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#vampire x human
busycucumbermelon · 10 hours
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Hiding spot
Vampire x reader
 Warnings: overbearing, jealousy, mentions of sex , tell me if there’s more 
They love you more than anything, even when the love turns toxic, even when you never wanted it to begin in. God forbid anyone does you wrong 
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You are standing in front of a stove, where carrots, broccoli, noodles, Alfredo sauce, and chopped chicken lie before you. It's something you used to enjoy at the Academy. They mostly served it because it was nutritious and kept you in a good mood. The small house you're in may not compare to the spacious castle you live in, but right now, it's the only thing you wish to focus on.
The door shook with the steady knock that reverberated through the walls. Usually the siblings would just barge in as if entitled to your space, and yet here you were facing the unknown. The castle may have been stripped away, giving you time to cool off, but you still felt the lack of control, of agency. That knock was a reminder of your powerlessness.
You didn't like everything that came with being their "pet." You liked the attention, really, but something still felt off. They said "pet" in an affectionate tone and their eyes were filled with pure adoration. Yet you knew that this wasn't a good thing. Your family used the same term, and it wasn't meant positively.
They might not have treated you the same as your family, but in subtle ways, the abuse was similar. Your family threw buckets of dirty water, threw things, and criticized everything you did. You cleaned every nook and cranny, cooked all the meals, but they never felt you did enough and believed it was all an excuse for attention-seeking. While the siblings were quite different in their treatment, they still acted as if you were perfect and if anyone disagreed, they were committing a crime because you, their pet, were infallible. They put you in new, beautiful places, kept you close to them, but still utilized that same word, "pet," just like your mother and sister would mock you when they saw you cleaning. You felt as if you were being mocked for your effort, and this still stung you to this day.
Perhaps it was so overwhelming due to your lack of exposure to true affection. Or maybe it was rooted in the Academy training. Each night you'd be in bed with one of them, in their lap or placed somewhere to be painted. While it was beautiful, you knew that it wasn't appropriate. You could sense the servants' disdain, which reinforced the fact that you were in the wrong—that you were attention-seeking and seeking something you shouldn't.
Another sharp knock at the door startled you out of your contemplation, along with the sound of a window sliding open. You turned your gaze toward Silas, unsure of why he was here, and why he entered through the window. As you tried to make sense of the situation, another thought occurred to you: if Silas was here, who was at the door? Perhaps krollien or milmira, or maybe one of the other siblings.
Silas walks closer, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. “Mhm, what are you eating, darling?” he remarks as he nuzzles his head into your neck. His questions remind you that you are cooking, but your anger still persists, aimed at him and the others. His presence is so comforting, his body firm against your back; his tattooed arms squeeze you tightly. He missed you deeply, not that he ever expressed such things, especially after only a brief separation.
You know you can't get out of his arms, but you remain cold and aloof, choosing not to respond to his question. As you turn off the burner and silence envelops the room, he expects you to turn your gaze upon him. Instead, you fix your eyes forward, staring straight ahead, remaining in your stoic state. "Why are you mad at me?" Silas asks, pulling you close once more. He runs his hands underneath your shirt to feel your abdomen, his head tucked into your neck.
Silas grew increasingly resentful as he failed to grasp the reason for your anger, even as you continued to act distant and aloof. Frustrated, he grabbed a drink from the fridge and stormed off to the living room, leaving you to sort through your thoughts. You wiped your hands and approached the door, assuming another sibling was eavesdropping or trying to intrude. Yet, there was no second knock, only the deafening silence of your tense and uncomfortable surroundings.
Before you could grasp the doorknob, someone pulled you back into their embrace, turning you to face them. krollien stared at you silently and said nothing. Unlike Silas, krollien would readily grovel for your goodwill, realizing that, while he wasn’t initially responsible for your distress, he was complicit in the actions of his loyal servant. He is aware that his servant stole your space; hence your choice to retreat to an abandoned house rather than stay and endure their presence.
krollien nuzzled his face into your neck, covering your face with kisses and muttering apologies. "I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't know my servant would do that. I'm sorry, baby, I know you need that space to yourself," he said. His apology was sweet and caring, but it didn't negate the hurt that Jesse's actions caused. Although Jesse had never been particularly fond of you, you never believed she would take such drastic action. This incident has left you unsettled and uneasy, knowing that she is capable of such vicious retaliation.
You felt as though perhaps your thoughts were unfair, bringing a hint of doubt into your mind. However, when you meet his gaze, the seed of doubt blossoms into realization. Despite you having access to several rooms throughout the home, they still didn’t allow you a single spot that was actually yours. The siblings had even furnished this house for you; you’d mentioned it in passing once, merely joking that you'd make out with whoever furnished your personal space. You had no idea they'd take it so seriously. But it’s not like you use it. Even though the family provides many places you could retreat to for solitude, there are still problems with this setup. They usually refuse to let you stay so far from the castle, and they always interrupt you or tease you for taking time to yourself and decompress in the castle making you think back to the previous day and Jesse's actions.
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Today was your day with lilybet as usual. She was going for her nightly sparring session with one of her favorite servants, this was one of the only times you could sneak off to your little hiding spot. You didn’t notice, but all of the siblings had slowly started working in at least one hour, letting you have time alone in your private area.
A lovely cat, from the library, had once recommended a few books to you. One was a romance and two were fantasy. He'd usually just leave them on the floor in your little hiding spot. He was the one person in the castle, whom you had trusted enough to tell about your personal space. He was very honored and proud, that you had let him know about your precious hideaway.
Sometimes, when you forgot to close the curtain on it, he would. And he would also, occasionally tidy up after you.
Today was just like any other. lilybet left for her training just five minutes later and you made your way down to the library. The library's golden glow, provided by the sunlight outside, was warm, welcoming and gentle. Their mother had stayed on a traditional vampire cycle of sleeping during the day but the rest of the siblings had moved their schedules to something that was more common for human beings. This meant they could go out places with you more often.
There were large, long tables on one side of the library, with black bookshelves lining the back walls.The other side of the library, was double the height. Ladders leaning against the walls and a set of black wheels attached to the wall allowed Luke, the head librarian, and the only person who knew about your hiding spot to move around the sections faster.
Columns separated the middle sections and a large wooden desk sat, right by the door. A soft rug sat in the center, the perfect environment for a relaxed reading session. You quickly waved at Luke, and headed towards your personal haven.
Luke waved happily to you, his glasses resting comfortably atop the tip of his nose. The golden frames glimmered beneath the overhead lights and Luke's soft, weak voice called out to you.
"Oh, it's always a pleasure to see you. I hope you enjoy the books I got you," Luke said, always happy to share new books, yet not everyone appreciated it like you did.
You had fairy lights in your little haven. He'd always set them as your favourite colour, however when visitors came to get you, he would flash them red or turn them off.
Luke would often stall for you when visitors came to seek your company, chatting with them about a random topic, to throw them off track. He never outright lied, never actually revealing where your little hiding place was.
He was happy to have someone to talk to, even if he didn't really understand your trials and tribulations fully. It was nice having this small arrangement between the two of you, where he could keep you company in the vast library. Demi humans and other head servants often passed through, but you were different. Like a little sister that needed protecting.
Luke, the head librarian, was the main reason why you really felt like the staff was becoming used to you. They even seemed to like your company. Many of them felt bad for your unfortunate situation. It was no surprise that the siblings were constantly at each other's throats, now, even more so than before, as they argued purely about you. All the arguments they had, still included you, as everything seemed to revolve around you and your existence.
Even if you had better understanding of all the intricacies of what was happening in the castle, with the siblings constantly at each other's throats, solely because of their undying love for you, it wouldn't have made matters more easy.
Silas had forgotten to give you that one hour where you could slip away to the library and was preoccupied, doing something else entirely. He had been too burdened to spare the time. He had been far more invested with painting a portrait of you, instead.
Silas sat in front of a large window, the expansive rose gardens in the distance. An array of numerous different flowers could just barely be seen from the window seal. He would make you pose in various ways for his painting, sometimes letting you up from your spot for lunch. He liked to make an impression. His sharp teeth would latch firmly onto your neck, leaving visible yet subtle marks on your body that his siblings could easily spot. The twins were out of town, which meant that Silas had more days with you alone. This was the reason you had been gone from the library for so long.
Jesse had grown used to spending time with her master, krollien . The peaceful moments were a welcome change from the constant arguing she normally had to endure. She often kept him too preoccupied to bicker with his brother. Sometimes she would withhold documents, just so that you could stay with Silas for longer. The twins being out of town had made that situation even easier. Jesse had gone to the library to acquire more books, that's when she noticed something.
As Jesse was perusing the history section of the library, she happened to glance upon a book, mixed in between all of the others. Its label could potentially have been mistaken for one on history, instead of a fantasy novel. Perhaps Luke, the head librarian, had been slipping up and not arranging the books as he was supposed to.
Jesse was a very devoted servant, she would have words with Luke later. She had a big interest in ensuring that her master could get whatever he wanted and needed without issue. She had no issues with her place as his servant, however she did have the realization that she wanted something more, something meaningful. Krollien’s actions frustrated her greatly and she despised that he enjoyed those squeals when he occasionally lost his temper. She was tired of it all.It was tiring for Jesse to consider how much krollien had loved you, without a second thought. She disliked how quickly his anger subsided when he laid eyes upon you, how he would often dig his claws forcefully into his desk, then remember that his brother had seized you for himself. He’d apologize to you and whisper in your ear when he was in a temper, gently biting into your neck. It was irritating for Jesse that he seemed to enjoy your discomfort, yet also apologized after.
Jesse remembered all the times when krollien focused his time and attention on her during the training process. The feelings of being cherished and adored had filled the servant with affection. She remembered when krollien would tell her to leave the room, only to return with you, trying to push him off and struggling against him, before he'd hold you in place, lips locked with your own. Jesse gripped the book harder and her hand quickly turning to put all the books back in their spot, hoping it would take her mind off of everything. Off of krollien
Jesse was supposed to acquire a selection of books for her master, placing them in their correct sections. As Jesse was putting the fantasy book back in its place on the back of a shelf, which received little attention, a curtain caught her attention. It was a relatively recent development and piqued her curiosity, so she cautiously peered inside. Jesse was absolutely enraged at the sight of everything she laid eyes on within the curtained area. It was filled with plush padding, a few pillows, string lights all around the edges and even a cup holder. An additional factor that infuriated Jesse was the inclusion of her master's hoodie. She recalled the day he sent her away for an entire night.
You lay across the bed, the sheets pulled half hazardously up to your waist. The hoodie looked disheveled, and hand prints were scattered along your hips. krollien had obviously become lost in his cravings and didn't bother to clean up the aftermath as properly as he should have. The evidence of his work was still left on your neck in the form of dark hickeys and the firm bite marks which still contained the slightest trace of dried blood. krollien was shirtless and busy, examining a few documents at his desk, going over what had riled him so drastically.
Christine ripped apart the pillows, cushions and fairy lights, furiously throwing them out of sight as she felt rage overtake her. Luke was enjoying his lunch with the other servants. This was something you suggested in an attempt to make him more social. Christine continued to tear into everything, except for the hoodie, which she hugged aggressively, her nails digging into its fabric. She could smell her master’s scent and your scent and it agitated her. She hated that your scent clung to the hoodie, it infuriated her beyond reason.
Christine stormed around the library with a newfound purpose, finding every book that was out of place and making sure to place it where it belonged. Every book’s cover was ruined by her nails, leaving very evident marks as she was furious. After a while, the shelf was completely full and she was panting, but at least she looked satisfied for now. The removed curtain no longer stood in the way of the secret shelf on the very bottom.Christine wiped off her skirt after completing her little project. Her master’s crest was visible, and she walked out of the library, content with her actions. There was no more hiding spot, no more spot for secrets. The library was back to the way it had been before you had arrived on those fateful grounds, a state that the servant considered to be perfection. At least that was what her own opinion was.
“Silas, stop!” You tried to speak between his endless kisses which were planted firmly along your neck. He whined against you, unwilling to stop his attention, no matter how much he wanted to. The thought of you spending time in the library was at the very back of his mind, he had to have a taste of you and make use of you as his canvas. He was the one who was at fault for poor planning, yet he couldn’t blame you. He couldn’t resist your mouth-watering blood , a fact that was both maddening and appealing.
Silas gave into your pleading and released his hold on you before moving away a bit. He rolled his eyes, clearly upset at the rejection but not one to waste time whining. He was interested in what you were reading, so he suggested you share it with him. You weren’t so eager to share, however, and insisted he let you go to the library alone. He agreed, but secretly planned on making you show him your hiding spot sometime in the future. He was smart and knew when to bide his time.
You were convinced that your secret hiding spot was, indeed, just that- a secret. The reality of the matter was quite different, as you were unaware of the fact that all the siblings had already discovered it previously and simply lied, so you could continue to enjoy the illusion of privacy. However, due to your paranoia, you were unable to feel completely at ease, and moved on to your special spot within the depths of one of the unused bookshelves.
The siblings had already uncovered your hiding spot, yet they continued to let you believe that it was secret, as they understood that you liked it that way. As you walked into the library, you took a brief, yet alert, look around. Nothing caught your eye, but the anxiety remained that a sibling may still enter and discover your hide-out. You didn’t want to stand out in the open any longer than necessary, especially without something to occupy yourself with. So far, nothing looked intriguing.
You were on your way to your usual safe space when everything that was once so comforting seemed gone. The curtains, the cushions, the fairy lights, the hiding spot… it was just a regular shelf now, no different than the rest, just filled with books. You panicked in the moment as your emotions swirled in an unsettling way. The thought of being discovered by one of the siblings struck terror into your heart. You rushed to the armory to settle your nerves, but the anxiety remained as you doubted it was Silas, nor could krollien have done such a thing either.
You'd slowed down to speedwalking, feeling your breath quicken, your body tighten, and the temptation grow to take deep breaths.
"Hi, love," lilybet had grasped you from behind, pulling you close to her as she'd just returned from one of her training sessions. She'd noticed your movement back down the hall, assuming that it meant you were attempting to escape yet again. After all, you hadn't seen her for several days and it appeared that you were once again eager to leave.
You had quickly turned to avert her, but your words were stilted and awkward. "The library, I um," was all you managed to squeak out. Lilybet offered a puzzled expression and inquired, "What about the library, dear? Do you want me to come along while
you pick out a new book?"
Tears pricked your eyes as the thought of having to divulge the location of
your hiding spot struck you. Since it no longer existed, it was all in vain anyway. As your thoughts quickly spiraled and the exhaustion of it all became apparent, you threw yourself into Lilybet's arms and buried your head against her. The sudden movement startled her, but she quickly drew you close and held you tightly, as though attempting to soothe your troubled mind.
Lilybet, who possessed superhuman physical capabilities, effortlessly lifted you as though you were a small child. She proceeded to walk you towards the library, where she intended to seek out the source of your distress and address it accordingly. Whether it would receive "proper attending to" or a harsh "punishment" was contingent on the nature of the offense, to which she was currently oblivious.
Lilybet walked over to one of the tables, setting you down in the chair. "Come on, love. I can't do anything unless you tell me what's wrong." Your eyes stayed on your hands, shaking in your lap, tears periodically dropping on your folded hands. Lilybet knelt down, rubbing up and down your calves with her head on your knee, silently pleading for you to look at her.
In some ways, Lilybet was the most lenient with you. She didn't mind if you weren't by her side all the time, as she had her own things to do as well. Sometimes you would get away, but she would also be the one to leave the most marks on you besides Silas. Perhaps it wouldn't be that bad if she knew. Maybe she could figure it out after all. You had no clue, and you were not going to start asking around.
You slowly stood, walking to the back of the library. Lilybet’s hand was still in yours, clinging. She could almost forget that you were upset. Usually, you’d have to loose grips while holding any of their hands, but today, your nails were biting into her skin. This was a sweet, kind of pain, something she could get addicted to.
You stopped in front of your usual hiding spot. Your grip tightened on Lilybet, who immediately noticed the spot where you always run off to. Except there was simply books.
"Oh, love," Lilybet’s voice was almost teasing; she pulled you into her chest. "It's gonna be okay. We can put your spot back together and I'm sure we can figure out who those nail prints belong to," she offered comfort.
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"Umm, krollien ," lilybet leaned against the door frame of his room. She knew this was going to be difficult, but it was best to regroup.
"Miss lilybet," Jesse bowed to lilybet, as krollien looked up from a few documents.
"Yes, sister?"
"So cut to the short-," krollien turned to lilybet.
"The human is mad and staying in that house by the village," he replied.
This caused Jesse to stifle a smile that pulled on her face, though she remained silent.
"Why what happened? Is it just because the schedule is mixed up? Did Silas do something?" lilybet shrugs; she wasn't sure herself.
She knew you liked your hiding spot but the fact that they hadn't told you that they knew, that she didn't think would make you upset.
"Well she may have figured out that we know her hiding spot and someone filled it in and she was very emotional. I'm not quite sure if Silas has anything to do with it. I just thought I'd let you know."
Jesse interrupted. "Master, I'm sure it's nothing. The human is being dramatic and she'll come back in a few days," she whispered the last part, a part of her really didn't want you to come back.
No, all of her didn't want you to come back.
lilybet looked up at Jesse from where her head was lodged back on the door frame, thinking about you. "You told her? why?"
"No, why would I tell her? Perhaps it was one of the other servants who just passed information along. After all, they’ve grown quite fond of her." lilybet looked up at her brother, nodding along, she didn’t have enough energy to question Jesse.
"I suppose you’re right, but that doesn’t explain who filled it in. They were mad, there’s claw marks in every single book," she pointed out to him.
"Personally, Jesse believes that the books should all be in the right spot. There's no need for nooks," she expressed, folding her arms over her chest.
krollien spins in his chair to face Jesse as lilybet sets off from her leaning position. "Jesse? Did you?". krollien interjected. "I swear if I find out you're the reason my love is mad at me now. Mad at all of us, right now, you will severely regret it," krollien concluded.
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I didn’t know what else to put and I got really tired so this is all you get if you like it, let me know 
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werecreature-addicted · 2 months
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Vampire whimpering and moaning while he drinks your blood and he gets all breathless as he tells you how good you taste and also he’s jacking off the whole time. Think about it.
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theres-a-body-here · 3 months
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Having a Vampire Boyfriend would be so fucking funny
Like imagine cooking and accidentally cutting your finger while chopping carrots or sum shit.
"Fuck!" You exclaim, flinching away as the knife clatters to the countertop. Blood drips down your fingers as you hold your wound close to your body.
Your vampire boo is immediately on you. He gently grabs your hand, wanting to see the damage.
It's not too deep.
He grabs a napkin and cleans the blood. "You have to be more careful, love," he mutters softly.
You flush slightly, a bit embarrassed at his coddling. "I'm fine, really."
He finishes patting your wound clean and presses his lips to your hand. His cold skin feels refreshing against the heated injury, making you let out a soft sigh. He pulls away as he holds the bloodied napkin a little too protectively.
"So..." he begins, nervously fiddling with the napkin. "Can I?" He bats his eyelashes as his voice borders on begging.
You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. At least he asked this time.
You turn to look at him. "Sure, but don't be weird abou—"
Him immediately:
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angelltheninth · 5 months
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I know halloween has passed, but my love of monsters is still present.. may I request an adoring vampire husband taking his innocent little human wife’s virginity? Thank you so much♥️
Any day is monsterfucker day, not just Halloween.
Pairing: Male!Vampire x Fem!Reader
Tags: nsfw, smut, biting, drinking blood, first time, virginity kink, loss of virginity, wedding night, gentle!Vampire, innocent!Reader
Word count: 0.7k
Ao3
A/N: Found a really good way to mix these two into one.
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"Will this be panful? I've heard that the first time is often-" Your husband kissed you softly, his sharp fangs and cold hands acting as a reminded of what he truly was. Yes, to others he was a bloodthirsty monster, and you thought so as well when you were given to him as a sacrifice a year back when he first showed up in your town.
But you were not a prisoner to him, you could come and go as you pleased, as long as you came back to him, which you always did. Your friends were worried about you still, not warranted in your opinion, still very sweet of them. Especially after you told them of your wedding to the great vampire Lord.
"If it hurts them as they say then your friend's husbands are poor lovers. If you worry over it that much I can provide you with a small distraction." He smirked up at you, red eyes sparkling just like his fangs, elongating just a little in anticipation. His fangs weren't the only thing anticipating this. For someone so cold his cock was always warm to the touch, you were actually still surprised by it after you stroked it so many times already, and shy.
"But it's so much thicker compared to your fingers, and my own. What if I… what if I'm unable to…" You groaned when he pushed you down to the bed and spread your legs by messaging them upwards, stopping just shy of your wet cunt. "I don't know how to make you feel good like that."
"You're misunderstanding, it's I who will make you feel good. Me? I'm so close just from the thought of being your first, the one to take you for the first and only time. Mine." He pushed his cock over your cunt, feeling the horny juices coating his length. He could just take you, be as rough as he would like, bring you to the edge of being broken and then back again, but that wasn't who he was anymore.
When you arched your back and your nipples pressed against his he flinched, his cock almost slipping in, you could feel the tip there.
"Hold still. I wish to taste the change in you as you become mine." The biting always drove you crazy, your legs always went weak when his fangs pierced your skin. He was able to make you come just from that, a discovery that he took advantage of many times in the past year. "I know how much you enjoy this." His fangs ghosted against your neck, all the way down to the bite mark he always left there.
You could sense he was waiting for you, the final word, "Yes."
It was his fangs that took you first, the familiar piercing pain followed by the ecstasy that was the pleasure of his lips on you, his moans as he sucked, the slurping and finally his cock pushing inside you for the first time ever, hips moving as he sucked, making your head feel fuzzy.
"Holy god." He moaned against your skin, "Apologies my darling, I couldn't contain myself. When I tasted the moment I took you for my own there couldn't help but claim you from the inside as well. Does it feel painful at all?"
"No." You wiped the blood of the corner of his mouth with one hand and placed the other on your lower stomach, "It feels warm, to have you inside me like this." Not only could you feel his cock twitching inside of you, but also his cum dripping down from you, much like the blood dripped from your neck. He groaned as your pussy squeezed around him again. "Isn't it only fair that I drain you as well?"
His laughter made you smile so hard it hurt, "I've not been drained since being turned. But you are more then welcome to. As you say, it's more then fair? There is only one difference, I will also make sure to give you just as much cum back." He was already hard again, he was hardening while he was inside of you, hitting against your front wall as it happened.
Your whole body felt aflame with no pain, only pleasure of being both filled to the brim and drained at the same time.
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viccerys · 6 months
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Olrox and Mizrak sketch dump
We didn't see them kiss so I took matters into my own hands ✨
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jelliedink · 4 months
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Ancient Vampire Partner as a Service Top Headcanons
Warnings: Pure smut. Mentions of death, blood, violence. No gender specified, but reader do get periods. Implication of abusive relationship. Author's note: I wrote an extensive introduction to this post, but then I realised that was mostly me rambling. So I decided to get straight (and kinda gay) to the point. Shall we? Divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
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Here's my take on how I think the sexual dynamic between a human and their ancient vampire lover would go:
Your ancient vampire partner knew they had to be gentle and careful with you. Much like us when carrying a newborn puppy, they were aware of how easily your bones could break if they got too excited. Since sex for them was now more of an echo from their human days and not a survival need, they were ok with going without sex for long periods of time, perhaps waiting until you were ready to be turned. For now, they thought it was safer to wait.
You, on the other hand, were very much not ok with this. You were human, your body evolved to make happy chemicals from sex. As if that wasn't enough, the main survival strategy of your partner's species was looking hot as fuck to lure humans, getting their thoughts so clouded by lust that they'd ignore the stone cold touch, the sharp fingernails, the bluish hue of their skin and the sharpness of their teeth. Your whole body went crazy just by looking at them.
They knew you couldn't help it. So, whenever you were needy and in the mood, they didn't mind putting you on their lap, back against their chest, and touch you until you've had enough. They loved being able to make you feel good, whispering on your ear while playing with your body: "What do you want to try today?" "Do you want me to get one of our toys?" "Does it feel good like this?" "Is this intensity enough?"
In the days you desperately needed to feel them inside of you, they ignored their own desire while watching you ride them mesmerised, gently guiding your hips up and down while kissing and caressing whatever part of your beautiful, soft and warm body they could reach. God, how pretty you looked with your eyes out of focus, using their body to get off and scratch that itch.
And when you were too tired they gladly took the lead, paying attention to your every reaction, focusing on how to serve you better: "Hold my shoulders tight so I can reach deeper without hurting you, ok?" "Slow and steady, precious, or you'll be tired before we can have the amount of fun you deserve." "Here, it will feel even better if you touch yourself too."
But they were far from being selfless. The moment you got your period they morphed into a feral and self-serving beast, unable to control themselves any more than a hungry lion would if near a trapped deer. This was one of the very few times they could feed off of you and they were not letting all this food go to waste.
You'd get properly cushioned in a comfortable position, a heating pad on your lower belly, your legs on their shoulders and they would lick you clean. Prepare to be there for a while, no amount of begging would make them let you get up until they're finished. Of course you always tried to. Every time this happened, they'd first try to convince you with love and praises, but their tone got increasingly more authoritative and mean until you couldn't recognise your lover anymore. "My baby, you taste so good." "How can you be so good to me, my little angel?" "Can't you hold on just a bit more? Please? For me?" "Oh, you're being tortured with too many orgasms? You poor thing, that sounds so terrible." "Pretty, you're not getting up. Don't think that you have a choice just because I'm trying to be nice." "Maybe if I show you how painful I can make it you'll realise how good you're having it stop being such a whiny ungrateful brat. You want this, my baby? You want me to hurt you? So don't make me hurt you."
In the end they'd kiss your whole weak body and your puffed teary face while begging for your forgiveness. They'd say they don't deserve you, they are a monster, they just don't know how to control themselves when you smell like this and they were so hungry. You'd be pampered: a hot bath, body massage, your favourite food, that thing you've been eyeing for so long but was way too out of your budget.
They'd do just about anything you ask for. Anything but promise not to do it again.
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2kmps · 6 months
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vampire x reader one-shot | 16.1k
story summary; you're a crime scene cleaner who happens across an advertisement for a mansion housekeeper in exchange for room and board. it's close to work, close to your university, and an easy job. the ultimate package. right away, you notice the owner's beauty as well as his eccentricities, but decide to commit to it. the spiral into depravity and debauchery begins when you're tasked with cleaning the site of a savage murder, solidifying you as a irreplaceable treasure.
story warnings; bloodplay, extreme dubcon, explicit noncon, cigarette burns, wounds inflicted on mc, implied masochism, extreme sexual sadism, hypnotism, graphic violence, gun violence, body gore, graphic details, heavy prose, unreliable narrator, religious themes, exploration of morality, obsessive + possessive behaviors, implied stalking, choking, murder, graphic depictions of crime scenes, manipulation/emotional manipulation, this entire oneshot is an allegory.
read the warnings! mdni under any circumstances! the events within this one-shot are not indicative of my personal viewpoints
thank you, @ceruleansol for the excellent proofreading.
this is a repost from my deleted blog, cardeneiv. please reblog/interact with this piece!
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Another internet search bore fruit.
The image bouncing back at you from your phone had been hastily taken with a tremble in your hand, all the while launching a few too many cautious looks across your shoulder to either end of the dim, long hallway making up part of the second floor. There wasn't any particular rationale for your apprehension and busy eyes but the belief the mansion owner wouldn't be too pleased to see you taking pictures of his valuables rather than cleaning them.
That fear hadn't stopped you from reverse image searching a good couple of curiosities over the widening gap of time you had been living there.
Tonight was a Chalmette table vase displayed on a pedestal in the hall; brassy gold gilding cradled a somewhat drab white bloom that reached high and sprouted open to a hollow inside. Similar surviving articles went for thousands.
You totaled the prices of everything so far as enough to outright buy a house on the more modest side of town.
There was a daring thought that loomed in the back of your mind, an ugly little thing that told you one or two missing antiques wasn't any big deal. He wouldn't miss them, let alone even notice they were gone, because he was the strangest man you had ever met.
Four months ago, he had only ever introduced himself by the name Montague, letting an anticipatory stillness hang in the air while you waited for him to finish. He never did, handsome features lifting as his dark eyes thinned and smile inched higher. He had you in a tight handshake.
"I enjoyed reading the resume you sent in with your response to my advertisement." He had traces of an accent intact but had cleverly adapted to one more common to the area. "You're the first person I've come across wanting the room who's done that. It really stood out to me. A crime scene cleaner? Must be a difficult job."
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"I know it was probably overkill, but I think this will be perfect for me." You were led to a suede armchair, his hand anchoring onto your shoulder to lower you into the seat. He sat across from you in something similar, one leg crossing. "I recently had to move out of my other place, and the university will be about an hour closer. My work won't be as far of a drive, either. I—I, uh, clean some gross stuff, so taking care of your house won't be anything."
Even after that spiel, Montague never let his smile slip. Rather, it seemed to widen as though delighted by your oversharing. He looked like a man basking in glee over a rare find, an offer he couldn't possibly turn away.
"All amenities in the house are yours." This was after he showed you to one of the rooms on the second floor: a capacious, well-dressed space behind a red door at the end of the hall. "As long as you listen to a few rules and keep things clean, we should have a very amicable... cohabitation."
You thought it was an odd choice of wording. "Okay. Well, what do I need to know?"
"No guests." It was immediate, his tone suddenly a touch edgy, razored, unyielding. "Not unless I give you explicit permission beforehand. I keep many important valuables; they're very dear to me. Also, do not invite anyone in unless I am there."
Again, odd, but it was his house.
"Sure," you said agreeably, having half the thought to write down these peculiarities of his. "What next?"
He was set on your shoulder, reaching out to pull a thin, frayed thread off of your jumper. "The downstairs—as in, the basement—is my personal space. If I need you down there, I will ask you for you to go down. You can go anywhere else in the house, on the property. None of it concerns me."
"Why the basement, though?" It felt damaging to press a question like that so early on, but you figured it was innocent enough. "This house is so big that we could be on the same floor and hardly see each other."
The muscles around his mouth twitched slightly, only once. You still noticed it. Noted: he didn't like to be questioned. "Sorry, I'm not trying to-"
"It's cold downstairs." he injected, shifting to look around the room as though taking in the newness of it as well. "I make sure it stays comfortable all year, all throughout the house, but the cold suits me best."
With how downright frosty his skin felt in that handshake earlier—on a mild day in mid-spring—you thought that explanation checked out. He must have only just come up to greet you at the front entrance.
You tried to forget the feeling. "Alright. Next?"
"Oh," he restrained an unseemly laugh, using one hand to crowd into a pocket on his dark blazer, "there is nothing else, at least nothing pertinent. It's my understanding that we're both quite busy, so this would be the current arrangement unless something changes."
What changes? You wanted to ask, thwarted to silence when he revealed some sort of silver thing pinched between his fingers with a thick handkerchief. It was a dainty-seeming contraption with chains linking several old skeleton keys at the end. The fabric he used to hold the clip concealed all of the elegant tracery that made up its shape.
"Traditionally, this is called a chatelaine. It’s something I’ve modified for you to get around the house. It’ll be easier to clean." Montague said, fast to force the mess of cold silver and chains into your palm, rubbing down his fingers with the handkerchief afterward. "The smallest key is to your room. The largest one opens the doors to go outside, so don't lose that. One of them is meant for doors in the basement—can't recall which."
He could see the wariness behind your eyes, a worrying crease forming in your brow. "This house has been around for a long time. I've just never gotten around to modernizing the locks."
Other questions came to you, but he hardly acted interested in entertaining them. You let him swivel on black soles, stopping him just as he reached the doorway.
"Why haven't other housekeepers worked out?"
Montague let his fingers rest on glazed woodwork framing the threshold, drumming out a soothing rhythm while considering an answer for all of two seconds. "In short? They couldn't follow the rules. Now, let me show you to the yard."
Afterward, the so-called cohabitation had become a seamless blend for you both. You had learned right away that Montague wasn't one for idle chatter and niceties without purpose. He had deviated from it once, on move-in day, to reassure you that the mysterious nature of your life schedule and odd hours you were called to a clean scene wouldn’t be a source of concern.
Shortly after settling your things around the house, the reason for his amenable attitude was a little more apparent. Several times a month, you would be pulled from your forensics projects to the landing at the end of the hall, piqued by fresh voices always indistinguishable at first, and folded your waist over the railing to see down.
The top of his head, hair short, impeccably styled, and ash-brown, was the first thing you noticed, followed by someone on his arm. Sometimes a woman, sometimes a man—always conventionally attractive, always utterly enraptured by him. It struck a nerve with you once or twice, finding your thoughts swimming bitterly: Of course a man who looked like him would go for types like that!
Why did he act so much differently with them than you?
He wasn't nearly as friendly and affable as he was making himself out to be.
You stopped peeking down on him after an instance where his eyes shot straight up, pinning you where you stood. He simpered at you before leading his companion away to the basement, and that was it. You never saw them leave and never bothered to ask.
Tonight was different, however, both in the way you nearly toppled the two-figure Chalmette vase off its pedestal with flighty fingers and a duster, and the echo of a scream piercing the hollow halls to you. It stayed in one spot on the first floor, luring you down the center staircase with your duster clutched to you like a sword. At that point, your heart bursting in your ears was louder than the agonized cries resonating around the corner.
You looked around, spine wrapped in dread as another scream, weak, garbled, and wet, came from the basement, and then nothing at all. It was soundless in the house. Distantly, one of the clocks mounted in the kitchen archway toned onward. You followed its beat with the shuffle of your feet.
Hello, hello? Those words clung tightly in your throat, yet you were too afraid to announce yourself like that. Still, nothing came as you slowly pulled at the basement doorknob, brass and freezing and unlocked. The stairway plunging down inside was filled with inky black, so dark you couldn't get your eyes to adjust to it.
Is everything okay down there? Hello? Hello? You ran the imaginary chatter through your mind, lips sealed but trembling during your slow descent, the path now illuminated by white glow from your phone. At the bottom, the stone stairs turned into seamless gray marble and red wetness crawling toward the soles of your slippers.
"What–" You gasped, taking a step back while flicking the flashlight higher, deeper into the basement. The vivid red puddle glistened in your light, widening around a motionless figure with pale skin—a blonde woman you didn't know. Her face pointed up at the ceiling, twisted in terror, black tracks of mascara curving along her cheeks.
She was naked on the floor, surrounded by her own blood, something you didn't have to look at twice. Your breaths grew harsh, taking in the sight of her neck, or lack thereof; there wasn't much left of it. Only a few stringy bits of sinew and muscle kept it from a full decapitation, and blood still pulsed out in spurts from mangled arteries and veins.
A motion nearby made your nape prickle. It was like feet padding across wet pavement after a fresh rain, except this smell carried the malodor of rust and something sour under your nose.
You settled a pillar of light on the source, capturing the view of Montague standing amid the bloodbath, sickly skin bare and saturated in rich crimson.
Something was wrong with him, came an instantaneous, instinctual reaction the moment his head spun toward you, catching pale eyeshine in the white light.
The bones in his jaw cracked as the length of it began to recede into the semblance of something more man to you, rows of jagged teeth retracting into the depths of his throat until only a pair of long incisors remained.
Montague skimmed the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, smiling at you affectedly, saying as though it were some trife thing, "She started screaming."
You were gone and out of the basement after that, clearing the woman's body and kicking away the slippers on your feet when they squelched with blood. Montague said something after you when shrieks ripped out of your lungs and reverberated through the house. You winced as the basement door let out a hollow rattle when he collided with it, heart matching the rhythm of the skin on your feet slapping against old marble, thoughts disarrayed, frantic the closer you got to the front door.
Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! You were panting in unison with the vicious chants.
The doorknob was in your hand. The door was open—and it was thrown shut with the force of your body thrust against it, fingers wrenched off of the handle and enveloped in Montague's cold fingers as he pushed himself flush into you.
You felt his palm clamp around your mouth, whittling your screams into panicked whimpers, nostrils flaring with your ragged breaths.
"Ah, no, no." He had to stoop his neck to talk into your ears. "Shh, shh, shhh. Far too loud. I don't like screaming. Shh, shh, shhhh."
Tears seared red behind your eyes, making you think you could follow the warmth down your face as they filled the crevices in his hand. "It's really, truly a pity. She was a pretty one but far too smart. I'm usually decent at picking out the ones who wouldn't suspect anything or, at least, catching them before they try to scream.
"You'll have to forgive me. I swear to you I'm not ordinarily that messy. I prefer to keep everything tidy, especially so you don't have to go down there. After all, you're already so busy. You're already doing so much. I can't recall when I last saw you relax."
The weight of his palm softened, a wordless agreement that you honored with continued silence as he used that arm to lean against the door. His voice shifted around your head to your other ear. "That's it. Just wonderful. There's no need for screaming, is there? It's only the two of us."
"Are—are..." You couldn't get it out, lips and throat suddenly sucked dry. "Don't kill me, please. Please. Please."
His chest quaked while a subdued, eerily delighted laugh hissed through his lips. "Kill you? Oh, no, no, no. Never. How could I ever kill you when you're so remarkable? My home has never looked so beautiful and lived in. I'm enjoying how it looks with you in it."
You wilted away from his lips sinking to a spot below your ear, now taking far too much notice of his erection curving up along your lower back. It felt disgustingly wrong to wonder whether the violence and blood turned him on, or it was you and your fear. The man wasn't even human; that much was clear.
"What are you?" There was no shortage of daring questions in your arsenal. Montague was beginning to find the charm in them.
"That's quite difficult for me to answer." He let his chin lay on your shoulder. "I've been called many things over the centuries. I suppose the closest anyone has ever gotten is vampire, but even that's not quite right. You're free to guess as much as you'd like, though."
He was satisfied when you didn't, freeing the weight off of his arm to slide his hand under the hem of your shirt, fingertips still slick with that woman's blood as he explored your navel. You were too aware of the roundness of his fingernails stepping across your flesh, sometimes pressing deep, and other times a light touch you needed to scratch. His throat vibrated against your shoulder.
"What are you thinking? I'd love to hear it." He wanted to devour your fear in more ways than just feeling you wince. "Well? Tell me."
"I want to go." Go? Where could you possibly go that he couldn’t find you? If he ripped out the side of a woman's neck, he could track you down.
He leaned his cheek into your ear again, relishing the warmth that spread into him. "Where would you go? Who would you tell? Humor me, where is the first place you'd go?"
"The police," you said.
Montague let out a pleased hum. "Of course. It only makes sense to report a terrible scene such as that to them. Forensics and the police play together often, don't they?"
Your nod was weak.
"I know how hard you've been studying, how much stress you're under to commit to your degree, your work—to me." His hand crept along to your stomach, fingers splaying wide across the protective layer of skin and fat. "Let's say they were to find something I left behind. Who becomes a suspect in their eyes when they learn that I have someone who tidies up after me? Who knows the dirty insides of cleaning up anything and everything?"
You were starting to panic, fitfully struggling against his body. It's like he was made of stone. "They wouldn't accuse me of murdering anyone."
"Haven't you seen the news lately? Are you so sure?" he said derisively. "No, perhaps you're right. Maybe you'd be fortunate, and they wouldn't have your head for murder, but they would certainly try to peg you with something else. As an accomplice, maybe? And that's assuming that I don't disappear and let rip you apart.
"Can you imagine it? Can you feel your heart break at the very thought of losing it all? Your degree? Your job? Safety? The world is cruel, darling. You'd never have another moment of peace or anonymity. Anywhere you'd go, you'd be found, every alias sullied with your sins. All because you decided to speak up about it."
You knew he meant to send you downstairs to do something about the mess, spend hours scrubbing and mopping until what had once been there was a secret that thickened your tongue and made it hard to swallow.
No one would ever find out, but you would carry it in every waking thought until, one morning, the cute barista on Market Street had an eerie semblance to that dead woman, and the light roast in your hand suddenly looked so red.
"Thump. Thump. Thump." Montague mocked the heavy thrum of your heart behind your ribs, his cold fingers skimming your nipples before resting over your sternum. "You can go if you'd like, but I'll find you. I'll hear your little heart until it bursts and drag you right back here. You're mine."
The push of his body gradually faded away, giving your chest the room to expand, leaving you to gulp quivering, greedy breaths that didn't stop even as the pads of his feet grew distant.
He called back to you, "Give me ten minutes or so, and then come down."
You were already partway through the front door with your car keys to pop the trunk when, floating like a spectre's moans in still night air, his voice reached out once more, "You may want to clean up yourself first. You have blood all over your face."
༺ ♰ ༻
A damp towel came before your descent back into the basement. In tow on your shoulders were three bags of absorbent, the fancy stuff hospitals liked to use to throw on puke and piss and anything else they just lazily wanted to sweep around. It worked for blood in smaller quantities, blood that was still wet, anyway.
The woman hadn't been dead long enough for her body fluids to dry, so you didn't anticipate needing anything except the basics stowed in your car trunk.
You weren't sure what you expected to see down there, noticing the lights were turned on high, fully illuminating the gray marble, the furthest reaches of the blood puddle with your slippers saturated dark red and ruined. What came as a shock was the woman's dead eyes and shredded neck being nowhere in sight.
Montague had moved her body but to where?
For some reason, you were drawn to ridiculous spots like the walls, ceiling, and tiny cramped corners that he could have feasibly stuffed her in. There was no sickly trail of blood leading any which way, droplets only reaching as far as the stairs and first landing where you had been pursued—nothing else.
Where did he take her?
Part of you was ready to turn a blind eye to all of this because you knew you would have to in order to keep everything. If you kept your head low and groveled a little bit, maybe he'd get bored and leave you alone, biding you the time you needed to finish your degree. But, that'd be two years of this.
You weren't sure you could stomach it.
As you moved granules of absorbent through blood with coarse bristles from the kitchen broomstick—shifting the puddle more than the actual absorbent—you wondered if he could hear your heart now from wherever he was.
You thought about a lot of things while letting your eyes roam the space. It was enormous, taking up the entire underside of the house, outfitted impressively with mahogany accents, sprawling bookshelves, armchairs, and loveseats pulled tight in leather and velvet. Across the room was a disheveled bed, creamy sateen sheets in a luscious heap but otherwise undisturbed.
To the adjacent end of this expanse were two doors you didn't notice at first, one a little taller than yourself in height, about as wide as any normal arm span, and looked old, so old that everything else was too new. Even from where you stood, you knew it'd take a skeleton key. The other door was more coherent with the rest of the basement, cleaner but certainly still part of the house's original construction.
By the time Montague had returned, you already had much of the ordeal pitched into a biohazard bag with some trace remnants putting you on your knees to scrub away. You hadn't realized he was even there until the tips of his shoes—brown leather loafers with a scalloped tassel near the toes—appeared in your peripheral, sending you launching back onto your hocks.
"This work is spectacular. I knew I had a good feeling giving that room to you." he said with a beguiling smile. All of the blood was gone; he was clean in a dark dressing robe with black trousers, a look you hated that you saw as alluring. "Don't forget to clean the floors upstairs. We made quite a mess there as well."
"What happened to that woman?" You were asking your pesky questions again. Montague wasn't so sure he found them as charming now, but you were still a prize.
You leaned away as he crouched in front of you, nearly risking the soles of his shoes in the blood and hydrogen peroxide. For the first time since meeting, you kept eye contact and saw that his reached a depth you didn't think could be possible for a human. He wasn't touching you, yet it felt like he had you caged, trapped in a vise that held you tight.
He did touch you then, grazing the side of your face with a thumb. Suddenly, he brought it to his lips and licked it as he rose to full height.
"You still had some blood just there on your cheek." There was an armchair a few feet away that he dropped into, withdrawing a gold compact from a chest pocket on his way down. "Don't worry. I wouldn't ask you to carry away the bodies. I'm not that Roman."
"That's not what I asked." you rejoined.
Montague tucked a cigarette between his lips, igniting it with a match he kept inside the compact. His first few puffs looked like they calmed him as he crossed a leg and settled deeper into the leather. "You shouldn’t expect answers to things you don’t need to know—or want to.”
But he humored you with a slight lean of his head towards the old door far away. "The original owner of this house was ingenious and built tunnels that were used to shuffle people in and out. Mistresses. Servants. More unsavory things—you must remember the era. At any rate, it stretches beyond the house and some ways off. I do not recommend ever going inside."
You understood now why you never saw any of the dates he brought home leave. And you believed every bit of his warning.
It inspired you to move away from the grim reality dwelling beyond that old door. You hovered over the same spot, drenching the floor with more of the disinfectant, grasping for a distraction. "I didn't know vampires could smoke. Isn't blood enough for you?”
Montague flicked his cigarette over an ashtray beside his chair. "Well, we all have our vices. Mine just happens to be five or six of these a day. Keeps enough of the edge off so you get to sleep at night."
Something about that comment made the entire stretch of the basement feel so confining—claustrophobic, even. Your back was wide open to it, to his ravening gaze and leather toe turning fluid circles as though to pace himself before lunging.
"I have class in six hours." You finished the job by tying off the bag. "I'd like to get the upstairs done and take a shower."
"Of course. Try to get some sleep, you've had quite a night." He didn't move to see you out. "Oh, and leave the bag. I'll dispose of it."
༺ ♰ ༻
Meredith Nimu died approximately twenty-three days ago after a stroke left her immobilized in her favorite armchair. Her body wasn't peeled away from the murky-green polyester until day twenty-four, following enough neighbor complaints about a bunch of rats dying in the vents.
Getting rid of the chair was half the battle in this case, something that Meredith's overzealous, recently divorced daughter spouted off as sacrilegious. She insisted that the carpet cleaner she used for her obese dogs with raw patches on their legs could do it all. Your supervisor had been inflectionless when telling her it didn't work like that.
One of your teammates, a middle-aged black man affectionately nicknamed “Hoss” had unceremoniously slammed the apartment door shut and flipped the lock so the daughter's rancorous eruptions were somewhat contained outside. The other half of the duo responsible for pitching the chair, T.J., a white man who could never tan, wheezed out a laugh as he labored a hard bristle brush through the gunk left behind from Meredith's decay.
"Boss ain't gonna be happy about that." T.J. couldn't commit to the act of a brownnoser even if he wanted to. A couple more chortles rattled through his respirator. They were infectious, ridiculous sounds that coaxed similar from Hoss when he rejoined the effort to get the job done and over with.
You could still hear the daughter on the other side of the door, never once allowing your supervisor a word in edgewise. A part of you wanted to pity her, perhaps conjure up a shred of empathy for someone so completely enmeshed in the throes of grief and anger. She was clearly spiraling, her entire life yanked out from under her—and she was free-falling with nothing to catch her, no thin wire she could snag in the bend of her fingers and watch as the velocity of that cruelly, cleanly severed white tendon and bone.
Where would she fall after that? You didn't know. You didn't care. She could regain control over her life even without fingers, but what about you? No one understood how disconcerting it was to know that your survival depended on a vampire's good mood.
An old woman was meant to expire, but you were young and had aspirations—yet that could be stolen from you just as quickly as a clot could kill the brain.
It wasn't fucking fair.
Hoss had called out to you repeatedly until the hard brushes stopped scratching the floor, and he and T.J. were settled back on their heels, staring at you. You were used to leveraging your commitments in life as a means to get them off your case, but even they could tell this was different.
"You've been real spacey lately." It was enough to gently reel you back to the moment, eyes unstuck from remnants of putrid matter hidden under a deluge of chemicals and soap. Now you were thinking that the landlord would probably have to replace this entire spot in the flooring. It would be an expensive fix.
"Everything okay at home?" Hoss tried again, emulating fatherly concern in his tone and sidelong stare. It was something he couldn't help since you were so similar in age to his adult kids. "I don't think I've seen you eat today. We oughta finish up here up and grab somethin' quick on the way back.”
"Sorry, yeah, it's just the usual things." They didn't know what that meant to you, but readily accepted with dour expressions masked by their respirators. "I think I saw a gyro truck down the street."
As many times as you had regurgitated the same thing when they pried into your well-being, you were surprised they still asked at all. That made it hard to wave after them as you pulled the lever to the trunk, waiting to be left alone once the job was done to stack half your weight in absorbent until the back bowed to it.
It was just past two in the morning when you were locking the front door of Montague's sprawling estate behind you. Every time you did, a part of you hesitated to seal it the whole way, as though if you did, your final traces of freedom would be stripped away entirely.
"Welcome home!" Montague came out from prowling somewhere in the shadows, seeming to materialize from the darkest parts your eyes couldn't adapt to. He was in a dressing robe again, this one forest green with gold embroidery and a burgundy handkerchief tucked away nicely in his breast pocket.
He already had a cigarette lit between his knuckles, fussing with the little stick as he went to an open window, sucked in, and expelled pungent gray smoke. "I apologize. There's a bit of a mess for you tonight. It's unlike me to be so untidy, but it shouldn't take you too long—oh, darling, don't make that face."
"Why can't you get blood from other sources, like a blood bank?" It's been on your mind for a while, but Montague had a habit of turning petulant if you asked him too much.
He was in good shape tonight, though, despite still puffing away antsily. "Where's the satisfaction in simply being given what I want? Blood banks are a finite supply, but out there"—he gestured through the open window—"there is an infinite supply from any walk of life that I so choose. Did you know that not all blood is equal?"
You sensed him at your back, awash with that same vulnerability as the night on your knees in the basement. He strolled along with you while you collected your things, examined his leftovers, which fortunately wasn't as sensational as before. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot almost, purple-red and pristine, obviously untouched for some time.
Just like that dead blonde woman, there was nothing left behind of the victim except what Montague was too careless to handle himself.
"The worst blood is what you find in hospitals or on the streets. It doesn't matter their type; it all tastes like shit." he continued, even while you worked. Just like before, he sat himself nearby and observed your process with gross fascination. "In a pinch, though, I do what I must. It doesn't matter if a man is homeless or a woman is looking for a night out. When I hear their hearts dance, that thump, thump, thump—oh, I have to have it. I can taste them through their skin, even before I sink my teeth in.
"The fear in their eyes. The ragged breaths I see in their chests, watching their bellies pulse. I like to think in those moments they know exactly what's going to happen, like little flies in a spider's web."
Montague let more smoke slither out from his lips in skinny, swirling wisps that dissipated once it touched the air. The haze of it remained, just traceable to your eye. "I always find it interesting that they all struggle, even as they're writhing in their own blood. Sometimes I'll count how long it takes for them to die."
These weren't confessions of a madman because that would imply he was human. He was treating you akin to the way an old man recounted the fondness of his flawed, flickering memories. There were sensations of joy and affection in the work he did, a true love and visceral desire for carnage and suffering that made it hard for you to stomach.
A few times throughout his soliloquy, you needed to bear your weight on the kitchen broom to keep yourself from toppling from nausea.
You shouldn't have been curious. "Has anyone ever survived?"
The surrounding space grew darker, not from loss of light but from the way his lower face sunk behind the hand wielding the cigarette. You saw his smile widen through sickly appendages and faint smoke.
His response pierced straight through you. "I'm looking right at it."
Suddenly, the urge to run rushed forefront in your mind, an instinctual reaction that you had trouble wrestling over with logic. The broomstick was easily pulled from your fingers and discarded onto the floor with a reverberating clatter that made your spine race with cold needles as Montague stepped into your proximity.
You shivered against the hands slowly climbing your neck to the underside of your jaw, cradling your face as he lifted it to meet his eyes. Something was so wrong with how black they were; you didn't see a pupil, nor did your reflection stare back at you in them. It's almost as though there was nothing there at all, the dark of them growing into an abysmal chasm that made your vision cross and blur, eyelids weighing like lead when you felt him kiss you.
His lips were the same kind of cold as the rest of him but full and unrelenting, never granting you the chance to mold the kiss in any other way. Surprisingly, the taste of stale smoke on his breath was just slight, a mediocre vexation you overlooked the moment his hands started groping you under your clothes.
And you didn't think much of it when your back settled into the clean linens on your bed, skin flushed with the crisp evening air and lips mapping their way south across your stomach and navel, delving lower to your core. It was too dark in your room to see down your body at the top of Montague's head, but you felt him with your fingers, coiling pieces of his ash-brown hair to your knuckles while he pushed your thighs wide open for him.
An anxious patter swelled in your chest, a vague understanding that something was horrible about this, but you were too wrapped up in a dreamy fog to think about it. More than the resounding boom of your heart, you heard your own breaths dissolve into lewd moans and slurred pleas for him to do more, more, more.
It didn't sound like you.
It didn't feel like you despite knowing that build-up in your abdomen better than most things in your body.
The hands in his hair, the back bending off of the mattress like an archway, the shaking limbs, and the cries begging for more were someone else entirely up until the very moment rapture fluttered behind your eyes in searing white, body deluged in hot release that left your scalp tingling and toes curling and spend on your sheets.
"Give me more." You tasted him again, his tongue pushing hard into your mouth where those salty notes of yourself lingered on your cheeks. His silhouette melded with the rest of the room, tangible only in the way he roamed every surface of you.
Montague had shucked the clothes from both your bodies earlier, preferring to lean into the flush of heat you radiated. Everything was only skin-deep away from him; he could feel your pulse throb on his lips when he teased himself against your carotid, your radial, trailing all the way to the powerful beat of your femoral nestled there in your groin.
His teeth came close many times to piercing you, allowing him a sliver of a taste like a parched king waiting for a drop of golden wine. But half the thrill of having you around was denying himself of you, knowing well that if he were to start, then he'd never be able to stop, and he'd fully hamper your dreams of escaping.
The air smelled like you now, heavy and like damp skin and your fluids soaking into the linens. He watched your face bunch and fall apart when he split you open with his cock, hips colliding, your skin sure to bruise as his thrusts turned savage. There wasn't much left in his heart anymore. Most of it had atrophied over the centuries, and yet the sound of yours spurred him on.
He could follow the path of your blood through your body, an extensive subject he had studied and dissected at length in his lifetime. The most vulnerable spots were gorged and worked the hardest, almost glowing red through your skin for him. When he thrust a little bit harder, a little bit faster, and felt your fingertips pushing against his chest, he heard your heart be the loudest it ever had been.
"That's it. That's it. That's it." His own breaths were ragged now. The sheer exhilaration of pushing his lips deeper, hot sweat leaving a slick layer on them, and that one big artery in your neck pounding out was doing everything for him.
Your frantic pants were a close second. He could feel you unraveling, tightening around his cock until you were soundlessly writhing on the mattress, clutching anything you could bunch together. The final few thrusts he made were purposeful; they were forceful and jolted your body, a show to make sure you wouldn't forget the feeling of him inside of you.
The clean linens were sodden with cum, some still dripping out of you while you lay there, legs splayed enough so you wouldn't feel it stick to your thighs. Whatever haze had been hanging over your eyes before lifted away, leaving you ruined and exhausted on the sheets but not alone.
"You've got class in a few hours, don't you?" Montague said from above, shoulders nestled in your headboard while one leg hung off the side of the bed. He was smoking again, acting the calmest you had witnessed him. "I don't really think you're in any shape for that. Why don't you stay home today?"
You were too spent to respond to him, somehow using the occasional breaths he blew out into the vast room to lull you into a dreamless sleep.
༺ ♰ ༻
Shin Nakamura had been a selfish man in life. Mid-fifties, thinning hair, and twice divorced from women who knew better—his tenants did not. He had built a reputation on the north side of town for hidden costs and faulty appliances that were never fixed. Once or twice in the past four years you had cleaned up scenes, they came out of Nakamura's buildings in the summertime, stuck to the floor and infested with maggots and flies in different orifices.
Everyone had asked at one point, yourself included, how he was able to get away with that level of blatant cruelty and disregard—and the answer was as simultaneously simple, complex, and terrible as poverty. The north end was an area notorious for local crime and violence, but more than that, it was forgotten in favor of gentrifying other areas of the city—pretty little boutiques that'd make a splash on social media and a couple of upscale dining spots, all of those meant to change the online scales deeming an area's walkability, and therefore, profitability.
The blind eye most city commissioners turned to the north end made it an easy life for Shin to do as he pleased without many consequences despite living in the area himself. Most of everyone found it an odd sort of justice when he was discovered in his office, unrecognizable from how badly the dozens of stab wounds had disfigured his face and body. One look was enough to know that it was personal, a tenant who had received their condemnation via a neon-pink eviction letter hastily taped to an off-white door.
Only, this time, Shin chose a person backed into a corner at their breaking point. There wasn't much left to lose, yet Shin had ultimately lost it all. Rumor had it that no one sold out the tenant who committed the crime, something even the more moralistic part of yourself could fathom.
These were the cases that painted a grim picture of your future in forensics and often speared to the front of your mind at the worst of times—could you really be part of the reason why a person shattered by the powers of society goes to jail?
Shin Nakamura was a terrible man, but were his crimes punishable by that sort of torture? What about the tenants who probably heard Shin screaming for help, crying in agony—were they any better than murderers themselves?
What did that mean for you? An accomplice who quietly scrubbed clean murders at a monster's behest, you allowed those people to be swallowed up by Montague under a guise of fear, or was it selfishness?
That discomfort lasted you your entire shift, like an incredibly nauseating pill with a bad smell that sat in your nose for hours. You couldn't wipe away the thoughts like you could dried blood on smoke-stained walls or lumps of serrated flesh and fat wedged between slabs of wood on the floor.
"Man, he coulda been cleaner about this." T.J. had his feet planted solidly on the middle step of a ladder, well at work with a long-handled brush pushed flat to the ceiling. The splatter had gone that far, earning a few awestruck coos from him and Hoss earlier. "It would've made our lives easier."
It was a normal joke.
You'd laughed at the exact same one many times before, even finessed your own commentary in there on occasion because the dead can't sue, and a murderer had no rights—but now, you thought it'd taste bad on your tongue.
The two hulking men noticed, far sharper than you gave them credit for. Or maybe you were just worse at hiding things than you thought. They didn't allude to anything until everyone was packed up in the van, dried from the sweaty protective suits and summer heat by the AC.
"Listen, it ain't my business, and I swear I've been trying my best not to ask." There was a furtive look linked between Hoss and T.J.; it was something they had talked about when you weren't around. "That guy you're living with. He isn't doing anything to you, right? You used to talk about him all the time in the beginning. Haven’t heard a peep about him in ages. God, you're not living in your car, are you?"
From the outside in, you weren't doing much to try to embellish fancy stories and reasons onto your drastic change over the months. You simply let it be and navigated every day with the hope you'd remember where you were going with your head down. It probably didn't look too good to a paternal man like Hoss, and to T.J., who had several younger siblings.
"No, it's not him—" But, of course, it really was and everything surrounding his cruelty, everything he made you do, and what you never refuted. "I'm just perpetually exhausted. I'm sure you've heard that from Sylvie and Deshaun while they've been in uni."
"All the damn time." Hoss beamed, chest perked a little higher with the mention of his children. It wasn't enough to diffuse the tension lingering in the van, however. "Just know, I'd do for you what I'd do for my babies—put the fear of God in that man. If he puts a finger on you, you let me know."
T.J. gave an agreeable hum, fingers sticking to the steering wheel as he moved them around, making a turn down some street. "We'll catch him by surprise and everything. I'll call in a couple favors, grab a few shovels and bags of cement from my dad's place. It's all good."
For some reason, their entire spiel only spiked your uneasiness, and suddenly you were far too aware of your bladder. It was enough initiative for T.J. to floor the gas and get back to headquarters, giving you the chance to break away and race the remnants of daylight all the way home.
༺ ♰ ༻
It had never happened before, but you managed to catch Montague by surprise when he walked through the front door to find you standing there in the foyer. The kitchen broom wrapped in your hands was a nasty ploy, along with the look you cast between him and a young man not any older than yourself.
Again, just like all the others, you didn't recognize him. Montague's victims were fast, fleeting fixations for him, none worthy of names or an identity in his eyes. You suspected this guy was much the same.
Montague's bewilderment was swept away by a smile and laxing posture. He had settled back into his element. "You're home early today. I didn't expect to see you until much later. Not much to the scene, I assume?"
"It was pretty bad." A certain stiffness trailed on the end of your words, letting them echo through the hall and hang in the cool evening air.
The young man was fast to perceive that tension: the tightness in your shoulders, fingers subtly wringing against the cracked wooden broom. Montague's anticipative smile climbed higher the longer he looked at you.
Would it be such a bad thing to turn around and pretend you had never seen him come home with that other man? You considered doing it, hiding upstairs and using your headphones until everything seeping through turned into an amalgamation of ambient noise that meant nothing to you, and you willed away the guilt like you'd always done.
In that moment, you thought about Meredith Nimu's apoplectic daughter, a woman so embittered by her own suffering that she was foul and relentless to anyone she crossed paths with. You thought about Shin Nakamura, a greedy, pitiless man who'd rather let coroners scrape up his tenant's remains rather than grant them mercy while they were alive and had been left in pieces because of it.
You thought of them and all their wickedness and edged your gaze towards the young man still standing in the doorway with his hand holding it ajar, clean fingernails picking at chipping paint, just steps from outside. "I think you should leave."
Run! Run! You'd better run away as fast as you can! Nothing would stop Montague from keeping his prey there, if that's what he chose to do.
He did the opposite of that, and that was, simply, nothing at all. No pretty blandishments, nor a mouthful of teeth. Rather, now, he was particularly piqued by what you were trying to do.
To the young man, he had meddled into something rather egregious, probably convinced it was extramarital. You battled a surge of pride blooming inside you, shifting your chest a little higher, anchoring your spine back into your body.
"Don't come back here." You didn't need to say anything else. He was gone after pinching out a look of disgust towards Montague, tutting at him with his upper teeth showing through a curled lip.
Nothing happened for a while, not until the front door was secured after his departure. You were left to that responsibility, triple-checking the lock, while Montague ambled deeper into the house, but not too far away as you could follow the leisurely path by his heel strike. There was a rhythm in how he moved. It was deliberate, as though mimicking something.
It took you five paces to figure out he was miming your heartbeat, and he only stopped once it quickened in your chest. He appeared from around the corner, still taking his time reaching you, toying with some trinkets displayed on shelves built into alcoves throughout the lower floor.
You couldn't explain what you were feeling at that moment. Of the thousands—maybe millions—of victims Montague had taken in the previous times, you had just deprived him of one. That man would continue living, and he would tell his friends tomorrow about the weird night he had, and he would never have to be grateful that you saved him from a hellish death.
Yes, oh yes. Even as Montague approached you, carried by his deft gait with both halves of his gold compact open in his palm, you couldn't help but be in complete awe of yourself.
A life continued outside of this mausoleum, and it was all because of you. You were entirely different from Meredith Nimu's daughter and Shin Nakamura, and, for once, your hands weren't sullied by bleach, blood, and body matter.
All that heaviness you had been carrying was suddenly so much lighter, and you felt like your chest could open up as wide as the room where you stood. The breaths you took were dry and cold in your throat, yet fresh as though you were walking outside in wintertime.
Montague must've seen something he didn't like on your face because he sucked down on his cigarette for a while, winding his wrist with it at his side once he was adequately calm.
"Did it feel good? I've only seen you this happy while I was fucking your brains out." It was jarring to hear him talk like that. He took another quick drag and let it out slowly as he rounded you. "Truthfully, darling, I didn't think you were the type to break the rules—on purpose, anyway. But I suppose we all get a little wound up every now and then, right? I've already forgiven you."
And then, you watched him drop the cigarette to the marble and snuff it underfoot until the weak ember was turned to soot. A black smear was left behind when he took his foot away. His stare into you was unwavering.
"Clean it up."
You figured this was how a frightened animal felt when it wanted something within reach of an observant predator because you were trying to think of all the ways to get close without getting too close. It was a pitiful, humorous sight to him, seeing your steps forward so light and on the verge of bolting. But he showed no intention of doing anything more.
Still with the broom in hand, your knuckles turned stark around the handle while sweeping the remains towards you. It would take more elbow grease to get up that smudge, and he knew that just as well.
He reached for the broom and snapped it to a halt, making you jump, jaw clenching. A noiseless gasp lurched in your throat, his fingers wound tight into the hair at your crown as he yanked your head back to show all the fleshiness of your neck.
"What will you do about it, darling?" His lips were already cold and flush to the artery dancing in the curvature built of skin, muscle, and tendon.
Your teeth chattered as the wetness of his tongue followed that intricate, breathtaking network inside of you as far as the neckline of your shirt would let him.
"A man has to eat. Have you ever seen it? A man near starvation and the sorts of things he'll do to survive? Why, I've heard stories of desperate, little men eating their own lovers—their children—themselves just to claw around for a little longer. It's inspiring, I think."
He dragged you away then, up the stairs and through the hallway on the second floor to your bedroom, fingers still nested your hair until the moment you were shoved down onto fresh linens. There wasn't anywhere for you to go once he joined you on the mattress, feeling it bend towards his weight.
"Don't be afraid." he said this with all the fond familiarity of a lover, blunt fingernails digging crescents into your thigh through your clothes. In the waning moonlight that filtered through the dusty window over your bed, his pale eyeshine snared you like roots bursting from somewhere within your busy sheets to keep you there—keep you tame. "That's right. Come to me. Come to me."
There was a new drowsiness behind your eyes, one you couldn't stave by blinking. Montague's face was closer now, and you were struck with just how beautiful he actually was. The longer your gaze lasted, tips of your fingers exploring every shape and edge of his exquisite features, the less you were convinced he was a threat to you—that he couldn't have possibly been all that you'd feared up until now.
"I want you." His lips inched up like he expected you to say it. He felt your hands rest on the sides of his face, guiding him down into a soft kiss that he returned, that he kept clean and let you command until he was bored with it. You chased after him, lower lip pulled between both of yours and eventually out of reach. "Don't you want me too?"
"I wish you could understand just how much I do." He rummaged his pocket for the gold compact, losing it somewhere in the sheets, and then busied himself with stripping himself and you of clothes.
Each piece discarded showed a greater expanse of your skin, a delight in his eyes because he could see that gorgeous webbing of arteries and veins throughout you, even in the darkness, through every defense your body created to protect you from every bacteria, virus, infection—from him.
He didn't need the breath, but he took one and held it anyway.
You withered against his touch, those freezing, lithe fingertips traveling down all the areas where he wished his teeth could be, clear down to your groin. His smile stretched, feeling you search eagerly for a fistful of his hair with his lips smoothing across your inner thigh and then going higher.
There was warmth between your legs, a colorless glisten that leaked out onto the thin sheets, darkening a spot on them that tempted his tongue out for a taste. He came close to entertaining the notion of giving you that glimpse of heaven, allured by your hips leaping off the mattress and against his face.
"You really do think this is all about you." Montague kept you still by pressing down into your abdomen as he rose onto his knees, erection fitting tight between your bodies in the moments before he guided himself lower and hitched up into you.
The sharp motion knocked a startled gasp out of your throat, where it quickly dissolved into a slew of filth and breathy panting. Your nails clawed into your palms, a sight he thought to make worse by digging himself deeper into you.
Montague had no issues biding his time this way, looming over the sprawl of your body beneath him, manipulating parts of you until he saw your face flinch and the first moans of discomfort shake all the way from your chest, up, and through your teeth. They matched the pace of his hard thrusts, smothered by sharp slaps of skin that carried in the inky air.
Indeed, I can wait. That thought of his unsatiated hunger melted in the back of his mind with the precedence of arranging the course of blood in your body. The drum of your heartbeat was deafening to him, but it wasn't enough.
It wasn't loud enough.
He wanted to be able to envision the arteries and veins bursting in his teeth, saturating the sheets and walls and both your bodies in hot red. He wanted it to paint his skin while he fucked you to absolution.
"It really, truly, is all about you in the end, isn't it?" He could still speak clearly, despite you being unable to utter noise beyond the air being forced out of your lungs. "You really are magnificent. How could I ever think to let you go? Not after everything you've done for me, how beautiful you look next to all of my things."
His hand shifted away from your abdomen at last, tracking across the soft span of your stomach and the muscles spasming there under his fingertips.
All he would have to do is dig through you a little bit, and he could bury himself in those twitching fibers and insides. But he continued on his path to your pert nipples that he rolled against his palm a few times, higher still to fold his fingers together against your sternum where he felt your heart thundering there against your ribs.
"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump," came his mocking chant that cracked into raspy moans as he lingered there. It had been a long time since something had made him feel this good. He had forgotten what bliss was truly like.
He reached your neck before long, trapping the underside of your jaw against his knuckles, forcing you to see him as his weight bore down on your throat. You both heard the cartilage and muscle in your neck shift, a subtle crack that sent your limbs flailing. You were thrown out of the rhythm of his thrusts in an attempt to grab at him.
"You really are despicable, aren't you?" He let out a gleeful laugh, letting your fingers turn ashen while you wrung his wrist. You weren't able to do much with your legs except use them to plant your heels into the mattress, vaulting your hips in the air to try to wrench yourself free. His cock slipped out of you, but he was hardly bothered by that.
"Does it feel good that you chased off my guest? I could get him back, you know. You're aware of this. I know you are. But righteousness just feels so… rewarding, doesn't it? You couldn't resist. Desperation must've been eating you alive."
Strings of saliva glistened in your mouth, breaking apart the further your jaws spread. You were convinced, in that moment, that you would die like that in a silent scream. None of the words that Montague spoke truly reached you, not as your chest quivered and lungs burned as though swallowed in an inferno.
"Every misdeed in life vastly outweighs the good, you know? The scales have never been leaned in our favor—not I, and especially not for you. If that's the sort of thing you believe in. Isn't that what you're taught? Goodness for the sake of salvation at the end of a short life of inhibitions? How miserable." Montague took his hand off of you and let you breathe.
You sucked in crisp air, gasping from your side through wet coughs and the sourness of vomit spat out on the floor.
Your respite was brief, weight on the mattress shifting as the hair on your scalp was used to lever you to your knees, body suspended upright only by his fingers tangled at your roots.
"This is all I can see." Montague loosened his hand from your head, moving south along your spine to your ass. He kneaded the bruised parts of your hips for a while after, lips ghosting their way along your neck up to the ear. "All I can see is what's right in front of me. And how it tastes. All that matters is that I have my fill—and that I feel good."
He smeared slick into the heel of his palm, rolling the head of his cock in that mess as he instructed you with every bit of lewdness how he wanted you to bend against the headboard, how far apart for you to spread your legs for him.
Every bit of it was humiliating for you, while he wished he could memorialize that moment of sinking back inside of you as your breaths broke into stifled sobs, face warped by anguish.
"Does it hurt? Tell me, I have to know, what does it feel like?" He enjoyed the suspense of not receiving an answer, listening as your fingernails dug tracks into the wood headboard and the dark room filled with obscene wetness that grew louder as his thrusts turned wild.
"Mmm—" He hinged forward, bracing his weight on top of your hands with his own. You shied from the surge of coolness that came with his cheek pressing yours. "You and I aren't so different. It makes me wonder if you actually like this. Isn't there something so freeing about it?"
"Mer—mercy, please." It was a coarse whisper from your dry throat, so much of your time having been spent with your mouth agape. The idea of having you that way was as tantalizing as all the others he thought up. "Montague, please—mercy."
Oh, now you were begging.
This was more than what he deserved. He managed a few more thrusts, spilling over into you by the third with a moan that he felt no shame to leave ringing in your ear. "Every part of you, every single part—I'll burn myself into your skin and your bones. You'll feel me in your veins, your blood. I'll make for certain that I'm all you remember—forever."
The vastness of your bedroom had grown warmer, permeated with the thickness of sweat and salt that left your palms slick against the headboard. You let your body slump against it, skin sticking to the wood. It didn't offer you the relief you wanted at that moment: a glass of ice water, all the tenderness of a soft bed to lull you into a blank dream—you just wanted to rest.
Montague knew this just as well, fishing his compact out from a muddled heap of linens and clothes. He checked inside to grab one of the two cigarettes left, making a mental note he'd need to replenish again tomorrow before lighting it and savoring it. At this rate, he anticipated he'd be empty before the end of the night.
For a while, he sat there cushioned on his haunches, admiring the way the smoke coiled towards the ceiling in dainty wisps and mingled with the stench of sex.
"It's not enough." he said, barely eliciting more than a glance from you. His current cigarette was already burnt to the filter, forcing him to pull the last and light that one too. "This is my last one. Such a shame."
You smelled the smoke strongly now, just seconds passing before you were yanked across the bed onto your back, the soreness in your scalp near excruciating as you yelped. Montague made a place for himself between your thighs again, leering down the length of his nose at you.
If he wanted to, he could trace the dread etched in your features with a finger, feeling all along your hot skin, into all the cavernous lines he wished he could preserve—right there, just like that. There had never been a more gorgeous visage than the one you wore right now. Only your gleaming, glowing, pink insides were more beautiful.
He watched your lips twitch while he teased a fistful of his hard cock against your sorest spot. You were swollen and bruised, and he could only imagine what it felt like when he bottomed out in you again.
The curve of your spine arched off the mattress, fingers frantically raking the air at him, reaching for any part you could sink into to get him out. Even your body seemed determined for the same, wonderfully stimulating walls squeezing around him.
It made a shiver roll all along his spine to his tailbone, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, with his first thrusts feeling positively divine. Especially when you jolted, an almost exaggerated response amplified by jagged cries and wet gasps you couldn't seem to swallow back down into your chest.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" You sputtered around the mucus piled in your throat. "Montague, I'm sorry. Please, stop."
He had burned away half of his last cigarette when he leaned over you, his body eclipsing what poor light had managed to illuminate the room for you. You could only follow the dainty mesmerizing glow that worked away from his mouth—his exhale barely masking a moan that he blew away with the smoke—and towards you.
"Keep doing it." His other hand was crawling up your neck, forcing you to suck in a hard breath. "Beg me again. Keep doing it."
All sound but the steady pulse of the headboard striking the wall had deadened, lasting well until the moment the cigarette touched your skin—and you screamed. Your throat vibrated, suddenly stopping when his palm closed around you again, silencing all your noise, his thrusts sloppy and rough while you thrashed under him.
This time, he kept you pinned by his chest, letting your feet dig for traction and slip and slide on the sheets. The bright smolder turned dark as he twisted it into your neck, taking all the remnants of restraint he had not to drill into you as far as it could go. He curled his tongue behind his jaws, keeping them tight.
Montague let go of your throat to allow you the grace of a stifled wail before that same hand sealed your lips. "Ah, ah. You know better than to scream. Shh, shhh, shhh. It's such an ugly sound."
He rubbed the cigarette into your skin until it crumpled, leaving him to lament for a moment once flicking it away to the floor. For him, it left behind a beautiful burn: raw, mad, red, and enticing. As his hand fell off of your mouth, daring you to do more than whimper and cry, his tongue was already flat against your wound.
"Oh, God," you wheezed, voice hoarse and jarring with the force of his hips knocking into you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Stop, stop, stop! I swear I'll never do it again! I swear. I swear!"
Montague caught the wrist you swung at his head, giving the taste of your seared flesh time to settle on his palate before turning towards the pulse in your thumb. He tried to match how he was fucking you out to how it throbbed on his lips.
"Oh, I'm well aware that you won't do it again. That much is a given." His strokes into you were suddenly languid and intentional, so achingly deep that your eyes rolled back. "I've already said that you're forgiven, haven't I?"
You could barely speak over the depth he reached. It didn't feel right. "Th-then, why?"
A smile flourished across his face, but your eyes couldn't pierce that dark veil to see it. You could feel the damp path he left on your wrist, how the muscle writhed all around the sprawl of your veins, going as far as to wind your fingertips before it receded back behind his lips.
"Because I'm enjoying myself." There was a weight of finality to those words before his mouth engulfed the side of your wrist, away from your fragile network of bluish-purplish channels. And when he bit into you, it was the incisors that sank through.
You didn't know what it was. A clamp seized you by the neck like his fist, steeling itself there and robbing you of a scream. The pain was unlike anything else—paralyzing and deep, like a pair of sharpened, narrow skewers made of molten fire piercing you with such an agonizing ache that you could do nothing but lay there.
But you still felt everything he was doing.
His thrusts had grown truly vicious, chasing a high that came as the warmth of your blood seeped from a pair of punctures he had created. The steady flow he fed from was something he lapped on at his leisure. Enough of it streaked the length of your arm and dripped onto your bedding, onto your naked, warm skin when he guided the fall over your neck and chest, south to your stomach and abdomen. He let it fill and pool the seams of his fingers while smearing it with the fluids between your bodies.
At last, breaking the trance to speak, feebly, in between intermittent pockets of pain and numbness rolling through you, you asked with some hopefulness, "Are you going to kill me?"
"You? Kill you?" Montague dropped your wrist. It felt like a limp, dead thing that didn't belong to you. He dove at your neck for those drops he teased himself with, nudging your chin high with his nose to reach it all. "Death would mean letting you go. You're all mine, darling. Whatever other existence waits beyond death will never have you."
His tongue wet a trail to your chin, collecting a watery essence of blood and spit that he pushed into your mouth. Your lips were sealed by his ravenous kiss, relenting to the thickness of his tongue swirling the taste into your cheeks and down your throat, a nauseating intermix of iron and stale smoke that lingered and made you pucker.
And then, you heard him back in your ear, craning his neck only as far as to aggravate the cigarette burn with his breath. It gave several angry throbs. The weight of his body was almost flush on you, spreading the blood around as though your skin together was a single canvas.
To his eyes, it bloomed breathtakingly, seeping into every crevice, pore, and scratch that made up your design, an impermanent stain that he could saturate you in again and again and again. The things he whispered in your ear were vile and wicked, all on unlabored breaths while his strokes turned sluggish and stayed seated deep inside you until the final hitch of his hips left you full of him.
"I don't think you should go to work today."
You were only scarcely coherent of him—or anything for that matter—eyes unmoving from the black void above and unfeeling of how he chose to manipulate your body, still, hours later. All you could think about was the flutter of your lashes weighing down heavily over your eyes and how this world only survived on suffering such as yours.
༺ ♰ ༻
A small pile of things was arranged fussily in a duffle bag Hoss had given the day you returned to work after an impromptu leave of absence. It had only lasted three days, just enough time to acclimate to the pain that seemed to synchronize to every part of your body, throbbing everywhere, all at once, and at times with sharpness so great it toppled you to the ground. You could only lay there—wherever you dropped, on whatever cold slab of marble or concrete until it dissipated, unfurling from your limbs and organs to a rapturous wave of relief that melted the tension out of you.
It had only happened once while at work on a scene amidst a balmy summer night and came out of nowhere like an electric shock surging to your fingertips and toes, a hammer landing on your bones and leveling you on the sidewalk leading back to the company van. And that was all it took to incur a ruinous sort of anger in the two hulking men.
"You're going to take this bag, pack some shit, and you're leaving. Tonight." Hoss had to shake out the dust on the old duffle bag he pulled from somewhere in his car. "You ain't gonna tell me the reason, but I know he did something to you. T.J.'s calling in a favor."
"No. Don't—don't do anything. Don't try to come to the house—" There was a bandage around your wrist that you couldn't stop fiddling with. "I don't know what'll happen if you do. Just fucking don't."
"Nah, not us." T.J. slapped his phone back into the clip on his belt loop, eyeing the motions of your fingers on your wrist uneasily. "One of my old buddies—name's Roscoe—said he wants to handle it. Apparently, he and your guy have a history of some kind. He says to be ready to go by three."
The meaning behind what he said was left nebulous and concerning to you, even after you returned home with the duffle bag and started pulling things from your closet. Some ways across your room, high up on the wall and out of your reach was a clock. Its monotonous ticking brought your eyes over to it.
It was just after one-thirty, still enough time to change your mind if you wanted to. There was something so effortlessly easy about following along to the whims of other people. It felt safe, reassuring—their confidence was infallible. Not once in four years had T.J. or Hoss given you a reason to doubt their intentions, but right now, it boiled over in your mind.
But where will I go? What am I going to do? He'll find me. He'll find me. Montague would find you, but he wouldn't stop you from leaving. You could see it with clarity—him perched on the armrest of a chair, watching you walk through the door. He'd give you a headstart, a few days, maybe a few weeks.
You weren't sure you knew what to do without him. There was nowhere else in the world you could go, no one you could confide in that wouldn't be destroyed. He would keep your heart beating all the while breaking you apart until he had his fill, reminding you that this was how it was meant to be. This was how he showed you how you belonged.
And you—silly little you with your consciousness floating on the fringes of inscrutable ecstasy and some personal purgatory built on agony in your bones and blood—would believe him.
"Going on a trip?" His voice drifted to you from the doorway, far sweeter than it usually was. "I wish you would've told me. I can't imagine what it'll be like without you here in this house. You breathe life into it."
He was lured over by your silence, fitting his fingers between your shoulder blades to push along your spine, easing away the discomfort that had settled there. It was hard not to lean into that relief, a misstep that shattered any lasting hold of willpower when he stooped his neck to sweep you into a kiss.
"Why don't you stay instead?" He knew you wouldn't be coming back, not without dragging you back himself. "Stay with me instead. Right here. In this bed."
"Montague, stop—" He pressed down harder on your lips so those words withered into guttural frustration in your throat.
The duffle bag was flung far away, opening space on your bed for him to lay you out and begin to unravel the bandages around your wrist. Once he had access, his mouth was already full against the two puncture sites.
"Stay." He wasn't playing coy now. "I'll take care of you. It wasn't enough before. I can see that now. What can I do? It'd be too easy to break your legs. What if I chained you to this bed? What if I locked you up in this room? I wouldn't mind keeping you downstairs with me, but it would be too cold for you, I think."
"I want to leave." you said, mustering your composure through tight lips while he teased the infected purple holes with his flatter teeth. "Let me go."
He smiled derisively. "I don't think you know what you want."
"I—" You balked at him, reiterating with a stumble, "I—I just want to leave. Get off."
"How will you ever survive without me?" You didn't know if you'd be able to. "You'll be all alone, all alone in a world that's just ready to tear you open and spit you back out. I've told you before: Society doesn't reward virtue over vice—only those who play along. You won't last, not after you've known and tasted me."
You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, whereas he swelled like a man who had salvaged a victory, lying himself down to kiss you again—
And then, the doorbell rang with an immense melancholic echo that you could feel vibrate up your arms and legs. Nearly a year later, you were hearing it for the first time and grasping onto the lapels of his suit vest, keeping him still when you remembered T.J.'s promise.
"Ignore it." you said.
"We have a guest—" Something in his tone made your stomach clench. "It's not polite to leave them waiting, especially at this hour."
Montague had untangled himself from you and was gone before you could stop him. Another wave of pain put you on the floor when you moved. Drool piled from your mouth. An ache so unreal pounded in the wrist he had played with. The crawl to your duffle bag was far, arduous in that every inch felt like carrying stones on your back.
I'm going to die. I might as well already be dead. You didn't have any more time to wait, so you slung the strap over your shoulder and used the wall to guide you along the quiet hallway, bumping into every pedestal and display where Montague's most treasured things had stayed undisturbed.
You were one of them, something he could keep on the second floor with the rest of his stuff, but unlike brittle porcelain and fraying embroidery—he could break you as much as he wanted, again and again and again, and fit you back whole. He could do it forever while you wasted, longing for an end he would never give you.
But as you crept along the bleak wallpaper and all of his curios, you were so gentle with them, steadying any wobbling base or piece as you went. The central staircase was close, voices at the bottom of it faint and unintelligible, drifting alongside you as though part of the house—
The air exploded.
Just once.
A single gunshot brought back all the alertness to your body, neck and shoulders at full length, pain dulled to where you could shuffle faster and look off the bannister at the landing below.
Montague was staring back up at you from the floor, entirely still and soundless. His jaw was unhinged, askew, frozen in a position that should've been impossible. A black hole gaped between his eyes, but didn't bleed.
"If you're not ready, that's going to be bad news." Another man stood nearby sheathing a gun, unfamiliar and yet with sameness in the way his gaze felt hollow and reached through you. "I'm repaying my debts. I'd like to make good on this one."
You were slow descending the stairs, even slower while you rounded Montague's body and denied yourself the chance to stop. Something invisible wanted to pull you to him, plow your knees into hard marble and weep over his chest. However, your insides bending in disgust and twinges in your bones kept you onward.
This man, Roscoe, was just as sickly-seeming and gray as the other, every slot of space on his arms and neck filled with images of religious iconography and portraits of saints—Mary being the only one you recognized with just a glance. It was tempting to touch him, something he noticed and stepped out of your reach.
"Is there another way out of here?" He made a weak motion towards the front door just ajar, but his eyes were stuck on the wrist wounded and unusable to you now. "We need to go. Now."
You were racking your brain for an answer, turning half-circles in place before pointing to the archway with a clock. "There's a backdoor, but the yard is fenced in and there's nothing but forest for three miles. There's also—"
Roscoe waited expectantly, ushering you to continue when he went for the gun in its holster. "Start moving, we'll figure it out." He unloaded another round into Montague's head, a near indecipherable twitch in the fingers made the hair on your neck shoot straight out. "Silver only keeps him down. It won't kill him. Go!"
"Th—there's, there's the basement." You smacked your lips, trying to swallow around a bulge in your throat. "There's an old door. He said there are tunnels, but I don't know where they go. I don't know if he was telling the truth. I don't—"
He threw a hand into your back, thrusting you forward at least three feet. You almost didn't catch your footing. "Then that's where we're going."
"Not a friend of yours then, I assume, darling?" Montague's voice from the floor was as much of a relief as it was terrible. The silent gaps of air all around were disturbed by sharp snaps and cracking bones as his jaw moved back into place and he sat upright over his thighs. You were transfixed by the silver bullets being sucked into his skull, holes shrinking until they closed completely. "I'm not surprised you're still fraternizing with the wrong crowds, Roscoe. You and that entire Society have always been a fucking eyesore."
Roscoe readied his aim. "Parasite."
Montague laughed all the way to his feet, tugging at the edge of his vest to make it neat again. He opened his mouth just enough to let his tongue roll out, shards of silver bullets tinkling as they hit marble underfoot. "You can't take what's mine."
He looked to you, stepping closer every time Roscoe moved you back with his arm. "Come here. Come back to me, darling. This is where you belong. This is your home. You belong here with me, here with everything that you know."
"He doesn't mean that."
Another gunshot snapped you to attention, blinking out of a stupor you hadn't realized you were in.
The bullet landed in Montague's forehead, teetering his balance in such a way that his back curved towards the floor, arms hanging like useless instruments, yet he still somehow kept his soles planted. "Time to go. Get to the basement."
Roscoe didn't fail to reach you this time, running tight on your heels through the house to the basement floor. He stopped partway to the old door to help you scour the duffle bag for a key—one attached to the chatelaine Montague had given you the day you accepted to move in.
Your breaths were ragged, heart ablaze and beating against your ribs. In that moment, as you flipped through the assortment of keys with an unsteady, slippery grip, you wondered if Montague heard your blood racing in your veins, if he could follow the suffocating drumbeat your heart made in your ears.
Just above, fast approaching the locked basement door, came a thunderous roar so inhuman and reverberating that it scared the clip of keys out of your hands into a clattering heap on the floor. Time was up.
"Move!" Roscoe shoved you aside, illuminated by the hectic flare of your phone as he fit his fingers through a gap in the door and ripped the entire thing off its hinges. He pulled you by the scruff of your shirt and heaved you inside the tunnel. "Go! Go! Go!"
The first thing to hit you was a putrid smell intimately known but always through protective equipment and a respirator. And as you went deeper into the tunnel, led by a single route and the light off your phone, the dirt packed under your feet turned soft, sinking to the tops of your shoes.
And then, you saw bodies.
Numerous—countless corpses in varying stages of decay with twisted faces reflected your terror and pain right back at you. Most were intact with missing limbs or dark red chasms in their abdomens that had been scraped hollow and dry under the white light.
A few had been fully decapitated, briefly reminding you of the dead blonde woman from that night, but most of what lay stacked against the tunnel walls were emaciated figures with skin pulled so taut to their bones you could still make out their faces.
You were doubled over your knees, sucking in fetid mouthfuls of air and retching them back out on the ground. It burned in your throat, in your nostrils, and behind your eyes, but stifled your sobs as Roscoe dragged you alongside him.
"What did he do? What did he do?" You were crying, wheezing out those words on every shallow breath you took all the way to an end just ahead.
The more you thought about it, the more you smelled the rot, tasted the bitterness of your own vomit, the more came out. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"
Roscoe had to let you rest in the grass once you both surfaced. One of the exits turned out to be near the house, less than half a mile. But the tunnels kept going and so did the bodies. You suspected that there wouldn't be any reach of that underground labyrinth that didn't have some form of decay along it.
The thought brought the tears back, but now you could relish the sticky summer night humidity and touch dewy tendrils of grass under your hands.
"Can you drive?" Roscoe had a pair of keys hanging from his index finger, giving you a long moment to take them. He saw confusion in your watery stare. "I'll tell you where to go, just drive."
That's how it had been for hours at this point. You kept your hands locked around the steering wheel, one stronger than the other, gnawing the inside of your cheek while ruminating everything—tonight, the night Montague had bitten you, every other night before that, and your decision to have ever trusted him.
"How long ago did he bite you?" Roscoe had the seat reclined, arms over his eyes to shield them from oncoming headlights. "It doesn't look good."
You tested your grip on the steering wheel, but you couldn't do much without a sharp sting in your wrist. "I don't know—a couple weeks ago? I've tried everything short of going to the emergency room."
"That won't help," he said. "Modern medicine can fix a dog bite, antibiotics can kill an infection, a vaccine can protect you from a virus. Those aren't going to do any good."
Solemnly, you asked, "Am I going to die?"
Roscoe didn't sit up but had your wrist in his hands, turning it in little ways that didn't aggravate you. Besides the occasional glare from passing vehicles, there was no light in the car, and the holes in your skin were hardly distinguishable, though they had gotten darker. You weren't able to move it with any ease now.
"What you need to know right now is that he's never going to stop following you." He put your hand back on the steering wheel, careful as he enclosed your fingers around it. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, what you do, where you go—a parasite finds a host, and it latches on. And it doesn't let go."
You glanced between him and the road several times, tongue wetting the dry parts of your lips. "He's a vampire—you're a vampire. There's got to be something—"
Roscoe finally sat up in his seat, now cramped sideways with his shoulders flat to the window. The car veered a bit into the other lane. "You need to understand something. What you're saying would imply he ever had any humanity. Vampires are created." He paused for a beat, waiting for the realization to strike you. "Montague was never created."
"What—what the hell is he, then?" A horn abruptly blared by, prompting you to yank the car back onto the correct side. "He drinks blood. He has teeth. He—he hunts. He doesn't like silver. His eyes are the same as yours."
Roscoe lowered his gaze, but remained in that uncomfortable position. "There's a story I heard about him once. I don't remember the details except for one: ‘If the devil exists, they're one in the same.’"
You kept your eyes on the road, counting every car that flitted on past. They were probably going to work at this hour—green numbers on the dashboard showed it just after four—and they'd be able to have a place to return to at the end of the day. Now, you didn't belong anywhere, and twenty-four hours from now you still wouldn't.
The town where you had lived with Montague for a year was long behind you, backtracking would take hours, and you wouldn't know how to get back from the direction that Roscoe had told you to go. Dim streetlamps and cozy houses with spruced yards had morphed into an endless network of concrete, signs, and off-ramps to places you'd never heard of.
It was scary how everything could change in one night, and how it did. The only semblance of normalcy to you right now were the aches throughout your body, which had returned the moment you fully comprehended that you had escaped that house.
"Why…" Roscoe looked up at you, seeing your lips shake and eyes turn red. "Why do I want to go back to him?"
He fixed himself right in the seat, tousling a hand through his hair while looking out through the windshield. "You shouldn't do that. But you'll never be able to stop running."
You never saw Roscoe again once the car ride ended several thousands of miles later, mentioning something about how he repaid his debt to T.J. and had disappeared from a restaurant you both walked into. When that happened, you sat paralyzed at your little table for most of the day with a soul-crushing realization that you were truly alone with nobody in the world—
Just like Montague said you would be.
And, for the sake of others, you'd never be able to have anyone else in your world.
It stayed that way for close to two years. The hardest part hadn't been the homelessness or constant vigilance, not the door revolving each person to come into your life since, but the fact that you still yearned for what you once had. Everything so awful about what you experienced sometimes looked like heaven when you thought about it, like soft, cloudy nostalgia from a time where the throes of agony were all you had ever known.
You were capable of thinking soberly as well, and with that came the understanding that a part of you would always want that time back—want him back. He had left you with a permanent scar and neurological damage that could never be corrected. It was anticipated you'd lose that wrist at some point in the future, but for now, you could still hold a cup and brush your teeth with enough conscious effort.
The pain never went away either, but you refused to let it impede your work in the field. And your two roommates were a couple of engineering geniuses who'd managed to make the flat more accommodating to your needs. They'd been patient with you during every step of your transition into a new life, calling you an enigma because you had nothing to your name except a dusty duffle bag and a "strange-looking dog bite" on your wrist when you first met them.
Sometimes, especially on the weekends after clinking together enough shot glasses, they tried to probe your brain for some clue as to who you were, who you had been historically. You had decided it was better that they—that no one—knew about it or what actually existed out there in the world.
And when you returned home from the lab late that Saturday night, you were surprised to find the lights off and the flat immersed in the kind of soundlessness that made your ears feel clogged with cotton.
You were slow in lowering your backpack to the floor, keeping the front door slightly ajar so a slither of light from the residential corridor slipped inside. "Jordan? Felix?"
No answer. You didn't hear anything from their bedrooms upstairs either.
"Jordan?" The nearest light switch didn't work, neither did the one after that, or any others you hunted down with the diffused beam from your phone screen. "Jordan? Felix? Are you guys home?"
It was possible they had gone out somewhere for the night and just hadn't mentioned anything to you, as unsound as that logic actually was, considering it simply wasn't their personality. But as you wandered through different rooms checking the switches, you knew you were rationalizing to keep yourself in check.
The light from the hallway still piled inside like a narrow pillar, raising all the hairs on your neck and arms, knowing that it wasn't a building-wide outage. They had never left you in a situation like this before. Something was wrong.
"Jordan! Felix! Whe—" Your foot nearly shot out from under you when you slid through something slick on the laminate. After a moment to fix yourself, bracing the edge of the countertop with a clammy palm, you steadied the white glow of your phone at the floor.
There, glistening back at you, was the vast richness of blood in a tall puddle that spread like long winding tendrils through grout in the flooring. It looked almost black under your light at a certain angle, estimating it had been there for several hours—untouched.
You held in a breath and grit your jaws together as the more you moved, the more you saw. And when the top of a head came into view, silky hair shining like fine thread before clumping together at the base where the blood had pooled the most, it was everything you could to keep yourself from hitting the floor.
Both of them were there, perfectly out of sight of the front door and completely unrecognizable. Their bodies had been left in one piece, though where their faces had once been were cavernous holes with pale, pink ribbons of flesh and fat left behind. The roundness of their skulls let blood fill inside it like a vessel. What little pieces of brain matter remained had floated to the surface.
You staggered back from them, phone loosening from your weak hand and returning them to the maw of darkness, while groping the wall behind you as far as your arm could reach. This wasn't a result of crude knife work or even bludgeoning; no, it was a slow kill, one meant to steep someone in torment so immense that you prayed to whatever was out there that they succumbed immediately.
"Help…" Your voice was trapped in your throat, barely registering as a whisper even to yourself as you sidled along the wall. "Someone—anyone, please help."
The patter of your heartbeat was torturous. Your every step back to the entrance was leaden with fear. You couldn't get your legs to move fast enough, and the light reaching in through the gap seemed to stretch on forever—further, further, and further still.
You thought back to that day you met Montague and shook his hand, noting how unnaturally cold it had been despite it being a nice day in spring. You remembered the dead blonde woman with mascara tears, and the bodies he used to decorate the tunnels, and the young man who was able to walk away that night believing it was all some shallow quarrel—never knowing he had sealed your fate.
You regretted all of it.
The door was in your reach now, and you could get out, call for help, and go back to running. This time, you wouldn't be tricked into false satiety or let anyone too close. You would see mountains and forests and oceans a thousand times over before you stopped again.
Two years hadn't been enough time for you to accumulate many things, you thought. It wouldn't be hard to leave most of it behind, just like you had before. You would unpack that old duffle bag from the back of your closet, fill it to the brink, and that would be enough.
You had your hand over smooth metal, but that cold reached greater depths in you as the door was pushed shut from behind, light shrinking away through the slot until you were swallowed whole in the dark.
"Hello, darling. I've missed you." He sounded the same against your ear. For a split second, you felt relieved. "Don't worry about cleaning up. We're not staying long."
He clamped damp fingers over your mouth before you could scream.
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a/n; I hope this scratched some awful itch for you. onto the story notes:
on montague: what he is exactly is open to interpretation. tell me your theories! his character has been around in my arsenal for a very long time, but as a human cannibal in those days. he's been resurrected into something worse imo. he exists in my vampire universe more as a side-character, and, surprisingly, is not the central antagonist. he is meant to more or less be the embodiment of depravity and the consequence of a being without internal moral compass.
on mc: represents the fallacy of man and how unreliable the narrative of morality actually is, and how we as people have tendencies to twist and turn the meaning of it for our own benefit. mc in this story is not meant to be a good person, but did they deserve condemnation to a personal purgatory?
so, while this is a monster story, I wanted to parallel the treatment mc endures + mindset to the horrors of trying to escape abuse. I wanted to explore this through the lens of a monster story, though. if you suspect you are in an abusive relationship, please reach out to people to help get you out.
what's funny is that this story was originally supposed to be a dark comedy that moved towards something a little darker, and eventually turned into this. montague was initially going to just be a nuisance to mc by inserting himself into friend hangouts because "it's my house".
divider by; @/anlian-aishang
dc divider by; @/benkei-bear
if you read and enjoyed it, please share your thoughts and reblog!!
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wrioluvr · 13 days
Text
subby vampire x dom male reader
sorry for being inactive yall teehee just thought about this cute little idea and had to write it... also no sex just a little spicy lmk if yall want to see more of this guy 🤭
★ ; 🦇🍷. . ♱
you did not expect it to rain during your forest hike today. anticipation to dive into the lush green unknown was quickly turned into a wet mess as your scrambled to find shelter, unsure of where you were even going as the gps signal got weaker deeper into the forest you ventured. much to your surprise, you soon came upon a quaint winding road. following it lead to an ancient-looking manor straight out of the victorian era. despite your brain recounting that this was how every horror movie started, you were desperate to be out of the cold, and soon rushed to the grand door to seek warmth. luckily, someone answered the door. a tall, lanky, ghost of a man, who quickly invited you in and fretted over the prospect of you catching a cold. he was a little odd, speaking in such a proper, olden manner, but he was lovely.
despite your initial protests of overstaying your welcome, he managed to convince you to stay for a week. he invited you to join him for dinner everyday, and it was through these meals that you found out quite a lot about him. one, his name was kliff (you swore his face turned red when you said he had a handsome name), and that he was a vampire who was at least a hundred years old (he stopped counting after the 120th year). the way he revealed it was kind of adorable, he was so reluctant at first.
"sooooo, kliff. you're a vampire, right?"
"goodness, whatever gave you that idea? i most certainly am not." his face said otherwise as his eyes darted everywhere around the room but your gaze, and the tip of his ears turned red.
"and you're gay, right?"
"now THAT is an accusation!" he replied indignantly, now fully flustered. "i, a dignified gentleman, would never engage in such sinful acts."
"but i saw you peeking at me showering yesterday. pervert." you were having the time of your life teasing this poor fossil.
he stood up from the dinner table and paced around the room. "i did no such thing." he mumbled, face somehow steaming even more than you thought was humanly possible. wait, but he wasn't a human. nevermind.
you spent most of your week exploring his manor, poking around the various dusty bookshelves and artifacts of an era long bygone. if there was one thing you picked up from your exploration, it was that kliff was awfully lonely. and had been for a long time. he didn't seem to have had any romantic partners, probably due to his sexuality, nor any pets to keep him company. you could infer this from his clingy nature, he was constantly in the shadows observing you, blending in seamlessly using his powers. he thought he was being slick, but really, he was a rather clumsy vampire. whenever you caught him, he would always act oblivious, and give you a sheepish grin, before scurrying away. it was quite cute, really. another thing was the fact that he never asked to drink from you. "it is quite alright. i sustain myself well enough through other means." was all he said when you asked him about it. mysterious. almost like he didn't dare to taint your skin with his fangs. you decided not to tell him about the fact that you were aware he watched you when you were asleep in the guest room, sometimes even daring to climb into bed silently with you and bask in your presence. he was a lonely soul, you figured. you could let him be delusional for a bit. you would leave after this week, anyway.
but that week passed quick, and with each day, kliff seemed to grow even more on edge, getting nervous whenever he was around you but never daring to speak what was on his mind. brooding around the house, watching you silently as you attempted to grow something in his dying garden... oh it was bad for him. but this came all to a head on your last day, when you bid your goodbyes and were one foot out the door, and he suddenly gathered the courage to say something.
kliff threw himself at you in one final, desperate plea. "please... please don't go...." his tone was so pitiful, you stopped in your tracks and looked at the way he's grabbing your wrist so tightly. "i... i.... if i may, i have one final request."
"you want to drink from me? honestly, i'm surprised you didn't ask earlier."
"no, no... it's not that. it's the opposite, really. may i... may i humbly request that you..." he stops mid sentence and breaks eye contact to look at the ground, voice so soft you could barely hear him. "bite me instead..."
"i beg your pardon?"
"i would like for you to leave a mark on me. as a reminder of your presence." his tone is slightly more confident now as he meets your eyes, centuries-old desire rekindled and burning within them. he falters a bit as he notices your lack of response. "....please?" he mumbles pathetically.
oh, poor baby. he's wanted a man to love him all his life. luckily for him, you found his desperation cute. you drop your bag and take his hand in yours.
"want me to take the lead?" you squeeze his hand, and he nods shyly.
"i would like nothing more."
you gently, but firmly pin him to the nearest wall, the ancient manor creaking under the pressure. it's kind of poetic, kliff thinks, as he wilts under your touch, it sounds like my house is congratulating me. you start off by peppering fleeting kisses all across his neck, admiring the small noises of pleasure he made everytime your lips came into contact with his skin. the fleeting touches turned into harsher bites, as you nibbled at his delicate skin, so fragile and untouched. it was just like he fantasized, and he was in heaven. he gripped onto the wall for support as he gasped at the new sensation, writhing around as you marked him, but your strong hands on his waist kept him steadily in place, a feeling he quickly learnt to enjoy. all those years he spent in solitude seemed to culminate to this moment, he'd never felt more intimate with anyone in his life. you stepped back to look at your handiwork and he immediately collapsed into your arms, a dark purple hickey prominently showing on his neck. he stared up at you lovingly, unable to really form thoughts. "please don't go...." was all he could mutter as you slowly swayed him back and forth, soothing his cold, beating heart.
"guess i'll see you next week, hm?" he's never been happier to hear those words in his long life.
>ᵥᵥ< 💘
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flowersandbigteeth · 9 months
Note
Hi hope you've had a lovely weekend.
How about a female human who suffers depression and anxiety, is visited by a vampire who initially meant to just drink her blood but ends up showing her that she has worth. he finds as they get very intimate that she's his mate
I like this idea! I have bipolar 1, so I get depressed a lot. The description in this is just how I experience depression, personally.
Vampire (Serge) x female reader with depression
Word Count: 4k
W: kidnapping, some talk of unaliving oneself, non sexual bath, sfw fluff
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You splashed a handful of cold water on your face and gazed into the mirror. Your hair was a wreck and you had deep circles under your eyes. Objectively, you looked like shit. Sighing, you stared at your toothbrush. You should be brushing your teeth, getting ready for work, but you felt like complete trash and all you wanted to do was curl back up in bed. 
You picked up your phone and dialed your job. 
“Hey, Susan,” you said to your boss, “I think I’m coming down with something. I won’t be able to come in today.” 
Susan snarled on the other end of the line. 
“If you’re going to call out, you need to find someone else to cover your shift,” she snapped. 
You groaned, rubbing your eyes. 
“Yeah, whatever,” you said, then hung up the phone. 
Scrolling through your contact list a few times, wondering who to call, you eventually just gave up. Fuck it. Who cares if I get fired? I hate that job anyway. It wasn’t likely anyone was going to take your shift. They all hated their job as much as you. Fast food jobs were a dime a dozen, if you lost this one, you’d get hired across the street by someone else. You trudged back to your bed and curled up under the covers. In a few minutes you were fast asleep. 
You woke with a start. Glancing out the window you could see it was dark outside. You’d slept all day. You checked your phone and there were ten calls from Susan and a string of angry text messages. Not bothering to read them, you tossed your phone on your pillow and dragged your feet to the kitchen. Opening the fridge you found some leftover chinese food one of your roommates had left. You knew he would be pissed you ate his food, but you couldn’t be bothered to care and grabbed the styrofoam box. Having not bought any of your own food for over a week, you had nothing else to eat. 
Closing the refrigerator you screamed, tossing the Chinese food in the air and it exploded all over the floor, chicken landing on your bare foot.
“Who the fuck are you?” you gasped at the man standing in front of you. 
He wasn’t anyone you recognized, incredibly tall with broad shoulders. His long hair was bone white and his eyes seemed to glow ice blue in the dark kitchen. You took in his beautiful face with utter confusion. You’d never seen someone so beautiful. Was he one of your roommates' friends? You’d thought you were alone in the house. Maybe he was a hookup making an exit, but he was far more handsome than any of your roommates usual partners.  
He smiled at you, revealing straight, white teeth framed by pointy fangs, and a hand reached out running two fingers along your jaw. 
“Aren’t you a pretty little trinket?” he murmured, his eyes raking over your body. His voice was lilting and deep, his words touched by a slight accent. 
Your brow drew and you pulled away from him. 
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” you snapped, then, “what’s up with your eyes…and your teeth? Are you a cosplayer?” 
It was bizarre that a cosplayer would be in your kitchen at 11 o’clock at night, but you couldn’t come up with any other explanation. He was wearing a long black trench coat, with a loose white shirt underneath. It was only buttoned halfway up his chest, revealing the hard planes of his muscles and a gold necklace. He stared at you for a second before bursting into a roll of laughter. 
“I don’t dress up and play pretend,” he said, still chuckling a little and putting a hand in the pocket of his trim slacks. 
He leaned casually against the fridge, looking down. 
“I’m sorry I spoiled your dinner,” he said, “but it’s only fair, you spoiled mine.” 
You frowned at him. 
“Was the Chinese food yours?” you asked. 
He grinned, his fangs glinting in the low light. Again, he reached out to touch you, this time stroking your cheek. 
“No, I had something else in mind,” he purred, his glowing eyes brightening. 
“Oh…well sorry,” you grumbled, pulling away. “I guess no dinner for both of us. Make sure you lock the door on your way out.” 
You turned on your heels and marched back to your room, intending to text your roommate and ask him to get his hookups to leave when he did. You didn’t like random weirdos lurking around in the dark. You opened the door to your room and screamed again, jumping a foot in the air. 
The man stood in front of you, as if he’d materialized like magic. 
“How…?” you gasped, your heart pounding, “how did you do that…you were just…” 
You stammered, your mind blown. That was impossible. He couldn’t have gotten to your room that fast. 
He laughed again, tipping his head to the side to look at you. You blinked your eyes rapidly, wondering if this was some kind depression induced hallucination. Your parents had told you to go to the doctor to get a prescription to help with your mental illness and you’d brushed their recommendations away. Everytime you’d try to pick up the phone and make an appointment, you’d be overcome with anxiety and never manage to make the call. Now you wondered if that had been a big mistake. You were obviously losing it. 
You carefully stepped forward, placing your hand on his chest, checking that he was real. He seemed solid enough. You patted his shoulders and then his sharp jaw. 
“You’re real,” you murmured, pulling your hands away, “what the fuck?” 
You squealed as he grabbed you by the arm, pulling you further into the room and shut the door behind you. 
“What do you think you’re doing?” you screamed. “Let me go!” 
He sat elegantly on your bed, putting you in his lap. 
“I let you touch me. It’s only fair I can touch you,” he informed you. 
You tried to scramble out of his lap, but he was inhumanly strong, holding you still while he studied your face. 
“What are you?” you hissed. 
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. “I’m a vampire.” 
Your eyes widened at him. He was clearly a nut job. You thought you were crazy, but this home intruder thought he was a vampire! Sure he mysteriously appeared in front of you, but a vampire? You just couldn’t believe it. 
“Look if you’re going to murder me to fulfill your weird fantasy, just be quick about it,” you sighed, slumping in his arms. “And delete my browser history before the police come. My password is Pandabear.” 
He laughed, before his chuckles died and he frowned at you. 
“You’re serious…” he murmured. 
You shrugged. 
“I don’t have much else going on…” you admitted. “Being killed by a cosplaying psycho will at least be a good story. Maybe I’ll make the news. That’s about all I’ve got to contribute to society.” 
His eyebrows lifted and he looked at you thoughtfully. 
“How did this happen?” he said softly. “I’ve never met a victim more willing to die.” 
Since he all but confirmed he planned on killing you, you squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep breath. 
“Okay…I’m ready…do it,” you said, feeling a little relieved. 
Finally this miserable life you had would end. 
You held your eyes shut for what felt like forever, but when nothing happened you popped one eye open and looked at him. He was smirking, his eerie eyes moving over your face. 
“What are you waiting on?” you pouted. “Did you forget your knife or something? We’ve got some in the kitchen.” 
His brow drew and he looked at you like you were the crazy person. 
“I assure you, trinket, if I wanted to kill you I wouldn’t need a knife,” he said, “but that’s no longer my intention. You’re much too precious to be food.” 
Wilting, you sighed. You were so useless a psycho killer didn’t even want to do his thing with you. How pathetic was that? 
“Well what do you intend to do with me, then?” you snapped a little offended you weren’t even good enough to murder, though you knew it was to be expected, “and what’s your name anyway?” 
He looked at you, running his thumb over your cheek, thinking. 
“My name is Serge. First, I’m going to get a snack, then I’m going to get you cleaned up,” he decided. “You haven’t been taking proper care of yourself. We’re going to fix that. No pet of mine will look so…unkempt.” 
“Pet?” you repeated, but you didn’t have much time to think about it because suddenly you weren’t and then you were. 
In a blink of an eye, you were standing in an alley, somewhere in the city. You lifted one bare foot, wrinkling your nose that your skin was touching god knows what on the ground. 
“What the-” you started to say, but the vampire shushed you. 
“Quiet, trinket,” he murmured. “You’ll scare off my prey.” 
People passed down the larger street and when the vampire found one he liked, you watched him prowl towards the man. He’d dropped something and was bending down to pick it up. When his head rose, he looked at Serge, confused. 
“Can I help you?” he asked. 
Serge put his arm over his shoulder, pulling his face so their gazes aligned. 
“Come with me, handsome,” he purred and the man followed him like a lamb to slaughter into the dark alley. 
He pushed him against the cold brick, his nose just barely grazing the man’s neck as if they were lovers. At first you drew your brow thinking you were simply going to watch Serge make out with some random guy, but that misguided thought was quickly corrected. 
His mouth opened and the fangs that already looked sharp and pointy to you, got longer and pointier before they sank into his neck. You squeaked, covering your mouth with your hands so you didn’t cry out. He drank and drank, until the man went completely limp and flopped to the ground like a rag doll. Your eyes had to be as wide as dinner plates as you stared at Serge. 
“You’re…you’re…a,” you gasped. “You ate him!” 
Serge sauntered back to you, licking the red stain from his lips. 
“I drank his blood,” he corrected, wrinkling his elegant nose. “Vampires do not eat flesh like filthy wolves.” 
He let out a satisfied sigh. 
“Now that I’m feeling full,” he said, looking down at you. “It’s time to get you clean.” 
You turned to run, instinctively, but it was no use. Serge scooped you up in his arms and disappeared you again. 
When you blinked this time, you were in a pretty bathroom. It was all white with a large claw foot tub in the middle of the room. The cabinets and sinks had a vintage look to them and fresh flowers were arranged on a couple of side tables. You’d never been in a room so expensive looking, even at a hotel. 
Serge set you on a plush chair and pulled off his heavy coat, before rolling up his sleeves and setting to work on filling the bathtub. You couldn’t help glancing at his perfect ass as he bent over to add soap and some kind of fragrant salt to the water. It was impossible not to tremble in his presence. He filled up so much space with his broad body and confident personality, but of course he was confident, he was a predator and you were just prey. 
When he seemed satisfied he turned to you, looking you up and down. 
“Strip,” he ordered and your cheeks burned. 
“Can you give me some privacy?” you asked and he let out a little bark of a laugh, approaching you with determined, even steps. 
“I don’t ask for anything twice,” he informed you, jerking your shirt over your head. “It’s best you learn that now.”  
You scrambled to hold onto your pajama pants, but you were laughably weak compared to his strong, ivory fingers. He snatched them off of you easily, along with the panties you were wearing. Your heart stuttered in your chest as he looked you over, though he didn’t leer. His look was pure appreciation, as though you were some pretty piece of art. 
He picked you up and deposited you gently in the warm bath water. 
“Under my roof you will bathe every day,” he said, applying soap to a soft loofah and picking your arm up out of the water and scrubbing it clean.  
“I can do it myself,” you hissed, trying to steal the loofah from him, but he held it above his head so you couldn’t reach. 
“You haven’t been,” he challenged. “If you could do it yourself, you would have. I will do it for you since it seems you can’t.” 
You had to admit he was right. Gathering the energy to take care of yourself felt like an impossible task. He continued scrubbing you, your arms first and then your legs. 
“I’m just depressed,” you mumbled as he focused on his task. He examined each part of you like he was memorizing every freckle and scar. 
“Sometimes it’s hard to get the energy to do anything.” 
His blue eyes flicked up to yours and a small smile played on his lips. 
“Then I’ll have plenty of opportunities to clean you,” he said, then his lips twisted in thought. “We’ll have to do something about your depression. I take very good care of my possessions. Whenever you have a problem we will address it promptly, do you understand?” 
You narrowed your eyes at him. 
“Why are you doing all this if you aren’t going to eat me?” you asked. 
It made no sense. You were just normal, boring you. Most days you couldn't even  get out of bed and when you did manage to rally and get dressed you hardly even brushed your teeth. Why would a beautiful vampire want anything from you? Why would he lower himself to bother to meticulously clean you by hand? 
“Because you’re mine,” he answered without looking up. 
When he’d managed to clean your front and back, he grabbed a small pouch filled with nail tools from one of the cabinets and set to cleaning your nails. He diligently trimmed and shaped each one, humming to himself a tune that sounded ancient. You’d never been so pampered in your life. By the time he got to washing and detangling your hair, you were practically melting into his hands. Happy with his work he scooped you out of the bath and wrapped you in a fluffy towel, scooting you towards the sink and unwrapping a fresh toothbrush he pulled from the cabinet drawer. 
“Do I have to do this part for you?” he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow. 
Your ears burning, you grabbed the toothbrush from his hand and got to work under his careful supervision. You knew it was silly to have someone watching you brush your teeth, but there was also a bit of relief there. Most days it was so hard to build yourself up to do anything. Though you were apprehensive, Serge’s careful coaxing made it a little easier. 
When he was happy you were as clean and neat as you could possibly be you were shuffled into a large bedroom. You jumped, finding another person standing there. He was very handsome, though not quite as striking as Serge, with silver, almost blue hair and dark eyes. 
“Good evening, Master,” he said, then looked at you. “Miss.” 
Serg let out an audible growl. 
“Do not raise your eyes to her,” he snapped and his servant immediately looked down. 
“This is Jules,” he said, waving generally in the man’s direction. “If you need anything you can ask him, but I’d rather you ask me.” 
You looked up at Serge and drew your brow. 
“I’m confused as to what is happening here,” you said. “You say I’m yours, but…I don’t know what that means. You kidnapped me from my home…You have someone waiting on me…I don’t understand.” 
He gave you a patient smile, tipping his head to the side and running his fingertip over your collarbone, making you shudder. 
“You,” he said, poking your nose, “are to be my little mate, trinket.” 
You blinked at him, still confused. 
“Like…pals?” you asked and he erupted into laughter. 
“You’ll understand soon enough,” he said between chuckles, but did not elaborate. 
Instead his eyes grew sharp and he looked at Jules. 
“Bring my mate clothes befitting her station,” he said and Jules gave a curt nod before disappearing. 
You let out a little gasp that he disappeared so abruptly. 
“He’s a vampire, too?” you asked. 
Serge nodded. 
“Everyone here is a vampire,” he said, placing you on the bed and placing a chaste kiss on your forehead, “but there’s no reason to be frightened. I’m their sire. They cannot harm you.” 
He rolled up his sleeve and to your horror bit his own wrist until his blood flowed, holding it out to you. 
“Drink,” he said as it dripped slowly onto the towel you were wrapped in. 
You looked up at him in horror. 
“But…I can’t-” 
You never finished your sentence, because he pressed his wrist to your lips and rubbed your throat like he was force feeding a stray puppy it’s medicine so you would swallow. It wasn’t that it tasted bad. It was a coppery and a bit sweet, but it was blood! 
When he pulled away, he licked the spot on his wrist and the wound closed. Then he licked the bit of blood that was dribbling down your cheek. Your skin heated at the intimate contact and your breath felt short in your lungs. 
“Wh-why?” you stammered. 
He carried you to the little vanity in the room, seating you at the chair. 
“My blood is good for you,” he said and looking at yourself, you let out a little peep. 
Your cheeks, which had been hollow from being too tired to eat, were suddenly plump and glowing with a dewy radiance. The dark rings under your eyes were gone and replaced with supple skin. Even your hair appeared thicker and shinier. Still you were frightened. 
“Am- Am I going to become a vampire?” you asked. 
He shook his head, twirling a bit of your hair around his finger. 
“No, not yet,” he said. “But my blood has restorative properties. It will also help even out your brain chemicals until we can have you seen by a proper human doctor.” 
Your eyebrows flew up. Vampire blood helped with depression? And what did he mean by not yet? Despite your misgivings, you did feel a bit energized, though whether it was because of his blood or adrenaline you couldn’t tell. 
He stood behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders. 
“Look at yourself,” he said, his voice reverent. “Look how beautiful you are.” 
You squinted at yourself. Yes, Serge’s blood had given you a nice facial treatment, but you wouldn’t consider yourself beautiful. 
“I’m…not though,” you whispered, your eyes getting a bit misty. 
He frowned at you, suddenly at your side, jerking your face to look at him with a strong hand. 
“Repeat after me,” he snarled. “I am beautiful.”
You paused for a moment, having a difficult time getting the words out. 
“Since we’ve only just met, I’ll grant you some leniency, but remember if I have to ask twice you will not like your punishment. I’ll count to three,” he hissed, his icy blue eyes boring into you. 
“One.” 
You licked your lips, trying to will the words to come. 
“Two.” 
Your top teeth snagged your bottom lip, preventing you from speaking. 
“Thre-”
“I’m beautiful!” you blurted out. 
He smiled at you, his face pure predator. 
“A wise choice, trinket,” he said. “You’ll tell me how beautiful you are before bed, every day until you believe it.” 
His fingers on your cheek loosened and he cupped the curve of your face, leaning forward to breathe in the scent of soap on your skin. 
“Of all the many treasures I have, you are the most precious,” he murmured into your neck. 
Lightning bolts shot down your spine, making the ends of your nerves sparkle like the fourth of July. 
“But…but…you don’t know me,” you stammered. “You don’t even know my name.” 
He chuckled against your neck, placing a kiss on the place where it joined your shoulder. 
“I’ve lived a very long life,” he said. “I know a good thing when I see it. We will have lots of time to get to know one another. For now just know that you are my little mate and you are safe under my wing. You’ll have all the luxuries you deserve. I’m going to teach you to be spoiled and insufferably self-assured.” 
You were frozen under his touch, not sure if he was playing some kind of game with you. On what planet did a fatally handsome vampire make you his…mate? What did that even mean?
He suddenly scooped you up in his arms, making you squeak. 
“You don’t believe me, stubborn little trinket,” he said. “Come, tell me what your mother christened you.” 
“(Y/N),” you said quietly. 
He looked down at you like a hungry cat. 
“A perfect name for a perfect creature,” he mused, then looked up, marching out of the room. “Let’s start the spoiling with a proper meal. What’s your favorite restaurant? I’ll wake up the owner and the chef so they can cook you something special.” 
“That’s ludicrous, Serge,” you gasped, but he only glared at you. 
You remembered that he didn’t like to have to ask twice, so you hurriedly came up with an answer. 
“Well…there’s this place I always wanted to go, but never had the money,” you admitted. 
His face softened as he carried you down a sweeping, curved staircase. 
“Come on…out with it,” he urged you. 
“It’s called Say Cheese, it’s a grilled cheese bar,” you said. “They make twenty different kinds of grilled cheeses.” 
He raised an eyebrow at you, before bursting into laughter. 
“If my sweet trinket wants grilled cheese, that’s what you will get,” he said. 
Your cheeks heated but you diffidently laid your head against his chest, surrendering to your fate.
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Vampire hero x flirty villain but it’s HEAT SEASON *disappears*
“Shit, you’re a mess.” The villain crossed their arms in front of their chest and tilted their head, clearly amused.
“Yeah, listen…” The hero took in a deep breath. It was worse when they spent time with the villain, it always got worse too. Usually, they would hook up with a stranger but that simply didn’t satisfy them anymore.
The hero didn’t know what was wrong with them, they’d been “alive” for long enough now, they had dealt with this several times and had never had any problems. However, that had changed. And the hero hated change.
“You’re not sick, are you?” The villain took a step towards them. Slowly, they came closer and closer.
“No…no, I’m fine, I…hey, let’s just fight, okay?”
“You seem a little distracted.”
“I’m not.”
“Honey, you’re looking at everything I have to offer except for my pretty face.” The villain was in front of them now and the hero tried to keep their eyes on the villain’s. “I’ve done a little bit of research on vampires. Either you’re starving or…”
The hero grabbed their hand.
“Don’t say it.”
The villain’s smirk widened.
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” the villain said. Their fingers traced the hero’s jawline. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, darling. It’s only natural, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…” the hero began. They couldn’t control their thoughts, couldn’t control the daydreams about what they’d do with the villain.
They used to think this was a good thing, a pleasurable thing. But it had turned into a curse, had turned into a bottomless pit.
Deep down, the hero feared they had fallen for the villain. They feared they couldn’t be satisfied without them.
“Honey…” the villain said. They were everything the hero wanted in a partner. Intelligent, protective, flirty. They’d known each other for a while now. “You can’t fight in a state like this. I’ll end up on top of you and we’d reach the same outcome.”
The hero squeezed their eyes shut, trying to ignore their criminal libido. They hadn’t even thought about their actions. It was as if their body had carried them through the streets and to the villain’s apartment.
“I can’t ask that of you, it’s not right.” The hero grabbed the villain’s shoulder in search for something to stabilise them. They could feel their pulse banging in their ears.
“But I was the one suggesting it.” The villain caught the shell of the hero’s ear with their teeth softly. They bit down but released them just as quickly when the hero let out a quiet moan. “And you came to me…”
The hero was quiet. They touched the villain’s neck and caressed it, losing themselves to the feeling of someone actually caring about them.
“I can’t always control myself,” the hero whispered. “The biting or sometimes scratching, I can’t—”
“Hmmm,” the villain hummed and the hero was surprised to see a satisfied smile glued to their face. “I’m into that. So, don’t hold back, got it?”
“Are you sure you—?”
“If you’re really desperate we can do it on my desk, right here,” the villain suggested. They pressed the hero’s hips against the table and the hero could only attempt to whisper the villain’s name when they pressed their knee between the hero’s thighs. “What do you think?”
The hero didn’t know if they wanted to bite or devour the villain. Probably both.
“Y-yes, here is totally fine.”
“What a good vampire you are, hm?” the villain whispered against their ear. Their hand crawled up the hero’s thigh, slowly, agonisingly. “Three taps if it’s too much for you. You choose a safe word.”
The hero nodded.
“What do you want in return? Money? Information?”
“In return,” the villain said, their fingers playing with the hero’s underwear, “I want you to beg for it.”
Thus their affair began.
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m0nstuurl0vuur · 1 month
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Honestly, I think being folded in half by a vampire lord/lady while they fuck me slow and deep, their claw-like fingernails sinking easily into the soft undersides of my thighs while their tongue lathes against the side of my neck, muttering soft praises against my skin as they're preparing me for when the inevitable bite comes, would fix a lot of my emotional health problems.
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anonymousewrites · 29 days
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Nature of the Human Soul
Platonic! Hazbin Hotel x Teen! Non-binary! Reader Father Figure! Alastor x Teen! Non-binary! Reader
General Warnings: Hazbin Hotel covers difficult topics and has 18+ humor. Please be aware of what you are comfortable with.
Book 1:
Follows the Events of Season One
Prologue: Dying in the Roses
Chapter One: Welcome to the Hotel
Chapter Two: Commercial Problems
Chapter Three: Controlling Television
Chapter Four: New Hotel Guest
Chapter Five: Bonding through Battle
Chapter Six: Memories of Life and Death
Chapter Seven: King of Hell at the Hotel
Chapter Eight: Trouble at the Hotel
Chapter Nine: Going Clubbing goes Wrong
Chapter Ten: Deals and Darling Overlords
Chapter Eleven: Convincing through Song
Chapter Twelve: Preparing for Battle
Chapter Thirteen: Fight for their Souls
Chapter Fourteen: Show Goes On
To be continued...
Taglist:
@kyalov
@pandaquick
@boredwithlifeatthispoint
@jaytheaceenby
@paastaboi
@bettybabys
@gxdoesstuff
@grippleback-galaxy
@just-here-reading
@dmitrytherat
@a-small-tyrant
@marxo5
@rory-cakes
@andsoigotabutterfly
@theblueslytherin
@romyoia
@ray-rook
@thereeallink
@pandaquick
@funkyexistence
@theyaremorethanjustfictional
@lanxianschoenheit
@justyourfriendlyneighbourhood1
@ringsofpersonti
@futureittomainn
@enderpearltv
@oo0lady-mad0oo
@falsemain
@a-huge-bi-nerd
@lost-in-the-hellaverse
@tagthetrekkie
@amberforest08
@picklehat3r
@lunalixya
@rl800
@crystal-freak24
@deadgirldreaming
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poly! vampire and werewolf lovers in a breeding frenzy….(poor human gf/wifey)
Your vampire lover, as badly as they want you, cannot get close to you when the werewolf you two share goes into heat like this. He puts on quite a show, growling and howling as he pounds you for all he's worth, only seeming to relax when his knot is deep inside of your sore pussy and once it goes down he's back to fucking you senseless, putting his seed deep inside your belly.
Eventually, he passes out in a deep sleep for the night as he recovers from all his hard work breeding you. You, however, get no such break, as soon as you're not in the claws of your werewolf boyfriend your vampire lover sweeps you away.
They take you to the bathroom and lower you into a warm, sweet-smelling bath. they're careful with your fresh bruises and bite marks on your body. They let you relax and catch your breath as they clean you up. You can feel their hard cock pressing against your back as they bathe with you, but they ignore their own desires until you're all better.
Once you are better, they fuck you slowly and deeply, covering your mouth as you moan trying to muffle your voice so that your werewolf boyfriend doesn't wake up.
"Be quiet baby, let me finish before that dog wakes up and has you again," they whisper. "your pussy feels so good I can see why he's so obsessed with fucking you full...he's going to be devastated when he finds out I'm the one who got you pregnant," they tease as they push their hips up and cum inside of you.
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theres-a-body-here · 3 months
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An old school Vampire BF who turns into this during an argument because it's illegal to be mean to him when he's like this
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angelltheninth · 7 months
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Hey idk if you take requests for monster lovers, but I liked the werewolf one so I would like to request one if possible! Can you write something where reader stumbles upon an abandoned castle and she meets the owner of the castle who is a vampire? Normally he wouldn’t tolerate trespassers, but he’s been very lonely these past decades and the new person is rather cute…
Omg this reminds me of Dracula and Lisa! I loved them in Castlevania.
Pairing: Male!Vampire x Fem!Reader
Tags: fluff, meet scary, first meeting, crushes, falling in love, domestic fluff, touch starved, kissing, neck kissing, drinking blood
A/N: Here's the thing about vampire bites in my headcanon, they actually feel really good when they're from a vampire you're in love with.
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Touch-starved!Vampire who closes his doors to everyone, turning them away, scaring them or if they're really stubborn he will drain them of their blood entirely for bothering him too much. He doesn't want anything to do with... well anyone really. He's happy being on his own, for the most part. Or so he thought.
Touch-starved!Vampire who sees you lost near his castle and at first he wants to shoo you away like everyone else. He sends his bats to do the job. But... you're not scared of them. You think they're cute. Oh. Now that he looks at you again, you're pretty cute too.
Touch-starved!Vampire who doesn't know how you'll react to seeing his fangs so he keeps his hand over his mouth until you move it away for him. Are you actually curious about them? Most people scream bloody murder when they see them. Then again they more then likely to end up dead moments after so it's justified.
Touch-starved!Vampire who can't believe how warm your hands are on his cheeks. He's felt humans before but he never let them get close quite like this. Is he cold for you? If you follow him to the castle he can stand next to the fireplace if that would make you more comfortable.
Touch-starved!Vampire who doesn't understand what the hell is happening to him right now. He's rarely felt like this even around his own species, let alone a human woman. Very curious. He'll have to keep you around more, or at least have you visit more often until he figures it out.
Touch-starved!Vampire who can smell when you're approaching his castle and waits for you at the door, offering you his hand to welcome you in. This becomes something of a routine for you two, so much so that your friends ask about the handsome new man who walks you home every night. Very late at night, or just before the sun rises.
Touch-starved!Vampire who loves it when you eat in front if him. He doesn't eat human food, or rather he doesn't need to, but if he knows that you're the one who made it then he will try it. He will even let you use his very underutilized kitchen and cook with you just to be close to you.
Touch-starved!Vampire who panics when you cut your finger. He will leave if you want him too, he will get you first aid supplies too. He can't control the fact that his fangs elongate when he smells how good you are but its in his nature, so hopefully you don't hold it against him.
Touch-starved!Vampire who stumbles over his feet when you offer him your neck. Understand that for him this will be a big step in your relationship, a new dynamic. Are you sure you want to take this step with him? Because if not he would still love to have you around, your company is always welcome in his castle.
Touch-starved!Vampire who moans when he gets to taste your blood for the first time. He feed a few days ago but it wasn't like this. Is this... yes, he knows now, he's in love with you and from the noise you made when his fangs pierced your skin and how you're pressing against him and sighing contently he would say you feel the same.
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Short Prompt #1271
CW: consensual mind control.
"You want me to... what?" the vampire quietly questioned, unsure if they had heard right.
The human sitting in their lap pouted. "Hypnotize me. Put me under a spell, whatever you wanna call it!"
"You would... trust me to have total control over you like that?" The monster was stunned - in awe and yet anxious. No one had ever asked such a thing of them.
"Love, I already look you in the eyes every day; of course, I trust you," Human said as if it was the most obvious fact of the universe, surprising their partner further.
"I... thought you didn't know... Whenever you looked me in the eyes, I thought..." Vampire trailed off. They held the human closer. "You really want me to...?"
Human nodded with an eager grin. "Yes! If you're uh... comfortable with that, of course."
The monster chuckled in disbelief. "I'm pretty sure I'm meant to ask you that after such a proposal."
The other laughed with them. "Well, I'm very comfortable with the idea. And you?"
The vampire grinned, letting their fangs show. "I think I wouldn't mind giving it a try~."
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