aneMia

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.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

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.

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee! (and get early access!)☕️✦