Another Issue Regarding X Reader Fics Is That Some Of You Weirdos Will Tag It X Reader And Then Precede

me and my bestie after we spill the tea 😭😭

if you're black, reblog this

Dream of the Endless Masterlist

Legend:

🖤 = Dark or Sensitive Material

❗ = Explicit Sexual Material

‼️ = Polyarmory Explicit Sexual Material

🚧 = In Progress

Mini-Series: Between 4 and 20 Chapters

Series: Between 21 and 49 Chapters

Super Series: 50+ Chapters

Current Writing Block

𓅨 Walmart Superstore: An Endless' Nemesis

𓅨 Momma

𓅨 Morpheus' Adventure with Animal Control

𓅨 Heart's Desire 🖤❗

𓅨 Hot Springs Heat❗

𓅨 An Offered Apple 🖤

𓅨 Just One Sip 🖤❗

𓅨 Dreamswept 🖤❗

𓅨 Falling Stardust 🖤❗

𓅨 Fortuna 🖤❗

𓅨 Shifting Wings ❗

🚧 𓅨 The Cold is Never Violent❗

🚧 𓅨 The Places You've Been ‼️

𓅨 As Dawn Breaks 🖤❗

𓅨 Your Fate Is Sealed With Mine ❗

𓅨 Nightmare King, Unhinged Queen (Rating TBD)

𓅨 Untitled (Rating TBD)

🚧 𓅨 Sweet Nightmares ❗ - Started by @roguelov

Last Edit: 8/11/23

The Sandman Masterlist

Someone will remember us

Rated: M

Tag: @sansaorgana @ocappreciationtag @stargaryenx @theboyishtree @mercedesdecorazon @arrthurpendragon @darylandbethfanforever9

Or in which Laenor and Rhaenyra were able to keep their agreement resulting in Princess Aemma Velaryon, the second ruling queen of Westeros

Also on Ao3

One shot collection: What Souls are Made of

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28(🔞 nsfwish)

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Epilogue

OH?!!!!

you’re welcome

to all the blogs dedicated to writing for gen v/jordan li, my heart thanks you

YESSSS I LOVE BOTH PLS TAG MEEE

me waiting on yall to make these sinner fics 😭🧍🏾‍♀️

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YESS

Don't Make It Harder On Me

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Characters: Miguel Galindo x woc!reader

Summary: You broke it off for good reason, but that doesn't mean Miguel is willing to let you go. Especially when he knows you aren't over him either.

Word Count: 9k (bro wtf)

Warnings: my poor attempt at some angst, cheating, violence, general language warning, fingering, pet names, miguel being a lil bossy, also miguel talking a lil shit ayyee, sex in risky places, choking, mirror sex.

A/N: Whew chile it's been a minute but this is me attempting to break my hiatus while also trying to feed yall some good ol mayans content. I was gonna break this up into two parts but then I said fuck it. Hope yall don't hate that. I gave it a look over but I might have missed some errors and typos. My bad if I did. The divider is by @firefly-graphics

DO NOT repost or translate my work anywhere. If you like it don’t forget to reblog and share with others who might enjoy it as well.

It was never your intention to get involved with a married man, in fact all your life you swore that you’d never be a man’s mistress. That was before Miguel Galindo came sweeping into the little boutique looking to buy an anniversary gift for his wife. You had been swept up in the tailored suit, suave demeanor, smooth voice, and God was he charming. If you hadn’t known better you could have sworn he had been flirting with you the whole time you assisted him that day. It hadn’t gone further than that, you had insisted on trying not to cross that line. 

He didn’t make it easy for you though, visits becoming more frequent and him insisting you be the one to lead him around the boutique as he shopped for various people in his life. It wasn’t until a heated moment when you almost cracked under the sexual tension that had built to the point that stifling was the only way it could be described. “You’re married.” You had told him, breathless as his mouth peppered kisses along your jaw and down your throat. His beard scratched against your soft skin as his fingers gripped against the curve of your hips. 

“What if I wasn’t?” You didn’t know it but the man had been steadily growing disenchanted with his wife. The love he had once felt for her eventually giving way to resentment and well on its way to being nothing at all. It was her own doing, an inability to stay away from an ex boyfriend, keeping secrets, and not being able to accept his other world. 

“If you weren’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” You breathed out, finally finding the will to push Miguel away from you so that you could steady your breathing and smooth out your clothes. “I’m not about to be your side chick, Miguel. And if you’re willing to cheat on your wife then you’re willing to do me dirty as well.” You explained, turning to look at yourself in the dressing room mirror while Miguel stood behind you with a sobering look on his face. 

“I don’t love her anymore, she’s not the woman I thought she was. I’m only with her until the lawyers work out a way to ensure I get custody of my son.” 

Your gaze met his in the mirror, a soft sigh on your lips as you tried to sort out how you felt about the admission. “Don’t make this harder on me.” You whisper, his confession didn’t change anything, he was still married and you were still concerned that he was just talking a good game. One you desperately wanted to believe. Picking up his purchases, you left him there in the dressing room, satisfied that you didn’t look like you had nearly let yourself be seduced by the man. 

“Mrs. Galindo, what a surprise to see you here.” Came the voice of the shop owner, almost a bit too loud as if she were trying to warn you that the wife had just walked in. You sighed, just what you wanted to deal with that day. You stepped into the main area of the boutique, a forced smile on your lips as you took in the blonde standing there at the counter. She regarded you for a moment, almost dismissively with a sniff as she read the name on the badge you wore. It was a name she had seen often, in fact your name was on every single one of the receipts that Emily had pulled from the boutique's bags when she was going through them. Miguel always insisted you ring him up so that you reached your sales quota. Clearly Emily was feeling some type of way now that she was finally able to lay eyes on you. 

You were everything she wasn’t in the looks department, and as confident as she was, you had her shook. Especially when Miguel appeared from the dressing room area of the store and took a moment to place a hand against your shoulder to offer his thanks for always being so helpful. It would have seemed innocent enough had it not been for the way that his hand lingered. Emily’s eyes had zeroed in on it, and Miguel seemed to be oblivious to that fact. You were hyper aware of it, a swell of guilt over taking you at the thought that you had nearly fucked this woman’s husband just minutes ago, and now he was acting like she wasn’t even standing there. 

“Will this be all, Mr. Galindo?” You questioned, stepping away from him and starting to ring up his items while he seemed to take the hint that maybe, just maybe he should not make things harder on you while his wife was standing there. 

“Yes, thank you.” He replied, tone taking on a more reserved quality as he moved to where his wife stood and greeted her with a kiss and a few affectionate words. To your credit you didn’t let yourself glare at the display, even as your stomach twisted with jealousy at the sight. You kept your eyes down, only looking up to give the total which Miguel paid for and then it happened. Emily Galindo found a way to make you feel a little less guilty about wanting to fuck her husband. As you lifted the bag to hand to Miguel, his wife reached out in a flash to snatch the bag from your hands. She had barely had your attention up until that point, but now? Now you were outright staring at her in a way that said the bitch had you all the way fucked up. As if sensing the tension, Miguel was quick to put an arm around Emily and escort her towards the door. Stopping to look over his shoulder to mouth ‘sorry’ at you as he shook his head. 

After that day you were more aware of Emily Galindo’s presence around town, it was almost like she was making appearances just to be seen. Some days even stopping into the boutique to buy something and oh so innocently asking if there was anything to pick up for Miguel. You never assisted her, Emily even going out of her way to have someone else ring up the purchases so your quota would come up short. Of course when Miguel found out about that he found his ways around it, making sure that on the off chance that Emily would make an appearance in the boutique that everything was already paid for and the credit for the sale had gone to you. Things went on like that for a couple of weeks, and you tolerated it. Thinking nothing more of Emily’s behavior as petty, childish, and fueled by jealousy. 

Then came the fateful day that you were working late, and just so happened to catch sight of Emily Galindo in the arms of another man. She even kissed him, on the cheek, the way her lips lingered giving you the impression that there was something more going on. You didn’t know why you did it, but you’d taken a couple of pictures of the exchange between Emily and the man that wore a Mayan kutte. 

The temptation to attach the photos to a text and send them to Miguel was strong, but then the creeping thought of; what if she’s only been chased into the arms of another man because of Miguel’s interest in you? That was the only thing that kept you from setting Emily’s life on fire, but the reprieve would prove to be short lived when a week later Nestor made a rare solo appearance in the boutique as you were preparing to close up. 

“Nestor, you know we’re closing in five minutes right?” You questioned, tone friendly and still welcoming even though you were partly concerned and confused about why he was there. You and Nestor had a cordial and somewhat friendly relationship, it was mostly due to Miguel seemingly insisting that you and his right hand man were on good terms. You didn’t know Nestor well, but you knew he was loyal and cared about Miguel deeply. It was something that you could respect and appreciate, even if you were resistant to starting something with Miguel due to his marriage you had grown to care about him. It was why the pictures of Emily and her mystery Mayan were still burning in your phone and why you’d taken a few more in the days after when her visits became a little more frequent. 

“Yeah I know, I actually wanted to talk to you.” That got your attention, and your hands stilled against the shirts that you were folding. 

“About?” 

“What’s going on with you and Miguel?” 

You took a breath, looking over at the man with an almost tired expression. 

“Nothings going on.” You answered, gaze quickly dropping as you resumed your folding. 

“But you want there to be something.” Nestor was observant, and you supposed you hadn’t been as covert as you possibly could have with your longing glances and wry smiles around Miguel. “You care about him?” 

“Nestor what is this about? Because if you’re here to tell me I should leave him alone then trust me, I already know. Okay? I can’t control what that man does. He’s a cartel leader, he basically owns the town. I have been doing my best to set boundaries, but I can’t make him stop pursuing me. So if that’s why you’re here then you need to have that conversation with him, because I’ve already tried. Alright? I mean I remind him every single time I see him that he’s married.” You were rambling, venting almost as you started to unload all this on Nestor who just stood quietly and listened. 

“Honestly, you don’t know how hard it is for me to see him and pretend that I don’t care about him as much as I do. Or keep things from him because I know it’s not my place to tell him what his wife has been up to.” 

“Wait, what?” 

You shut up then, realizing that in your unburdening you let it slip that you were privy to information that wasn’t known. 

“What has his wife been up to?” 

“Nestor—”

“If you care about him you’ll tell me what you know.” 

That was a dirty card to play, but Nestor didn’t play fair. Sighing heavily you moved behind the sales counter and pulled your phone from where it rested beside the register. “About a week ago I was running a bit late with closing, and I spotted Emily with some guy in a biker kutte.” You explained pulling up the incriminating photos before handing the phone to Nestor so that he could see for himself. His lack of reaction struck you as strange, if anything he didn’t look surprised at all.

“Why didn’t you tell Miguel about it?” He questioned, tapping on the screen and quickly sending the photos to his phone before you could stop him. 

“Well I didn’t think it would be fair of me to blow her up when I’m likely the reason she’s all hugged up with another man. I mean come on, you saw her that day when she came into the shop. I’m sure she’s aware that Miguel has a wandering eye.” 

“He doesn’t have a wandering eye, he just doesn’t love her anymore.” Nestor replied absently as he sat your phone down and focused on his own. “And you aren’t the reason why she stepped out. Miguel’s been suspicious for months now that she’s been trying to rekindle something with her ex.” Your mouth dropped open slightly, brow furrowed as you processed that bit of information. So Miguel hadn’t been lying when he said he was preparing to leave her, and you weren’t the reason why she was seemingly stepping out. That seemed to make any remaining guilt evaporate in an instant. 

“Nestor, could you tell him to call me?” Nestor just nodded, not questioning it as he left you to finish closing up the boutique. 

By the time you got home, Miguel’s name was flashing across your screen and for the first time since he’d manage to somehow get your number, you didn’t chastise him for calling you so late. 

Things only escalated from there, and the two of you began to see much more of each other. There were late night visits, gifts, dates out of town, sometimes even out of state. You’d even been in his house, and around his son and mother while Emily was out doing who knew what. His men had even gotten used to seeing you around, growing fond of you as you always came bearing gifts and a friendly smile for them. Part of you knew that endearing yourself to them would play a big part in them wanting to keep Miguel’s secret relationship with you out of more than just fear of the man. 

Emily still made her appearances, and tempted you to throw it in her face that you knew she wasn’t as devoted and loyal as she tried to pretend she was. You let the truth die on your tongue as you kept up the mask of professionalism while knowing Miguel would be buried inside you by the end of the day.

You put up with it for another month, and in that time things seemed to take a turn for Emily Thomas. First her Mayan ex found himself with a new girlfriend, a pretty girl named Gabriela that you thought was sweet. She’d only come into the boutique you worked at a couple of times looking for a new dress, and you two had chatted easily. You may or may not have told her to leave herself open to the possibility of something blooming between her and the Mayan who you had come to know was named Ezekiel. Apparently Gaby had taken your advice, and now with no other romantic option, Emily was doing her best to try and hold onto her dead marriage. 

Her answer to attempting to stoke the flame between her and Miguel was a resort trip, one where it’d just be her and him while their son remained with a nanny. Jealousy had sparked at that, especially when Miguel agreed to the trip with the excuse of having to keep up appearances. You had been angry, but then you decided to be petty. 

It was just a few pictures, pictures of you wearing nothing but the most recent set of very pricey lingerie that Miguel had gifted you. It was meant to simply remind him what he was missing out on, but apparently it was more effective than you expected. The end of your shift came, and as if on cue Miguel’s black suv came to a halt in front of the building. Before you knew it you were being ushered inside the spacious backseat, and he had you in his arms as he pulled you into his lap with a searing kiss on your lips. 

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with her.” You questioned once you’d caught your breath, and your head had stopped swimming from the kiss. 

“I told her there was an emergency here in Santo Padre, I have to go back in the morning.” He answered, and you didn’t need him to elaborate on what the emergency was. You could feel it pressing up against your core. Something about knowing that the man would rather be with you than on some sunny beach with her stoked your ego in the worst way. Miguel only fed into it as he let his mouth latch onto your neck to leave a trail of open mouth kisses. 

“You just couldn’t resist sending me those pictures could you?” He questioned a moment later, his hands already venturing under your skirt to push your panties aside. By the time the vehicle had pulled off from in front of the boutique he was knuckle deep inside of you, and you were moaning into his neck shamelessly. You were aware of the man in the front seat driving, and to his credit he made sure to keep his eyes on the road and took it upon himself to turn on the radio. It was a false sense of privacy, but you hardly cared as Miguel’s fingers worked that spongy spot nestled in your core that never failed to have your toes curling. 

“I had to remind you what you had waiting on you back home.” You managed to get out, your lipstick smudging against his collar as you moved against his fingers. “Had to give you something to think about in case you had to fuck her.” You added with a mischievous grin that had him growling in the back of his throat. 

“Oh preciosa, were you jealous?” His fingers thrust into you more insistently, bringing a needy moan out of you. “Were you worried that you’d have to share cock this with her?” His question had you pouting for a moment, hating that it was true. “Don’t worry, princesa. It won’t be long before she’s out of the picture, and you’ll have me all to yourself.” It was a promise, you knew it, but part of you was growing impatient with how long things were taking. Luckily for Miguel his fingers inside you were proving to be the perfect distraction from you asking how much longer it’d be before he presented the divorce papers. 

“I’m close, Miguel.” You moaned, hearing his hum of approval as he snaked his free hand up to grip you by the back of your neck as he guided you in for another heated kiss. He worked his fingers against that sweet spot until you were falling over the edge and crying out for him. Miguel swallowed your moans greedily, fingers still thrusting into you as he let you ride out your orgasm against them. 

“That’s my good girl, let’s get inside.” He gave your ass a slap, jolting you back to reality enough for you to realize that he’d brought you to his house. Quickly you moved out of his lap and smoothed out your clothes to be presentable before you got out of the vehicle. There was no need to sneak in, his staff knew you by that point and seemed to like you more than they did Emily. In any case, Miguel wasted no time in getting you into his bedroom and having his way with you. At some point after a couple rounds, and a steamy shower you had pulled Miguel in front of the bathroom mirror to snap a picture with him. It wasn’t the first time you’d taken a picture with him, and just like all the other ones you’d posted on your insta you made sure his face was concealed. 

As the saying goes; No face, no case. 

Except for the fact that you didn’t expect Emily to hunt down your instagram after the vacation was over and she had been stewing with her suspicions. You also didn’t expect her to recognize the setting. More importantly you didn’t expect her to show up at the boutique one night, screaming and raving that she knew you were fucking her husband. Unfortunately that was exactly what had happened. 

Emily blew into the boutique like a storm, making a beeline for you only to be cut off by the two employees that were working while the owner quickly ushered you to the back. You could hear it all though, she sounded insane and she was clearly looking for an altercation. Before you even knew what you were doing you were dialing Miguel. 

“Preciosa, I’m going to hav—”

“How much do you still love your wife?” The question struck him silent for all of a second before you could hear the sound of him moving away from the voices in the background. 

“What type of question is that, you know I don’t.” 

“I’m just making sure, because she’s here making a fucking scene and if I have to put hands on her I’m not about to hesitate.” 

“Mi amor, I’m on my way. Don’t do anything drastic.” 

“I’ll try, but if she doesn’t leave I’m going to make her.” You hung up then, the sound of Emily’s yelling floating back to settle on your ears before you made your way back to the front. You refused to hide from her, and if she wanted smoke you had plenty of it for her. Her yelling ceased for only a moment, just long enough for you to reappear from the back to see her on the phone before she was looking up at you again with an accusing glance. 

“Did you fucking call my husband? You whore! You did, didn't you!” She hadn’t hung up the phone, and you could hear Miguel’s voice shouting for Emily to calm down. It was too late for that, and she had already pushed through the two employees that had been trying to keep you two separated. “You’re so pathetic, you had to call MY husband to save you!” 

And then she slapped you. 

Everything went quiet, so quiet that a pin could be heard dropping. 

“I don’t need a man to save me, bitch. But you’re gonna.” It was the only warning that you gave the bleach blonde before your fist struck out and connected with her nose. There was a crunch but that didn’t stop you from following her down as she fell to the ground. Your fist connected a few more times, before she was grappling with you, having the nerve to pull on your hair before you broke her hold and popped her right in the mouth. Your fist was raised to land another blow before you felt yourself being lifted in the air by strong arms, and your first instinct was to fight until a familiar voice cut through the chaos. 

“¡Cálmate, por favor!” It was Miguel, you had no idea where he had been to get there so fast but you could feel him keeping a firm grip on you as you made an attempt to lunge at Emily as she crawled, stumbled, and dragged herself to her feet unsteadily. 

“Call the police! I want the police!” She screamed, already playing the victim even though she had instigated the ass beating she’d just got. 

“Em—” Miguel had started only to be cut off. 

“No, I want the cops here. Or I want that slut dealt with.” She was bleeding from the mouth, and shaking as she looked around wildly only to find that no one was making a move to do what she wanted. 

“I’m so sorry, Senor Galindo. Your wife, she…” The owner of the boutique shook her head as she glanced between you and the beaten Emily. “She came in here screaming, and then she attacked her. My employee was just defending herself.” The woman explained motioning to you, not realizing that Miguel already knew exactly what had transpired after overhearing the exchange after Emily had forgotten to hang up her phone before she attacked. 

“Is this true?” The question was posed to his men that had accompanied Emily into the boutique and simply stood back and let it all play out. They nodded silently and Emily seemed to realize then that she had no allies. “Nestor, take this young lady and put her in my car.” You couldn’t see it over your shoulder, but you could feel the anger radiating off of Miguel as he glared hard at Emily. Nestor said nothing as he gathered you under one of his arms and guided you past Emily who had the good sense to jump back when you came close. She didn’t move fast enough and Nestor didn’t have as tight of a hold on you as he thought, because as soon as you were close enough you lunged, hands grabbing and latching onto Emily’s blonde hair. 

“Shit!” Nestor shouted, moving after you to drag you back but it was too late. Your grip was already locked in and as he dragged you towards the door of the boutique Emily was dragged along with you kicking and screaming. It took some doing, but between three grown men they were able to get you off of her and outside, but not before you had one last thing to say. 

“Let me know when you’re ready for round two, bitch!” You could hear Nestor sigh as he led you outside, and ushered you into the back seat of Miguel’s car. 

“You okay?” He questioned, sighing again when you didn’t answer and focused your attention on the view outside the window. You were too pissed to speak at the moment, hands still shaking as your body practically vibrated with rage as you fought every instinct to not rush back inside and finish what Emily had started. Just when you were ready to go and do that, Miguel appeared and silently climbed into the back of the vehicle. Carefully he took your shaking hands into his and brought his lips to your aching knuckles to drop gentle kisses against them as he murmured his apologies. 

“I am so sorry, mi amor. This should have never happened, you should have never been put into a situation where you would have to fight because of me.” His words were a bit of a balm to your still simmering temper, and a reminder that you were clearly his priority despite his current marital status. Still that wasn’t enough, and after what had just happened you were done waiting for the right time or the right moment. 

“I’m not doing this anymore.” You said simply, causing Miguel to pause and meet your gaze. “I’m not about to be on the sideline while you play house with that unstable bitch. You either figure your shit out and divorce her or you leave me the fuck alone.” 

You could see the hard set in Miguel’s jaw as he let your words settle in his mind. “Preciosa I—” 

“No! That woman came to my job, called me out my name, and put hands on me. You don’t get to sweet talk your way out of this. I’m done until you show me that you’re no longer a married man.” You hated giving an ultimatum but the events of the night had left you with no choice. “Oh, and if I see her again I’m beating her ass on sight every time. Now take me home.” 

Miguel hadn’t argued with you, letting you stay on your side of the vehicle the entire ride back to your place. His attempt at saying goodbye was cut off by the slamming of the suv’s door as you stalked to the front door of your apartment. 

A month went by with no calls, no text, and no appearances from Miguel. Emily was MIA as well, and life was quiet. Part of you figured that Miguel had turned out to be just another married man who wanted to have his cake and eat it too. So you did the only thing you could, you tried to move on despite the bitter heartache that you felt. You figured it was the price you had to pay for falling for a married man, rarely did they ever actually leave their wives. Especially when there was a child in the mix. You didn’t doubt that he wanted out, but the saying has always been ‘it’s cheaper to keep her’ for a reason. 

By the second month you found yourself in a new relationship with a man who was single when he met you. He was kind, handsome, he had a good job, and he doted on you. He didn’t judge you when you finally told him why your last relationship fell through. Another four months passed and the relationship blossomed, you weren’t necessarily in love with him yet, but you thought to yourself that you could see yourself falling if things stayed that good. At least that was what you kept telling yourself in an effort to bury that little bit of your heart that still yearned for Miguel. 

The fact that he was on your mind when you heard the knock at your front door should have been a warning, but you weren’t expecting any visitors that evening so cautiously you made way towards it. 

“Who is it?” 

“It’s me, preciosa.” It’d been so long that you were surprised enough to immediately open the door just to make sure that voice belonged to who you thought it did. Seeing Miguel standing there had you torn between slamming the door in his face or inviting him in. “Can we talk?” 

He was lucky that you were calmer now that enough time had passed. Seeing him again seemed to rip open old wounds, and as much as you didn’t want to you couldn’t help but stare. He was the last person you expected to show up at your door, and part of you was happy to see him again. Another part of your though was torn and wary at his presence. He wanted to talk, and despite your warring emotions you wanted to hear what he had to say. 

“Yeah, we can talk.” You stepped aside and gave him room to enter your humble apartment. Closing and locking the door behind him you watched as Miguel made himself comfortable on your sofa and waited for you to settle in beside him. You sat yourself at the far end of the sofa, giving him an expectant look that whatever he needed to say now was the time to say it. 

“The divorce got messy,” He started, and you could feel your heart stammer in your chest. You expected him to say that Emily convinced him to stay with her, but his next words surprise you. “It took longer than I wanted once papers were served, but it’s done.” 

“It’s done?” You repeated the words, and he nodded. 

“She tried to use the photos from your social media as proof that I cheated first. The judge threw it out because there was no actual proof that it was me in the photos.” 

Despite the seriousness of the moment you let out a small laugh. No face, no case indeed.

“Ironically enough, her attacking you that night was enough for me to convince the judge to grant me full custody of Cristobal. She still gets supervised visits though.” He continued to explain. 

You merely nodded, accepting that. “She’s his mother, it’d be cruel to cut her out of his life entirely.” You replied, keeping your tone even. “Now that you’ve gotten everything that you wanted, what are you doing here?” 

Miguel shook his head, moving closer to you until he was close enough to pull you against him. “I don’t have everything I want. I don’t have you back with me yet.” It would have been so easy to simply give in right then and there, being in his arms again felt so right, and knowing that all this time he’d been wanting you helped to heal the heartache. But then your mind wandered to your current boyfriend, and you forced yourself to ease your way out of Miguel’s arms and once again put some distance between the two of you. You hated to see the confusion that crossed his features, but the man you were dating now was a good man and he didn’t deserve to have you stepping out on him now that Miguel was choosing to pop back into your life. 

“Look, I’m happy that you’re out of an unhappy marriage,” you started, steeling yourself for what you had to say next. “But when I didn’t hear from you for two months I stopped waiting around.” You told him, and before he could interrupt you continued. “I know you probably couldn’t have come around or reached out personally because of the divorce proceedings, but a man like you has so many resources and you didn’t use any of them. You can’t blame me for thinking you chose your marriage over what we hav—had.” You were quick to correct yourself, but Miguel heard the small slip up and it told him what he needed to know. 

“You’re right, mi amor. I assumed you would wait, and that was unfair to do without letting you know what was happening, but—”

“No buts, Miguel. I’m with someone now, I have a boyfriend that has no attachments to another woman and he treats me really well. He makes me happy,” but Miguel made you feel so much more than happy, and you knew it, but the thought of breaking another’s heart so selfishly had you refusing to acknowledge what you truly wanted. “I...I think you should go, thank you for letting me know the time we spent together was real but I can’t just jump back into bed with you now that you’re free. He’s a good man and he doesn’t deserve that.”

It wasn’t the answer Miguel wanted to hear, but you were determined to at least try and be a good person this time around. Miguel nodded, jaw set so hard you could see the muscle ticking when he stood to his feet and walked towards the door of your apartment. You hated to let him go, and you knew better than to look over your shoulder in his direction but you still did it anyway. “I’m not giving up on us, preciosa. Your new man might be good, but he’s not me.” 

His words lingered in your mind long after he was gone, and you wondered what he was planning. You found out a week later when you went to pay rent only to be told that it had been paid up for the remainder of your lease. You hadn’t exactly been excited to hear that, and your attempts to call or text Miguel had all led to you being unable to reach him. A week after that a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and a box in a certain recognizable blue shade was delivered to your door, you knew it was from Miguel. Your new man always got you roses instead of your favorites, and the two of you weren’t in the jewelry giving stage of your new relationship yet, and seeing that blue box had you suddenly feeling wary. A quick search on the website had you furiously dialing Miguel’s number, only for him to send you to voicemail. Your texts were left on read, and despite knowing that he was forcing your hand to go to him, you did anyway. You needed to return this damn necklace and let Miguel know that you weren’t about to be swayed by expensive gifts. 

The guards, and the household staff were all too happy to see you again, and despite your determination to put boundaries in place you couldn’t shake the bittersweet feeling of being back there. God you missed him, and this place, and all the people here but you were resolute in your decision to not give in to the temptation of running back to Miguel. 

“He’s been expecting you.” The familiar voice of Nestor informed you once you stepped into the living room. Eyeing the little blue Tiffany’s bag in your hand he merely shook his head and motioned towards the direction of Miguel’s office. You offered up a quiet thank you, heels clacking loudly against the expensive flooring of the Galindo mansion. You didn’t stop at the door, striding in with purpose and confidence that nearly collapsed at the sight of Miguel sitting behind his desk in a suit that only made him look more attractive than he already was. 

“Preciosa, to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” His question caused you to narrow your eyes in his direction. He knew damn well why you were there, but clearly he was going to play games. You huffed, annoyed that you weren’t really all that annoyed as you sat the Tiffany’s bag on his desk with an expectant look on your face. Miguel followed the movement, a smirk tugging on the corners of his lips as he reached out to slide it towards himself. “So you got my gift, good, but you didn’t have to come all this way just to thank me.”

Rolling your eyes you crossed your arms over your chest and shook your head. “I’m not here to thank you Miguel, I’m here to return that ridiculously expensive necklace.”You shot back, doing your best to stand firm when Miguel stood from his chair and began to slowly circle his way around his desk. A desk that held several memories that you were trying not to think of at the present moment. “I’m not in the habit of taking back gifts, mi amor.” He replied, voice smooth as honey while he kept you in his sights. For a moment you felt like prey being closed in on by the wolf, and truly you might as well have been considering you’d done exactly as Miguel wanted you to by going to see him that day. 

“Miguel, that necklace is over one hundred thousand dollars. I can’t accept something like that from you.” You challenged, gasping when the sudden feeling of Miguel’s hands on your waist all but burned through the dress you wore. For a moment you simply stood there, nails biting into your palms as you curled them into fists to fight off the urge to reach out and touch Miguel. it was all you could do to steel yourself and resist the man that was testing your patience like no one else could. 

“You can and you will.” Slowly he turned you around, making you face his desk while he stood close enough for his body heat to seep into you, and the smell of his cologne to invade your senses. You hadn’t realized that your eyes had slipped closed until they flew open at the feeling of cold metal against your warm skin. Before you could protest Miguel quickly fastened the far too pricey necklace around your neck, leaving the diamond pendant to settle against the hollow of your throat. You didn’t expect the feeling of his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the underside of your jaw after that, and the soft gasp that flew from your lips was unmistakable. 

For a moment you just let yourself stay there relishing the feeling of his beard softly scraping against your soft skin as he left a slow trail of kisses along your shoulderblade, but soon enough warning bells began to ring loud and clear in your mind. This was dangerous, and you were falling right into the trap that you swore you were going to avoid. Quickly you stepped away from Miguel, needing space to breathe and distance so you could think clearly. “Dammit.” You cursed under your breath, tears of frustration brimming in your eyes while you tried to avoid looking at the man who you were desperately trying to resist. “Why? Why are you doing this?” You questioned, tone accusing as you motioned between the two of you. 

You knew why, but some twisted part of you needed to hear him say it. 

“Because I love you, preciosa, and I’m not giving up on us when I know you still feel the same about me.” His words cut like a knife right through all the bullshit reasons you’d been repeating to yourself since the day he’d shown up to tell you he was done with Emily, and still wanting you. Every rebuttal that you had died on your tongue, no denial of your own feelings would make its way past your lips. All you could do was rush from the room before he could get his hands on you again. 

You didn’t remember the necklace until later that day after you’d taken a long shower to try and wash away the guilt of being in love with another man while you had a devoted and caring boyfriend. The diamond pendant glared at you from the mirror, glinting brightly in the low lights and reminding you of the moment that Miguel had put it on you. You had half a mind to take it off, you should have taken it off, and yet when you moved to do so you couldn’t bring yourself to remove Miguel’s token of affection from around your throat. Perhaps you were a bad person, the invasive thought trickled in making you turn away from the mirror with a frustrated sigh. 

That night you didn’t sleep peacefully. You tossed and turned all night, memories of Miguel invading your dreams and leaving you on edge and irritable by the time morning came. An early morning text from your boyfriend was left on read, your shift at the boutique dragged on, and by the end of the day you only barely remembered that it was date night. You didn’t want to go, but you knew that your boyfriend had jumped through hoops and saved all so he could treat you to dinner at some expensive restaurant an hour outside of town. For some odd reason the thought of it filled you with dread, like there was something looming just on the horizon that you couldn’t see yet. It had a pit settling in your stomach as you rushed home to shower, primp, and get dressed for something that had you feeling damned. 

The car ride to the restaurant was spent with you engaging in the most minimal conversation while your fingers toyed idly with Miguel’s necklace. When asked what had you so down you simply lied, playing it off as just being tired from having to work that day. Your boyfriend bought the excuse easily enough, and by the end of the drive you were starting to feel guilty for your sour mood. You resolved yourself to be in a better mood for the rest of the evening, reminding yourself that just a month ago you were excited about the prospect of dinner at this place. So with a convincing, yet fake, smile you walked hand in hand into the building with your boyfriend. 

Your smile immediately deflated when you saw that the table you were to be sitting at was only a few tables away from one currently occupied by Miguel and another woman. Instantly you felt dizzy. Thankfully you were already in the process of sitting, otherwise you were sure that you would have fallen over from the shock of seeing the man again so soon, and with another woman in his face. Anger, and bitter jealousy swirled in the pit of your stomach as you glanced over at their table from the corner of your eye. There was no telling what they were discussing, and Miguel’s back was to you so you couldn’t see his expression. All you knew was that he was making this woman smile, and she was laughing a bit too much for your liking. 

With a deep breath in, and a slow exhale out you forced yourself to ignore it and try to enjoy your night. It was easier said than done but you managed to get through appetizers and a couple glasses of wine before everything seemingly came crashing down. It started with your boyfriend nervously gearing up to say something while you worriedly waited for him to spit whatever it was he wanted to say out. 

“I’ve been trying to think of the best way to say this but, um…well the best way to say it is to just say it.” He paused for a moment, and you nervously brought your glass of wine to your lips with the intention of sipping at it. “I love you.” 

You choked and sputtered into your wine glass, some of it spilling out and landing on your dress while you clumsily tried to place your glass back onto the table. It landed on the edge, and soon it shattered on the floor with a crash while you were jumping out of your seat. Your gaze moved to Miguel’s table, meeting his gaze as he watched you curiously before noticing the man on the other side of the table trying to help clean up the mess. His gaze grew hard and dangerous at the sight of your boyfriend, and the only thing you could think to do was leave. “I need to go, sorry.” Words rushed out of you as you turned on your heels and nearly ran to the restroom, choosing to take the individual family stall for a bit of much needed privacy. 

You didn’t see Miguel excusing himself from his own table and following after you at a distance, nor did you expect him to take advantage of you forgetting to lock the door behind you and slipping into the restroom stall. You were caught up in trying to steady your breathing and fight back the wave of nausea that had hit you that you didn’t even notice Miguel there at first. Too busy cursing yourself for being so stupid and selfish and letting things get this far, how had you missed the signs that things had gotten this serious? Were you truly that oblivious to the man you were dating falling in love with you? 

“God dammit.”  You hissed, a hand smacking down on the sink as you resisted the urge to yell in frustration. There was no way you could go back out there and return the sentiment without it being a lie, and now more than ever it was clear that you wouldn’t ever get there with your boyfriend. You were still very much in love with Miguel, and seeing him tonight with someone else only made that abundantly clear. 

“Mi amor…” His voice was both a balm, and salt in the wound. The sound of it had you whirling around to face him, and before you could stop yourself you had stalked over to him and laid a hard slap against his cheek. 

“Who is she?” You demanded, ignoring the hard flash of his eyes when he refocused on you. “Who is that woman out there? Does she know about me? Does she know that you were lying to me just yesterday about still loving me?” You pushed at his chest, anger, shame, and hurt all mixing into one confusing emotion as you lashed out. God you felt so stupid, and suddenly the necklace that hung daintily around your neck felt heavy as an anchor. Miguel caught your hands in an iron grip, quickly backing you up against the restroom's sink, and with his other hand he grabbed you by the chin. 

“Calm the fuck down.” His tone was darker than you’d ever heard it, and laced with something else that you could clearly identify as lust. It had you swallowing thickly, and suddenly remembering yourself. “That woman is a business associate that I’m trying to impress. Nothing more, nothing less.” The explanation was enough to make you feel embarrassed for the outburst, and unable to meet his gaze any longer. “Look at me.” The command was followed almost instantly, and you couldn’t help but squirm under the intensity of Miguel’s stare. “I meant everything I said.” He continued, leaning in close enough to tease you with the closeness of his mouth to yours. 

“I—”

“No. You don’t get to speak unless you’re begging me to remind you who all this,” He emphasizes the word by letting go of your hands to instead grab a handful of your ass. “belongs to.” Clearly you weren’t the only one feeling the jealousy of seeing the one you loved with someone else. Heat swirled in the pit of your belly, and the all too familiar ache that only Miguel could sate settled in. Heart hammering in your chest you let out a shuddering breath and nodded to which Miguel only jerked you forward the smallest bit. “Use your words, mi amor.” 

“Please.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to spur him into action. Your dress was pushed up over your hips and in a quick move Miguel had you spun around and facing the mirror. All you could do was brace your hands against the restroom's sink as the sound of a zipper coming down filled your ears. Eyes closed you swallowed a moan when you felt your panties being pulled to the side before his length was dragging against your damp folds. You ground back against him, only for him to catch you by the hips and force your movements to still. Slowly he teased you, spreading your slick arousal over his length until you were whimpering and begging him to fuck you. 

Finally he had mercy on you and began to press his way inside your tight entrance. You bit down on your bottom lip, quieting the moan that desperately wanted to make its way out of you. He sank into you slowly, taking his time in getting reacquainted with the feel of you wrapped around him and sucking him in deeper. You pushed back, already greedy for more of him after denying yourself for so long. Breath rushed from you at the first snap of his hips, and you barely had time to try and catch it before another hard thrust of his cock jolts your hips forward only for you to sink back onto him with a shaky moan that’s almost too loud for your current setting. 

“Not so loud, preciosa. We wouldn’t want everyone to hear you getting fucked like a slut.” Miguel’s taunting had you clenching around him, and when you felt his hand snaking up your side and wrapping around your throat to squeeze you couldn’t help but moan again. Eyes locked on the reflection of the two of you, you felt as if you couldn’t look away from Miguel as he finally claimed what he had been missing for all those months. He wasn’t gentle as he rutted into you, making you take every thick inch while his hand squeezed around your throat just enough to keep your air restricted. 

“Fuck, that’s it…that’s my good girl.” He ground out between his teeth, hips snapping forward hard enough that you were sure anyone on the other side of the door could hear if they were close enough. Not that you expected anyone to interrupt or try to get past whoever was likely guarding the door. Knowing that someone outside possibly knew what was happening inside the restroom only excited you further, and any thought of your boyfriend being the one to hear the two of you was far from your mind. The only man that existed in the moment was the one currently pounding into you from behind. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” He said, and you could only nod with a desperate moan when you felt him thrusting into you harder. 

His unrelenting pace had you nearing the edge quicker than you realized, and when you felt his other hand sliding between your thighs so that his fingers could circle against your bundle of nerves you were teetering on the edge. Eyes falling shut you tried to chase your high, but Miguel had other plans.  “Open your fucking eyes, watch yourself cum on this cock.” The growled words had your eyes snapping open to view the lewd scene before he had you cumming with a strained cry. Walls pulsing and clenching down around his cock, Miguel was no match for the way your body milked him for his spend. Spilling every drop as deeply as he could inside of you with a strained curse on his lips. The hand at your throat loosened and you sucked in air, panting and legs shaky when you tried to stand yourself up properly. Miguel steaded you before he silently fixed your clothes back in place and turned you back around to face him. 

“You’re going to go out there with me dripping out of you and break up with him.” 

Suddenly you remembered who you were there at the restaurant with and guilt began to settle in and sour the post-coital bliss.

“No more excuses, now it’s your turn to show me you’re serious. I’m done sharing my woman with some undeserving bastard.” Reaching up to take you by the chin he directed your gaze to his. “Either you end it with him, or I’ll do it myself.” The ultimatum was followed by a searing kiss that left you stunned for a moment. “Your choice, mi amor, but one way or another you’re coming home tonight.” 

Miguel left you then, exiting the restroom and leaving you to grapple with what you’d just done, and what he expected from you now. Taking in a deep breath you knew you had only one option, so you made the awkward trip back to your table. Sitting back down you couldn’t help but feel a mixture of arousal and guilt as Miguel’s spend continued to drip from your core while you sat there preparing to break up with your boyfriend. 

“I don’t love you, and I don’t think I ever will and I’m sorry it took me this long to realize that but it’s over.” You rushed your way through the words but you could tell that your now ex boyfriend had understood each and every one. He sat in silence for a moment, jaw working as he did his best to keep his emotions in check. You simply sat in silence, watching him as he stood up abruptly, threw a few bills on the table to cover the dinner, and with a glace over his shoulder glared at Miguel who was now alone and watching it all play out. Part of you suspected he might have said or done something in the time it took you to get yourself together before returning but you didn’t care to ask. 

Soon enough you were left at the table by yourself, and moments later joined by Miguel who stood by your chair with his hand outstretched. Silently you slipped your hand into his and let him guide you up from your chair and towards the entrance.

What I was promised

Pairing: Soldier boy x Sup!Fem!Reader

Summary: The deal was simple, he kills Homelander, and Butcher gives him greenlight to fulfill his dream of having a family, you were just… collateral damage, another sup taken care off if you ask Butcher.

Warnings: SPOILERS OF THE BOYS SEASON 3 CHAPTERS 7 & 8.

Cursing, Dub-con, involuntary imprisonment, unprotected sex (do I have to remind you to not have a party without a party hat?), breeding kink, housewife kink, cursing, dirty talking, the works and everything fun related to this guy 

Wordcount: 3.7k

Notes: Oh I really wanted to write about this hot sup and honestly? his talk about wanting kids just triggered me 

This is it, the final fight. Butcher and Soldier Boy were getting ready to storm the tower, the final battle against Homelander where they knew they were going to win. Sharing stories about their childhoods and their crappy dads.

“I always wanted them, kids I mean, I've always thought I could do a better job than my father ever did” Butcher saw the plan he carefully and dangerously crafted crumble into pieces in front of his eyes

“Homelander is not your son” he said carefully

“He is the only thing I have”

“You can have more kids” he said then, “I know you like old bags, but you can still choose a young one, I don’t care, but he… has to go” Ben looked at him with with furrowed brow

“The young girls these days don’t want to form families, that’s what that cum-eating little shit told me”

“Well, yeah but you are a handsome devil, I know you can figure it out” he uttered hopefully

“Well, yeah, homelander is a piece of shit anyways, so fuck him” Butcher signed relieved

“That my boy”

“I could convince that girl to give me a couple of babies, I mean, she is sweet like that”

“Who?”

“The sweet one… the one on your team, the one with the telekinesis thing”

“(Y/N)?” he asked, it was Butcher´s turn to frown, “I don’t think she is your speed”

“I’ll make her my speed” he said firmly, and that’s when they both look at eachother, definitely

“That’s not how we do things with the ladies” he said carefully, “We ain’t in the 40’s no more” he growled. Ben only smirked

“So now you are telling me I can’t have her either?” 

“Only if she wants to” he reminded him 

“Turn a blind eye, convince everyone we are dead, and I'll waste my own son for you” 

“They are going to hate me if they found out I gave her to you like some sort of stuffed animal in a carnival”

“That’s the part where you convince them we are dead” he said simply, “You want me to fry Homelander? My own son? You’ll let me take her” Butcher looked at him

“But she can never tell anyone what happened” he warned 

“I’ll take care of that” he said simply, “You just think there is going to be one less Sup you need to worry about” 

“Good riddance then”

“You two are sick” Maeve muttered, and they both froze when they saw the redhead standing in the doorway of the room

“Oh, we getting sentimental love?” mocked Butcher, “She is just going to be collateral damage, we kill the bastard, whatever it takes” 

“And what are you going to do to her you sick fuck?” she asked then 

“You don’t worry your little head about that” muttered Butcher

“She doesn’t deserve this, she is actually a decent person”

“You heard the man, he won’t waste Homelander if we don’t let him take her, so that’s it” Maeve went quiet, sharing dirty looks with Soldier Boy, the man just smiled

“I’m not gonna hurt her” he said simply, “I’m just gonna turn her into what any decent girl should be, make an honest woman out of her” 

“This is so wrong” she whispered, but said nothing more as the three prepared to storm the tower

“They already have a huge startpoint” muttered Hughie

“We still have to try”, said Annie decisively 

“Agree” you muttered, looking up at Frenchie, Kimiko and MM, “we all know what we are up against, right?”

“Soldier Boy and Homelander won’t walk out of that tower” muttered MM, “whatever it takes”

“Whatever it takes” you all agreed

The plan was simple, Frenchie and Kimiko would go for the nerve gas to stop Soldier Boy while you all gained time and try to stop them. Hughie was to the control room to warn everyone as you and Annie ran in front of MM to protect him of whatever lies in front of you through the halls of Vought tower 

But when you got to them… it was already late. You couldn’t even walk through the doors of the news study when a huge blast threw you backwards. You flew through the air feeling as the air was punched out of your lungs and you collapse against a marble pillar, losing all consciousness 

. . .

When you came to your senses again, your head weighed a ton, and you had to make a huge effort to open your eyes. You took in the room, you were laid on a King size bed, and the room looked cozy, with a fireplace and all, a little outdated, like from the 80’s, but it was a very comfortable looking room. You took your hands towards your face and they both looked fine, you drew out your push wave and it still worked, your powers were ok, not fried out

“Oh good, I was scared I fried your powers” you grunted a little more when you recognized the men behind the words, “I wouldn't want you to lose them”

“Ben?” you called, finding him entering the room you were in, he smiled when he heard you calling him that, this is exactly what he wanted from you, his real name being moaned from those lips he liked so much, “What happened?” you murmured, “You used the radiation against us?” you seemed hurt, you sounded scared, and he didn't like that

“You tried to stop us from smoking Homelander” he explained simply, not denying it 

“Is everyone else ok?” you asked, “Annie and MM? Frenchie and Kimiko?” he sigh loudly, impatient, not wanting to have to explain to you, he didn’t care about them, he cared about you

“I don’t know, they were breathing when I left”

“You fried us up” you frowned your pretty little face and he didn’t understand why this was so hard for you to understand. Your eyes stopped at the TV, which was broadcasting the lastest news… Homelander was DEAD

“WHAT?” you said urgently, seeing the entire Vought tower completely destroyed, “What the fuck hapened?”

“Sweet things like you don’t talk like that” he whispered with that husky voice of his

“Ben… what happened?” you asked, softly, to appease him

“I complied with my part of the deal, I wasted Homelander” even if he clearly won, he looked defeated, “Homelander, what kind of shitty name that is anyways?” Even though this is what you all wanted, it felt wrong to celebrate the death of a human being, even though it was a Supe-supremacist psychotic piece of shit like him, still… celebrating a man’s death wasn’t right

“Is everyone ok?”

“I think so, I really didn’t care, I only cared about you” you felt your cheeks flush at his words and then he flashed you a poster boy smile. To distract yourself, you looked around. If the outside was any indication, you seemed to be in some sort of cabin

“Ben?” you asked, suddenly scared, your super hearing wouldn’t let you hear anything else but his breathing and the birds outside chirping, no cars, no other people, nothing. He raised from his seat on a small sofa and sat right next to you on the bed. His closeness made you uncomfortable

“Yes, sweet thing?” he purred, and you understand why he got laid everywhere he went, he had to only speak with that thick voice and all the panties in the room would drop

“Where are we?” Softly and gently was the way to go with him, you looked into his beautiful green eyes looking for the truth and the truth only, he smiled softly and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ea, the contact of his gloved hands made you trembled in your spot

“We are in a cabin Legend gifted me after our first gig together, the old thing is still standing” 

“But why? Where are the others?”

“Around, why do you care so much?” he asked, annoyed, “I’m here” 

“But you had a huge fight, and Homelander is finally dead, and I… he was the most powerful man alive, I mean, I just want to know…”

“Everyone is ok” he said with a sigh, probably the others were covering your tracks, I mean, you just wasted Homelander and Vought probably had tapes about all of you doing so… so now you were fugitives again, and you had to lay low, if the other were ok it was all going to be fine. 

“Except for Noir, Homelander got to him before I could”

“Noir is also dead?” you asked, feeling bad for the ninja, you actually like him and your time in the tower and the times you spent with him had been very pleasant. But to Soldier Boy not too much since he was your worry his face turned in anger

“He was a traitor who gave me away to the Russians” he growled, “He is lucky Homelander got to him and not me”

“I’m sorry for what he did to you, but to me he was always… polite” you whispered 

“Let’s just not talk about that traitor fucker, a walking tumor” his tone made you frightful, so you just looked down scaping his gaze

“I’m sorry you had to be the one to kill Homelander” you muttered, “Hughie told us, that he was…”

“My own son” you looked back at him and it scared you he didn’t seem remorseful, or that he didn't show any emotion at all, “I didn’t get to raise him, he was a weak little pussy”

“I'm sorry about that” you whispered, “He wasn’t a good person”

“It doesn’t matter, I have a second chance” he muttered, he leaned in and before you could stop him he trapped your lips with his. He kisses you slowly. At first you are so impressed you couldn’t react until he tried to pry your lips open with his tongue. You pushed him but accidentally used your powers. Even when it barely move him, not being able to throw him off the bed 

“You are a little firecracker, did you know that?” he asked, amused by your outburst

“No” you whispered, he leaned in again to kiss you roughly, and you felt limb against his arms and chest as you return the kiss

He might be traumatized, he might have been an asshole, but he was hot as hell. He was one of the most handsome guy you had ever met and in a fraction of a second you thought about even if you fuck him, it wouldn’t mean anything but a good time, he was going to pretend nothing happened by tomorrow, so what’s the harm?

His hand went to encase your face against him, and you in turn grabbed his chestnut hair, playing with it with your fingers. His hands soon left your face to go down your neck to squeeze your breasts, as he groaned, pleased against your mouth

“Fuck” he whispered when he left your mouth to drop open mouth kissed down your chin and then devouring your neck, “You are a little slut, aren’t you?”

“No” you whispered, “I just want to fuck you” you said simply, your hands travelling down his body and then up against agains’t his skin until you reached his chest. He chuckled, his husky voice made your panties more wet if that was even possible. He slowly eased you down against the mattress, while he got rid of the blankets that were still covering you, so he could lay next to you. He was wearing some cotton pants and a simple shirt, and even though it would be to even hotter to fuck him while he was wearing his suit, this worked just fine. 

You moaned, losing all shame when he sucked on a special spot in your neck, and you spread your legs instinctively. You barely realized you weren’t wearing your super suit, you were wearing a plain t-shirt and cotton leggings just like him, which he ripped from your quivering body when he realized you had spread your legs for him 

He wastes no time in trapping you under him once he gets rid of your underwear. He opened up your thighs, your sex exposed to him, admiring your wet pussy. You wanted to be even so you, in turn, ripped to shreds his clothes as well, and to your surprise, his ock jumped free, missing the underwear

“God I love the new age” he purred, you squeezed his thick cock, moaning when you couldn’t completely wrap your hand around his thick range, he was going to rip you apart if he wasn’t careful, which you were sure he wasn’t going to be. His thick finger danced teasingly trough your folds, testing you, tasting how wet you were, because you were dripping for him

“I’ve never been the one much for foreplay” he murmured, you just nodded, wanting him inside you, “Hell, we have time later for some pussy tasting” the tip of his cock replaced his fingers, and you opened more your legs for him to be able to place himself comfortably between your legs, as he started to open you up with his thick cock. 

“Oh shit” you cursed, closing your eyes, your hands laced under your knee to keep your legs open for him. The stretch burned, but if felt so good you could kill him if he ever stopped. 

In a rough push he was completely seated inside of you, making you groan, uncomfortable because of his huge size, needing time to get accustomed to him, but fuck, you had never felt so full, and he touched all the right places inside of you, places you didn’t thik even existed

“Fuck you are tight” he cursed under his breath

“You are too big” you complained, but he only smiled, retrieving himself and then pushing into you roughly, the tip of his cock touching your cervix, making you scream in surprise

“Are you ok?” he smirked, and you just nodded, playfully grabbing his ass, encouraging to start thrusting into you, which he did. Soon he started at a rough pace, the mattress making you bounce off the force. 

You grabbed him by the back of his neck and drew him towards you to kiss him deeply. He chuckled darkly against your mouth when he read your intentions

“You are a sweet girl who likes to make sweet lovin’ aren’t you?” you nodded shamefully, like it was a bad thing, but he looked down at you with a glimmer in his eyes that made you rethink everything you knew about him. 

His thrusts where deep and calculating, almost methodical as he kept pounding into you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix every time

“Shit!” you cursed as your eyes turned to the back of your head from the pleasure, the knot in your belly kept getting tighter and tighter 

“Fuck I feel your little pussy fisting my cock” he purred against you temple. With a wide smile, and using all the force you had, you managed to switch positions, getting him under you, much to his surprised when you placed your hands in his chest and started moving your hips teasingly, finding the perfect angle his cock would touch that sweet spot inside of you, oh and when you did, plus him grabbing your tits and squeezing them, made you cum so hard your thighs trembled at his sides. He grabbed your hips, taking control again and he started moving you roughly on top of him. You navigated your orgasm that lasted longer that you could handle, making you wanted to faint on top of the superhero

“Did you make yourself cum on my fat cock?” he mocked thrusting his hips up to meet you, making such a sloppy sound it was straight up filthy. “Answer me” he demanded, spanking your ass

“Yes I made myself cum on your cock” you confessed full of shame. Oh and you prayed the others weren’t at earshot, this was going to be very hard to explain

“Fuck, you are so tight you are going to make me cum” he admitted, fucking you even roughly, grabbing the globes of your ass, making you bounce up and down his cock for his pelasure, chasing his clímax 

What he didn’t expect was to draw another orgasm from you while he pumped you full of his come. Secretly, he hopes it sticks the very first time, as he made sure to press you against him for his cum to reach your womb if it had to 

He cum inside you, you felt it deep in your womb and you whined, feeling so good and warm. You weren’t on any birth control, but you guessed you could buy some plan b tomorrow, and slapped yourself mentally for being so careless

“That was one of the bst fucks of my life” you looked at him like he had three heads at his admission.

“Good to know, I thought you were some sort of manwhore” you giggled, and he laughed heartily 

“I am” he admitted, caressing your hips, while you were still on top of him

“It’s ok if I cuddle?” you asked dumbly, you liked to cuddle but you weren’t sure he wanted that, and if the others were going to come back soon 

“Of course sweetheart” he said with a chuckle, as he trapped you down his arm and against his chest sliding his softening cock off of you, making you whimper in the process. 

You relaxed cuddling into him, you laid against Ben’s chest, caressing his soft skin. He chuckled when he heard you purr, content against him.

“Aren’t you a sweet one?” he chuckled, caressing your naked shoulder and down your back, “you are a powerful superhero, and a mynx in the sack” he laughed, and you giggled against his skin, “Fuck I like those powers of yours too, I really hope our kids will inherit them”

“Our kids?” you asked, curious, raising your head to look at him, “what do you mean?” If he was him flirting he sucked at it

“The kids we are going to have together silly girl” you would have laughed at his poor attempt at flirting if you didn’t believe it was real. You wanted to cry

“Ben… where are we?” you asked again, a single tear falling down your eye

“I told you, my cabin”

“The others are not around, are they?” you wanted to climb out of bed, but he grabbed you and made you stick to him with a grunt

“We were having such a good time sweetheart, don’t ruin it” his voice was calm but he hid a threat in them, so you stood still against him again. “In exchange of me killing my own son, Butcher promised me he wasn’t going to get in the way of me taking you for myself”

“No” you cried, “He is an asshole of massive proportions but he wouldn’t do that” you muttered, “Besides the rest of them, the boys wouldn't…”

“They think we are dead” he said simply, “I had to destroy the entire tower to make sure our story sticked” you whimpered in fear, knowing perfectly well you would never be able to fight him off

“Why me?” you asked then 

“Who better than you to give the kids I always wanted?” he asked in return, and you whimpered some more as bitter tear ran down your cheeks and to his chest 

“We’d be terrible parents” you cried

“That’s not true” he said, angry, “You are sweet, and good and hot as hell, I mean, look at that ass” you whimpered some more, maybe referring to him.

“I will raise them right, like strong men',' and with his iron grip around you you just managed to curl more into yourself. 

2 years later…

Your husband, Ben, sat at the head of the table with your one year old bouncing on his leg. The baby, your son, giggled and showed him his one tooth he had to his father proudly as he smiled. That made your heart swell. It’s been a rough couple of years and you understood that what lies ahead, meaning the fact of raising your kids with Soldier Boy, was going to be challenging to say the least, but one thing you understood after so many times you tried to call someone or get help, there was no getting rid of him, so you had to stick around, you couldn’t leave your children, specially with HIM

“He is a handsome little devil, isn’t he?” he admired. Your son, Henry, he was big for his age, and chubby, healthy and strong like his father, who looked at you when you put the dinner right in front of him. He smiled at you and placed his hand on your 8 month baby bump. He wasted no time in putting another baby inside of you as soon as you recuperated from having the first one… And he was going to do it again…

“We make cute babies” you offered with a smile

“And strong ones as well” he said proudly, “These little shits are going to rule the world some day” he muttered. He rose his son in his arms and cuddle him against his chest, sometimes you wondered if he was going to be a good role model when he grows, you then look down at your belly, praying that it was a boy as well, you knew how old school he was, but you also thought a girl would melt his cold heart.

Your son hid his chubby face on his father´s neck, and that made you believe everything was going to be fine. 

A small continuation... here

Tag list!💕 @black-repunzel99

okay it's lowkey getting weird why tf yall making oc's that's the daughter of the damn klan.... yeah please wrap this shit tf up.... QUICKY

---

this was delicious 😫😫😫

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Another knock. This time, softer. Almost...polite.

Your hand rested on the knob.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

---