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“Blasphemy—”
The word tore ragged from Flins’ throat, half-snarl, half-prayer. His chest seized as he braced for the inevitable—the white flash of Rerir closing in, faster than his weary body could dodge.
Like a moth to flame. Like prey already caught in the snare. No matter how far Flins fled, no matter how many times he raised his blade, there was never escape from him.
A growl rumbled low in Rerir’s chest before his hand clamped Flins’ collar, dragging him down. Stone, water, impact. The shallow pond broke his fall, and as the ripples spread, Flins glimpsed himself in its dark mirror.
He blinked once. His reflection did not blink with him.
Above, the stars bled into the endless black of Nod-Krai’s sky. The graveyard slumbered in that familiar darkness—a silence Flins had always craved. Sunlight did not sear his skin, but the clamour of the living always did. Here, among the graves, there was peace. Ominous, yes, but comforting.
But comfort dissolved beneath the weight of Rerir’s gaze.
Those crimson eyes burned into him, sharper than any silver stake. His breath faltered, his limbs sluggish with a weakness he could no longer conceal.
He had not fed. Not properly. Not in weeks. Duty had stripped him bare—endless nights of fending off the Hunt, endless days tangled in mortal obligations. His strength had dwindled, and now he was laid open, frail as a dove loosed too long from its cage.
Rerir saw it. Rerir always saw.
The dhampir’s defiance flickered, dim, hollow, no longer the blaze it once was. And still—the vampire’s hunger did not wane.
Because Rerir was infatuated.
With the fight. With the falter. With him.
This was no battle. This was a hunt, a neverending game of wolf and lamb.
The water rippled around Flins, cool against his skin, clinging to his clothes like chains. He didn’t dare move.
Not with Rerir crouched above him, shadows folding around his pale frame as though the night itself bent to his command.
“Pathetic,” the Sinner growled out, the reverberation low—like the first warning crack of thunder before the storm. Smooth, rich, unhurried. “Is this all you have left?”
Flins swallowed. The back of his throat burned. His fangs ached, a humiliating reminder of his own neglect. He forced himself to sneer, though the expression trembled on his lips.
“You overestimate your importance,” he managed, each word dragged from lungs too tight. “I’ve wasted my strength on better things than you.”
Rerir tilted his head, white hair falling in a silken curtain across his bandaged cheek. His eyes burned, twin coals aflame in the dark. Watching. Always watching.
“Better things,” he echoed, as though tasting the phrase. A slow smirk bared sharp teeth. “And yet, here you are. Gasping. Bleeding your strength into the dirt like an injured beast. And I…” He leaned closer, hand pressing harder into Flins’ collar until the water licked his jawline. “…I am the only one who notices.”
Flins’ chest stuttered. His reflection shivered in the ripples beneath him—fanged, hollow-eyed, monstrous. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if it belonged to him or to the one looming above.
“You haven’t fed,” Rerir said, softer now, almost coaxing. “Not properly. How long do you think you can keep up this righteous charade before your body betrays you?”
“I don’t—” Flins started, but his momentary resolve cracked under Rerir’s stare.
The silence that followed was heavier than chains. Rerir’s hand shifted, fingers brushing against the damp skin at Flins’ throat—not a choke, not quite. A promise. The pulse there stuttered beneath his touch.
“Blasphemy,” Rerir whispered, almost mocking Flins’ earlier word. His breath ghosted over Flins’ porcelain skin, cold and maddening. “You deny yourself what you are. You deny me what I want.”
The night pressed in. The stars swam in the pond. And Flins—against every instinct, against every oath—felt his body tremble with something far more dangerous than fear.
A low, guttural sound left Rerir’s throat—a command in itself. He didn’t even need to raise his voice. The air shifted, charged, and the shadows at the edges of the graveyard stilled. Red eyes blinked from the treeline, hundreds of them, gleaming like scattered embers. The Wild Hunt.
“Enough,” Rerir rowled. A single word, dragged across his tongue with sovereign finality. “Disperse.”
The chorus of beasts faltered, restless for blood, but they obeyed. As though the night itself exhaled, they slunk back into the fog—fangs clicking shut, claws dragging one last time through the dirt before melting into the dark. Silence reclaimed the graveyard.
Only the pond lapped at the stones now. Only the two of them remained.
Flins’ chest heaved, his body caught between fight and collapse. He tried to lift himself, to regain even a shred of dignity, but Rerir pressed him down again—unhurried, deliberate.
A predator pinning prey not to kill, but to claim.
“Look at you,” Rerir murmured, his voice velvet over steel. “Empty. Starved. Too proud to admit it.” His grip adjusted, fingers sliding to Flins’ jaw, forcing his gaze upward. The red in his eyes burned hotter, crueler. “So I’ll admit it for you.”
Flins trembled, yellow eyes wide, fangs aching behind his lips. “Don’t—”
“Feed.”
The word cracked like a whip. No room for refusal. No room for breath.
Flins’ throat bobbed. His hands shook as they rose—hesitant, trembling—as though touching something forbidden. His fingers brushed the edge of Rerir’s collar, the layered black bandages wound tight over his throat, symbols of sin and sovereignty. For a heartbeat, he froze.
Then he pulled.
The fabric loosened under his fingers, baring pale flesh beneath. Veins like dark rivers ran close to the surface, the Abyssal energy raging within. The sight alone undid him.
Flins’ fangs pierced skin.
The first taste destroyed him.
A moan ripped from his chest before he could stop it, raw and desperate, the sound of someone drowning in ecstasy. His whole body shuddered, knees buckling against the stone. Tears blurred his vision even as he drank, hot streaks running down his cheeks. It was unbearable—the way the blood slid down his throat, richer, sweeter, sharper than anything mortal or divine.
He had forgotten. He could never forget again.
Rerir groaned low in his chest, the sound reverberating like a sinister purr. One hand tangled into Flins’ damp hair, yanking at the roots just enough to force his fangs deeper, to make him take more. “That’s it,” he muttered, voice a rasp of smoke and hunger. “Good. Finally being good.”
Flins whimpered against his throat, nails digging into Rerir’s shoulders at a desperate attempt to scramble for purchase.
Rerir’s gaze flickered, for the briefest moment, to the ground beside them. There lay the Ratnik lantern, its faint glow trembling across the stones—the very object their endless war had revolved around. His prize. His birthright.
He could have reached for it. Claimed it while Flins was on his knees, trembling, undone.
But he didn’t.
His grip only tightened in Flins’ hair, tugging until the dhampir gasped and latched harder, obedient even in desperation. “Drink,” Rerir ordered again, softer this time, yet still with that remaining cruelty laced underneath. “That’s all you’re good for.”
And Flins—Flins obeyed, body quaking, tears wetting Rerir’s skin as he fed like he would die without him.
Flins didn’t notice he’d gone too far until Rerir’s body jolted beneath his mouth, a low grunt vibrating in his chest. A hand tangled in his hair again, but this time it yanked—hard, sharp—dragging him off the wound with a wet tear.
Flins gasped, head snapping back, blood smearing down his chin. His lips were swollen, trembling, fangs still extended and slick with crimson. He swayed where he knelt, dazed, breath shallow and broken, pupils blown wide like a beast drugged on its own hunger.
Rerir just looked at him.
Looked at the mess he’d made—the blood dripping, the saliva shining on his lips, the way he still twitched forward as though his body ached to latch again. And something in that sight snapped.
With deliberate slowness, Rerir tugged down the bandages wound around his face. The cloth unfurled to reveal what lay beneath—the ruin of scars carved deep into pale skin, jagged lines twisting across his jaw and throat. Nothing Flins hadn’t seen before—yet every time, it felt like a revelation. The Abyss itself seemed to pulse beneath, veins glowing faint and otherworldly, as though the corruption had carved through his flesh and filled him with its venom.
His gaze burned like hellfire, searing, a brand pressed into Flins’ chest. And then—without warning—he slammed his mouth against the dhampir’s.
The force stole the air from Flins’ lungs. His lips parted in a strangled cry just as Rerir shoved his tongue inside—unnatural, serpentine, tasting of abyssal tar and iron. It filled his mouth too much, pressed against the back of his throat until he gagged, choked, tears streaming faster down his cheeks.
Rerir groaned, deep and guttural, chasing the taste of his own blood on Flins’ tongue. The sound vibrated against Flins’ lips, through his chest, sinking down into his marrow.
Flins clawed weakly at him, tried to push, but Rerir’s chest—broad, solid, immovable—pinned him against the stones. Muscle and weight pressed down like the inevitability of nightfall, crushing, consuming.
He sobbed into the kiss, his body trembling from the inside out, overwhelmed by the intrusion, the taste, the heat of it all. And still, something beneath the terror cracked, shivered, bloomed into a seeping heat. The same hunger that had undone him moments before flared again, sharp and unbearable, curling low in his belly.
Fear twisted into something filthier. Resentment into something desperate.
He hated the way he needed this. Hated how much he wanted Rerir to keep going, to keep destroying him until nothing remained but this ache, this ruin, this terrible ecstasy.
Rerir’s teeth sank into Flins’ lower lip, sharp enough to break skin. A hiss, a tremor, and then his abyssal tongue slid free from Flins’ throat, retreating with a wet drag that left the dhampir coughing, gasping for air. His chest heaved as though surfacing from drowning, each breath ragged and broken.
Rerir hummed, low and unamused, the sound vibrating against Flins’ lips. “So fragile,” he murmured, almost purring. “Even a half-blood needs to breathe.”
Before Flins could answer, a sudden shift of weight forced him to stifle another cry. Rerir’s knee pressed between his thighs—calculated, heavy—grinding against him with an ease that betrayed his strength. The dhampir’s entire body jolted, a shameful sound catching in his throat.
Rerir stilled only to tilt his head, red eyes narrowing with amusement. “Mm. There it is.” His voice dropped into a rasp, equal parts taunt and revelation. “All that fight, all that pride—undone by a taste. Was that all it took to make you tremble? My blood?”
Flins’ jaw clenched, but his hips betrayed him—rocking up helplessly against the pressure. His hands fisted into Rerir’s cursed bandages, pulling when he wanted to push, clinging when he wanted to resist. His breath came fast, sharp, trembling with humiliation.
Rerir’s smirk widened, teeth still glinting faintly red. “Pathetic,” he said softly, but his tone caressed more than it cut. “A Lightkeeper, a hunter, a dhampir feared by mortals and the Wild Hunt alike—and look at you. Drunk on me. Writhing like your body’s begging for me.”
Flins shuddered, sobbing once into the hollow of Rerir’s throat. The shame burned, but the need burned hotter—gnawing through bone and marrow, leaving nothing but raw want.
And Rerir—his hand slid again into Flins’ hair, tugging until their gazes locked. Obsession flickered between them, ravenous and unhidden. His eyes gleamed like the abyss itself, but it was not hunger for blood alone. It was possession. Infatuation.
“You’ve always been mine,” Rerir growled, voice breaking into something feral.
His knee pressed harder, rutting against the frailer male’s growing erection with no moment of reprieve. “No matter how far you run. No matter what you tell yourself. You fall apart in my hands. Every. Time.”
Flins’ hips moved again—helpless, traitorous. His breath hitched into a broken moan, pupils blown wide, body trembling against the weight pinning him down.
He hated him.
He needed him.
He was ruined already, and still, it wasn’t enough.
Something in Flins gave in.
The tension in his jaw relaxed first, then the tautness in his arms, then the fragile wall he’d been holding against his own need. He sagged beneath Rerir’s weight, trembling, eyes glassy and wide. His body, yes, reinvigorated by the vampiric, Abyssal blood coursing in his veins—but his mind, his heart, his soul—those had given up the fight.
He had fought too long, wanted too long, hated too long. Every clash, every endless night of steel and hunger, every desperate kiss half-buried in violence—they all crashed together now into a single, unbearable truth.
He… needed him.
Rerir felt it. Saw it. The break in the dhampir’s stare, the way his lips parted as if to protest but no sound came, only a small, helpless whimper. He had always known Flins would end here, in his hands, pliant. He had always hungered for this.
“Do you want me to take you?” Rerir rasped, voice rough, frayed with restraint. He bent close, lips brushing Flins’ ear, heat and cold mingling in the whisper. “Right here. Right now.”
Flins’ lashes fluttered. His lips trembled. And when he spoke, it was not an answer—it was a confession.
“I’m… cold, Rerir.”
The words broke like glass, fragile and pitiful. The water clinging to his clothes, the graveyard breeze, the stone beneath him—they had leeched what little warmth he had left.
Rerir didn’t hesitate.
With one arm, he lifted Flins from the pond as though he weighed nothing, cradling him against the solid breadth of his chest. The dhampir’s lantern lay abandoned in the grass, faintly gleaming, but Rerir reached for it—not to steal it, not this time. His long fingers curled around its handle, carrying it with them, a silent acknowledgment of what had always been theirs to fight over.
Flins’ head fell against him, cheek pressed to the cold plane of muscle beneath his torn bandages. He could hear it there, faint but present nonetheless—the thrum of Rerir’s undead heart. A rhythm steady as the grave, older than the wars they waged, older than his own curse. He closed his eyes and let it drown out everything else.
When awareness returned, they were elsewhere.
A clearing.
The graveyard’s edge opened into a tranquil space bathed in moonlight. No headstones here, no lingering dead—just the quiet hush of plush grass and the silver glow of the sky above. A place of reverence, untouched.
Rerir set the lantern down. It flickered faintly, casting blue flame against the white of his hair, the marred lines of his face, the Abyssal glow in his veins. He did not look at it again. His gaze was fixed entirely on Flins.
The dhampir lay against him, pliant, trembling but unresisting. For once, there was no push, no clash, no feigned hatred in his eyes.
Only surrender. Only need.
Rerir’s chest rose with a shuddering breath. Something in him—something primal, possessive, feral—wanted to tear into that softness immediately, to claim him until he broke again and again. But another part, darker and deeper, wanted to savor this rarity. To worship the moment as something sacred.
His hand slid once more through Flins’ hair, slow, deliberate, lingering on the softness. “How fragile,” he murmured, his voice low, almost cruel. “Pathetic. I should tear you apart for giving yourself to me so easily, my little light.”
Rerir’s words lingered in the air like a fog, heavy with derision yet laced with something that cut deeper than mere malice—ownership. My little light. It reverberated through Flins’ chest, branding itself into him with a heat no flame could match.
His lips parted around a single, broken whisper.
“Please…”
The plea trembled, raw, carrying none of the defiance that usually bristled in his voice. It was stripped bare, like the rest of him soon would be.
Rerir’s gaze intensified, crimson eyes narrowing as if to drink in the surrender written across every line of the dhampir’s body. Slowly, methodically, he lifted a hand to the soaked fabric clinging to Flins’ frame. The damp cloth peeled away under his grip, heavy with water, leaving pale skin shivering in the cool night air.
The Sinner had seen this body in all its glory before, beneath firelight and moonlight, in moments of fury and desperation when their encounters blurred into something between violence and intimacy. But never like this. Never offered, never obedient. The sight struck him through his unbeating heart like a stake, though instead of death it left only a perpetual ache for more.
Flins laid underneath the other male’s broader frame, bare beneath the moon, a vision both hauntingly fragile and devastatingly beautiful. His skin glowed faintly in the silvery light, his hair damp and clinging to sharp cheekbones, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. And lower—Rerir’s eyes flickered, darkening further. Evidence of his arousal betrayed him, aching and unmistakable.
The vampire’s jaw clenched. He was no stranger to Flins’ desire, but to see it laid bare without struggle, without defiance—this was different. This was holy.
Rerir leaned in, catching Flins’ mouth in a kiss that was startling in its tenderness. No violence. No cruelty. Just the slow press of lips moving with adoration, tasting the tremor of each breath. It was the kiss of a lover, of something eternal.
And for one terrible, perfect moment, Rerir allowed himself to believe what had long festered in the marrow of his obsession: perhaps they were soulmates after all. Not bound by fate’s mercy, but by its cruelty. Destined to destroy, destined to need. Each other’s ruin—and each other’s only solace.
Flins clung to him then, arms winding tight around Rerir’s broad shoulders as if to anchor himself against the weight of the night. His hips shifted helplessly, rutting up against the muscular line of Rerir’s body with a shuddering gasp. The contact drew a low groan from the vampire, muffled into the kiss, primal in its resonance.
Rerir’s sharp teeth grazed Flins’ lip, then bit down—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to sting, enough to warn. His growl rumbled against Flins’ mouth, feral and commanding. Patience.
The dhampir whimpered softly, trembling in his arms, but did not pull away. If anything, the plea in his body deepened, need woven into every shiver, every ragged exhale.
And Rerir, burning with want and worship alike, let the taste of surrender settle on his tongue as though it were far more delectable than blood itself.
The warning bite still lingered on Flins’ lip when Rerir pulled back, just enough to look at him. His crimson eyes burned with something far more suffocating than hatred—obsession, hunger, devotion twisted into something feral.
“Patience,” he rasped again, his voice scraping low as his hand trailed down Flins’ chest, fingers splaying over trembling ribs. “You’ll have me when I decide to ruin you. Not a moment sooner.”
Flins shuddered, head tilting back, breath shallow as the cool night air kissed his damp skin. He wanted to resist, to curse, to fight—but no words came. All he could manage was a broken sound, half a plea, half a whimper.
Rerir merely responded with a low chuckle, pressing his mouth to Flins’ throat. His lips dragged slowly over the flutter of the dhampir’s pulse, lingering there, teeth grazing with dangerous intent. Each brush of fang against fragile skin made Flins’ hips stutter upward, making him clutch tighter at Rerir’s shoulders as if he’d fall apart without the vampire’s embrace.
“You beg so easily now,” Rerir murmured against his throat, voice dripping with mockery that did nothing to hide the heat beneath. “Once, I had to tear it out of you. Now look at you. Quivering. Aching. Mine.”
His hand descended further, teasingly slow, tracing every line of Flins’ body with worshipful possession. He didn’t rush, didn’t grant the dhampir what he desired quite yet—he lingered on the edges, skimming close enough to draw out ragged gasps, never close enough to satisfy. Each touch dismantled Flins piece by piece, until he was arching desperately into the contact, until his voice broke again.
“Rerir—please,” he whispered, trembling with frustration, humiliation, and need. “I… I can’t—”
The vampire silenced him with another kiss, deep and consuming, stealing the very breath from his lungs. It was nothing like their old collisions of teeth and fury. This was slow. Loving. The kind of kiss that carved itself into eternity.
When Rerir finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to Flins’, his breath ragged, his restraint hanging by threads. “Yes, you can,” he growled softly. “You can beg louder. You can need more. You can break further. And I’ll watch you unravel until you’re nothing but mine.”
His hand finally moved where Flins ached most, the touch rough enough to make him cry out, tender enough to make him keen pitifully against Rerir’s chest. The dhampir’s entire body jolted, his voice catching in something between a sob and a moan.
His cock throbbed shamefully in Rerir’s palm, drooling messily upon his tensed, slender abdomen. The sheen of his arousal reflected the moonlight overhead, the holy glow upon their profane display of debauchery.
Rerir drank it in like lifeblood. Every sound, every shiver, every frantic clutch of Flins’ fingers into his bandages. He moved with agonizing deliberation, keeping him on the edge, never giving fully. Each thrust of his palm upon Flins’ cock drew another plea, another gasp, another desperate grind of hips that Rerir countered with steady, merciless control.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Rerir whispered, his own desperation bleeding through the rasp. “Broken. Helpless. Moonlight on your skin, trembling for me. You’ve always been mine, Flins—and tonight, you finally stopped pretending otherwise.”
Rerir’s palm worked him with unrelenting precision, dragging a symphony of broken gasps from the dhampir’s throat. Every stroke made Flins tremble harder, his slick arousal spilling over his own stomach in glistening trails. He tried to keep composure, to hold back, but the coil low in his abdomen was already tightening, desperate and merciless.
“Rerir—” Flins gasped, hips jerking upward, chasing the vampire’s hand. His voice cracked, caught between a sob and a plea. “Please, I—ah—”
Rerir’s grip shifted suddenly, pinning his hips flat against the earth. The dhampir cried out in frustration, struggling, his cock twitching helplessly in the cold air.
“So soon?” Rerir mocked, his voice low, cutting, but dripping with heat. “You’ve barely even begun to take me, and already your body’s begging to break. Pathetic. Or…” His crimson gaze narrowed, lips brushing against Flins’ ear. “Is it because it’s me?”
Flins shook his head, trembling, shame burning across his pale cheeks. “N-no—”
Rerir chuckled, the sound dark and knowing, dragging his hand away entirely. The sudden loss made Flins sob outright, clutching at him, desperate.
“Don’t lie to me,” Rerir whispered, pinning his wrists above his head with effortless strength. “You’re this sensitive because I own you. Because no one else could ever touch you like this. You’re mine inside and out—your body remembers even when your mind tries to deny it.”
Flins snarled weakly, trying to twist free, driven by desperation and instinct. But Rerir only slammed him harder into the grass, one hand restraining him, the other tugging his own pants down with sharp impatience.
A guttural groan tore from his chest as his cock sprang free, thick and massive, slapping wetly against his scarred abdomen. The night air bit cold against his flushed length, but the heat in his gaze never wavered.
Without preamble, without mercy, Rerir hooked Flins’ legs over his broad shoulders and drove himself in with a single ruthless thrust.
The dhampir’s cry shattered the clearing, back arching violently as his body stretched around him, velvet walls clenching tight, already moulding to his size as though he were made for it. His nails tore into the grass, wrists still bound above his head as Rerir pressed deeper, bottoming out with a guttural snarl.
“Archons—” Flins sobbed, eyes rolling back, words spilling in frantic, broken Latin—mantras of surrender, of devotion, of desperation—nonsense only for himself. His voice cracked into whimpers, each syllable dripping with pathetic need.
Rerir groaned low, savouring the way his body trembled, how easily he took him despite the brutality of the intrusion. “Every time,” he hissed, thrusting once, slowly—all the way in—making Flins feel every vein of his cock, every tremble of his walls as he took. “Every time, your body welcomes me back. You were made for this—for me, my little light.”
Rerir’s hips ground flush against him, forcing every inch deep until Flins could feel nothing but the sheer stretch, the brutal fullness within him. His entire body trembled, muscles locking and fluttering helplessly around the intrusion, pleasure and pain braided so tightly they were indistinguishable.
Pathetic sounds spilled from his lips, broken little sobs muffled against Rerir’s shoulder as he writhed beneath him. He wanted to curse, to resist, to hold some sliver of dignity—but all that came out were pleads and whimpers, as if his very breath belonged to Rerir.
The vampire’s teeth bared in a savage grin. His voice rumbled low, barbaric and devout all at once—
“Look at you. My proud little Lightkeeper—reduced to this. Writhing, sobbing, clinging to me like you’d die without my cock in you. Do you feel it? How perfectly you take me?”
Flins keened, tears streaking hot down his cheeks as his walls clenched hard around the thick length spearing him open. His nails dug furrows into the earth, wrists straining against Rerir’s iron grip, every nerve ending burning with the force of it. “Rerir—ah—Rerir—” His voice shattered into pleading nonsense again.
Rerir pulled back halfway and slammed back in, the sound of it wet and obscene, his guttural groan vibrating against Flins’ throat. His pace built—ruthless, punishing—yet every brutal thrust was gilded with words that laced poison with sweetness.
“Good. So good for me. My perfect little fucktoy,” he rasped, tongue dragging up the salt of Flins’ tears, savouring every broken cry.
Flins’ hips jerked upward, betraying him, chasing every thrust with frantic need. His shame was drowned out by the sharp coil burning in his belly, by the ache that begged for more, more, more. “Please—don’t stop, don’t—ah—” His voice cracked into a sob, his body arching beautifully beneath Rerir’s weight.
The vampire’s groan rumbled deep in his chest as his pace grew harsher, relentless, every thrust tearing another moan from Flins’ throat. He never let go of his wrists, pinning him utterly, as if to remind him who he belonged to.
“That’s it,” Rerir snarled, gaze alight with feral obsession. “Cry for me. Tremble for me. Every time you take me like this, you prove what you already know—your body, your need, your weakness. All of it is mine.”
Rerir could feel it—the way Flins’ body tightened, spasming around him, every clench screaming how close he was. The dhampir’s cock dripped shamelessly against his own abdomen, slicking his scarred skin with desperate arousal. Each thrust wrung another cry from him, each push dragged him closer to the edge of breaking.
Rerir’s crimson gaze burned as Flins arched, his slim body bending back so beautifully that the bulge of him was visible pressing through his lower belly. A vicious groan ripped from Rerir’s throat. “Look at that,” he snarled, voice thick with awe and hunger. His free hand pressed down firmly against the swell in Flins’ abdomen, grinding his palm over the outline of his cock buried inside. “You see that? That’s me, inside you. Filling you up so deep that you can’t even hide it.”
He thrust hard, precise, right against that sensitive bundle of nerves within him—and Flins shattered.
His climax tore through him violently, cum coating his own chest and stomach in pearlescent, messy ropes as his eyes rolled back, lips falling open on a silent scream. His body convulsed, walls seizing and fluttering desperately around Rerir’s cock as if milking him for more. Tears streaked down his cheeks as his voice broke into wordless sobs, clinging to Rerir’s shoulders like he’d drown without him.
Rerir growled low, feral, drunk on the sight of him ruined and trembling. “That’s it. There it is. My perfect little light—fall apart for me. Nobody else could make you come like this. Only me. Always me.”
He kept thrusting through Flins’ release, relentless, praising him between every guttural moan. “So tight—so good—taking me so perfectly—” until Flins was nothing but a trembling, incoherent mess beneath him, reduced to sobs and broken wails.
Then Rerir leaned down, lips parting against Flins’ throat, and sank his fangs into the skin already marred with countless scars—marks only he had ever left. His claim, carved again and again into the dhampir’s flesh.
The moment that hot rush of blood touched his tongue, Rerir’s restraint shattered. His climax tore through him with a ferocious snarl, hips jerking deep, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled into Flins with violent force. He stayed there, grinding deep, filling him so completely that warmth flooded and swelled his belly, rounding faintly beneath Rerir’s palm still pressed to his abdomen.
Rerir groaned, holding himself there, plugging him full with his thick length bottomed out. His breath came ragged against Flins’ neck, the taste of blood and sweet release dizzying.
But the roughness bled away as the haze receded. His hand loosened around Flins’ wrists, drifting instead to cradle his face, thumb stroking over a tear track. His voice, once cruel, softened into something gentle.
“Good boy,” he murmured against his skin, still buried inside him, still trembling from the aftershocks. “Always so good for me. You took me so well… my perfect light. My precious Lightkeeper.”
Gone was the predator, the merciless vampire. What remained was something rawer, deeper—obsession twisted into tenderness.
Rerir pressed a kiss to Flins’ damp temple, whispering more sweet nothings into his ear, grounding him, cherishing him like something sacred.
For a long moment, the clearing was quiet save for their ragged breaths. Flins’ chest rose and fell beneath him, slowing as the overstimulation bled into exhaustion. When he finally stirred, it was with a small, shaky sigh, his body writhing faintly beneath Rerir’s weight.
“You’re… so heavy,” he muttered weakly, the words more breath than sound, as if even speaking drained him.
Rerir let out a low, amused chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Mm, now you’re back to being all whiny,” he drawled, rolling his eyes. Still, he shifted, loosening his hold and helping Flins upright with surprising gentleness. He maneuvered them easily, drawing Flins into his lap, settling him astride his thighs. His cock remained buried to the hilt, heat still pulsing inside him, locking them together as though separation itself was unthinkable—even if it was inevitable, come morning.
Flins clung to him quietly, cheek pressed against his collarbone. The words slipped from him unguarded, soft and fractured, as if torn from someplace he’d been keeping hidden. “I… love you,” he whispered.
Rerir froze, the confession hanging in the night air between them like a blade’s edge. After a few moments, though, his lips curved into a smirk—crimson eyes glinting with a twisted form of satisfaction. He hummed low in his throat, the sound resonant, as if savouring the admission. “I already know,” he murmured, tilting Flins’ chin up with a finger, forcing his gaze. “And you already know I love you back, my little light.”
He pressed their mouths together before Flins could protest or retreat, kissing him with the same ruthless hunger he had fucked him with—yet now laced with the weight of obsession, of devotion so twisted it felt holy.
Neither made a move to part. Rerir remained buried deep inside, filling Flins to the brim, his essence still warm in his belly. Flins shifted faintly against him, but instead of discomfort, a soft sound escaped him—content, almost shy. The fullness was comforting, a tether he couldn’t bear to lose.
After a few moments, Flins’ voice returned, timid, fragile as though it might shatter the silence. “Will you… stay? Tonight?”
Rerir’s answer came low and immediate, almost a growl. “Of course.” He sealed the promise with another kiss—deeper this time, claiming, his hand sliding into Flins’ damp hair to hold him still.
The night settled back around them, heavy with possession and whispered devotion. Tangled together, body and soul, they were locked in something no battle, no rival, no god could sever. Toxic, codependent, consuming—yet to them, it was nothing less than love.
And as Rerir kept Flins flush to him, still intertwined with one another, he murmured against his lips with admiration that sounded almost like worship—
“Rival, lover, no matter what we may be—this is what we were made for, Flins. Made for one another.”