leg, tracing the delicate line of your calf before returning to your thigh, his fingers gently kneading your skin through the fabric of your trousers. The other hand traveled up, cupping the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up for another kiss.

This kiss was different. It was a claiming, a deep, consuming plunge into the depths of desire. He moved over you, his weight a comforting pressure, his body a cool, hard counterpoint to your increasing heat. His lips moved with a slow, grinding intensity, drawing every breath from your lungs, every thought from your mind, until only sensation remained. He tasted of wildness, of ancient longing, and of the barest hint of your own blood, a combination that made your head spin.

You responded with an instinctual fervor, your hands moving restlessly over his bare back, feeling the taut muscles beneath your palms, the cool, smooth skin that promised both danger and an exquisite pleasure. You arched into his touch, your body craving more, urging him deeper into this intoxicating dance. Remmick groaned against your mouth, a sound of profound satisfaction, as if he had waited centuries for this exact moment, this perfect communion.

He broke the kiss once more, his breath ragged against your ear as he pressed his forehead against yours. His red eyes, though still glowing with fierce intensity, softened just a fraction as they met yours. "Forever, my little bird," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, sealing the silent pact between you under the watchful eye of the moon.

Remmick's hands, still strong and possessive, moved from your hips, finding the hem of your trousers. With a low, guttural growl of anticipation, he bunched the fabric, pulling them down past your hips, over your thighs, and down your legs. They slid to the floor with a soft whisper of cloth, joining your discarded shirt.

He pulled back just enough to let his red eyes linger over your now completely bare body, bathed in the ethereal moonlight. A slow, predatory smirk stretched across his lips as he watched a fine prickle of goosebumps rise on your skin, a testament to the cool air and the intoxicating thrill of his gaze. A thick line of drool pooled at the corner of his mouth, a stark, visceral sign of his unleashed hunger, and dribbled down his chin.

"Well now, little bird," he purred, his voice a low, rough murmur, laced with a teasing lilt. His gaze held yours, a challenge and an invitation. "It seems ye weren't wearin' a blessed thing under those trousers, were ye? No undergarments to speak of at all." His smirk widened, and he leaned closer, his eyes raking over your form. "Surely that means ye wanted this, my precious boy, wanted it far more than even I did, eh?"

As he spoke, his finger, cold and deliberate, descended. It pressed teasingly, lightly, against the very tip of your cock, a single, feather-light touch that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation through you. The contrast of his cool skin against your heated flesh, the casual intimacy of his touch, and the blatant accusation of your desire, stole the air from your lungs.

A gasp tore from your throat, sharp and involuntary, as Remmick's finger made contact. The cool pressure, so light yet utterly potent, sent a jolt of pure, electric sensation coursing through you. It was a direct hit, a silent acknowledgment of the very desire he'd so brazenly called out. Your breath hitched, your hips instinctively arching, a subtle, desperate plea for more. The goosebumps that had just pricked your skin now seemed to intensify, every nerve ending alive and buzzing under his mesmerizing gaze.

"You... you know I do," you managed, your voice a husky whisper, barely audible above the sudden, frantic beat of your own heart. Your eyes, wide and heavy-lidded, were fixed on his, unable to break the intoxicating connection. The shame, the embarrassment, the last vestiges of human modesty, were dissolving under the heat of his gaze and the thrilling precision of his touch. He was right. You had wanted this. Wanted it with a fierce, undeniable craving that now felt like a revelation.

Your hands, which had been resting on his shoulders, slid down, finding purchase on his bare back. You pressed your palms flat against his cool skin, urging him closer, desperate for more of his weight, his presence, his intoxicating touch. The raw, primal hunger reflected in his red eyes was a mirror of your own burgeoning desire, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. Only him. Only this.

A triumphant gleam lit Remmick's red eyes. The soft admission, the raw honesty in your voice, was all the invitation he needed. He moved, effortlessly crawling over you, his weight a tantalizing pressure, his hands bracing on either side of your head. He held himself above you, his gaze sweeping over your body one last time, a silent promise of what was to come.

He leaned down, his cool breath ghosting across your ear as he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent shivers down your spine. "God, my little bird, I want to taste ye so badly. That wee drop on yer lip, it was naught but a tease. It didn't satiate me. Not near enough." His words were a confession, a desperate plea, and a dark declaration all at once.

You turned your head, your lips brushing against the cool skin of his jawline, a silent acknowledgment of the primal hunger that now mirrored your own. You whispered back, your voice barely audible, thick with burgeoning desire, "Then take what's yours, Remmick. Take it."

A low groan vibrated from deep within Remmick's chest, a sound of profound relief and unbridled anticipation. Your words, your surrender, ignited a fire within him that had burned for centuries, finally finding its release. His red eyes, still glowing fiercely, locked onto yours, a silent pact of ownership and submission passing between you.

Remmick didn't hold back any longer. The raw, ancient hunger that had simmered beneath his carefully constructed veneer now erupted, consuming him entirely. He lowered his head, his lips, no longer cool but burning with an internal fire, finding your skin. He sucked, he kissed, he devoured every inch he could reach, moving with a frenzied, desperate energy that left you breathless. Each touch was a claim, each lingering kiss leaving behind a blossoming purple mark, a testament to his fervent possession. Hickeys bloomed across your chest, your ribs, your hips, painting your pale skin with the vibrant hues of his desire.

His nips were no longer gentle caresses; they were hard, insistent tugs that broke the surface of your skin, drawing bright, scarlet beads of blood. A sharp gasp tore from your throat with each piercing nip, quickly followed by a profound shiver of something akin to ecstasy as Remmick’s tongue was there instantly, lapping up every single drop. He drank as much as he could, his tongue swirling, coaxing more from the tiny wounds he created, a low, satisfied groan rumbling deep in his chest with each taste. It was pure, raw sustenance for him, a direct conduit to your very essence.

He never touched your neck, never venturing further than your upper chest, a silent, powerful boundary he instinctively honored, perhaps a final shred of his twisted restraint, or a macabre promise of a future, deeper claim. Instead, he reveled in the freedom of your exposed skin, his mouth a hungry, insatiable force. As he kissed and licked, your blood became smeared across your body, a crimson sheen that caught the moonlight. It was on his mouth, glistening wetly, mixing with his drool and dribbling down his chin, a thick, dark line that traced the sharp angles of his jaw before disappearing into the hollow of his throat. He was a creature of pure, visceral hunger, and you, his willing sacrifice, were the perfect, intoxicating feast.

Your world had narrowed to the sensations Remmick was creating. Each nip, each suck, each lick sent a jolt of pleasure and a sharp sting of pain that blurred into an exquisite, almost unbearable intensity. Your body arched, an involuntary response to the primal claiming. You could feel the warm trickle of your own blood on your skin, a shocking, intimate sensation that mixed with the cool dampness of his mouth and tongue. It was a dizzying, disorienting experience, stripping away thought, leaving only raw, heightened feeling.

Emotionally, you were adrift in a storm of conflicting sensations. Fear, a primal, ancient fear of the predator, warred with a burgeoning excitement, a terrifying thrill that bordered on euphoria. Shame whispered at the edges of your awareness, quickly drowned out by the overwhelming tide of desire that Remmick was so masterfully unleashing. You felt utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, yet paradoxically, utterly safe within the confines of his dark adoration. This wasn't just physical; it was a profound, soul-deep surrender to a force you had unconsciously yearned for. Every muscle in your body was taut, your breath ragged, coming in short, sharp gasps as you gave yourself over to the intoxicating madness of his hunger.

A long, shaky breath escaped your lips as Remmick's mouth finally lifted from your inner thigh. A low, satisfied growl rumbled deep in his chest as he licked his lips, savoring the lingering taste of you. He then sat up on his knees, looming above you, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. His red eyes, still glowing with fierce intensity, stared down at you, and an inhuman smile stretched across his face, revealing the sharp, elongated points of his teeth.

"Oh, my beautiful, precious boy," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr, thick with triumph. "Look at ye. So hard for me, are ye? My bites, my feedin'… it only makes ye crave me more, doesn't it?" His eyes dropped, tracing the rigid length of your cock, a dark, satisfied glint in their depths.

He took a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing for a moment, as if to savor the very air around you, thick with your scent and the promise of what was to come. Then, his eyes snapped open, blazing with renewed hunger as he whispered, "Get on yer stomach, little bird."

Your whole body trembled, a dizzying mix of lingering pain from his nips and an overwhelming surge of pleasure. Every muscle ached, yet you found yourself obeying without question. With a soft groan, you turned, pressing your chest against the cool cotton sheets. The crisp white fabric immediately began to darken with the faint smears of your blood from where Remmick had feasted, a scarlet map of his recent claim. You let out another soft groan as your aching cock pressed against the sheets, a dull throb resonating through you.

You heard the faint rustle of fabric, the sound of Remmick removing the rest of his clothes, a quiet testament to his complete surrender to this moment. Then, the bed dipped, a distinct shift of weight, as he crawled above you, his cool body a tantalizing shadow hovering over your own.

The bed dipped further as Remmick crawled above you, his presence a heavy, thrilling weight. He leaned down, and you felt the cool brush of his lips begin a slow, sensual descent down the length of your spine. Each kiss was a delicate spark, igniting a trail of fire in its wake. His hands found your sides, caressing the soft flesh, his fingers kneading gently into your skin, sending shivers through your core.

"Gods above, my beautiful creature," he rasped, his voice a low, raw rumble against your back. "Even after all this... all these tastes... I still want ye. Still crave ye with a hunger that burns hotter than any sun." Your body shuddered under his touch, an involuntary arc of your back pressing you more firmly into his kisses, an unspoken plea for him to continue.

His lips continued their journey downward, a path of exquisite torment and rising desire. You let out a soft gasp as his mouth finally pressed warm, wet kisses against your ass, his hands cupping the full, soft flesh, molding it to his touch. A deep, guttural moan tore from your throat, Remmick's name a desperate plea on your lips, as he sunk his teeth into the soft skin, a sharp, piercing pain that quickly morphed into something else entirely. You gasped again, a more intense sound this time, as his tongue flicked across the fresh bite, tasting the metallic tang of your blood, a subtle shiver running through him at the renewed flavor.

A low, pleased smirk stretched across Remmick's lips, pressing against your skin as he continued to savor the taste. His tongue, no longer just licking the bite mark, lolled out, thick and deliberate, dragging slowly across your rim, a single, tantalizing stroke that sent a white-hot jolt through your entire body. He spread you gently, expertly, with one hand, opening you further to his ministrations. The sensation was agonizingly exquisite, a raw, exposed vulnerability that heightened every nerve ending. He followed the drag of his tongue with a series of soft, lingering kisses, butterfly light, that promised more, demanded more, while holding back the ultimate satisfaction.

Your breath hitched, a desperate plea caught in your throat. Your hips instinctively bucked, a silent, animalistic response to the profound pleasure and tantalizing restraint. With a trembling hand, you reached behind you, your fingers finding purchase in the dark, thick curls of Remmick's hair. You wrapped your hand around it, pulling gently, urging him on, a desperate, unspoken command.

"God," you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible, as your body shuddered under his touch. "It feels so good, Remmick. So good."

Remmick’s body stiffened perceptibly at your desperate plea, at the feel of your hand in his hair, urging him deeper. A low, ragged breath escaped him, and the subtle smirk on his face deepened into a feral grin, revealing more of his sharp, predatory teeth. He loved your honesty, the raw, unadulterated desire that now flowed so freely from you.

"Aye, my sweet boy," he rasped, his voice thick with unbridled triumph, resonating against your skin. "It's meant to feel good. Meant to drive ye mad for me."

He pressed his lips fully against your ass, tasting you, devouring you with a primal intensity. His tongue traced dizzying, intricate patterns that sent fresh waves of exquisite sensation through your trembling body. His hands, still cupping your ass, lifted you slightly, subtly shifting your position, a silent command for deeper access.

A long string of moans tore from your throat as Remmick’s tongue, emboldened by your complete surrender, pushed past your entrance, a shocking, intimate invasion that made you gasp and writhe. His nails, now less gentle, subtly dug into your skin, a grounding pain amidst the overwhelming pleasure. He pulled back just enough for a moment, his hot breath fanning over the still-bleeding bite on your ass. The moment of exquisite absence was brief, as his tongue was immediately replaced by the aching pressure of his finger, pushing slowly, deliberately into you.

Remmick moved to lean over you, his body a heavy, thrilling weight. Your hand, which had been tangled in his hair, now instinctively gripped the bicep of his free arm, the one he used to hold himself up, your knuckles white with the intensity of the moment. You pressed into him, a silent plea for him to continue, to consume you entirely.

Remmick's finger pressed deeper, a slow, deliberate invasion that made your breath catch in your throat. He watched your face, his red eyes blazing with an almost scientific fascination, observing every flicker of sensation that crossed your features. His thumb brushed against your sensitive flesh, a small, teasing movement that made your hips buck instinctively.

"There now, my sweet boy," he murmured, his voice a low, rough purr against your ear. "Feel that? Just the beginning, darlin'." He eased another finger inside, stretching you, preparing you with a deliberate, unhurried pace that was both agonizing and exquisitely thrilling. You gasped, a mix of discomfort and burgeoning pleasure, your muscles clenching around him. He paused, letting you adjust, letting the sensation bloom.

He leaned in closer, pressing kisses against the curve of your shoulder, then up your neck, always avoiding the jugular. His breath, cool and faintly metallic, whispered against your skin. "Ye asked me to show ye. To make ye want it. And I intend to do just that." His voice was a promise, a threat, and an undeniable seduction all rolled into one. He moved his fingers, slowly at first, then with more confidence, mapping your interior, learning your reactions, driving you to the edge of what you could bear. You whimpered, a soft, desperate sound, your nails digging into his bicep, your body a taut bow string stretched to its limit.

Remmick's fingers continued their relentless exploration, a slow, insistent pressure that built with every deliberate movement. He found a spot, a particular angle, and pressed, eliciting a sharp gasp that tore from your throat. Your hips bucked instinctively, a desperate, uncontrolled arch of your body.

"There it is, my brave boy," he rasped, his voice thick with dark satisfaction as he pressed harder, finding that exquisite point again and again. His thumb brushed over the opening, teasing, tormenting, yet never fully entering. He was mapping your every response, learning the landscape of your pleasure with an ancient, predatory precision.

You whimpered, a soft, broken sound that was swallowed by the overwhelming sensations. Your fingers dug into his bicep, your nails raking lightly against his cool skin, leaving faint red marks. Your head thrashed against the pillow, lost in the maelstrom of pleasure and desperate need. The pain of the nips on your ass and chest was a dull throb beneath the searing heat that was building between your legs.

Remmick chuckled, a low, pleased sound that vibrated through his chest. He pulled his fingers out, leaving behind a sudden, aching emptiness that made you cry out softly. Then, with a fluid motion, he shifted his weight, pressing his body fully against your back, aligning himself with your prone form. You felt the cool length of his cock press against your ass, hard and insistent, a stark contrast to the burning desire that now consumed you.

You felt the cool, hard length of Remmick's cock press against your ass, a silent, powerful promise. He held you there for a moment, letting the anticipation build, letting your body tremble under his overwhelming presence. His breath hitched, hot and ragged against the back of your neck.

Then, with a low, triumphant groan, he pushed. Slowly, deliberately, the tip of his cock pressed against your aching entrance, a firm, insistent pressure. You gasped, your fingers digging into his bicep, your back arching even further as he began to slide inside. It was a stretch, a profound fullness that was almost painful, yet undeniably exhilarating. He moved inch by excruciating inch, filling you completely, his body a perfect, cold counterpoint to the burning heat he ignited within you.

You cried out, a mix of shock and desperate pleasure, as he finally bottomed out, burying himself deep inside you. Remmick let out a guttural groan, a sound of ancient satisfaction, his hips pressing fully against yours. He held you tight, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as he began to move, a slow, powerful thrust.

Remmick began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that drove you deeper into the intoxicating haze. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his cool breath ghosting against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the burning pleasure he ignited within you. His hips snapped forward, meeting yours with a forceful intimacy that elicited a gasp from your lips. One hand, strong and possessive, found purchase on your throat, not choking, but pressing just enough to make you acutely aware of his power, his dominance. The other stayed firm around your waist, holding you captive against him.

"Gods, my beautiful boy," he rasped, his voice a low, guttural murmur against your skin. "Ye take me so well. So perfectly." His thrusts became a little faster, a little deeper, each one driving the pleasure to unbearable heights. "Imagine this, darlin'. This very moment... stretched out for eternity. You and me, forever. This passion, this fire... never endin'."

You gasped, a broken sound caught between desperate moans, your hips instinctively rocking back, meeting every one of his powerful thrusts. The rhythm consumed you, demanding your full surrender. "Nothing... nothing more," you mumbled, your words caught and fractured by the intensity, your voice raw with emotion. "I want... nothing more... Remmick..."

Remmick slowed his thrusts, the rhythm becoming a teasing drag, each withdrawal an agonizing stretch. You whimpered, desperate for the fullness that was suddenly, exquisitely withheld. Then, with a soft groan that vibrated against your ear, he completely pulled out, the sudden emptiness a stark, aching contrast to the intense pressure that had just filled you.

Before you could fully process the loss, he shifted. He swiftly, yet gently, laid you back against the bed, positioning you flat on your back. You felt the cool cotton sheets beneath you, a brief moment of disorientation, before Remmick moved between your legs, pulling your knees up and opening you wider.

His eyes, still blazing crimson, met yours for a fleeting moment of intense connection, then he leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, consuming kiss. And as his mouth devoured yours, he thrust back in, a hard, deep penetration that stole the breath from your lungs. Your cock twitched from the sudden, overwhelming rush of pleasure, a powerful response to the exquisite sensation of being filled again, completely and utterly.

This time, his pace was harsher, quicker, each thrust a powerful, unrelenting drive that pinned you to the mattress. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, the sharp pressure of his nails a grounding sensation amidst the spiraling pleasure. He was taking you with a fierce, primal intensity, no longer holding back, completely consumed by the moment, by you.

Remmick's harsh, quick pace intensified, and with each powerful thrust, his cock brushed against your prostate, a deep, exquisite pressure that sent a shockwave of sensation through your entire being. Your body arched violently off the bed, a desperate, unconscious movement to meet his force, to press deeper into the pleasure he was so expertly wielding. You were completely consumed, lost in the rhythmic thrusts that drove you closer and closer to the edge.

The kiss, which had been a consuming fire, suddenly felt suffocating. You needed air, needed to vocalize the overwhelming sensations. With a desperate moan, you pulled your head away from his, breaking the kiss. Your chest heaved, gasping for breath, your eyes wide and unfocused as you stared up at him.

"Remmick!" you choked out, your voice ragged, barely a whisper between desperate gasps. "I'm... I'm close! So close!"

A low, guttural grunt vibrated from deep within Remmick's chest. Your words, your raw admission, pushed him over his own edge of control. His thrusts, already powerful, became sloppy, uncoordinated, driven by a pure, animalistic need for release. He surged against you, his body a trembling mass of concentrated hunger, pushing you deeper into the intoxicating oblivion he had so masterfully created.

The grunt Remmick let out, and the immediate, almost uncontrolled sloppiness of his thrusts, signaled his own proximity to the edge. His body, once so precisely controlled, now shuddered with an ancient, desperate urgency. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth gently grazing your shoulder, a silent testament to the overwhelming sensations consuming him.

You were no longer simply close; you were there. The pressure built, tight and excruciatingly sweet, coiling in your core. Each thrust from Remmick, though less refined, was a powerful surge that amplified the unbearable pleasure. Your fingers dug into his biceps, your grip desperate, holding on as if he were the only tether to reality. A string of guttural moans tore from your throat, rising in pitch as your body became a taut, trembling bowstring pulled to its absolute limit.

Then, with a final, shuddering groan from Remmick, and a sharp, guttural cry from you, the dam broke. A wave of intense, shattering pleasure crashed over you, pulling you under its tide. Your body convulsed, bucking against his, every muscle clenching in a release that was both violent and utterly sublime. You felt his own body stiffen above you, a deep, shuddering growl vibrating through him as he met your climax with his own. The raw, animalistic pleasure that coursed through him was palpable, a dark, potent energy that mingled with your own profound release.

For a long moment, you lay there, gasping for breath, your body trembling, entwined with his. The room, once alight with moonlight and desire, now felt still, heavy with the aftermath of pure, unbridled consumption. Remmick’s weight was a comforting pressure, his breath ragged against your neck. The glowing red in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by a deep, satisfied warmth, though still retaining an undeniable, ancient intensity.

The world slowly coalesced back into focus, no longer a blur of sensation but a room bathed in moonlight. Your body, spent and trembling, lay intertwined with Remmick’s. His heavy, satisfied breaths stirred the hair on your neck, and the cool weight of his body against yours was a profound comfort after the storm. The distinct smell of blood, faint but present, mingled with your own musk and his ancient scent, creating a unique, intoxicating perfume of shared intimacy.

Remmick shifted, pulling back slightly, just enough to look down at you. His red eyes had softened, the fierce crimson now a deep, smoldering ruby, filled with a possessive tenderness that made your own heart ache. A slow, contented smile, devoid of any prior predatory malice, spread across his lips. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to your temple, then your bruised lips, tasting the lingering coppery tang.

"My little bird," he murmured, his voice husky with post-climax satisfaction. "Did I show ye? Did I make ye want it?" His thumb gently caressed your cheekbone, his touch now entirely soft, utterly cherishing. The hickeys he’d left bloomed across your skin, visible in the moonlight, a map of his undeniable claim. The tiny nips throbbed faintly, a pleasant ache.

You could only nod, breathless, your voice still caught in your throat. Every part of you felt utterly sated, yet a new, profound emptiness, a yearning for more of this connection, was already blossoming. The fear was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of belonging. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, marveling at the strength that had just claimed you so completely. This was real. This impossible, terrifying, beautiful thing was utterly real.

The soft glow of the moon continued to spill into the room, illuminating the quiet aftermath. Your fingers, still trembling slightly, reached up to Remmick's face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb brushed gently over the dried blood near the corner of his mouth, a stark reminder of his hunger, of what he truly was. Yet, in that moment, it held no fear, only a strange tenderness.

Your voice was barely a whisper, yet it resonated with a profound certainty that surprised even yourself. "Remmick," you breathed, your gaze locked with his, "bite me. Please." A single tear, unbidden, tracked a path down your temple, not of sorrow, but of overwhelming emotion. "I love you. I want... I want to spend eternity with you."

The words hung in the air, potent and irreversible. As they left your lips, something shifted in Remmick's eyes. The smoldering ruby that had glowed with recent satisfaction slowly, gradually, began to recede, replaced by the familiar, warm shade of brown you had known from the first moment he appeared on your doorstep. He stared down at you, his expression unreadable, a silent testament to his shock. It was as if, even after everything, even after your surrender, he hadn't truly expected you to comply, to willingly offer yourself to the transformation. The ancient predator, who had orchestrated every move, was now faced with an unexpected, profound offering.

Remmick's brown eyes, now full of a complex mix of surprise, profound adoration, and a touch of sorrow, held yours. He slowly nodded, a silent acceptance of your ultimate offering. His hands rose, cupping your face with a tenderness that belied the ancient power they held. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, a silent promise, then moved down your jawline, showering your skin with feather-light touches. Finally, his lips found the delicate curve of your throat, just beneath your ear. He pressed a tender kiss to the skin, letting his lips linger there, a moment of profound hesitation before the inevitable.

"Take a deep breath, my little bird," he whispered, his voice a low, rough murmur against your skin. "And close yer eyes, darlin'."

You obeyed, inhaling deeply, filling your lungs with the scent of him, the lingering musk of shared intimacy, and the coppery tang of your own drying blood. As your eyelids fluttered shut, you felt the cool brush of his breath intensify against your throat. Then came the pain.

It was sharp, searing, unlike anything you had ever known. A tearing sensation, impossibly deep, as his fangs pierced your flesh. You cried out, a raw, animalistic sound that ripped from your throat, choked off almost immediately by the overwhelming sensation. Your hands shot up, finding purchase on Remmick's shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, an instinctive claw for purchase against the agonizing assault.

You could taste your own blood, warm and metallic, filling your mouth. It poured down your chest, a hot, sticky river against your skin, trickling down your neck. You began to choke on it, a desperate, gurgling sound escaping your lips as your body convulsed uncontrollably. Your vision blurred, the edges of your awareness fraying, consumed by the agonizing fire blooming in your throat, drawing you closer to a terrifying, eternal darkness.

Remmick pulled back, his mouth slick with your blood, his fangs retracting from your skin. The sudden release of pressure left a gaping, burning wound on your neck. Your hand instinctively flew to it, pressing against the raw flesh, though it did little to stem the flow. Your eyes, wide with primal panic, fought to stay open, struggling against the encroaching darkness. You drew in ragged, gargled breaths, each one a desperate, failing attempt to cling to the life that was rapidly draining away.

Remmick stared down at you, his face a mask of complex emotions—triumph, sorrow, and an ancient, resigned acceptance. He watched, utterly still, as the light slowly, irrevocably, left your eyes. The desperate struggle faded from your gaze, replaced by a vacant stillness. Your body gave one final, shuddering convulsion, then went limp, utterly, completely still beneath him. The last, faint pulse flickered in your wrist, then vanished.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your cold forehead, a tender, possessive kiss. "I'll see ye soon, my love," he whispered, his voice a low, rough murmur, thick with promise. "Very soon."

Remmick remained above you for a long time, watching, waiting. The air in the room grew heavy, silent save for the drip of your blood onto the sheets, a rhythmic, macabre counterpoint to the profound stillness of your body. He gently adjusted your head, smoothing a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers brushed your cheek, cool and possessive, tracing the ethereal contours he had memorized over countless nights.

He knew the process. He had seen it before, countless times, though never with such a potent mix of anticipation and agonizing patience. The venom, his essence, now coursed through your veins, battling against the vestiges of your human life, preparing to reshape you, to remake you in his image. It was a slow, agonizing rebirth, and he could do nothing but wait.

The first faint tremor rippled through your limbs, a subtle twitch beneath his touch. Then another, stronger. A shallow, almost imperceptible breath hitched in your chest. Remmick watched, a dark, triumphant light returning to his eyes. The stillness was breaking. The transformation had begun in earnest. He would wait. He had waited centuries for you, and he would wait now, for your awakening into his eternal night.

A profound stillness settled over you, a weightlessness that was utterly new. When your eyes finally fluttered open, there was no pain, no lingering ache from the bites that had consumed you. The agonizing fire was gone, replaced by a cool, clean emptiness, a sense of being unbound from gravity, no longer truly of this world. Your body felt strangely light, utterly refreshed, and as your senses sharpened, you realized you were no longer lying in a pool of your own blood. You were wrapped in clean, soft sheets, your body meticulously cared for, as if Remmick, despite his monstrous ways, had tended to you with an unsettling gentleness.

Your eyes, now impossibly keen, adjusted to the moonlit room, every shadow, every dust motes dancing in the silver beams, rendered in perfect clarity. And then you saw him. Remmick. He sat in the old wooden rocking chair in the corner of your room, one of your own books from the shelf resting open in his hands, though his gaze was fixed on some distant point, lost in thought. He didn't have to speak. In that instant, a profound, undeniable connection snapped into place. You understood everything he was feeling, knew every thought running through his ancient mind—the immense satisfaction, the deep possessiveness, the quiet triumph, and even a lingering shadow of the sorrow he'd felt for the human life he'd taken. Two minds had become one, a silent, intricate hive.

He looked up then, as if sensing your awakened awareness. His eyes, now that familiar, rich brown, held an unnerving depth, an understanding that transcended words. A slow, inhuman smile spread across his lips, revealing just a hint of his sharpened teeth, yet it was a smile of pure contentment. His gaze locked onto yours, acknowledging everything that had passed between you, the pain, the blood, the fear, and the ultimate surrender. He had seen the worst parts of you, witnessed your body's agonizing transformation, and still, he looked at you with this profound acceptance.

"I hope this new life is more kind than yer last, my precious boy," he whispered, his voice a low, melodic murmur, filled with an ancient tenderness.

The words resonated deep within you, touching a place you hadn't known existed. Without a moment's hesitation, the answer sprang from your lips, echoing his sentiment, sealing your fate with an unwavering devotion. "I hope so too, Remmick. I want nothing more."

You were completely and utterly his. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you truly understood what that meant. This was your new life, bound to him, a creature of shadow and endless night, forever.

[jayce-snipes]

Dark Desire

Remmick x Male Reader

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 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.

[jayce-snipes]

Trapped (yautja x human)

Part 7

(The long awaited part! I’m grateful to everyone sticking to the story, commenting and sharing their thoughts with me 💚💚💚 it means everything!)

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 💚

(Tagging my 💚: @celticsrightbuttcheek @kyriedesai @shmoopah @btsgangleader) whoever wants a tag let me know!

With your filled pouch held tight at your side and Keth’raal fully suited in armor from head to toe, the two of you moved slowly toward the exit of the armoury.

You glanced back once, eyes falling on the unconscious body of the man who had fired at you.

“Maybe…” you said reluctantly, “…maybe we should pull his body out. So they find him—”

A sudden, guttural sound cut through your words. It was like a growl mixed with a scoff, exaggerated and pointed. Keth’raal tilted his head at you sharply, clearly not following your logic.

“I know he tried to hurt us,” you explained quickly, hands raised a little, “but he didn’t know you weren’t the enemy—”

Before you could even finish, his hand came up and pressed firmly against your chest. Not violent, but not gentle either. You stumbled back and hit the wall behind you, air leaving your lungs with a soft, startled grunt.

Three red laser dots snapped into place on your face, blinding you.

You turned your head, eyes squeezing shut, the sharp pulse of fear rising in your throat.

You were pinned, targeted, weapon-locked. Just like that, it felt like the balance had shifted again. You weren’t an ally. You were just… prey.

You froze.

For a moment you’d let yourself forget, he wasn’t human. He would never be. No matter how much progress you thought you’d made, Keth’raal was a hunter before anything else. A being of instinct and survival.

You lifted your hands, trying to push at his arm, but he didn’t budge. If anything, the pressure on your chest increased.

And then…

“I’m not an enemy to you.”

The voice was strange, mechanical, distorted, but unmistakably coming from him.

You blinked, stunned. The translator. It was working!

You stared at his mask, breath caught in your throat.

You could communicate.

The fear dissolved into something else, something fierce and bright. Excitement didn’t even begin to cover it. You reached up and grabbed his forearm, pulling him slightly toward you. He didn’t move—barely flinched—but you could tell the motion surprised him.

“Am I not?” you asked quietly, a small smile twitching at your lips.

The laser dots flicked back onto your face, scanning you again.

He didn’t answer.

Maybe he didn’t understand your reaction. Or maybe you just looked strange to him, smiling at a moment like this.

“I’m an enemy to them,” the voice said again, rough, deeper now. You could hear the echo of his real voice beneath the tech. Guttural. Raw as always.

You stared at him in question.

So… he wouldn’t hurt you, but he would hurt the rest.

You hesitated. “What if we make a deal, and they let you live—if you cooperate—”

You didn’t even finish before his hand pressed harder against your chest. You winced, struggling for breath.

“No.”

One word. Sharp. And final.

You didn’t need to ask more. That one syllable carried everything.

He wouldn’t stay. Not for them. Not even for you.

You’d hoped—somewhere deep down—that maybe if he stayed, he could help you. That you could study his people, learn from him, maybe even… find a kind of truce.

But no was the clearest word he’d ever said.

“I understand,” you muttered, strained. “You can stop pushing me now.”

He pulled his hand back, slowly, deliberately. His head dipped, just slightly.

Was that… an apology?

You didn’t ask. You just watched him in silence, noting the smallness of the gesture. The way he carried himself. Sometimes he seemed so close to human, and you wondered—was it always like this with the Yautja? Or had he changed, after being trapped here for so long?

His head lifted again. The laser dots disappeared.

That’s when you noticed it.

Now that the mask wasn’t glowing red, your eyes caught a marking you hadn’t seen before. A faint line etched across his helmet. Thin but deliberate. It began at the top of the helmet, arched over his eye, and dragged all the way down to his jaw.

You reached up, fingers brushing the metal lightly.

He tensed under your touch, every muscle stilling.

But he didn’t stop you.

You traced the line from top to bottom, slowly, curiously. The surface was rusted in places, rough. You wondered, was it a scar from a fight? The helmet had protected him, since there was no damage to his skin underneath.

“My brothers,” came the voice again—quieter now. Maybe even hesitant.

You blinked up at him, your fingers grazing the line again, more gently this time. Up… and down.

“So it was a friendly fight?” you asked, offering a soft smile.

Keth’raal gave the faintest nod. As if afraid moving too much would make you pull away.

Your thoughts flooded you. How many brothers did he have? Was he the oldest? The youngest? Were they still alive? Did he have parents? Had he been sent here on a mission… and never returned to them?

The last thought stuck to your ribs. You pulled your hand back.

He hated humans.

And yet, here you were.

“Why aren’t you attacking me?” you asked quietly. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

He didn’t reply, but you knew he heard you.

“Will you hurt me once we’re out of here?” you added, voice barely above a whisper.

Still no answer.

Maybe you were pushing your luck. Too many questions. Too much hope. He wasn’t here for conversation. You were just a means to survival.

He stepped back, and you felt the shift.

The moment was over.

He turned toward the door, and for a second you were frozen, still processing everything. Then your survival instincts kicked in. You had to move. Stay close. If he left you now, you’d be dead within minutes.

The corridor’s cold air slammed into you like a warning.

Back to this again.

Back to running. Fighting. Surviving.

You watched him check the hallway carefully before stepping out. Then he lifted his gauntlet and slid a clawed finger across its surface, revealing its interface.

Symbols glowed to life. Yautja script, lines and shapes you had studied a hundred times but never fully understood.

“Is that a map?” you asked, stepping closer, eyes wide. The hologram flickered to life, projecting something between you.

No human had been able to access this before. No scientist, no tech specialist. It was like it had been designed for him—and him alone.

The map rotated, pointing toward a location.

“What’s there?” you asked breathlessly.

“My ship.”

Your heart jumped.

“Your ship is still out there?” you gasped. “How have they not found it yet—?”

A loud bang echoed through the corridor.

Your heart dropped.

Humans.

Instinct took over. You sprinted to the nearest lab without thinking. Doors hissed open, and you ducked inside, hiding behind the steel counter.

Your breath came in sharp bursts.

But then—

Silence.

No footsteps. No voice. No movement.

You turned around, heart pounding.

Keth’raal wasn’t behind you…

You blinked, trying to make sense of it. You hadn’t looked back. You’d just assumed he’d be right behind you. Like always.

But the lab was quiet.

Dead quiet.

Your chest tightened. Was he gone?

Are you alone now?

You hesitated, half-crouched in the sterile lab, staring at the empty doorway.

Maybe you should go find the humans. Let them take you. At least you’d be safe.

…But that would mean leaving him behind.

And somehow, that felt worse.

A loud metallic bang echoed through the half-lit lab.

You turned your head sharply, heart pounding.

The flickering lights overhead left much of the room in shadow, broken bulbs casting eerie, fractured beams across the floor.

You stepped back instinctively, pressing your back against the cold wall, trying to make yourself small, unnoticeable.

What now?

You couldn’t fight.

You couldn’t defend yourself.

And now, you were trapped.

Again.

Every move felt dangerous, like a trigger waiting to be pulled.

Something was in the room with you—crawling, watching. You could feel it, but couldn’t make sense of it.

Adrenaline roared in your ears as panic clawed at your chest.

Should you run?

Should you stay still?

What was in the dark with you?

No answers. No one.

You’d have to survive on your own.

He wasn’t obliged to help, not anymore.

You were foolish to think you could trust him, cooperate with him.

A burden. Dead weight with zero survival skills and knowledge barely worth anything here.

You hated yourself for it. For trusting him. For being this weak of a human.

Your palm covered your mouth now, the way he had done before, to silence your breathing, to calm you down.

You pressed harder, trying to ground yourself, to mimic the only comfort you remembered.

Your skin prickled with terror.

You focused on your breath.

In through the nose.

One… two… three.

Then you bolted.

You sprang to your feet and sprinted toward the door, just as it slammed shut in front of you.

You gasped, stepping back.

Something was keeping you inside.

You spun around, scanning every sliver of light in the room.

But the darkness? It was thick, impenetrable.

You had nothing to defend yourself, until you remembered.

Your pouch.

Fumbling with shaking hands, you reached inside and pulled out your pen. Tiny, but fitted with a small front light.

You clicked it on. A narrow beam pierced the dark.

Now, you had to find the back door, your only way out.

You took two cautious steps, the sharp tap of your heels echoing.

Then the sound… scraping.

Crawling.

You froze. You knew what it was.

Xenomorphs.

But what emerged from the shadows made your heart stop.

Not one.

Not two.

A dozen. Small, fast, skittering.

A living nightmare.

You staggered back until you hit the sealed door. No way out. No weapon. Nowhere to hide.

Panic swallowed you whole.

One of the creatures lunged! Fast and shrieking. You braced for the impact, eyes squeezed shut.

You had given up.

All hope gone.

This can’t be your end.

Not like that.

And then…

A wet splat.

A shriek cut short.

You opened your eyes.

The xenomorph’s head was split open.

A disc—like a blade—spun on the floor, slick with acid blood.

Your head snapped to the side.

There he was.

Keth’raal.

Materializing from nothing, appearing out of thin air.

He hadn’t left you.

You barely had time to process anything before another xenomorph launched at you.

You ducked instinctively, screaming as it soared past.

From your peripheral, Keth’raal moved—fast, almost primal—propelling himself on all fours like a beast.

You’d never seen him move like that, driven by animalistic instinct.

He vaulted over you, spear in hand, and impaled the alien midair.

Its body twitched violently before the predator yanked out its spine in a single brutal motion, roaring with feral rage.

The lab went still.

All the xenomorphs froze at the sound.

Even you did.

Keth’raal’s war cry echoed through the room. A predator’s call, sharp enough to freeze blood.

He tossed the twitching spine aside, retrieving his spear with ease.

Then he readied himself.

His wrist blade snapped forward. His shoulder cannon whirred to life, already locked onto targets.

His legs tensed, lightly bouncing, as if warming up for war.

A dozen enemies and no fear in his stance.

The first two fell instantly from precision plasma blasts.

You rose, slowly, not wanting to draw attention.

Keth’raal moved with terrifying efficiency, fluid, fast, brutal.

His spear arced over his head, piercing another xenomorph behind him.

His wrist blade carved through another.

His foot slammed down on a twitching tail trying to escape.

He grabbed it, swung the creature’s body like a wrecking ball, and hurled it into two others.

His arm was bleeding, green blood seeping from a fresh gash.

His breath came fast, heavy… but he looked exhilarated. Alive in the hunt.

His eyes flicked to you.

Two of his dreadlocks were sliced, leaking green down his chest.

He reached into a pouch and tossed something at your feet.

A blade. The same one he offered before.

You hesitated then.

But not now.

You crouched, picked it up, held it close.

There was no time to be afraid.

This was survival.

When your eyes met his again, he gave you a small nod.

An honor.

You clutched the alien weapon, trembling.

You were no warrior, but maybe, just maybe, you’d stand your ground beside him.

Another alien charged.

Keth’raal roared again, that guttural snarl freezing your spine.

This time, you decided to follow.

From somewhere deep inside, a primal roar escaped your lips.

It filled you with some fake sense of power.

You mimicked his stance. His snarl.

If nothing else, you’d bluff your fear with noise.

He looked over—puzzled, maybe amused.

Proud, even?

You couldn’t tell.

But you were shaking and still you held the blade tight.

Another small xenomorph scurried toward you.

At least the bigger ones were focused on him.

You gulped, roaring again as it lunged.

It crashed into you, knocking you flat.

You barely kept the blade pressed against its throat, careful not to let its acidic blood spill on you.

Using your legs, you kicked it off.

It screeched, regained its footing, then lashed at you with its tail.

You rolled aside just in time.

It lunged again and you kicked it midair, surprised by your own reflexes.

You shed your lab coat, wrapping it around your arm as a makeshift shield.

Your arm throbbed, blood oozing from the earlier graze, but the pain hadn’t fully hit yet.

You knew it would, once the adrenaline wore off.

You readied the blade now, hoping your hand would stop shaking when you’d need to defend yourself.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Keth’raal.

Two xenomorphs in his grasp, skulls crushed repeatedly against each other with terrifying force.

He was truly a sight, always attracting your attention with his skills. You’d rather stare at him, than taking part in the chaos.

But your fight wasn’t over.

The xenomorph lashed at you again and you stepped back.

You waited. Lured it.

It would attack you when you wanted.

It lunged and this time, you were ready.

Its claws raked your side, pain seared through your ribs, but you pushed through, jamming the blade into its throat.

You didn’t pull it back. Not yet. Not until it hit the ground and you knew its blood wouldn’t spill on you.

It screeched violently, convulsed, and then stilled.

You backed away, panting. Covered in blood and bruises. Shaking.

But alive.

You… had made it.

You fell back down, gulping hard, overwhelmed by your achievement.

You couldn’t believe it… you had done this on your own.

You wanted to tell someone, anyone, but mostly the Yautja who had trusted you with this blade. He had known how lethal it was against xenomorphs, easily piercing through their skin. He had even considered carrying it himself, just in case.

You turned around, your eyes finding Keth’raal. His stance was menacing as always, he had impaled a Xenomorph with his spear and was now stepping on its chest to keep it down.

Eight dead creatures surrounded him. He was heaving, his chest rising and falling, and his green blood was splattered all around him. He had lost another dreadlock, and his thighs bled from deep scratches the Xenomorphs had left while he pinned them down with brute force.

He had used everything, on him and in him. Reckless and brutal, drawing attention from all directions just so he could fight them all.

For a moment, a thought struck you:

Had he been roaring the entire time… just to keep them off me?

He yanked the spear free from the last Xenomorph and let out a final, guttural roar.

He had emerged victorious.

Standing above his kills, proud, his chest out— now, with the battle being over, you allowed yourself to stare at him a second longer.

He turned, his mask’s eyes locking onto yours.

You both stood there, still, alive and maybe changed.

You were lucky. Smaller Xenomorphs had come your way. If not… the outcome might’ve been different. You didn’t even want to imagine it.

Just the thought of him being impaled by a venomous tail turned your stomach.

Your eyes were gleaming as you stared at him.

There were no words, none that mattered really.

Just seeing each other alive was enough.

You shared a second of silence, as you both tried to breathe.

His breath was slow and guttural. Yours was fast and ragged. The contrast, so alien, so undeniable.

But you had both survived.

You parted your lips to speak, to ask if he was okay. He was bleeding, after all…

Suddenly.

“BEHIND YOU!” you shouted.

A slithering, smaller alien was lunging toward him.

A facehugger.

Disgusting. Parasitic.

Meant to repopulate their species.

Keth’raal moved, so fast you didn’t see it.

His arm snapped up, wrist-blade flicking out, slicing the creature in two before it could reach his face.

Did he know it was there? Or had you just saved his life?

Before you could think twice, you had sprinted toward him.

You didn’t even understand what drove you—only that you had to be near him.

To see if he was okay. To feel that he’s alive. If he still breathed.

You reached him and grabbed his hands.

A purely human gesture.

You hoped you wouldn’t regret it.

But…

He let you.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back.

Just let you hold his large, rough hands in yours.

Your palms were quickly stained neon green from the bleeding dreadlocks.

He looked at you through his mask. Silent. Waiting.

You had never touched him before, not like this.

You were afraid he’d interpret it as a threat. You knew Yautja weren’t affectionate like humans.

But he didn’t reject it.

Didn’t grip back, either, just let you hold him, completely still.

You had so many things to say—too many.

Instead, you laughed.

Not because it was funny, but because your body didn’t know what else to do.

The rush of adrenaline. The relief. The sight of him letting you touch him.

The realization that he was okay.

You laughed and your eyes turned warm.

You knew that would happen sooner or later.

Tears started to form at the corner of your eyes.

You didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

But it happened anyway.

You smiled, but the tears streamed down your cheeks uncontrollably.

Laughter crumbled into sobs.

You didn’t want to break down, but the weight of it all—the danger, the survival, the almost—

It hit you like a wave.

Your knees weakened. You tried to pull your hands back, embarrassed, unsure.

But he didn’t let go.

His thumbs moved gently, just enough to keep your hands there.

You gasped softly, blinking through your tears.

Had he really… stopped you from letting go?

His thumbs pressed again, mimicking your earlier touch.

So gentle. So unexpected.

He remained silent, despite the fact he could’ve spoken now.

His mask had a communicator, but he didn’t use it.

So you cried. And he let you.

Your knees gave out. You dropped down, trembling.

And he crouched too. Still touching your hands.

“I can’t believe we both survived,” you said between sobs.

“I thought… you’d left me,” your voice cracked, as you tried to hide your sobs with a pathetic attempt of laughter.

“Look at your dreadlocks,” you whimpered, reaching to touch a bleeding one. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry you had to fight them on your own. I’m sorry I couldn’t help more. I don’t know how to fix this—”

He stopped you.

One large hand wrapped gently around your wrist. His thumb slid inward, brushing the soft, inner skin of your wrist.

You fell silent, sniffling.

He raised his other hand, checking the slash the Xenomorph had left on your arm.

A low purr vibrated from his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

You froze.

A hunter. A warrior. A killer.

Asking you if you were okay.

While he was bleeding out from his wounds.

He used his index finger to softly trace under the wound, checking for venom.

His touch was careful, calculated.

You noticed new scratches on his mask.

You reached to touch them instinctively.

And somehow, he was doing the same to you.

He checked your arms for wounds.

Tilted your chin to inspect your bruised neck.

Checked your legs for cuts.

You checked his thighs.

His bleeding chest. His trembling muscles.

It was silent, just your hands shifting.

“I’m okay,” you said at last.

He raised a finger coated in your blood and showed it to you with a tilt of his head.

“It’s not that deep. I can patch it up,” you reassured, half-smiling.

Your tears had stopped. Now, your attention was fully on him.

His muscles shifted—flexed and relaxed—under your fingers.

You wondered if he was ticklish.

Or if he simply had never been touched like this before.

Before you could ask where to apply the salve, he moved.

His fingers traced over you, gently, almost mimicking the same way you had touched him.

Rough fingertips. Gentle pressure.

He touched your eyes, red and stinging from crying.

He studied your tears, rubbing one away with his thumb.

He seemed fascinated by the clear substance.

“Tears,” you explained. “We produce them when we’re sad… or scared.”

You paused.

“I was mostly scared you’d die.”

He said nothing.

Just listened.

“I know I’d be the first to die,” you went on. “I’m a weak human, compared to you. I probably looked like the weakest prey. That’s why they came for you instead.”

Still, he said nothing.

Then…

He pressed a button on his mask. It hissed, releasing gas.

With both hands, he removed it.

Slowly. Deliberately.

You held your breath, without noticing.

You saw him now—really saw him—and for a second, you felt like you’d almost forgotten his face. Scarred and wounded, he looked more familiar like that. More real.

“Na’thek,” the guttural word rumbled from his throat again, as he reached out and pressed gently beneath your eye with his thumb

You knew it was your title. You’d heard it before, always in that soft, deliberate tone he used only with that word. You wanted—no, needed—to know what it meant. You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. Why hadn’t he ever said it when he wore the mask? Was he hesitating? You desperately wanted to know what it meant, even more now.

His hands moved toward the mask now, slow and intentional, until he lifted it, toward you.

“You want me to wear it?” you asked, voice quiet, almost careful, like speaking too loudly would break something delicate between you.

Because you were freaking out. Hard. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, watching as he slid the mask over your head.

It felt massive, heavy. Warm from his skin and breath. He adjusted it slowly, securing it over your shoulders with a precision that made it clear this wasn’t just a gesture. It meant something.

Your hand instinctively found his wrist, holding onto him. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was grounding. Either way, he didn’t pull away and you were grateful for that.

And then the mask powered on.

Darkness first. Then… light.

Your vision flooded with infrared tones, the expected Yautja spectrum, but it shifted, adapting. Sharpening. Adjusting to you.

This wasn’t just a mask. It was alive in a way. Responsive.

The technology… it was beyond anything humanity had ever touched.

You let go of Keth’raal, breath caught between awe and disbelief.

Your eyes darted around, overwhelmed.

Symbols danced across the HUD, locking on to targets: the dead xenomorphs, scattered weapons, heat trails. Information. Warnings. Everything.

It was exhausting and… fascinating.

You were breathing fast now. Curious. Hungry. Learning.

And then you froze at the sound of his voice.

“Na’thek,” he said again.

This time, the word didn’t just sound in your ears, it unfolded across your vision, translated by the mask:

Name: Na’thek

Na – Not / Beyond

Thek – Prey / Lesser

Meaning: Not prey. Doesn’t mean you’re a predator. It means you’re something else entirely.

You blinked. The words hung in front of you.

Not prey.

It wasn’t just a title. It was a name.

You remembered how Yautja named each other, not by birth, but by deeds. By worth.

This meant something. You had been deemed something else. Not predator. Not prey. Something in between.

Something… worthy.

You remembered when he first called you that. After you talked about being a worthy ally in the armory, flustered and nervous. He had agreed with you.

He had seen you—even then.

It wasn’t affection. Not in the human sense.

It was something deeper in his culture. Something harder. More earned.

Predator or prey, those were the only categories in Yautja code.

But you were neither.

You swallowed down the emotion tightening your chest.

Your fingers adjusted the mask slightly, and you whispered, “Keth’raal.”

The translation blinked again.

Name: Keth’raall

Keth – To observe / Witness

Raal – To stay, remain by choice

Meaning: Watched, and Chose to Stay

You stared at the words, stunned.

You wanted to ask. How? When? It felt… too personal. Like he had named himself. Had he?

“Watched, and chose to stay,” you repeated, quietly.

Did it mean he’d already made the decision long ago? Or had he just done it now? Chosen to stay… with you?

Before you could gather your thoughts, he reached for the mask and lifted it off your head, slow and careful.

Cool air hit your skin again, and your breath came easier. He placed the mask down beside you on the floor, the two of you still seated where you’d collapsed earlier.

Then he stood, quiet and focused, walking over to the xenomorph you had killed. He bent down and pulled the blade from its throat with a sharp motion. The body twitched once before going still.

He returned to you and crouched low, just at your level. His head dipped, a small bow, enough for you to see the healing scar on his forehead. Not fully closed. Still fresh.

He raised the blade now, xenomorph blood still clinging to it and held it between you.

You shook your head quickly. “No,” you said, voice uneven. “I don’t think I deserve that scar. I only defended myself… I didn’t mean to kill it—”

His response came fast, a short, low roar. Not angry but still firm, like he wanted you to stop talking.

You froze, blinking up at him. The scar scared you. It was far from any human rite, far from anything you knew. But the way he looked at you, the way he held the blade, it wasn’t just ceremony.

It was trust.

“I’m a bit scared,” you admitted, blood rushing to your face.

He moved slowly now, placing one massive hand behind your head, his palm cradling you. You felt so small compared to him. Always had… but this was different.

He didn’t press the blade yet. He waited.

Waited for you to nod.

You inhaled deeply, steadied your breath, and gave him the smallest of nods before closing your eyes.

His grip tightened slightly at the back of your head, not in force, but in certainty and he pulled you forward with a careful touch.

Then came the pain.

A sharp, burning slice under your right cheekbone, just above your jaw.

It stung. But somehow… you were proud.

The pain was eclipsed by what it meant.

He moved the blade again, mimicking the same lines carved into his own skin.

It was fast. Efficient. Ritualistic.

And then it was over.

But he didn’t let go. Not right away.

You opened your eyes, his hand still holding the back of your head. The two of you caught in a silence that stretched impossibly long.

Your cheeks were burning now, not from the wound, but from… something else. Something new.

You felt the blood rush beneath your skin.

Then, without warning, he let go, too fast.

You inhaled sharply, breath catching.

What was that?

You hadn’t felt this strange around him before. Not like this.

You didn’t know his intentions. But you felt them. Whatever they were.

He stood up and grabbed his mask, snapping it back on in one fluid movement. His pace quickened, fierce, focused. Almost agitated.

You stayed on the floor a moment longer, your fingers brushing over the new scar. You couldn’t make sense of the feeling inside you. Not fully. And definitely not right now.

You stood up finally, clearing your throat as you watched him gather his weapons.

“I’ll get the salve,” you muttered, pulling the pouch from your side.

Before you could fully open it, he was in front of you in an instant, snatching it from your hands.

He smeared it over his wounds, over his thighs and arm. Even dipped the ends of his cut dreadlocks into it.

No roar this time.

But something about him was… off. His movements sharp, almost agitated. Like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You didn’t interrupt. Just watched. Quietly.

You wondered if you’d crossed a line. If the scar meant more to him than you realized. Your fingers rose again to your cheek, touching the skin gently.

“Keth’raal,” you said, louder this time.

He turned sharply toward you. Like he had to.

“I’m honoured,” you told him, offering the smallest smile. You tilted your head slightly, letting him see the scar.

He didn’t speak. But he nodded once, then again. Slower this time.

That was enough of a reassurance to you.

The heavy feeling had been lifted, for now.

His armor now fully secured, he returned to you and handed back the salve.

You took it, sliding it back into your pouch. “Wait.”

Your hand wrapped around his wrist again, just for a second. Testing.

He stopped.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said, voice lower, but steady. “Truly.”

He didn’t speak. But you felt it. That understanding between you. You saw it in the way he didn’t pull away.

“You know where your ship is now, right? Are you going to it after we escape?”

He nodded once, and you slowly released him. But something tugged at your attention. A sound.

Far. Quiet. Too quiet.

Your body tensed. The air changed.

You reached for your blade, fingers curling tight around the handle. Keth’raal mirrored you, pulling his retractable staff from his back in one smooth motion.

You wanted to ask if it was what you thought it was.

But you didn’t.

You both understood. No words.

One last fight.

No time to rest. No time to recover.

Your blood was still dripping. Your power nearly drained.

But this was it. Do or die.

You didn’t need to look at him to know.

He’s ready.

And so were you.

Scarred. Blooded. Standing together.

Not prey. Not less. Not alone.

Human and Yautja.

Allies.

Against the biggest threat.

[jayce-snipes]

Kill Him, Love Me Part One: The Message

Horror story involving Steve and the other Avengers with a male reader (Request).

AN: Woaw, my very first request, hope you enjoy. This is only part one, but I hope it sets up the style of the story fairly well!! This will probably be the last time I upload this series for a while, as I will only have access to my phone for two weeks, but feel free to request headcannons, and I can probably do those.

Synopsis: You and Steve have a perfect life, until you receive letters from someone telling you to break up with Steve or else the rest of the Avengers will suffer.

TW: I wasn't sure how gory you wanted it, so I did a basic description of a gunshot wound, the next parts will probably be gorier, but we're starting off light.

WC: 1.7k

You loved Steve, and he loved you; that much was obvious. He was always telling you, but more than that, you could see it. The way his eyes lit up when he noticed you in a room, the contented sighs that he would let out when he was kissing you or holding you, and the acts of service he did. You had been together for three years, the best three years of your life. Your relationship with Steve was perfect until it wasn't. 

It was early morning, you were lying on your bed, just boxers and a tank top on, with Steve next to you. He was reading a book, and you were scrolling on your phone. It was peaceful, the sun was shining just right, so Steve's already golden hair seemed to glow. You look at him with a contented sigh before looking back at your phone. After mindlessly scrolling for a few moments, you get a call. There is no caller ID, so you hang up, you ignore it, spam calls happen to everyone. Then you get a text Don’t ignore me bitch, pick up the phone. It's the same number as before. Your breath hitches in your throat; this has to be more than a spam call. The phone rings again, this time you get up and walk to the bathroom, closing the door before you pick up. The caller on the other side breaths heavily before speaking, “You don’t deserve this life…you don't deserve him.” You frown. The voice sounds female, so an obsessed fan, maybe. It wouldn't be surprising as your and Steve's relationship wasn't exactly private, and despite it being the 21st century, homophobes still exist. “Who is this?” You ask, frowning as you try in vain to recognize the number. *beep* The line goes dead, weird, but not enough to bother you. You exit the bathroom to see Steve's concerned face.

“You okay? You left suddenly…” He says, trailing off, looking you over as if he could magically determine what was wrong. “Yeah ‘m fine…” You say, looking at him with a sheepish smile, “Just a call from a weird fan, you know how it is”. He did know how it was; being America's golden boy had its perks, but people often took it too far. Telling him that they won't tell if he cheated on you, sending obscene letters detailing what they would do to him given the chance, mostly he just threw out the mail and ignored the texts, reassuring you with a kiss that he loved you. 

The two of you were now sitting in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in front of both of you while eating breakfast, eggs, with toast. You were making pleasant conversation with Steve, recounting a weird dream he had about being attacked by geese, when suddenly the doorbell rang. You assumed it was a package, but before you could get up to grab it, Steve was already on the way. You waited for him to return, taking lazy sips from your coffee cup. He returns with a letter, “it's for you babe,” he says placing the envelope in front of you with a kiss to your temple, you smile as you open the envelope, it had no return address or sender, a plain white envelope with your name on it Y/N, it felt wrong. You scanned over the words, your stomach dropping as you read the short message: One letter, one call, one chance to end it all. Break up with what you do not deserve, or else. You clench the letter, slightly wrinkling the paper in your fist. “What does it say…” Steve asked gently, reaching for the letter. You handed it over to him, “It's from the same person as before…” you say. Normally, these didn't affect you, but this one, it felt so malicious, you honestly felt scared. 

“This is disturbing…” he says, narrowing his eyes at the letter. “How did they get our address, and why would they want you to leave me?” he continues. It was almost cute how oblivious he was. Why wouldn't they want you to break up with him? He was so out of your league it was laughable, but instead you just said “I don’t know” and brought your dishes to the sink. “Try not to think about it” He said wrapping his arms around your waist as you stood at the sink.” I love you, my amazing, handsome, perfect boyfriend. Nothing is ever going to change that,” he kisses the top of your head as you lean back into him, smiling. “Let's get ready for work, it's getting late.” He says, looking at his watch over your shoulder. He takes his hand, guiding you to the bedroom. 

You arrive at the Avengers Tower. You both worked there; you were an Avenger, but you worked in the background. You mainly did stealth missions where you went undercover to gain intel, your face wasn't well known in the public, which was fine by you, you didn't want the attention anyway. The two of you headed to the mission briefing room. Fury, as well as the others, were sitting in their regular chairs. Tony and Clint were bickering about something stupid. Natasha watched on with thinly veiled annoyance. Thor was attempting to look serious, which failed when he noticed you and Steve come in, and Bucky was watching the two of you, a slight smile on his face. “Brother Steve and Brother Y/N, you have arrived!" Thor's voice boomed, the noise signaling to Tony and Clint to quiet down. “Welcome, take a seat,” Fury said coolly. The two of you sat down in your respective seats, you next to Clint, and Steve next to Bucky. Your back was to the window, and you were across from Tony. “Now, you all know, why we’re we are here to discuss the next mission…” Fury began to drone on about what was going to happen and to whom. You honestly didn't know why the team did this, I mean, you all got a digital copy of the mission brief anyway.

You pretend to focus, nodding along with the rest of the team, when suddenly, a dot. Right in the middle of Tony's forehead, your eyes narrowed, he noticed and opened his mouth to speak “what do I have something on my fa-” His teasing words were cut off when a bullet pierced his skull, the blood splattered getting onto the faces of Natasha and Bruce next to him. “Oh God.” You say covering your mouth. Nobody screamed, but the reaction was instantaneous. Fury called the emergency protocol with the tower shutting down. The curtains, now replaced with metal, covered the window. Tony's corpse slumped in his chair, his eyes were open, the ghost of his last words, directed at you, on his lips. The bullet hole was clean, and the pink, red, and white of his skull and brains greeted you. You had seen it all before, but this was different. Tony was a dear friend, you felt the bile rising, this wasn't the same as a nameless agent you needed to take out, this felt solid, the loss ripping through your chest instantly. You didn’t cry, but your whole body shuddered, like you had been shot instead. The rest of the team fared no better, Natasha attempting to calm Bruce, as he was looking a little green, Fury barking orders into the phone, no doubt trying to handle this. Thor and Bucky were looking at you; however, Steve had come to your side, attempting to say something to you. Your ears were ringing, the words drowned out by high-pitched buzzing. 

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket, and your heart dropped. You pull it out, your hands shaking, and it takes several attempts to unlock it. You read the message One down, five to go, are you going to make me kill you all to get what I want. You know what you need to do; you can stop it now, don’t play dumb. You swallow down the puke threatening to flood the table, you silently hand the phone to Steve, watching his face pale and his expression drop. The remaining team, including Fury, looks at the message, then at each other, and finally at you and Steve. “We are so fucked…” You mutter, attempting to avoid the dead gaze of Tony as you look around. His eyes, once full of life, were starting to cloud over. Then the guilt. It was your fault; you considered breaking up with Steve on the spot, texting back and telling whoever was doing this to stop, that they had done enough damage. He rested his hand on your shoulder, however, “don't look at him, look at me,” he muttered, “we will get through this”. you didn't feel better, but you did feel a little safer. Fury’s men arrived carrying Tony out of the room, a solemn moment. The fear of the team was palpable in the room.  “Now.” Fury said, “We all need to sit tight and not do anything stupid.” You frowned deeply after hearing the plan. You were all going to sit here like sitting ducks and wait for this killer to attempt again, then track them down based on the texts and calls they seemed to send. The team argued, clearly this was a professional, and no one was too keen on sitting around. You got another text Tic toc bitch, times running out, you curse under your breath placing the phone on the table, then a call. The room falls silent, tension clear, you hesitate to answer, so Clint, frustrated, does it for you. “Dumb bitch doesn't want to quit while he's ahead, so let's dance bitch, see you soon Stevie, you'll love me even if I'm covered in the blood of your teammates.” the voice pauses seemingly realizing something “And Y/N don't forget, this is all your fault, I’m going to have fun killing you last, see you soon!” The voice hung up, your thoughts were racing, who next, why me, should I just give up? You did know what to do, and you felt utterly trapped.

requested by: @vibrantsavagerydoom

[jayce-snipes]

Hey, I sent you a Steve Rogers x Male Reader horror story request (because you said you were interested in writing horror stories) I just wanna know if you received the request and if you'll write it?

OMG it looks so good. I will 100% start writing it. Just a heads up tho i am going on vacation soon so it might be a little slow to be released but i cant wait to go get started!!

[jayce-snipes]

Hello, I would love to request a story but I wanted to ask a few questions.

What type of stories do you write? Like what genres?

Would you do crossovers? (Example: Marvel and DC character x male reader)?

And do you write more than just head canons?

Hii, i mostly write romance (slice of life,fluff, etc) but i've been thinking about writing a horror mini series based on AVP. I would say action but i'm really bad at writing fight scenes 💔.

I would be open to cross overs depending on the character. If i could make them mesh well the sure i would do that 100%

I do write more than headcannons lol 😭. I mostly have those written because i struggle with coming up with full fic ideas. If i had a prompt though i could write a full length story