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You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]
author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy!
warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes
You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed.
“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.
You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.
“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”
Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together.
She sighed, crossing her arms.
“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll bankroll it.”
She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.
“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”
So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual.
You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it.
You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl.
You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.
You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back.
Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think.
You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them.
Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly.
“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.
“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.
“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.
“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”
“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”
Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.
“Miss!”
You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.
“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.
He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England.
And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.
“Thanks.”
“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”
“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”
“Right.”
You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.
“I’m Remmick,” he says.
“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”
“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”
“Oh.”
Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.
“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”
Charming lighthouse worker.
“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”
“You a doctor or something?”
“God, no. I’m a writer.”
“Yeah?”
The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning.
“Books or what?”
You nod.
“What kind?”
You hesitate.
“Can I guess?”
“Go for it.”
He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush.
“Are they scary?”
“Parts of them are scary,” you admit.
You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.
“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”
“Nope.”
He eyes you and smirks.
“Are they dirty?”
You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.
“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”
“You must make good money, huh?”
He chuckles and you shrug.
“I do alright.”
“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”
You pause and he holds up his hands.
“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”
“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”
He looks at the watch on his hand.
“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”
He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.
“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.
Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.
You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.
You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now.
So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–
You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.
You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about.
Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you.
You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.
You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.
“Can I help you with that?”
You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.
“Ow, shit.”
“I’m sorry.”
It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.
“Yes. Please.”
“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.”
You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.
“Thank you.”
“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”
You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong.
“Are you visiting?”
“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”
“You write horror?”
“Sorry?”
“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”
“I think the inspiration he had was-”
“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”
“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke.
He laughs at that and you grin.
“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”
“Are people really swimming this time of year?”
“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”
“Right.”
“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”
“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”
“See you.”
You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page.
A love triangle sounds awesome.
Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.
Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.
“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.
He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair.
“You made it.”
“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.
“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.
“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”
“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”
“What do you write?”
You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.
“Um… dirty romance books.”
“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”
“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”
“Killer. You make a lot of money?”
“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”
“So… you’re not writing a book?”
You shake your head.
“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”
“Don’t even say it.”
“-some inspiration.”
“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.
You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.
“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.
“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”
“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”
“Damn.”
“No crime here?”
“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”
“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.
“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”
“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”
“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”
“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.
“I’m being serious, look it up.”
“Huh. Shit.”
You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.
“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”
“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“You met him?”
“Mhm. Last night.”
“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”
“Yeah…? He was jogging.”
“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”
“I get it.”
“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”
“Whoa.”
“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”
“Great white?”
“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”
You grimace.
“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”
“Jeez.”
“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”
You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.
“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”
You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.
“Shit. I have got to get back.”
“Right.”
“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.
“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”
“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”
You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar.
“Alright.”
“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”
“Eight o’clock sounds great.”
“Awesome. See you there.”
“I will see you there.”
Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified.
You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.
You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.
You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.
You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever.
But that’s wishful thinking.
You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent.
“Let me guess-”
“Not a horror writer,” you joke back.
She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.
“You look nervous.”
“I’m meeting somebody?”
“Yeah?”
“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”
“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”
The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television.
You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.
By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.
By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.
You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration.
“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket.
You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.
“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing.
“Can I come up there?”
“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”
You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.
“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.
You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him.
“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.
You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.
“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.”
“Sorry I brought it up.”
“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”
He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.
“You look upset.”
“Yeah. I uh…”
You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.
“It’s stupid.”
He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.
“I got stood up,” you admit.
“For a date?”
“Not exactly. Just drinks.”
He clicks his tongue.
“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”
“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”
He eyes you and you cross your legs.
“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”
You lean in too, close to him.
“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”
“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.
“Right.”
He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.
“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”
Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.
“Yeah, I should be fine.”
“Right.”
He starts to walk away and turns back.
“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”
“I will.”
You mean that, too.
Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants.
He flips to the final page.
HOT LIFEGUARD
His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing.
LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.
Oh, you’re fucking crazy.
He grins, his fangs sliding down.
He can make do with crazy.
You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach.
The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.
It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.
“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.
“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”
“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”
“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”
“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”
You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.
Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.
This is not a seal.
This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.
lion being daredevil just makes sense actually… mdni 18+
dedicated to @bluesycatharsis who created spiderman! lion and in turn inspired me with daredevil! lion 💋
daredevil au, vigilante! lion, f! reader, praise, established relationship, heightened senses, injuries, blood & violence mentions, oral sex (f! receiving), handjob, overstimulation, sensory play, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, light breeding kink.
. ۶ৎ daredevil! lion could still be a working-class boxer, barely making enough money from small fights and whatever shifts stan manages to find for him. he takes a factory job because it is steady work, even though the conditions are awful and everyone knows the owners have been cutting corners for years.
. ۶ৎ the accident happens during an overnight shift. a chemical spill mixed with an electrical malfunction leaves several workers injured, and lion takes the worst of it after trying to pull somebody else out. his eyes are permanently damaged, but once the swelling and headaches begin to ease, he realizes the rest of his senses have changed in ways none of the doctors can explain.
. ۶ৎ now suddenly he can hear conversations through apartment walls, distinguish individual footsteps from several blocks away, and feel vibrations traveling through the pavement beneath his shoes. scents become overwhelming, food tastes unbearably strong, and even the brush of ordinary fabric against his skin can feel sharp enough to make him flinch.
. ۶ৎ it takes him months before he learns how to function without constantly feeling like the entire world is screaming at him. boxing helps more than anything else. even though he can no longer do matches, he loves going to the gym by himself.
. ۶ৎ the factory accident was never properly investigated. the owners pay off the right people, blame the workers, and reopen before lion has even been discharged from the hospital. while digging into them, lion discovers that the company is connected to the same criminal networks controlling the underground fights around town—loan sharks, traffickers,dealers, and low-level thugs who make their money by keeping working-class neighborhoods frightened and desperate.
. ۶ৎ so naturally, lion decides the most reasonable response is putting on black clothes, covering the upper half of his face with a homemade mask, and beating the absolute hell out of them after dark.
. ۶ৎ lion follows a no-killing rule for the most part. he believes there has to be a line separating him from the people he hunts, especially after watching how easily violence swallowed up the underground boxing world. he will break bones, dislocate shoulders, and beat somebody unconscious without losing sleep, but he refuses to deliberately take a life.
. ۶ৎ “for the most part” becomes important whenever somebody threatens stan or you. lion still tries to stop himself, but his restraint becomes noticeably thinner when the heartbeat he hears panicking belongs to someone he loves.
. ۶ৎ before you know his identity, you meet the masked vigilante several times without realizing he’s lion. he always seems to appear when you’re walking home late or when trouble begins near your building, although he insists it is only because he patrols the neighborhood regularly. really, he recognizes your heartbeat anywhere.
. ۶ৎ lion has spent so much time around you that the rhythm is permanently lodged inside his head. he knows how it sounds when you are calm, how it skips when you laugh, and how quickly it begins racing whenever you are afraid. even beneath traffic, sirens, shouting, and dozens of strangers, your heartbeat always rises above everything else.
. ۶ৎ you discover his identity after you’re caught in the middle of something connected to the underground fights. he hears your heartbeat from several streets away and reacts before they have the chance to touch you. once it’s over, he reaches for your face with shaking, bloodied hands. he’s so overwhelmed by the sound of your pulse hammering in terror that he forgets to disguise his voice.
. ۶ৎ he expects you to be angry about the secret. instead, you grab his face and ask whether any of the blood belongs to him, and lion nearly breaks right there.
. ۶ৎ he still tries to keep you out of his vigilante life, but that becomes nearly impossible once you know. you start keeping medical supplies hidden in your apartment and learn how to stitch his cuts while he sits shirtless on your bathroom counter, complaining that you’re pulling the thread too tightly.
. ۶ৎ sex with lion’s heightened senses means there’s genuinely no hiding anything from him. he hears the change in your breathing before you have even decided to make a move. he notices your heartbeat speeding up when he pulls off his shirt, catches the faint shift in your scent when arousal begins pooling between your thighs, and smiles like a smug bastard because your body has already confessed for you.
. ۶ৎ lion loves teasing you about every reaction, but the joke is that he’s just as affected. his sense of touch is so intense that even gentle contact can make his muscles jump : your nails scratching lightly over his scalp, your mouth brushing the sensitive skin below his ear, your fingertips tracing the scars along his ribs—it all hits him harder than he wants to admit.
. ۶ৎ he’s obsessed with going down on you. his heightened sense of taste makes it almost overwhelming, but lion has never known when to stop doing something that feels good. once he gets his mouth between your thighs, he stays there until his jaw aches and his chin is soaked.
. ۶ৎ he doesn’t need you to tell him when he finds the right spot. he hears it in your heartbeat and feels it in the way your muscles tighten beneath his hands. the second your pulse jumps, he presses his tongue harder, groaning into your cunt when your thighs squeeze around his head. he gets shamelessly messy with it. he licks through every bit of wetness he draws out of you, lips dragging around your clit before his tongue pushes lower, tasting you directly from the source. the smell, the heat, the slippery sound of his fingers fucking into you—it surrounds him so completely that he sometimes forgets he is supposed to let you breathe.
“lion, i already came,” you whine, pushing weakly at his forehead while his fingers continue curling inside you.
“know you did,” he mutters against your swollen clit, breathing hard as he listens to your pulse gradually slow. then he sucks you back into his mouth and adds, “wanna hear it happen again.”
. ۶ৎ he loves listening to you. loud moans are nice, obviously, but it’s the quieter noises that drive him insane—the wet hitch in your breath when his cock first stretches you open, the unconscious whimper you make whenever he bottoms out, the tiny tremor in your voice when you claim you can take more. he can hear just how wet you are around him. every slow thrust comes with a slick sound that his hearing catches far too clearly, and it makes him lose whatever restraint he thought he had. he’ll bury his face against your neck, panting into your skin while your cunt squelches around the full length of him.
. ۶ৎ his sensitivity makes edging him cruel. you can reduce him to a shaking mess just by stroking him slowly, keeping your grip light enough that he feels every ridge of your palm sliding over his cock. he hears the blood rushing through his own body, his heartbeat pounding behind his ribs, every slick pass of your hand amplified until his thighs begin trembling. lion tries to act tough about it for approximately thirty seconds. then his head drops back, his lips part, and he starts begging you to tighten your hand.
. ۶ৎ overstimulation happens constantly because he becomes fascinated by how your body changes after an orgasm. your heartbeat hammering, the sweat cooling along your skin, the way your cunt grows even wetter and more sensitive around him. he tells himself he only wants to feel it one more time, but one becomes two, then three, until you’re trembling and pleading with him to slow down.
. ۶ৎ lion has a quiet breeding kink that gets much less quiet when he’s overstimulated. he likes feeling you clench around him when he talks about filling you, likes hearing the sudden jump in your pulse when he pushes his cock as deep as it will go.
. ۶ৎ he stays pressed against you afterward because pulling out feels too intense immediately. his whole body remains sensitive, and every little flutter around his softening cock makes his hips twitch involuntarily.
. ۶ৎ lion can hear his cum shifting inside you when he finally moves… that particular discovery nearly always results in him pushing you onto your back again, spreading your thighs, and using two fingers to gather whatever has begun leaking out before slowly fucking it back into you.
. ۶ৎ after, he will deny needing the comfort, even while wrapping both arms around your waist and refusing to let you leave the bed.
“just makin’ sure you’re all right,” he mumbles, already half asleep with his cheek resting over your heart.
. ۶ৎ really, lion spends every night listening to an entire city breathe around him. being able to concentrate on yours is the closest thing he has ever found to silence.
once again thanks to everyone for being so patient with me but big news: i ACTUALLY am working on multiple fics! i will have at least four for the dead dove fest coming up soon, and i have already finished two of them! (the first is a collab with an artist we know and love as well) sorry i've lost so much steam this year. you likely won't get a full 31 days fictober out of me (ever again) but! i hope to write a few kinktober pieces, and i'd like to actually fulfill some requests for that. perhaps some polls? anyway, much gratitude again. grma!
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SYNOPSIS : ♡ lion swears he can handle being used for as long as you please, but his confidence begins falling apart beneath you almost immediately. wc: 2.1k
CONTENTS : ♡ mdni 18+ dominant / submissive dynamic . sub! lion . dom! reader . free-use . unprotected p in v s*x . c*mplay . c*m eating . messy s*x . dacryphilia (lion’s a crybaby) . overstimulation . org*sm control . objectification . humiliation . possessive language . cre*mpie . light mean! reader . light face slapping . begging . praise mixed with degradation .
NOTES : ♡ this is a repost without the photo ! the original post keeps going through a loop of being blocked and getting appealed so i'm just reposting it sigh if it gets blocked again i, unfortunately, give up and will just have it on ao3 😭
“Lion—fuck, right there,” you moan, already bouncing hard enough on his cock to make the apartment mattress squeal beneath you while he lies pinned under your weight, whining around every breath like he has forgotten how to take one quietly.
Every drop of your hips forces the thick length deep, while your cunt grips and drags, wet and greedy, coating him in the glossy mess you’ve already worked out of yourself.
His hands keep slipping along your thighs, damp palms searching for somewhere to hold even though you have already told him not to touch unless you put him where you want him. He tries anyway, fingers curling weakly near your hips as you lift yourself until only the swollen head remains inside you, stretching your entrance open around the glistening ridge, then drop back down and swallow him to the base.
The noise that tears from him is embarrassingly loud—halfway between a moan and a sob—and it carries far too clearly through the paper-thin walls.
“Jesus, Lion, shut up,” you mutter, though the sharp roll of your hips makes it obvious that you have no intention of helping him obey.
“I’m trying,” he manages, voice cracking as his head pushes deeper into the pillow. “You just—you feel so fucking-”
Another helpless whine spills out before he can finish, so you reach beside his shoulder, snatch up the damp panties you had kicked onto the bed earlier, and bunch them into your palm. The crotch is still warm and slick with your earlier arousal, the fabric darkened and heavy. Lion barely gets his watery eyes open before you press the fabric against his mouth.
Your panties disappear between his lips, the wet gusset settling over his tongue while you push two fingers against the center to make sure he cannot spit them out. The taste of your cunt floods his mouth; you watch his throat work as he sucks at it without being told. His eyes widen, then soften with something so openly grateful that it makes you laugh under your breath.
You draw your hand back and give his flushed cheek a light pat, watching him mouth helplessly around the fabric while your hips resume their punishing rhythm. Slick sounds fill the air every time you rise and fall, your cunt swallowing him with filthy, wet kisses.
“There,” you murmur, leaning forward until your palms flatten against his chest. “Much better. Toys aren’t supposed to make so much noise.”
Lion’s cock jumps inside you so hard that you feel it.
His muffled answer dissolves into a garbled moan, and his whole face burns red beneath the sweat gathering at his temples. He’s always been terrible at hiding how much he likes being spoken to this way. Call him pretty and he blushes; call him useful and he nearly comes; tell him that the only part of him you need is buried inside you, and he looks ready to thank you for the privilege.
You grind down slowly, letting your cunt drag along every inch of him before lifting again. Lion’s stomach tenses under your hands, muscles twitching each time your ass meets his thighs, though he still fights to stay motionless beneath you.
“You said I could use it as long as I wanted,” you remind him, rocking your hips in tight circles until his muffled whine turns shrill.
Lion shakes his head quickly, hair sticking to his damp forehead. His hands clench in the sheets, knuckles pale with the effort of keeping them there. When he tries to speak, your panties reduce the words to a wet, pleading mumble, but you understand him well enough.
“You want me to keep riding my cock?” you ask, emphasizing the claim while you squeeze around him. The deliberate clench milks a fresh throb out of him. “That what you’re trying to say?”
His eyes squeeze shut as he nods, tears already gathering along his lashes. You sit back and take him deeper, watching his face crumple when you begin bouncing again, faster this time, without giving him any chance to adjust.
The first tear slides toward his temple.
You catch it with your thumb before it disappears into his hair, smearing the wetness across his flushed skin while he stares up at you. There’s something pathetic in the way he looks when he cries beneath you, something soft and needy that makes you bear down harder just to watch another tear follow. Your clit grinds against the base of him on every drop, swollen and slick, sending sharp little sparks through your belly.
“Aww, Lion,” you croon, though your hand closes around his jaw firmly enough to keep his face turned toward you. “You’re crying, and I haven’t even decided whether you’ve earned the right to come.”
Lion bucks beneath you before he can stop himself. The sudden upward jerk drives him impossibly deeper, and for a second you feel the fat head of his cock kiss the entrance to your womb.
You halt immediately, seated fully on his cock, and the sudden stillness leaves him shaking. His nostrils flare around desperate breaths while his hips twitch beneath your weight, trying to chase friction without openly disobeying.
“What was that?”
He whimpers through the panties, tears spilling more freely when you tighten your thighs around his waist.
“You know better than to move my toy without permission,” you tell him, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You’re acting like the body attached to my cock gets a say.”
Lion shakes his head again, frantic enough that the pillow rustles beneath him. He tries to apologize, though the words come out soaked and unintelligible. The sight of your panties darkening between his teeth, mixed with the wet shine on his lips and chin, makes heat twist low in your stomach.
You lift yourself slowly, letting him feel every inch leave you until his cock nearly slips free. The head catches at your entrance, shiny and flushed dark. Lion’s eyes go wide with alarm, and a broken little noise catches behind the gag.
“You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” you ask, hovering just above him. “Getting left here hard and useless because you couldn’t behave.”
His response is immediate, a pleading shake of his head accompanied by another spill of tears. A string of your own wetness stretches from the head of his cock to your dripping entrance before it breaks.
You lower yourself again, only halfway, then rise before he can enjoy the fullness. The shallow thrusts make wet, filthy sounds as your cunt lips kiss and drag over the swollen head. Lion’s back arches from the mattress while his hands knot tighter in the sheets, every restrained movement making his arms tremble.
“Maybe I should find something else to ride,” you continue, teasing the head against your entrance. “Something that doesn’t whine. Something that can last longer without leaking inside me.”
Lion sobs around the panties, the sound so ruined that it nearly breaks your composure.
You sink onto him in one hard drop, taking him completely, and his muffled cry fills the room despite the fabric packed into his mouth.
His hips jerk once beneath you before he forces them still, though his cock throbs wildly inside your clenched walls. You feel the way your cunt stretches around the base of him, the stretch almost too much, the wet heat of him buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to crawl up into your belly.
“There,” you murmur, smiling down at the tears streaking his face. “There’s my dumb little toy.”
You ride him without mercy after that, palms braced against his chest while you use his cock exactly as promised. Lion can do little more than lie beneath you and endure it, his breathing ragged, his moans reduced to wet vibrations against your panties.
Every upward roll pulls a sticky sheen along his shaft; every downward thrust forces it back inside, the mess gathering where your bodies meet until it coats his groin and smears across the insides of your thighs.
His control starts failing visibly, legs twitching against the mattress, his abdomen pulling tight, and his eyes rolling shut no matter how often you tell him to look at you.
When you slap his cheek lightly, his gaze snaps back into focus with such eager obedience that your cunt clenches around him.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” you warn, leaning close enough that your breath brushes his wet face. “You’re going to keep it hard until I’m finished.”
Lion nods, though the desperate furrow in his brow gives away how impossible the order feels. He had promised stamina; he had sworn he could let you ride him through one orgasm, then another, and still stay ready whenever you climbed back into his lap. That confidence has disappeared completely, leaving only a trembling man beneath you who looks one cruel squeeze away from losing everything. You can feel the way his balls have drawn up tight against your ass, full and heavy and ready to spill.
Your muscles tighten around his cock while your hips grind down, and Lion’s eyes fly open. A muffled plea bursts against the panties, his entire body seizing as he fights the orgasm bearing down on him.
“You’re not going to waste my cum, are you?” you ask, dragging your thumb through the tears pooled beneath his eye. “You’re going to hold it until I tell you where I want it.”
He nods so hard that another sob catches in his throat.
“Good. Because I want it inside.”
Whatever remains of Lion’s composure breaks at the words. His cock jerks repeatedly while his hips stutter beneath your weight. You chase your own pleasure as his muffled whines turn frantic, then reach down and press your thumb against your clit. The swollen little nub is slick and hot under your touch, and every circle of your finger makes your cunt clamp harder around the cock currently trying to breed you.
“Come on,” you breathe, circling yourself while his tearful eyes stay fixed on your face. “Fill me up. Make your only useful part do its job.”
Lion comes with a strangled cry against your panties, his body arching hard enough to lift you with him. Warmth spills deep inside you in heavy pulses, rope after rope flooding the softest part of you, and you continue bouncing through every one, forcing his cum farther into your cunt while his cock twitches helplessly.
Tears run into his hair, his chest heaves beneath your hands, and his muffled noises turn high and broken when pleasure gives way to overstimulation. His cock keeps pulsing, still trying to empty itself even as you milk every last drop with the relentless squeeze of your walls.
Lion’s head thrashes weakly against the pillow while you use his softening control against him, grinding down until cum leaks around the base of his cock and streaks over his balls in thick, white trails. He makes a pitiful sound when you scoop some of the mess onto your fingers, then push it back against your swollen entrance without climbing off him. The excess is warm and sticky, mixed with your own slick, and you force it back inside so nothing goes to waste.
“Couldn’t even keep it where I put it.,” you murmur, spreading the slick warmth over yourself while his eyes follow every movement.
He whines as if ashamed, though his cock gives another interested twitch inside you. The soft length is still buried in the mess he made, and you can feel it starting to firm again as you keep moving.
The reaction makes you laugh. You pull the soaked panties from his mouth, leaving his lips swollen and glistening, and Lion immediately drags in a ragged breath. His first attempt to speak collapses into a hoarse moan when you roll your hips again.
“I can keep going,” he promises, voice ruined and watery. “Please, I-I can—I can still be good.”
You lean down and wipe one of his tears away with the cum-slick fingers that had just been between your thighs, smearing the mixture across his cheek before pressing them against his parted lips. The taste of both of you is thick on his tongue, and Lion sucks them clean without hesitation.
“That’s what you said the first time,” you remind him, sitting upright. “Try not to overestimate yourself twice, sweetheart. I’m not finished using you yet.”
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Finally im finished. Ive had a few struggles along the way and im too tired to type anything else, but i wanna thank Domo for the great inspo!!
Knight! Remmick my beloved..thats an AU i will direly love.
Ps: ive got his sword tattood on my arm bc of this-- LMFAO.
i’m feeling v autistic about Patrick sumner rn what colors do you associate with him
SAME ANON, great question...................
mild spoilers and blood under cut
Obviously blue and white because of the sea and the arctic, (and his perfect baby blues). Something almost veering into tealish. (I also headcanon Patrick as having depression and being indifferent to life--especially in the beginning--leading to a slower, colder, more mellow color for this period)
But I also associate the intense moments in his life with red and yellow. The blood of the polar bear, his red coat and the heat of india, when he's confronting Baxter.
As for an overall pallete, I would say something with muted nuetrals. That understated but comfortable feeling of colors like dark brown, white, mahogany, warm beige, with an accent color of gold. Maybe navy? Something you could come home to.
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