#Vampire!Reader

[lizzyiii]

His Lady Love

pairing | young aemond x vampire!reader

word count | 4.1k words

summary | aemond becomes obsessed with his mother's newest lady-in-waiting. he seeks her comfort after aegon takes him to the brothel.

tags | AFAB reader, older woman/younger man (more like older girl/younger boy), delusional aemond, angst/comfort, aemond pov.

note | my first time posting, also I really wanted to see what it would be like with a vampire in hotd, PART 2 coming soon.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

He was ten and two when Aemond Targaryen first laid eyes upon your bewitching figure. At first, he was convinced it was a mere trick of his own mind, a mere mirage conjured forth by imagination and longing.

Clad in a resplendent gown of deep wine red, you appeared nothing short of ethereal, your skin seeming to glow beneath the vibrant hue of her attire. Your hair, intricately braided into an elaborate updo, lent an air of regal sophistication to your youthful appearance. It was no wonder that you had swiftly ascended to the ranks of his mother's most esteemed ladies in waiting.

Despite his tender age, Aemond was keenly aware of the profound allure that you exuded. You could not have been more than eight and ten, and yet you possessed a rare and ineffable grace that captured his young heart with an instantaneous and profound intensity.

In that fleeting moment of their initial encounter, he became resolutely certain that, when he came of age, you would be the one he would take as his wife.

He despised them. The sheer sight of Aegon and his nephews filled Aemond with deep-seated resentment. It was a reminder of the injustice he felt deep in his bones. Aegon and those bastards, useless and undeserving, had been gifted with dragons, while Aemond, a true warrior, was left without one. As if to add insult to injury, they had gifted him a lowly pig, a cruel mockery of his situation.

Consumed by anger and grief, Aemond could not contain his rage any longer. He stormed into the Dragon Pit, the heat and fury of the dragons surrounding him. In the chaos, he narrowly escaped being burnt alive, only to find himself scolded by his mother.

And then he was seeking solace in her arms. Rare as it was for her to offer comfort, Aemond clung to her, desperate for any shred of comfort in the face of his overwhelming emotions.

Before their moment could fully settle, a soft, melodic voice filled the room. "Your Grace - Oh, I apologize for interrupting," your voice wafted into the chamber, causing Aemond to hastily pull away from his mother, his back turned as he hastily wiped away the traces of dirt and tears from his face.

Aemond straightened his posture and steadied his breath, turning to find you standing in the doorway, your eyes filled with genuine concern and compassion. He felt a pang of embarrassment as he realized he had been caught in such a vulnerable moment.

"It's alright, My Lady," his mother, Alicent, reassured you as you approached them. Aemond couldn't help but notice the weariness in his mother's expression. Did comforting her son take such a toll on her?

Alicent gave Aemond a brief, tightening look before turning to her lady-in-waiting. "Perhaps you could see my son back to his chambers," she suggested, her tone laced with a hint of exasperation.

It was clear that his mother was eager to pass him off to her lady in waiting, but Aemond couldn't bring himself to feel too upset. Since his lady love happened to be the one assigned to escort him, he had no complaints. Despite their six-year age difference, Aemond was confident that once he reached his maturity, their age gap would no longer matter.

"Of course, Your Grace," you said with a respectful bow of your head. Your gaze slowly shifted to the prince, and he nodded as he made his way out the door, with you following close behind.

"You're wondering about my appearance," Aemond murmured softly, his focus fixed straight ahead as the two of you strolled through the corridors of the Red Keep.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, and Aemond savored the sound, filled with pride knowing he had elicited it. "Tis not my place to ask questions, My Prince," your warm voice filled his ears, "But judging by the ash and dirt on your fair skin, I would venture that you were likely at the dragon pit."

"It's unfair," Aemond grumbled indignantly, feeling an unjust injustice in the situation. Immediately, he wished he could take back his words, realizing that he had unintentionally come across as childish when he was supposed to be displaying to you his maturity and wisdom.

"The world can be cruel and unjust, My Prince," you replied with a saccharine sweetness in your voice, "But that is why it is imperative for you to assert your authority and take command of your destiny."

Aemond angled his head to catch a glimpse of your elegant profile, admiring not just your physical beauty but also the astuteness of your words. "And how can I accomplish that?" he inquired.

You turned to meet his gaze, your eyes locking and causing his heart to skip a beat. You bestowed him with a subtle yet meaningful smile before you said, "By refusing to accept a life you do not deserve."

"And what of you," Aemond inquired, "What do you believe you deserve, My Lady?" If you were to marry him, you would lack nothing; he was prepared to grant you any request you might make.

"It’s difficult to say," you murmured, tilting your head thoughtfully. Even that Aemond found endearing, "Some individuals believe they are worthy of the entire world, whereas I value simplicity."

Aemond raised an inquisitive silver brow, "Simplicity?"

"Stability and security. A serene life," you explained. Then you glanced down and offered him a warm smile, "Perhaps we can continue our discussion another time, your grace."

Aemond was scarred. Left disfigured and crippled, condemned to a life of one-eyed hardship due to the foolish actions of his bastard nephew. He had once thought it a fair exchange, an eye for a dragon, but now, lying in his chamber chambers, sedated by the potent poppy milk, he questioned his own judgement.

Aemond frowned as he noticed they had reached the doors to his chambers. Before he could utter another word, you nodded courteously and departed. He was determined to offer you a serene life. As his wife, he would spare no effort in providing for you. And in turn you would be his serenity.

As he lay there, disabled and near death, he longed for your presence. Perhaps that was why he willingly surrendered to the effects of the poppy milk, for it allowed him to see you in his dreams. He took solace in slumber, for it was there that he could find you, if only in his mind.

But despite his yearning to see you in waking life, a part of him hesitated. He did not want you to witness the repulsive scar that marred his once-perfect face, especially the swollen and oozing scar where his left eye once was.

The pain from his injuries radiated through his body, a burning fire within him that consumed all other emotions. Aemond's thoughts turned to vengeance, as he vowed to take back what was stolen from him. His mind was set on becoming the best warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, one to surpass even his uncle, Daemon Targaryen, and he would not rest until he had retribution.

He would not accept a life he did not deserve, as his lady love had told him. With the biggest dragon in the world by his side, Aemond was determined to become even better than his past self. And then, you would be his. His lady love would be his wife, and together, you and him would rule with fire and blood.

He longed to shed his skin. The scorching heat in the chamber had become unbearable. The wine she had offered him churned in his gut, causing him to fight the urge to expel it.

Following the feast of Aemond's thirteenth nameday, Aegon had hinted at a surprise for him. Little did Aemond know that his elder brother would lead him into the depths of a pleasure house. Without a chance to protest, Aegon vanished into a sea of bodies and silks.

Next, Aemond found himself ensconced in a chamber bathed in the soft glow of flickering candles. Obscene tapestries adorned the walls, depicting the most intimate of acts between man and woman. And then, a woman entered. She was of an age exceeding even that of his own mother.

She cooed at him, showering him with soft words and adulation. Soon, she was touching him, disrobing him. Aemond wanted to protest, to scream for her to stop, but his vocal cords betrayed him. His body quivered as she caressed him, whispering into his ear.

Once it was over, Aemond was left in a daze. His body no longer felt like his own. Swiftly, he scrambled to dress himself, fleeing the brothel in a disheveled state, He didn't care where Aegon was, all he could think about was reaching you.

His heart pounded in his chest as he raced through the secret passageways of Maegor's Holdfast, his lungs burning with each desperate breath and tears falling down his pale cheeks. He bypassed his own chambers and his mother's, instead making a beeline for the guest wing where he had roamed many times in an attempt to get a glimpse of you.

Finally, he reached her door and pounded on it frantically, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to compose himself. He had to see you. He needed you.

As the door creaked open, his eye widened with the realization that you and him had not spoken since he had lost his eye, and he had carelessly left his eye patch behind in the brothel. He feared that you would see his disfigurement. Before he could flee, however, the door swung open.

You stood before him, ethereal and captivating. Your locks cascaded down, some strands delicately tucked behind your ears. Cloaked in a deep crimson silk robe, which accentuated your graceful form.

Though your initial expression seemed perturbed by the intrusion, it quickly softened as your gaze fell upon Aemond. Your eyes wandered over his disheveled appearance and his one glassy eye, and a wave of concern washed over your features.

And without a second thought, he threw himself into your soft body, wrapping his arms around your waist as he laid his head against your stomach. Almost instantly his tears returned and after a moment, your arms came around him hesitantly, offering him your comfort.

Gently, you extracted yourself from his arms and offered your hand to him and without hesitation, he took it. Your skin was soft, yet cold, providing relief to his overheated body. You led him into your chambers which was simple and minimalistic, but all Aemond could focus on was the coolness of your touch.

Guiding him to the chaise in your chamber, you gently urged him to take a seat. As you walked away, Aemond mourned the loss of your touch, but you soon returned with a goblet in hand, offering it to him.

With a hint of wariness, Aemond took a tentative sip, finding the water refreshing. He greedily drank, while your worried eyes remained fixed on him.

As he finished the water, you placed a hand on his wrist, your concern evident in your touch. "You must tell me what happened, my prince," you urged, your voice soft but determined.

Aemond’s gaze turned away, a tempest brewing in his heart. “Shall I summon your mother, then?” you suggested, your tone a mere whisper laced with concern.

At the mention of his mother, Aemond’s eye snapped back to yours, desperation flickering in his gaze. “No. No, please don’t do that,” he pleaded, his voice a hushed urgency.

Swallowing hard, Aemond felt the weight of his brother's casual cruelty descend upon him. “Aegon,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, “he said it was a surprise. A rite of passage, he called it. He told me it was time to… get it wet.” He faltered, the memory crashing over him like waves against a rocky shore. Closing his eye, he inhaled sharply as his pulse quickened, “I can still feel it. Her hands were everywhere, warm and suffocating. I didn’t know how to make it stop... so I just waited until it was done.” Pain and confusion tangled in his chest, threatening to spill over.

He felt your gentle touch then, your hand gliding from his wrist to envelop his own in a tender squeeze. “Oh,” you murmured softly, your voice a balm against the chaos within him

But as you slowly withdrew your hand, a wave of panic surged through Aemond, tightening his grip on yours. “No…” he breathed, desperation creeping into his tone. You hushed him gently, your grip reassuring as you leaned closer. “Calm yourself, my prince. I intend to run you a warm bath, to cleanse you of the filth from that place.”

He nodded, though a nervous knot twisted in his stomach, and watched as you glided away into the adjoining bathing chamber. As Aemond took in the chamber surrounding him, he noted its unadorned simplicity. No treasures adorned the walls, no personal tokens to lend a semblance of warmth or familiarity. Yet, a heavy goblet rested on the table before him, catching his eye. The reddish liquid within gleamed like blood in the dim light, causing a shiver to race down his spine. He forced his gaze away, willing himself to ignore the unsettling thought as he waited for your return.

Moments later, you reemerged, the soft fabric of your robe trailing behind you. “Your bath is ready, my prince,” you said gently, cradling in your arms a neatly folded bundle of his clean clothing.

“How did you retrieve my clothes so swiftly?” Aemond asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

You averted your eyes, but he caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Your chambers lie but a breath away from mine."

But his chambers were on the other side of the castle?

Aemond's heart raced, not out of insecurity concerning his form — for he considered himself a Targaryen, and his lineage was his strength. Yet, the hole of his left eye gnawed at his pride. You met his gaze with an equal measure of courage, undeterred by the scar that marred what once was a handsome countenance. It was still the body of a boy, and though he was thirteen, he could not shake the flicker of embarrassment that flared in his chest.

Stealing a furtive glance towards you, Aemond found comfort in the fact that your eyes were cast downward, filled with allocation rather than scrutiny. With a swift motion, he shed the last vestiges of his clothing, and with that, slipped into the warmth of the steaming bath. As the water enveloped him, a sense of relief washed over him, mingled with surprise. The oils that swirled within the bath carried your fragrance, soothing and familiar, reminiscent of sunlit fields and the gentle sway of blossoms in the breeze.

"Shall I fetch a maid, my prince?" You asked, your voice soft and gentle. Your eyes finally settled upon him, he could detect an undercurrent of genuine concern.

"No," he replied curtly, his tone sharper than intended, the remnants of his pride still gnawing at him.

Aemond could hear you hum softly as you came to kneel by the edge of the bath, your fingers trailing in the water as you offered him a placating smile, radiating warmth that contrasted sharply with the chill of the world outside. Aemond’s gaze remained fixed on you as you began to scrub away the remnants of what had happened just before.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked softly, your eyes momentarily flitting from his face to the scar that bisected it before you continued your ministrations, your cloth gently gliding over his skin as if to erase the memories of that night.

“Stings sometimes,” Aemond replied, a shadow of shame dancing across his features.

You nodded, your hands deftly working to cleanse his face, but your gaze lingered on his empty eye socket—an echo of loss and pain that pierced deeper than any physical wound.

He cast his gaze downward, feeling the familiar pang of discomfort rise. “It’s… ugly,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

With an unexpected tenderness, you cupped his face in her hands, guiding him back to meet your gaze. “No, my prince,” you countered softly. “Not ugly. Merely different, a testament to your strength. You might even adorn it, you know.”

Adorn it? Aemond raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite the prickling pride that flared. “With what?” he asked, fixing his single violet eye upon you, momentarily captivated.

A gentle smile danced on your lips, a flash of mischief flickering in your expression, illuminating your features in the dim light. “Why not place a jewel in it, perhaps? What’s your favorite jewel?”

He shrugged, a habitual defense against showing too much of himself. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice low.

The question hung in the air as you added, “Mine are sapphires."

Aemond’s thoughts drifted momentarily, recalling the dresses you had worn, swirling fabrics in hues that bespoke your grace. A pang struck him; “I’ve never seen you in blue.”

You shook your head dismissively, your eyes averted, as you responded, “It does not suit me, my prince."

“Impossible,” he mumbled, the word escaping in a barely audible whisper. He found it hard to believe you could not wear something so exquisite and innocent as blue, just as he found it hard to believe himself worthy of your affection. You were a jewel in your own right, far surpassing the treasures of the crown and the markets.

Once Aemond was freshly scrubbed clean and clad in his simple garments, the flickering torchlight cast shadows upon the stone walls of the Red Keep. You regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Are you ready to retire to your chambers now, my prince?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond's heart sank at the thought of leaving your presence. The heavy weight of what had occurred a few hours ago felt more burdensome than ever. He cleared his throat, struggling to imbue his tone with the command expected of a Targaryen, "I wish to stay here."

Your brow furrowed slightly, and he could see the hesitation in your eyes, but you nodded nonetheless, leading him back toward your bed where you made to arrange the bedding around him. His lone eye followed your every movement, drawn to the curves of your form and the gentle way you tended to him. As you turned to leave, Aemond’s instincts took hold. With a swift motion, he grasped your wrist, his grip tighter than he intended. "Stay with me."

Your expression shifted to a sternness reminiscent of his mother, a reminder of the propriety and decorum that governed your lives. "That would be most inappropriate." Your tone was firm.

"Please," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near pleading softness.

With a heavy sigh that betrayed your weariness, you succumbed to his request, moving to the far side of your bed and, to his joy, sliding beneath the sheets. Aemond felt a rush of daring coursing through him like wildfire; he subtly shifted closer, resting his head on your chest. For a brief moment, he feared rejection, his thoughts racing to the taunts of his nephews and the ache of the void left by his lost eye. But then, as if sensing his need for solace, your arms enveloped him, warmth flooding through the cold shadows of the brothel.

In that cocoon of stolen intimacy, Aemond found refuge. The bitter weight of Aegon’s taunts, the pain of his injury, and the disquiet of the brothel faded away like whispers in the wind. He was no longer Aemond, the one-eyed prince; he was simply a man seeking comfort from the woman he loved.

Weeks after, Aemond strode into his chambers with the weight of the day's demands heavy upon him, only to halt in his tracks at the sight of a delicate gift-wrapped parcel resting atop his oaken table. Unease prickled at the edges of his mind as he approached, an unfamiliar crested insignia embossed on the fine paper hinting at its sender. With practiced grace, he unwrapped the offering, and there within gleamed a sapphire so vivid it whispered of the sea’s depths, glinting alluringly in the candlelight.

A smile unbidden flickered across his features, for he knew—knew it was from you. A token of your affection, bright as the glory of House Targaryen itself. It swelled his heart, igniting a warmth that had grown chill. He could envision your soft gaze as you selected the gem, the way your laughter danced through the air like the sweetest song.

Determined to express his gratitude, he spent the day scouring the halls of the Red Keep, threading his way through the throngs of courtiers and servants, all the while searching for your familiar figure. But fate, it seemed, had conspired against him. The hours slipped by like sand through his fingers, and as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting long shadows throughout the stone halls, bitterness sank into his bones.

After the evening meal, his resolve led him to seek his mother. With a furrowed brow, he pushed the door ajar and entered, expecting to find answers from her. But the sight that greeted him was far from comforting. Alicent sat hunched over a letter, the wax seal shattered beside her, her expression dark and heavy with unspoken words that lingered in the air like the scent of damp earth before a storm.

“Aemond?” she murmured, as if startled from a reverie, her voice a mere whisper, laden with melancholy.

He watched her for a moment, his previous thrill of joy eclipsed by her obvious distress. “What troubles you, Mother?” he ventured, stepping closer.

Alicent lifted her head, her expression a fragile mask that crumbled the moment she met his gaze. A semblance of a smile teased her lips, but the sorrow beneath was palpable. “All is well, my son,” she lied.

He knew the bond his mother shared with you, the girl who had nestled herself in the depths of his mother’s affection, unlike the numerous ladies-in-waiting who flitted about like storm-dodging sparrows. To Alicent, you were not merely a servant but a girl she cherished as if you were her own blood.

But Aemond’s sharp eye caught the glimmer of distress that lingered in her tone. He advanced further into the room, his gaze honing in on the parchment that lay forgotten in her delicate grasp. “What is it?” he pressed, his heart beginning to thrum in his chest, sensing the foreboding weight of something unsaid.

Alicent's voice was tinged with sorrow, a shade that unsettled Aemond's heart as she whispered the name of his beloved, “It is from her.” The chill of her words struck him like winter's breath. “She has decided to leave the Keep."

In that moment, it felt as though the very foundations of King's Landing trembled, the walls echoing his anguish. Aemond's heart tightened painfully, a dragon's fang sinking into his chest, yet Alicent remained blissfully unaware of her son’s turmoil as she set the letter down upon the polished mahogany table before turning away, her silhouette retreating into the shadows of her room.

Stinging tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eye. You could not have forsaken him; you would never abandon the bond the two of you shared, so why had you departed? Aemond seized the letter, his hand shaking with urgency, his eye darting across the elegant script. You had spoken of a deep homesickness, a yearning to reconnect with your family. You graciously thanked his mother for her kindness during your stay.

Yet, amidst your carefully penned words lay an abyss of uncertainty. No mention of where you had gone, nor any promise of when—or if—you would return. Only your name, signed with elegant flourish and the seal of your house—a sigil that felt as foreign to Aemond as a stranger’s face.

— Mikaelson

[looseyjuicy]

“You’re married?!” Is the hot topic of the room as everyone shows varying expressions of despair, panic, incredulousness and encouragement.

thanks, Lyds.

“E’yup!” He elongates the first syllable as he flips open a wallet that seemingly appears out of thin air, unraveling a couple feet worth of pictures. “A real keeper, if I do say so myself.”

They’re all taken at different locations with multiple poses, some risqué enough that prompts Barbara into shielding Lydia’s eyes with a scowl directed at the giddy demon.

outside of a few random ghouls, there’s only two repeating subjects. Beetlejuice, in all his disgusting, decomposed glory.

and You.

an undead man’s dream all wrapped up in various outfits that do well to accentuate your assets. upon further inspection, you don’t seem to be in any distress or making any attempts to flee.

In fact, minus the ones where you’re.. unfocused, you’re grinning from ear to ear with an arm wrapped around your ‘husband’s��� shoulders. among those are a few of you in a wedding dress and him in some ratty tux in what seems to be a Las Vegas style wedding chapel; there’s even an Elvis officiating.

it would seem that, for once, he wasn’t lying. the ghost with the most actually did get married. however, one small detail still has the Maitlands unconvinced.

“But you’re still.. you?” Adam motions to his entire form; still not alive and with even more moss that seemed to have grown on him.

Beetlejuice snickers, as if it were an inside joke only he was in on, “it wasn’t the most ‘holiest’ of unions, if you catch my drift.”

Barbara gives him a grossed-out look, mumbling a ‘really wish we didn’t.’ under her breath.

“Where’s the missus?” Lydia pipes up after prying off the cold hands still covering her face.

“Gettin’ a snack. Said she was feelin’ a bit peckish.”

the teen looks at him questionably, “we probably could’ve given her something here.”

“‘preciate the warm hospitality, kid,” he ruffles her already messy hair, earning him a smack on the hand as she tries to bat him away, “but trust me, you would not want her to eat something here.”

“What does that mean?” Barbara questions him, already sensing a trick about to unfold.

Beetlejuice just grins, answering with a simple, “she has a slight aversion to food.”

all this does is confuse the couple even more. deciding that the demon was an unreliable source, they take a closer look at the pictures to get any sort of hint.

which comes alarmingly fast when they narrow in on one with your widest smile.

a pair of sharp, pearly white fangs somehow glimmers right back at them.

[nosyrobin]

DARK AGES

★ ; 🦇🍷. . ♱ BATFAMILY X VAMPIRE!READER

Summary: a dark shadowy figure runs around Gotham. But as the bat and birds try to figure out who they are, they don’t even know themselves.

Lights flicker around a dark figure, blood stains stained the carpet floor of two lovers who met their demise not too long ago. The dark figure wore black converses that were now bloodied, a black jacket and black denim jeans. The hood covered their entire face, only darkness was their face. It was clear they mostly wore black to hide the crimson blood. But the stench of fresh and old blood hung weary in the air. The figure disappeared into the shadows as their footsteps were heard on the creaky and wooden floors.

As they go to exit through the front door, something was thrown at them. They effortlessly dodged in a swift move. There was a boy who held ninja stars in between his fingers and a mean scowl amongst the tan face of his. The figure started to bounce against the walls, the new boy wonder tensed as it was like watching the exorcist. The way the person bounced against the walls his skin crawls oddly. Robin threw another round of ninja stars about bouncing against the walls along with you.

Dancing, that’s what it felt like between the figures. The figure clawed onto the wall. Their sharp nails pierced the wall before moving one leg quickly. Kicking the oncoming boy who went head first at them. Robin got up quickly, unsheathed his katana. With a warrior roar, he slashed down at the dark shadow. The shadow dodged each slash, grabbing the katana and pulling it towards them. Robin’s eyes widened he felt a fist connect to his throat. He dropped to his knees. Clutching his attacked throat. He tried to shake off the burning and painful sensation of that punch. But it was too strong.

And the figure was already gone.

The figure leaped against building to building. They already sensed four other people chasing them. One was certainly close behind, seeing blue and black on them as they flipped across roofs. Nightwing flipped in front of the running shadow, but the figure already turned around to only to be met with a person with a red helmet and gun.

“Surrender, and maybe I won’t put a bullet in you kid..” the low voice said as the figure stood still. Making it seem they were going to surrender as Nightwing walks up cautiously to apprehend the suspicious person. Before Nightwing can even touch them, the figure elbowed the vigilante in the rib. Nightwing groaned as the shadow grabbed the hero’s arm, pulling and pushing them in front of them. Red hood pointed his gun at the shadow, ready to take it down before he paused. He paused at the scene he was seeing as red glowing eyes emitted from the darkness within their hood. A chilling atmosphere arose the moment as Nightwing hissed at the pressure point in his arm getting pressed on. Nightwing was on his knees with the figure’s sharp nails against his neck.

Definitely a hostage situation, red hood slowly pressed a button on his helmet to alert the big bat about the situation that came too quick for him to progress. But before he can speak to the big man, the figure got impatient. Lifting up the adult man they held hostage and throwing him like a rag doll. Redhood fell to the ground with Nightwing on him, redhood pushed the man off him. Ready to shoot the bastard that dare throw his partner of this mission at him.

But of course the figure was gone without a trace.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Hi! Hope this is ok and got a nsfw idea

What if werewolf steve x vampire reader x vampire bucky

Y/n was all alone ending up entering their turf. They dont wanna end her noo . They wanna keep her as their mate

a/n: you sent this yumminess to me last night literally minutes before i fell asleep, then i couldn't stop thinking about it so i wrote it while eating breakfast lol

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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“Oh, honey…” you heard Bucky purr as he teasingly let his fangs graze across your neck, “I’m older and thereby stronger than you,” his cock throbbed against your bottom as he kept his hold tight, holding your wiggling frame up far above the ground, your back against his chest and keeping you in place for the lycanthrope before you, “so you might as well just stop struggling.”

Slick symphonies accompanied Steve’s movements as he attempted to stuff the big knot at the base of his already intimidating length inside your cunt. Each thrust of his hips gradually grew harsher as he tried needlessly to plug it inside, though still without success, your pussy only drooling from his ruthless efforts though still not able to let that part of him into your warmth. 

“Or not,” Steve then smirked as he lowered his fingers to smear more of your messy cream against his bulbous base he so fiercely desired to feel inside of you, “I think it’s kinda fun watching you try.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[lilacgaby]

‧₊˚ to kiss or kill.. a vampire?‧₊˚

you've been a vampire for as long as you can remember. you were going through your day, or night, routine as normal when a noise startles you. a man, katsuki bakugo to be exact, was standing at your door. though, he can't seem to remember whether he's supposed to kill or kiss you...

★pair. knight(?)katsuki x vampire!reader. tags. fem!reader, fantasy!au, vampire!au, amnesia trope, memories, kissing, hugging, dates kinda, blood, daggers, stakes. wc. 2k.

noteღ. i love the memory loss trope but its hard to write it in a way that doesn't seem like lazy(???) idk how to say it, also happy halloween to all who celebrate!

embedded deep in the forest, vines growing over the bark of the trees, the sun not visible from the impressive manor you called home.

a lake so deep you couldn't see the bottom, the moonlight the only thing reflecting off the darkness of the water.

it was quiet, quaint. only the animals as company for such a faraway place.

you roamed freely around your garden, tending to the black rose bushes and cutting the thorns to an appropriate length. feeding carrots you only grew for the deer and bunnies that had grown used to your presence, seeing the generations of them rest and birth, a consequence of being immortal.

your outfit was dark, camouflaging you against the night sky, the only time you were able to go out. you'd grown used to it, comforted by the night sky and sleeping critters around you.

but a crunch of grass snapped you out of your relaxation. the tuft of blond hair you'd spotted alarming you.

your pot of water was now splashed onto the floor, your red eyes were widened and pupils like a cat as you moved out of vision. vision of whoever was trampling into your long uncivilized manor.

it was a man, donning expensive yet ripped up fabrics and cloths, a beaten up satchel, and bright hair that stood out against the night sky.

you couldn't help but notice though, that he had red eyes just like yours.

he must be a vampire, you reasoned, moving closer to investigate the man who was unmoving at your door. you popped out from behind him. “who are you and why are you here?”

he jumped, seemingly not expecting you to be behind him. “i'm.. lost. i can't seem to find my way. or.. remember what i was doing here.” he turned to face you, his figure towering over yours, his eyes on you. “you don't remember anything? is it possible that you've been hit with a strong spell?”

you kept talking while looking over at his complete attire now, noting the royal emblem on his chest.

“it's possible.. i don't remember what i do exactly.” his red eyes kept boring into you, striking you with a sense of familiarity, though you couldn't place from where. “well, you can stay here for the night. i have spare rooms.”

his eyes widened slightly, his eyebrows raising. “really, you're inviting me in? what if i was a vampire?”

“well, no need to fear one of my own.”

his mouth went agape when he realized. “you're a vampire.”

“yes. does that change anything?”

“i.. guess not.” a hand went to the back of his neck, his eyes averting as he looked up in thought. “it's just surprising. i think.. i feel a connection to the word. to its meaning. i must have been- sorry be- a vampire. don't you agree?”

“let's talk more inside. if you are a vampire as you believe, we'll die if we're outside another hour...” you left it open ended as to ask for his name.

“katsuki. call me katsuki.”

“well katsuki. welcome in, don't suck my blood or something.” you joked.

as he followed you inside, he awed internally at the extravagance of your mansion. it definitely was the home of a vampire, as all the windows were closed and barricaded.

“i haven't had many guests over for a while.. so. excuse the mess.” he followed you as you showed him the different parts of your home. he passed by the kitchen, so gorgeous that he felt upset when you noted how you only used it to make food for the animals outside. you showed him your bedroom, which only housed a single, heavily padded coffin.

you went upstairs finally, your mansion was huge so he began to notice the ache in his feet. when you arrived in your lounge area though, he felt a pang in his head as he eyed a dagger. a silver one.

memories flooded into his head at once, making him hold his head in discomfort.

words. so many replayed in his mind though they were incoherent. sights of blood, of one of those very daggers in his hand, a stake in the other.

“ėřīdɯǎʌ ħ ʇ ľļ ʞ”

he couldn't understand it at all, the visions in his mind were playing and flashing right after another.

training, studying vitals, the word vampire. why did it seem so familiar?

“katsuki. are you okay?” your hands were on his shoulders now, your face of concern went unnoticed by him, his eyes were only laser focused on the sharp fangs of your mouth.

“i–. i– um. i don't know what the fuck happened to me.” he admitted, he still felt weak from the confusion revelations that had unfolded in his mind.

“maybe.. you should head to bed for the day. i have a bed for you in here.”

you took his hand, he almost pulled away, he didn't know why it still felt so bloody. why it felt like he was holding an unseen weapon in his palm. but he let you comfort him slightly anyways.

you laid a towel onto his forehead, closing the door with a, “goodnight.”

you left him resting with his thoughts as you continued your chores outside.

it was obvious he wasn't a vampire like he thought. he wasn't nocturnal like you. the sight of the blood bags you had left cooling in a safe him feel queasy, and he could touch metal just fine. he found himself tracing the details of the dagger in your living room mindlessly, enthralled with it. it felt just as familiar as your eyes did. he was sure it would feel just as right in his hand, he moved to pick it up when-

“what are you doing?” you asked sleepily. your attire from yesterday was gone, replaced with casual clothes that didn't seem to fit you. “..i just got curious.”

he stared at you. the crimson of his eyes confusing you to no end, but you let it go with a sigh. “well, stop messing with that stuff. like seriously.”

he took your warning. but the strange memories never went away. though, he noticed that they'd only really pop up around you.

he'd gotten to know you in the couple hours of the first day he spent with you. your favorite color, food before you turned, your true age, your favorite flower.

and you'd gotten to know the vague things he remembered about himself in exchange. how he grew up in a village, how he remembers training hard everyday to become a knight, how he grew up with the next in line for the throne.

you'd traveled around the forest with him, showing him some of your favorite spots. pointing to nearby towns and taverns, warning him to stay away from spots where werewolves would roam frequently.

you'd gotten him a new wardrobe of clothing that happened to match yours. black button downs and slacks with red accents, something that suited him perfectly, was what you had gifted him.

he tried to gift you things as well. it was unfortunate that his gift for cuisine went wasted on you, who couldn't eat food. he picked you flowers from different regions of the forest you wouldn't venture to. dandelions that he insisted you'd blow out together, red roses that paired perfectly with your black ones, and baby’s breath sprinkled tastefully in between.

the words grew less scrambled over the days of which he spent with you. it'd been a month of living with him at this point, and your life together had become routine. the pangs where he'd keel over for seconds in real time, but hours in his mind happened more frequently too. the same visions of blood on his hands, a dagger identical to the one displayed in your home would always be there. but additions of a torch in his hand and a dagger would change. the memory would change, which confused him.

he'd be lying if he said he didn't like the calm nature of your life together. the tranquil feeling of feeding the bunnies and deers alongside you, the rushing sound of the lake as you sat side by side admiring it.

the feeling of your skin, cold to the touch, on his body that seemed to run too hot.

your open-minded nature, the lingering loss of your presence he'd feel when you were gone.

though, he now could hear some parts of the sentence quite clearly.

“k– the vampire.”

as he laid around on one of the many couches of your manor, petting a black cat, he pondered on what the last word could be. he knew it could only be one of two words, he wasn't dumb.

to kiss or to kill. but what reason was he given to kill you? you'd been nothing but amazing to him, welcome and open when he was vulnerable. the only thing you'd been strange about– the only thing he felt he wanted.

was to hold the dagger in his hand.

he laid the cat onto the side of the couch before standing up. it was like an invisible force was leading him away, taking him right to his object of interest that he had been so hyper aware of since the day he arrived.

every step he took was like a piece of the puzzle being put into place.

he was hit by a memory loss potion while he was out on patrol.

patrol for the kingdom, where he served as a knight. however, after many vampire hunters had gone missing in this part of the forest..

he had been sent out here.

he opened his satchel that he'd thrown into the corner. affirming his thoughts, a dagger, identical to the one on the stand was in it.

next to it was a stake, and a torch with an ignition next to that.

he stood up, the final words given to him. but it didn't feel as good as he thought it would.

“kill the vampire.”

because the order was to hurt someone who'd grown so dear to him.

…

was it wrong for him to continue acting like nothing was wrong? maybe. but he couldn't help but still continue to be enamored by you, even if it was wrong.

the stereotypes, the horror stories he'd been fed of vampires. as he held you close to him in the comfort of your coffin, he didn't know what to do anymore.

as he guided you to the lake, he wasn't sure of what he would do. he had his satchel with him now, yet he still held your hand in his.

“are you leaving?” you asked, unknowing of the war taking place in his mind.

“no. i just, wanted to bring it along.”

“oh. okay.” you'd shrugged, unfazed by his words. he felt his heart bleed, bleed because you trusted him so much, but also tugged towards his sense of duty.

you'd sat together again, his body facing the same lake that had guided him to you. he felt your gaze on his face, he squeezed his palm into a fist.

“what's wrong?” you asked, your voice low, you held the long sleeves of your black outfit as your eyebrows scrunched in concern. “you've been acting weird.”

“i.. my memory. it came back.”

your eyes shot up, before a small smile came over your face. “really, that's great katsuki. so,

what were you doing out here?”

the words lingered in the air, his eye painstakingly moving to look at you. his mouth was held open for a second, seemingly speechless as he tried to tell you. he finally, just let it slip. “i was supposed to kill you, [name].”

you stilled, he continued to explain. “it all happened once i saw the dagger. it eyed me, and i eyed it. it seemed so familiar, your eyes did too. until it all came back.” he took a sharp breath and continued.

“men, vampire hunters of the kingdom specifically, went missing around these parts. i was sent here to find the vampire and kill them. but i was ambushed along the way by a witch who hit me with a spell.” his hand moved to his satchel, you stayed unmoving as you absorbed his words.

he held the stake and dagger in his hands respectively, the materials that would kill you if pierced glistening ominously in the moonlight. the same moonlight that encapsulated you two.

“i thought it over. a lot. thought about what i wanted, no. what i thought was right.” he gripped them tightly, holding them up.

you closed your eyes, as you heard the words, “goodbye.”

but death, the feeling of wood piercing your heart never came. the splash of the water was the only sound heart by you, who had tearfully looked to face him.

“what?” was all you could helplessly utter, as he kneeled to sit in front of you:

“..i don't want to kill you [name].” he moved to hold your hand, cold as ever, against the beating heart of his chest. “but i'd like to kiss you, honestly.”

you let out a shaky laugh, a tear falling down your face as you sighed in relief. “i think i'd like that too.”

as the last bubbles burst at the surface of the lake, he tilted your head forward, holding your chin in between his fingertips as he gently kissed you. only the grass between your bodies bore witness to the newly born relationship forged by trust ignited.

the full moon now faced you two. he held your hand tightly, encaging you with the broad of his body.

he saw the moon start to slip away and picked you up, taking you to the bedroom you'd gifted him and laying you by his side.

he'd turned practically nocturnal too from these past weeks, the desire to be by your side fueling him.

so as he laid with his eyes half lidded, looking at you in the dim candlelight of the room, he held you impossibly closer.

he wanted to spend an eternity with you. maybe he'd truly cast his old life aside and become a vampire alongside you.

that thought rocked him to sleep that night, your body like a puzzle piece next to his.

who knew all you'd have to do to kiss a vampire is cast your old life aside?

tags. @k0z3me @darhinadadragon @maddietries @exoticrasin @lavendarstarz @hisonlyobsession @i-the-fluffo @uy242c @cookielovesbook-akie @frosted-flakes @irenne-stans @kemziicore

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Claws and Curses

Werewolf!Jason and Vampire!Reader. They’re best friends, your honor, even when Gotham gets weird. ~1.6k words

Being a vampire is hard. Seriously, five days of trying to adjust to sharpened fangs and claws has not been fun. You’re hungry almost constantly, and you can only take eating raw meat and draining the blood bags the GCPD has been giving out for so much longer.

On top of all that, you broke your bedroom door just by opening it. It hangs limply by its hinges now, and you haven’t gotten around to fixing it. You have no idea how metas with super strength deal with it.

You didn’t even get turned into a vampire the fun way. No, it wasn’t a bite that has you treating everything like it's made of glass but a curse. A witch with some sort of vendetta against Gotham cast a spell, and it left civilians, rouges, and heroes alike running around as monsters.

At first, it was funny, a day off of work wasn’t so bad, and you figured if Batman, who apparently got turned into some kind of wraith, couldn’t fix it, Red Hood would.

But by day three? You hadn’t heard from Jason once, and your boss was insistent that you could come back to work.

Day four, you still had radio silence from Jason, and Gotham was carrying on like Vicki Vale wasn’t delivering the morning news with snakes instead of hair and thick, heavy sunglasses hiding her eyes.

Day five, you were growing increasingly worried about Jason, and you were starting to wonder if you were gonna be stuck as a vampire forever.

Yeah, you had gotten used to opening doors without breaking them, but you had spent almost your entire shift trying to help one of your coworkers, who had been unlucky enough to transform into a yeti, try to deal with shedding. You were still trying to get tufts of white fur off your coat, even on your walk home.

You were so wrapped up in wondering if it was possible to curse a witch back, that you fail to notice the flock of harpies starting to box you in, eagerly trying to corral you into an alley.

They snap their talons at you, and it’s only then your attention focuses on the four bird-like creatures leering at you. “This is our territory,” one of them croons at you, sharp teeth glinting in the street lights, “and there’s a price to be here.”

Your mouth works before your brain does, and you tell them exactly what you think of their little power play, “That’s stupid.”

If they’re put out by your lack of fear, none of them show it. One of them inches forward, gesturing for your pockets, “Wallet and phone, unless you’d like for things to get ugly?”

Your lips curl into a frown. It would be smart to just hand over your things. You’re not exactly a seasoned fighter, and you’re not completely sure how durable vampires are in the face of other monsters.

A part of you wants to find out, to test how capable your strength and fangs and claws can really be.

You don’t get the opportunity to decide. A threatening growl fills the air, and as you whip your head towards the noise, as a large, intimidating werewolf stalks out of the alley behind you.

The harpies didn’t scare you. Most of the monsters you’ve seen haven't shaken you. But this one? He’s terrifying. Teeth and nails meant for shredding skin. Dark, matted fur, and eyes that seemed to glow. Just the sight of him is enough to have all your nerves on edge.

The flock behind you seems to feel the same way, and the air almost crackles with tension.

You’re not sure who moves first, if the wolf takes a step forward, or if the harpies turn to run from a clear apex predator, but someone moves, and your would-be assailants make themselves scarce before you’ve even registered they’re gone.

You half expect the werewolf to pounce, to hunt down the harpies, but he does neither. He sits himself down in front of you and gives you the most disappointed look you’ve ever seen, You didn’t even know wolves could make that face.

It’s then that you notice the clothes he’s wearing, the red bat emblem, the distinctive hooded vest. “No way,” you breathe out, unable to fight the grin spreading across your face, “Jason?”

He rolls his eyes at you, letting out a huff as if to say ‘Duh’.

“You’re a dog,” You point out, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice. Relief spreads over your body when he glares at your words. It really is good to see him alive, and just as expressive, even under the curse.

You reach out to scratch his ears, and he leans into your touch. They’re surprisingly soft under your fingers. “Shouldn’t we be fighting, or something?”

He blinks once, then twice. Jason lets out another low, almost indignant huff at your question. He lifts his head, questioning eyes locking onto yours as he waits for you to elaborate.

Your grin wider at him, almost teasing as you run your hand lazily over the fur on his head, “It’s just, aren’t werewolves and vampires sworn enemies? Shouldn’t you be trying to bite my fingers instead of going all lapdog on me?”

Jason’s ears flatten slightly, and he lets out a quiet, frustrated growl. It's clear that he doesn't appreciate the implication that he would harm you.

You laugh, moving to scratch under his chin, “Yeah, I know. Who cares about centuries of fighting and stereotypes when we have trash TV to watch together.”

His ears perk up at your words, and his tail starts to wag. He offers your hand a slobbery lick, which you make a face at. He grins at the offended noise you make, all teeth and mischief.

You pull your hand away, wiping the drool onto your clothes, tone accusing and playful all at once, “Now, I know the curse didn’t take your manners.”

He shrugs at you, at least as much as a werewolf can shrug, and starts walking towards your building. He glances over his shoulder expectantly, like he expects you to follow.

“Shouldn’t you be looking for that witch? Instead of walking me home,” you ask curiously, quickly catching up to him.

He leans into you a little, huffing in a way that’s so familiar you know he finds your question ridiculous.

You delight in how warm he is against your side, you’ve been running cold since the curse turned you. “I’m just saying,” you murmur, going quiet as you take in the fact that he’s really here. Your next confession slips out thoughtlessly, “I missed talking to you.”

His steps falter, and he turns his head to look at like you’ve said something important.

“Plus, I need you to fix my door,” you say quickly, embarrassed by your slip up, “Broke it with my vampire powers.” You waggle your pointed nails at him, voice light and teasing as you try to mask how much you actually have missed him.

You’re not sure if you’ve managed to convince him, but he keeps walking all the same. You make a note to look into jinxes to curse the witch when you get home.

You really do miss his voice, and the easy conversation that usually flows between you. You find it almost cruel that it’s been taken from you.

It’s that feeling that drives you to keep talking as you near your apartment, “You know you could come over, right? Even if we’re all still cursed? I can turn on that show we’re watching and help you with your fur.”

He has the audacity to look offended, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he stares you down with faux hurt.

You have a stifle a giggle at his face, “C’mon, have you even had a bath since this whole thing started? At least let me brush it out if you’re still furry tomorrow. Deal?”

He’s reluctant about it, you tell by the way his ears flick back, but he nods anyway.

“Knew you’d see it my way,” you say happily, and reach out to pet his head. His eyes close when you do, and you bite back a fond noise at how his tail starts to wag contently.

You begrudgingly drop your hand from his fur, and you almost start scratching him again when he actually whines over it. You don’t know how he does it, but he gives you perfect puppy dog eyes that almost melt your heart.

“Don’t give me that look,” you whine right back, “Don’t you have to go save Gotham or something?”

He seems to contemplate your words for a moment, then gives in, nudging your side as if to say goodbye.

He nuzzles your side, almost long enough that you start to say something, before he pulls away to leave. It almost reminds you of how animals mark their territory with their scent, but you brush away that thought as quickly as it forms.

“Hey,” you call out, stopping him before he gets too far, “Make sure you come over, okay? Even if you still smell like dog.”

He grins at you and yips before disappearing into the Gotham night. You take it for the promise it is, and, as you head inside your apartment building, you wonder if he’ll be interested in the dog treats you keep around for Haley and Ace.

The idea makes you laugh, and for the first time since the curse took its hold on Gotham, you almost want to wake up as a vampire tomorrow, if only for the chance to tease your best friend.

[barbies1shots]

☆- slow - rough sex, featuring GETO SUGURU, whiny geto, pathetic geto, slight feral geto, overstimulation, condescending reader, werewolf!geto x vampire!reader, implied fem reader but anyone can read, use of pretty girl, biting, riding - mating press

werewolf geto who ran most of your little errands. grabbing your clothing from the dry cleaners, picking up your shoes from the polishers, grabbing your supplied bloodbags from the bank. even with the crude way the other vampires look at him. the only thing on mind is pleasing you.

you looked at him from the corner of your eyes when he said he wanted a reward. that he deserved something since he was a good boy.

you, of course indulged in him and gave him what he wanted. a kiss. he nudged you to lay down on the couch, wanting you to be comfortable before he leaned down and kissed your lips. incredibly greedy for any affection. he pulled you impossibly closer from the waist and he moaned into the kiss. his tongue pushes into your mouth, licking everything. not even caring if it was a proper kiss now.

he whines once he trials his lips down your jaw and on your neck. he whines that he wants to finally mark you as his. that all the disgusting vampire smells were making his head hurt.

"What did you do to deserve more than a kiss, huh, pup?"

you giggled at his blunt answer, nothing but i want it. Want my pretty girl so bad. he didnt even know what he was saying. just babbling along with what his heart wants. you granted him permission, and he hurried to find the junction between your neck and your shoulder and sunk his teeth in. his canines hurting the most but he soothed it over with his rough tongue.

you let him strip you out of your clothing, helping him with the straps that his bigger fingers couldnt properly hold. see, he wasnt a virgin, no where close but your cunt makes him feel like one. the tightness, softness and warmness felt like he could come at any moment once he pushed in. with his head tilted back, he let out a groan from the back of his throat, his hold on your hips tightening so much that there will be brusies in the morning.

he leaned down to your neck, licking at the bite mark before he jerked his hips back and pushed them in. easily pressing into your g-spot and making you quiver. he reeled his hips back untill just the tip was grazing the outside muscle and snapped his hips, sending a horrid crashing wave of pleasure through your bones. yet suguru was already on the edge of tipping over, he couldnt keep his breathless moans to himself as he hid himself in your neck.

but as time grew on, his thrusts began to falter. the pleasure, for him, growing too much as he just focused on grinding into you.

"Are you struggling? Do you need my help? Its okay to cry for help, puppy,"

yet he just whined and pitifully nodded his head. he let you switch positions, your pillowy thighs caging his hips in and you lifted yourself up and sunk down onto him. this position takes him deeper, deeper into your tummy where it feels like hes in your throat.

a loud whimper escaped his lips once the back of your thighs met his hips, his chest was rising and falling incredibily. he placed his hands on your hips and you started to ride him. lifting yourself up and dropping yourself down. pressing down and grinding against him. your clit catching the dark hairs resting on his pelvis.

with every movement his thighs jerked and trembled as he struggled to keep his composure. he would gasp, his eyes fluttering shut, Damn, pretty girl, yesyes- please, just like that!-

with every movement it felt like you were riding him for his literal life. that he had to grasp onto his very soul so you couldnt fuck it out of him. your cunt felt like heaven itself, something so precious that should be taken for granted. he arched his back, feeling his canines grow with the sudden need to be even closer to you. a strong wave of possessiveness that reeled him in, a primal instinct.

every movement had him gritting his teeth as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. every movement of your slutty hips-

suddenly you were on your back, flipped over and pinned under the large mass of your werewolf lover, with him growling visicously down into your face. he didnt let you catch your breath or even ask questions before he filled you up again. the pace brutal and unfeeling as he just rutted into you like a filthy dog off the street.

he pressed his dick so deep, that there was a bulge in your tummy, the action forcing a sob to escape from your throat.

he hoisted your thighs onto his arms and he pressed down untill his head rested in your neck, and your thighs are pressed into your tummy, his lips brushing your mark as he fucked you. every rut felt like someone was taking a rock and smashing it into your lungs before purposly taking their finger and stabbing your g-spot. he fucked you and it hurt.

it hurt so good.

he growled possessivly when you ran your fingers through his hair to calm him down, he growled when you pressed your lips into the side of his neck, by his ear. he growled- no he howled when you sinked your fangs into his neck, far deeper than anything has ever gone before and he whimpered patheically as he came. the bite suprising him but feeling so good where he saw white spots scattering his vision as he came.

the pup filled you up so good and just continued to rut into your body like a mindless doll, not knowing when to stop or even how to stop. he didnt hear your distant voice crying out for him to get ahold of himself when he leaned down to bite into the opposite side of your neck. his muzzle now smered with your blood. all he felt was a blinding white pleasure and not your hands slapping at his chest and pelvis to give up.

poor puppy..:(

@aizawasbarb

[deadghosy]

🪓 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑|| 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐗 𝐆𝐍! 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

Diagnosis: fearing to harm your lover, you drink blood from another. Making the riddle himself feel jealous and angry at how you could think he can’t take it.

Warning: possessive behavior, possessive!mattheo, death/blood/killing mentions, slight maybe, suggestive.

Being a vampire in Hogwarts was and is a dangerous game to play. Especially when you had fallen inlove with a mortal human from a rich Slytherin family. The Riddles. Mattheo Riddle was a Slytherin boy who had taken a liken to your “cold” & “loner” personality. He liked how you kept to yourself when really you were trying not to hurt people.

Mattheo did a slow, and friendly approach. Which slowly but surely turned into flirting banter between you two. Gaining your heart, and gaining your trust after almost a year of dating each other. You finally told him that you’re a vampire. You thought the worst, the worst being that he would tell everyone and break up with you. Only for you to gain the opposite of your imagination. He was supportive and didn’t tell a soul.

But he mostly definitely asked a lot of questions.

But last night, you killed a student. Hungry. You were so hungry you lost control and killed a former Hogwarts student that happened to run into your clutches for it to be a death trap. You were lost in a daze, sinking your fangs into their neck and draining them dry til their life and blood source was destroyed. And gone. You could’ve drunk from Mattheo, he had told you to drink his blood if it was serious. But the thought of harming him made you wanna throw up. You felt terrible, so terrible you didn’t talk at all today. Gaining attention from some students and mostly Mattheo. He walked into your dorm seeing pacing back and forth until you seen him. He stared seeing your slight baggy eyes.

“What’s wrong? You look like you had a crazy night or somthin'” he said jokingly. You stayed quiet before nervously laughing. “Yeah…” Mattheo stopped laughing hearing that laughter. He heard that laughter enough to know something actually did happen. “What happened?” You immediately tried to walk past him. You felt scared, you didn’t want him to know you lost control and killed a student.

He pulls you by your arm, gripping it slightly as his eyes darken at your nervous gaze. He hated how he can tell that you’re lying. “The fuck happened last night?” You kept avoiding eye contact making him pull your face close to his with his other hand. “What. Happened.” Breaking the last thread that held you in, you started to ramble from the events. Closing your eyes shut you spilled it, “I drunk another person’s blood and accidentally killed them because I didn’t think you could handle me sucking your own blood, and I’m so sorry!”

Mattheo let out a deep breath and let your arm and face go. Feeling a bit guilty at how he grabbed your arm and stated to massage the arm he held. Worried it might bruise. “Darling…it’s okay. I’m a Riddle for a reason. I can handle you sucking my blood. Plus killing someone isn’t a shock to me much.” You smiled at his words. “But.” Your smile dropped looking at his darkened eyes. It was like an empty void as he tilts his head at you. “But I’m yours, and you’re mine. I can’t let you drink some filthy blood that’s not mine.” You gulped as he moved his hand towards your lips.

He uses his thumb to pull your lower lip down, showing your bottom sharp fangs. There was emotion hidden behind mattheo eyes. You felt fear for a little before he leaned into your ear. “Drink my blood baby. Drink it til it make us dizzy together.” And there goes that crazed smile you fell in love with as he withdraws from your ear and looks at you. Completely towering over you. Your heart felt it was going to leap.

“Cmon. Don’t be scared love. I promise I can take it.” He smiles again, but this time his eyes are different. They soften as he undo his tie while keeping eye contact with you. With one hand it came undone. You felt your mouth water at the sight of his naked neck. Mattheo smirked seeing your eyes dilate. He knew that you were now hungry. You inch closer, and closer. Leaning your head, but your consciousness kept telling you that you were gonna hurt him.

“I..I can’t—” “but you can.” Mattheo quickly interrupts you. “I know you can. I know you’re strong enough to know you can’t hurt me. I can handle it.” Bringing his hand and caressing your cheek. You nodded, you trusted Mattheo to tell you if you are hurting him. You bit into his neck.

With a hiss, Mattheo puts his hand on your waist. Bring you closer as you sink your teeth in deeper. Breaking the flesh and sucking in his blood. You could hear Mattheo chuckle lowly, but what you didn’t see was the light blush and euphoric look he had on his face. His low eyes as he grips the side of your waist. You hummed at the delicious iron taste. Filling your mouth while Mattheo let out a small moan. “That’s right baby…drink as much as you can. Drink it all..” he whispers as he lowers his eyes at you. You hummed and finished the last drop you could drink.

Your eyes were glossy when you pulled back from his neck. Licking the bites that threaten to spill more from Mattheo. “Sorry if I hurt you…” you say lowly, embarrassed at how you also feel on cloud nine from drinking his blood. “You didn’t hurt me.” He kissed the temple of your head then wipes your red stained lips. “Didn’t even feel a pinch.” He smiled while you just roll your eyes. “Whatever…”

At least you knew how he feels if you don’t drink his blood.

[lizzyiii]

His Lady Love —Masterlist

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | if you'd like to be added to the tag list just fill out the following DOC ✨✨✨

summary | to escape your cursed lineage, you sail away to the ends of the world, where you discover a new world, one with only two continents instead of seven. you make a life for yourself in the court of kings landing, where you catch the eye of a certain targaryen prince.

warnings | violence, blood, death, vampire powers, SMUT (18+ MDNI!), fluff, hurt/comfort, trying to follow canon plotline (major changes for some stuff), he falls hard, she falls harder but he's still the one obsessed.

i do not own any character from the book "fire and blood" or the following shows "the house of the dragon" or "the originals" except the reader (which is you)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 1 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 2 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 3 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 5 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 6 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 7 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 8

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 9 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 10 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 11 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 12

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 13 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 14 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 15 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 16

[lowkeyrobin]

hear me out. five hargreeves w/ a vampire!reader who keeps forgetting their umbrella/sunscreen whenever they go out w/ him.

could i be 🦇 anon too? :3

STOP THIS IS SO CUTE UGHHHH i can always get behind a vampire au/reader ; and yes hello 🦇! enjoy your stay at the hotel 🫶 ; also just a hc thing bc I had no idea how to make this a full oneshot ; thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy!

FIVE HARGREEVES ; vampire

summary ; hcs of being a vampire and also being fives s/o when you forget that you're allergic to the sun

warnings ; language, the sun is like an allergy so hives + burning on the skin

word count ; 201

masterlist

you'd think because you're literally allergic to the sun that you'd remember an umbrella / a thick coat of sunscreen

nope

five is always left to make sure you do 😭

he's gotten tired of watching you break out into itching, burning hives as you walk outside

"five..."

"hm?" he looks over at you, eyes quickly widening slightly. "jesus- y/n!"

you quickly begin itching at your arms, trying to use your cool hands to apply some non-heat to the burning parts

like your skin is literally frying

he quickly shoves you into some shade under a tree and frantically looks around for anything

a random lady nearby had an umbrella, so he blips to her, steals said umbrella, and blips back to you

safe to say that you had to get a lot of bandages on your arms when you got home..

"did you get some sunscreen on?"

your face drops as you slowly turn around and head back to the bathroom to grab sunscreen

you then bring it back because you couldn't reach some spots by yourself

"we ran out of sunscreen"

he tosses you an umbrella that sat by the door, which you catch

"this is klaus'-"

"he'll live without an umbrella on a sunny day, y/n"

"fine"

[naffeclipse]

Cryptid Eclipse takes his little hunter, now cursed to be a vampire, to pumpkin patches after hours when all the little children have gone home and no adult is around to pull the tractor with the haybales or sell popcorn or cotton candy. They encourage their sweet heart to pick their favorite gourd—one with warts, one that's pale as the moon, or one that's bright red—to fight the gloom clinging to their darling undead's edges.

Gently, they guide their little hunter through haunted houses the kids can walk through and a large sandbox full of corn kernels that are spilled everywhere on the ground, and they tell their little hunter it's alright. They can enjoy this still. Their sweet heart loves Halloween and spooky bats hanging along banners and scary faces painted onto silos—but they'll avoid the corn maze for now.

Go on. Have fun.

And their little hunter will struggle when they catch the stray sense of drying blood on an old bandage left discarded on the lid of a trashcan. They'll weep and their shoulders will shake but no tears will fall out of their blood-red eyes. The little hunter now vampire will long for the people that should be here, laughing, and watching children toss corn kernels at each other, and they'll wish it wasn't so dark anymore.

Cryptid Eclipse will stop and hold them among the pumpkin patch. They'll whisper and gently nuzzle their pale and ashen face until their little hunter remembers that they are still good. They can protect all the people who were here from the monsters stalking through the tall corn and lurking along the skirts of forests, and they will see that despite their thirst and their inhuman complexion, they are still their little hunter.

Their sweet heart looks up at them, hiding their fangs behind their lips, and nods. They point to an orange pumpkin with green warts all over its skin. Cryptid Eclipse gladly helps them carve a little jack-o-lantern face. They set it on a little picnic table where little children can see, and the demonic cryptid and the vampire retreat back to the safety of the airstream trailer before the sun rises.

Their little hunter sees.

There’s a lot of livin’ to do.

[ikkyfics]

Love Bites

vampire!James Potter x human!reader

Summary: You never thought a coffin could be so comfortable, until you curled up in James Potter's arms.

Warnings: AU, Gothic romance, classic vampires (bites and blood), tones of possessiveness, suggestive scenes, mention of pleasurable pain.

Masterlist

You never thought a coffin could be so comfortable.

The velvet beneath your body was soft, an almost cruel contrast to the weight of being in such a narrow, pitch-black space. But it wasn’t the coffin that brought you comfort. It was him. James.

Curled against his body, you felt the cold of his skin and, at the same time, the feverish heat that their presence conjured together. Your breathing was ragged, still trying to recover from the kisses you had exchanged moments before, intense and desperate, as if they were the first and the last at the same time.

“Your heart,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive, so close you could almost feel it run over your skin like a shiver. “It’s so fast.”

He paused, and you knew he was listening. The sound of the beats pulsed against your own ears, but for him, for James, it was different. It was a melody, a promise of life, as sweet as it was dangerous.

“Every beat,” he continued, as if savoring the words, “is delicious. So alive. So human. And now you’re here, in my coffin, with your scent intoxicating everything around me. How do you expect me to resist?”

You felt his smile against your hair, a gesture filled with something that bordered on absolute satisfaction. It wasn’t just the fact that you were there. It was what it represented. You had chosen to be here. With him. For him.

“I’ve always been drawn to the night,” you murmured, the words sounding like a confession. “The silence, the mystery, the promise of something more… When you came, James, I knew. There was no other place for me. There couldn’t be.”

He leaned in slightly, the space between you so nonexistent that it seemed impossible for you to be separated by bodies. His fingers brushed your cheek, cool but with a touch that made your skin burn.

“You belong to the night,” he whispered, his voice deepening, almost possessive. “And now… you belong to me.”

The shiver that ran down your spine was pure delight. There was something forbidden, dark and sublime in his words. An inescapable truth that you accepted without question. The world outside the coffin seemed like a distant memory, dull and unimportant. All that mattered was here, in that cramped space, in that moment where time and morality seemed to have no meaning.

He moved closer, his lips hovering close to your neck, and you felt his cool breath against your skin. There was no fear. Only surrender. Only desire. Your fingers found his, intertwining, and you felt the firm grip that said as much as any words could.

“You’re torment,” he chuckled softly, the sound reverberating in the enclosed space. “So alive, and yet so mine. I shouldn’t… but I can’t help it.”

His lips found yours again, and the world, completely, disappeared. There was no more room for doubt. You knew that the night would always be your place. And that James would be the darkness where you would lose yourself forever.

The kiss that began as a subtle touch of lips soon became something more. The intensity between you grew like a storm about to break, and the feeling of his fingers tracing invisible lines across your skin made you burn inside. He was meticulous, as if every movement, every touch, was planned to leave you utterly vulnerable.

You noticed when he paused for a moment, just long enough to let out a sigh between his teeth, as if he was absorbing something that only he could feel.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” He asked, his voice hoarse and filled with a control that seemed about to crumble. “Every little reaction of yours… every tremor, every quickened beat of your heart. I feel it all.”

His eyes, even invisible in the darkness, burned against you like embers. It was as if he were peering directly into your soul, stripping away all your secrets, savoring your surrender with an almost cruel satisfaction.

Before you could respond, his lips met yours again, hungrier this time. And then, you felt it: the light touch of his fangs, sharp and relentless, brushing against your lower lip. It was a brief, almost tender gesture, but when the cut came, it was as deliciously painful as it was unexpected. A warm trickle of blood slid across your mouth and flowed into his, James groaned softly, a sound that was half pleasure and half despair.

He tasted the blood as if it were a rare nectar, leaving you breathless and completely at his mercy, sucking on your lip until he squeezed out the last drop of blood. The sensation was so intense, so maddening, that a shiver ran down your spine, followed by a feverish heat that seemed to consume every fiber of your being. Your heart beat in an uncontrolled rhythm, so loud that you could almost hear it echoing in the small space, and each pulse was like a melody that James seemed to absorb with cruel pleasure.

“James…” your whisper escaped, full of desperation, a plea that barely seemed yours. “Please… I need you.”

He pulled away just enough so that you could feel his smile hovering over your lips, teasing and satisfied. His cold fingers moved along the curve of your neck, slowly descending to your shoulder, tracing invisible paths on your feverish skin. The touch was icy, but it set you on fire in a way that no worldly heat could.

“Do you need me?” His voice was a whisper, but it was filled with something dark and devastating. “I can feel how much you want me, my sweet mortal. Your pain, your surrender… I can hear every delicious beat of your heart begging for me.”

His words were both poison and balm. You were dizzy, numb from his proximity, from the fangs that had touched your lip moments before and now hovered dangerously close to your neck. Your entire body was shaking, not from fear, but from an absurd urgency that seemed to tear away every shred of control you might have had.

“Please, James…” Your voice faltered, but the fingers that gripped his shoulder left no doubt about your plea. “Bite me. I need to feel you… I need to be yours.”

He chuckled softly, a deep sound that reverberated in the enclosed space, and the sound made something inside you clench painfully, as if the anticipation was too much to bear. “So impatient,” he murmured, an almost sadistic pleasure in his voice. “So delicious in your need… You’re my undoing, you know that?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were lost in the way his hands explored your body, moving down the curve of your waist, settling there as if marking that moment. Each touch was deliberate, each movement seemed charged with a power that left you on the edge of the abyss. And he knew it. He felt it.

When his fangs finally broke the skin of your neck, it was as if the whole world collapsed around you. The pain came first, sharp, cutting, but it soon gave way to an overwhelming pleasure that made you gasp, your fingers closing tighter against him. Your heart seemed to explode inside your chest, and the feeling of having James there, feeding on you, was so surreal and intimate that it made tears appear in the corners of your eyes.

He drank slowly, savoring every drop as if it were the best thing he had ever tasted, and when he finally stopped, wiping your skin so that not a single drop escaped, you were powerless, but not weak. You were completely, irrevocably alive.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispered, a mix of devotion and cruelty on his lips, caressing your face as he watched you gasp. “Hungry for me. Lost in me. And I couldn’t want anything more.”

His eyes gleamed in the darkness, and the smile that played on his lips was both a warning and a promise. His face moved closer to yours again, close enough for the scent of blood—your blood—to rise to your nose. You felt his fingers curl around your neck, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp.

“Now, my sweet mortal, tell me again,” his lips brushed yours. “To whom do you belong?”

“To you,” you whispered, without hesitation, because you knew there was no other answer. There never had been.

And the way he looked at you after that made your heart falter one last time, before you were completely plunged into the darkness he brought.

[newyork-institute]

All I can think about now is the reader being a freshly turned vampire, and Ghost stumbles across you, covered in blood.

"NO! Wait, please, I don't understand-" "Who's blood is that?" "Mine? I think?" "You think?" "I don't know! I was attacked from behind and then all I felt was pain and then I woke up and everything smells so fucking good and-" "Have you attacked anyone?!" "I-"

Turns out you did, in fact, attack someone, the raw hunger of a fresh turn almost impossible to stop yourself.

He becomes your lifeline after, knowing the clan in the area would rather rip you to shreds than have a vampire running around without being told what to do from another.

When he first offered you his blood, the smell called to you like a siren called to shore, hoping to drag someone into the darkness with them.

You couldn’t escape the taste of him constantly in your mouth or the smell of him surrounding you. You craved licking the sweat off his neck and biting in, but in the beginning, you were limited to the blood from his hand.

Ghost was never surprised to come out of his room in the middle of the night to find you sitting by the window in the living room, eyes cast towards the sky. (Vampires don’t sleep because they’re dead, Ghost had to remind himself.)

He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring at you all the time, wanting to feel your skin under his hands.

Of course, though, other vampires learned of your existence easily, grabbing you like a thief in the night and keeping you sedated with dead man’s blood constantly pumping in your veins.

Ghost was covered in blood when he found you, the smell bitter because it was vampire blood but his presence a balm on your tired and aching body.

“How’d you find me?” You murmured, your head lolling around on Ghosts shoulder. He shushed you, telling you not to talk and to let him take care of you, and you did, closing your eyes and sleeping off the rest of the dead man’s blood.

When you woke up at whatever time later, all you could smell was Simon - the sweat, sweat smell of his musk and the gunpowder that stuck to his skin. You looked at him as you opened your eyes.

The whole turning into a vampire and then being captured and held captive by other vampires caused you to break, a sob slipping past your lips as you buried your head in the pillows.

Strong arms were around you, Simon hauling you into his lap, one hand wrapped around your hip and the other tangling into your hair.

You were shaking as you buried your head into his shoulder, calming yourself down with the smell of him invading your senses.

Then hunger shot through you, brutal and agonizing, a wounded sound passing your lips as you tried to pull away from that intoxicating smell of Simon Riley.

Hands were on your face, a thumb pushing at your brow to get that look off your face. “What is it, love?”

“‘M hungry,” you grit out, letting the wave of devastating hunger pass before you opened your eyes, Simon’s chest now bare as he slid his hand to the back of your neck.

“Here,” he said, tilting his head to the side some, baring his neck to you. You whimpered, not needing anymore convincing to press your lips to his neck, fangs coming through and piercing his skin.

I just like the idea Simon Riley letting himself be the only one to sustain you, gripping you tightly each time as you sink your fangs into his neck.

[floralscented]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤGOTHIC HORROR! — vampire!dean

the most loyal of soldiers build their armies, expand their ranks. they do not get attached to their underlings. they do not find solace in you.

content warnings, devotion to the highest, unhealthiest degrees. slight emotional manipulation. blood & gore depictions. minor self h/rm, but not with harmful intent. bloodplay. nsfw elements & insinuations, undetailed. voyeurism? undetailed. bi!dean. nick saint cameo. i made up this vampire lore as far as i'm aware, so discrepancies to the media you know is purposeful!

dean was far used to the act of bleeding a person dry; it was you that was troubling him.

there came times in which he could not bring himself to take the victim out of their misery. it gnawed in the back of his mind, as they choked and spluttered on the blood pouring from their lips, that this life he’d carelessly taken had been cut too short. this one, his mind would tell him, was meant for something greater. 

and he’d singlehandedly snuffed that flame.

dean was far too old, now, to wallow in guilt or feel bad for actions he willfully chose to make. but if there was anything keeping him human, it was his conscience.

his mouth was still crusted with the blood he’d ripped from your throat when he brought his wrist up to tear into his skin. no blood naturally pumped through him anymore, but the accumulation of his immortality and abilities kept a supply cycling through him so that the body he inhabited did not wither or concave in on itself.

droplets as thick as cream and as dark as the richest wines pooled in the teeth marks he’d left on himself. his body was, for all intents and purposes, dead; he did not feel pain when he tore open his wrist, and he did not feel pain as it already began to stitch itself together. 

his unmarred arm slips beneath your upper back, raising you enough to cradle you into his chest. your eyes are as vacant as his must appear — death tended to get impatient, and steal the souls away before the heart finished its thrum. your breaths are ragged and thick with the blood pooling in your lungs. death’s rattle. he was here, then.

death always seemed to follow the dead. it was why genuine, true hauntings usually ended in death, too, for those involved. that place is cursed, the mortals whisper about the homes, the abandoned buildings, the decimated ruins of destruction, everyone dies there. 

it is lonely to die and be dead. sometimes the spirits or the creatures are impatient, and need something new to play with. sometimes, their conscience wakens from the deep slumber it typically stayed in, and reminded them that the people they feed from deserved second chances as much as they believed that they did not.

even in your semi lucid state, you struggle against him, trying to force your mouth away from the skin he presses to it. 

“don’t make this harder,” dean grunts, your struggles surprisingly strong for how little life essence still lingered in you. the adrenaline burst before your body gives, he imagines. it makes him more forceful. 

you choke and splutter, and he knows by now what his blood looks like on the skin of the lives he takes. yours, fresh and the color of ripe strawberries. his, thick and deep red, the color of decay.

there will be three minutes between your subsequent death and the revival. he does not have many that he sires, but each one was personable enough to remember these details. four of them, portraits lined on the walls of his dusty, towering home. portraits the only thing that dean has left of them, as they all unceremoniously left him when they realized how unhealthy it was to linger.

maybe you would stay. dean hoped that you did not.

he hears your heartbeat splutter out its last revs of life, and feels when your body becomes a heavier weight in his arms. three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, for him to look at you without you trying to claw through his clothes and pierce a vein. 

if you’d asked, dean would not know how to explain why he’d chosen you. there were many bodies that he left in his wake in the century that he’d been alive. there were exactly a handful now of ones that he’d chosen to keep. 

his first was because he was his friend, once. closest friend.

his second was because she was lovely, and he thought he might have loved her. 

his third was a child, and he torments himself about this one constantly.

his fourth was a mistake, by all accounts of the word.

his fifth was… you. pretty? yes. significant? he didn’t know. you had to be, or else his conscience would have stayed silent and slumbered on for another decade or so. but there were no indicators that you would have any impact on his life.

dean has always called it the shift, because the vampyr that had sired him called it such. when a soul slips away and the body is lifeless, and then suddenly, a jolt, as if what had been set free had been sharply snatched back. 

another wave of adrenaline pumps your heart back to life for a split second, enough to propel you conscious. 

dean lets you fall from his arms gracelessly. he takes a step back that is quick enough to instead be feet away from you.

this is the part that dean does not ever get used to. the rage. how angry the bonded are to have been spared. did they not know that dean did this for them? 

you look ravenous. it is no surprise that your speed is the first part of your new undead abilities that you tap into, when you launch yourself at him, fingers fisted tight and unwavering while you desperately try to claw at him. 

“don’t,” he repeats, fiercer this time, as he twists away before your teeth can sink into his skin, “make this harder.” 

he predicts the next words out of your mouth before they’re even spoken. “i am hungry.” 

hungry, and his blood, to you, would taste sinful and addictive. salted caramel and bourbon, a friend had once said, tracing his tongue over dean’s throat and sinking his teeth in.

it is always the shift of a new youngling vampyr that draws the memories of the others from the depths of his mind. if he isn’t careful, dean is going to end up doing something stupid — like writing them a letter, like calling, like…

you’re screaming, now. thrashing in his grip as if you were seizing, desperate to break his hold and gnaw the marrow out of his bones. 

he tightens his hold. snaps your wrist with nothing but a little more force from his fingers. that is what brings you to a halt. your broken wrist, hanging at an awkward angle. 

“behaving now?” dean asks, still keeping the hold on your wrist, only tight enough to feel the bones beneath the surface of your skin knitting together, the skin pulling taut. 

you rip your hand free from his, as if only then realizing the lengths of your strength. good. dean was not restraining you to hold that power over you, but mostly to keep control of the situation. it is best for the fresh vampyrs to discover their abilities on their own.

“what have you done to me?”

that one hits closer to home than dean wants it to. 

it does not strike as deep in his heart as it could; there are words he hears, still, from previous decades that remind him of his first four bad choices.

you would be different.

you had to be different.

trust does not start with secrets. but it is not something that should be handed out so freely. and so it is a conscious choice for dean to hold out his wrist in offering while still maintaining the physical distance between you two.

“it will be better if you drink,” he starts, his voice low and nearly apologetic if it wasn’t so self satisfied. “some things are hard to hear on an empty stomach.” 

it was the same, though, as it always was. dean, letting you feed from his wrist like someone starved, while he tried to piece together the sugared down version of what he’d done to you. he always puts so much strain on himself; rushing the time with those sired to him, attempting to speak coherently as if his mind was not thrumming with the effects of your venom in his system. 

you closed yourself off into the room of his manor that he designated for the freshly turned vampires. they were closer to being human than he was, and humans needed space for themselves.

the door was always locked to him. never once, in all five of his sired, had one of them invited him in. and so he spends a week outside of said door, listening in out of fear of what would happen if he did not.

he'd gotten chaotic with the one prior to you. reckless, impulsive. dean would not let himself make the mistake again.

at least he was busy in those moments that he waited on your reappearance. dean was never one to make use of his time, usually; he had forever, why would he clean the bookcases now when in his equivalent to a blink, they'd be dusty again?

he wrote letters. four letters. olive branches extending blindly into the dark. the ravens carried them away. the birds were the only ones who knew where they were, after all. like he'd never been invited into their space, his original underlings had never bothered to send a postcard, either.

that little fact hurts like a bleeding wound, in one instance.

it aches like a bruise, in another.

it tears him open, in terms of the third.

it feels like solace and healing, with the fourth.

perhaps they would take up the invitation to come back to the manor tomorrow, if only for a night. more than likely, they would ignore him, and continue to let him rot.

out of the seven days he'd lingered outside your room, it is now that dean finally opens his mouth to speak. he will not let you abandon him like the others.

"if you starve yourself in there, i'm not permitted to enter and lay you to rest," dean calls from the heavy wooden frame.

your silence on the other end is unnerving. dean is in the middle of opening his mouth to call to you again when your voice rings out, finally. "go to hell."

"i am also not permitted in there, either," he says back, with a little twitch of his lips. "you may hate me and be angry with me all you want, i will never deny you the human feelings you cling to. but your strength is important."

it's a conscious choice of words. calling it livelihood when there is no ounce of life left within you did not go over well with the others.

his ears strain, but he hears it. the padding of the bedspread dipping, the near silent, inhuman steps to the door, the harsh click and turn of the lock. useless, he wants to say, your invitiation is the only thing that keeps you from him. but there are little human things that every single one of his underlings still maintained. he was not cruel enough to take them away, too.

dean suspected that you'd look weary. seven days denying yourself what you wanted tended to do that. he does not offer his wrist this time, but he does nod backwards down the darkened hallway. "it is my due diligence to wean you off, not encourage the bad habit."

"that does not make any sense," you snap at him, your sharpened vision blowing the pupils in your eyes wide. you are trying to study the portraits hung on the walls. he quickly extends a hand, not crossing the threshold of your room, to stop you. "i do not want a tour of my prison."

dean's mouth quirks again. you remind him of himself, and his first love; second sired. "it is not a tour of the prison, it is a lead to the kitchen."

"what could you possibly have in there?" your words are fierce and vile, spat at him like they will somehow poison him. "the dead do not eat vegetables."

"the dead keep their blood cold and from spoiling in the refrigerators. do not try to explain to me what you know nothing about."

you stare at him for a long while before one of your feet steps out of the boundary. "i do not want to drink blood."

dean nearly snorts. he did not want to, either. "but the second i spill my blood, you will be clawing at me for a taste."

your pupils are still huge when they land on him. the hunger has been wearing you down; he sees it in your lack of inhibitions. he lets his hand fall when it is clear you will not take it. "but it is my responsibility to not let you become addicted, even though i know the temptation to tear my clothes off and tear into me must be unbearable."

"you have a lot of arrogance for a man who must force all of his playthings to stick around," you say, and it hits a little too close for comfort. he is glad that you did not take up his hand, because he might have lashed out.

he leads you down the hall regardless, this time in a silence that feels as heavy as lead. he breathes deeply, slowly, though it is entirely useless of a gesture. it'd been a long time since dean had to take ten deep breaths, to maintain his composure. while you and his others had your habits, he'd considered his long forgotten.

as he promised, the ancient kitchen is empty. the fridge is nothing more than a metal box on claw feet, the table coated in a thick layer of dust. the cabinets, once deep mahogany, were grayed.

dean grabs a wine glass from the cupboard and sets it on the dust coated countertop. he opens the fridge door and, lo and behold, there is a severed arm lit up like a halo in the center rack. if he was capable of it, he'd blush. how embarrassing to leave leftovers scattered around when he knew he had guests.

he shoves the fingers out of the way and closes his hand around a vial of blood instead. you would probably like it from the source better, but you would not like anything until he acclimated you off of his taste, and onto human blood.

another mistake that he has since fixed.

he pours the vial into the glass, and then shatters it on the edge of the countertop. the shard is what he uses to break the skin of his wrist, letting the blood pour in a slow stream into the glass too. less than how much you took from him a week ago, though still more than he should. he was bound and determined, it seemed, to let history repeat itself.

your control is better. the little one that'd turned, a week in, was still climbing over the counters and throwing furniture to get to the open wound in his arm. a week in self-proclaimed isolation had done well for you.

when dean turns, he holds the glass out. "won't be as good as you will wish for it to be," he says, his arms folding across his chest, "but it is a necessary evil, i assure you."

"i do not want this," you try to argue, but your voice is weak, and you take a sip anyways in the same breath. a sip becomes a long drink becomes the glass is emptied.

dean doesn't bother making a comment on it. you'd still poked an open wound earlier. grudges were more often than not held longer by those who lived forever. "we all do things we don't want to do."

"is that how you justify it to yourself?"

at least this time, you have the decency to regret it. it is easier to be kind to him when his blood is in your system. hard to be angry with when you want to devote your every breath to him.

dean is not in the mood to play tonight, though. his other bonded might come the next day. it was important to him that he was prepared for it, and not wallowing in the cruel words you weaponized against him without knowing how true they were.

"goodnight, beautiful," he says anyways, as he turns to leave.

he has never been good at denying himself indulgences.

you sense the stranger's presence before you see it. undead, like you, like the one who turned you. there is no heartbeat but there is a steady thrum of blood, still as a stagnant pond.

"interesting," the person says. deep voiced. heavy footsteps indicate big, heavier shoes, thudding hard on the hardwood of your room's floor. male, you imagine. "and here i thought he wrote because he missed me."

your eyes fly open, and there he is. you did not see much of the paintings on the wall, but that was the first, the one closest to where your room's door was. broad shoulders, tall in stature, and looking entirely too amused for your comfort.

sleep was not necessary for you, but it was peaceful, in a way, to imagine you still could. the act of going about your every day routine brought comfort that you hadn't imagined you'd feel lost without.

"who are you?" you ask, unable to tear your eyes from him. dark mop of hair. piercing light colored eyes that, too, have not left yours.

his eyebrows bounce, and the lift of his lips indents dimples into his cheeks. "i'm the first you."

the riddled, vague speech was becoming old and frustrating at once. "explain it."

"what, this whole situation? or what i mean?" he tips his head to the side, eyebrows raising even higher on his forehead, disappearing behind the soft, dark bangs. "words hold meaning, little fang. you live too long now to use them so uselessly."

the man from the painting is nearly as infuriating as the one who'd bitten you. "the whole situation. he is keeping secrets from me."

"because dean winchester does not know how to properly treat the toys he feels entitled to play with," the man's response is immediate, shrugging off the coat from his shoulders. "i feel the best place to start is the hall."

you sit up slowly in the bedspread, your expression twisting. "the hall?"

something akin to bitterness drapes across his face like a mask. "get up. there's not a lot of time between the flicker of the switch and him noticing the light is on."

riddles again. this time, you do not argue. instead, you clamber out of the bed and follow in silence behind him out of the room. right beside your doorframe is a light switch you both never noticed the presence of, and never noticed was always off.

he flips it up, and the hall lights golden.

peeling maroon wallpaper gives way to wooden boards. the trim is curling in on itself, deep mahogany exposing the pale splintered wood. but what somehow remains untouched, undusted, well kempt, are the paintings.

four large portraits evenly spaced along the side of the wall that your room is on.

a man, a woman, a child, a husk.

the one closest to you is identical to the man stood beside you; the same but younger. fresh clothes off of the rack, unmarred by the long life that you imagined he'd had so far, if he was truly the first.

the next is beautiful. warm skin that's golden underneath the hall's lights, curls spilling down her shoulders, a little smile on her mouth. on her shoulders rest the straps of a sage green dress that cuts at the cups and turns into picture frame.

the third is like a punch in the stomach. a little boy with terror in his glossed eyes, his lips parted like he was shuddering down gasps that did nothing to alleviate his panic.

the fourth used to be a man, you think. a long mop of brown hair, warm eyes. but the humanity ends there, and in its place is greyed skin, a vacant expression, dirty and thin clothes from a time period that was no longer.

"i don't understand," you breathe out, unable to look away from the sight laid out before you.

the man beside you straightens. "his best friend, his first love, his first save, and his brother."

it is a plain enough answer, but there's not enough detail to lessen the blow of it. there's a lot to unpack, and so you land on a starting point. your finger reaches out to tap the wooden frame of the first portrait. his portrait. "it's you."

"not really," the man says, stepping forward to brush a finger's worth of dust from the tops of the frames that you could not see. "he picked to preserve my memory from a time when i actually liked him. that has not been me for... hell, decades now."

you step forward to examine it better. the bottom of the frame is engraved. nicholas.

nicholas steps around you to stand in front of the woman's portrait. he dusts along the top of this one, too, with his finger. "cassie." his voice is wistful, memories and history you don't know built in between the words. "i imagine she will not be around today."

"what's today?" you ask, even though the answer feels so disconnected from you. here are people that the man who turned you — dean — cared for desperately, and now... you. how did a person even go about unpacking decades worth of history and find a place for themselves within it?

his smile is spread thin across his mouth. "a day of desperation for him, i imagine. it comes every decade or so, when dean feels the need to line his mistakes up and check in."

"is that what you think this is, nick?"

dean's voice cuts through the silent buzz in the hall, and your eyes shoot to the end of it, where he takes up the entire width of it.

"well, you certainly don't love us anymore," nick says back, that bitter smile leaking into his words, now, "that sentiment is made exceptionally clear when you make a fifth and then think of the others you subjected to this life."

you want to shrink away. you did not want to stay here, but being used as a weapon in their argument feels like poison in your veins. you did not know dean, especially did not know nick, but already you had become a thorn in the sides of both of them.

"don't spoil the mood before the others come." dean turns on his heel before he glances over a shoulder. his eyes land on you, and then nick's, and all it seems to do is rub salt into wounds you did not mean to make exist.

"you are a fool to think that cassie will show, let alone bring jude."

jude. the child, or the man who looked more like death than he did like a person?

dean's jaw visibly ticks. "i was a fool for thinking that, at the very least, you wouldn't show."

"don't be unkind in front of the baby vampyr, dean, it's unbecoming."

it was not unbecoming to you. uncomfortable was the better word for it. there was no comfortable way to witness an argument rehashing itself after decades of time elapsed.

you begin to walk through the middle of their argument, not making any sort of eye contact with dean as you brush past him. it is not your business, and you will not make it as such.

the men do not follow you to the kitchen. part of you is desperate to listen in, well aware that you can now. the other part does not want to get involved in their drama anymore than you've already become.

it would be easier to detach from them, you'd thought. but there was no easy way to unwind from around dean winchester when he'd sank his teeth into you. you just didn't know it yet.

dean does not know how this always happens, or he does, and it is just not something he wants to address.

nick was his first mistake. everything a vampyr creating a sire bond could do wrong, he did. he let nick feed on him whenever he wanted. he let nick become addicted. and then he let nick leave, knowing that nothing would ever be able to satiate him; no person, no experience, nothing. not unless it was dean. and it was made clear, the day that nick left, that dean was the last thing that nick ever wanted to see.

and yet every time dean got lonely, confined to his own solitude, he could send a raven and know that the only one who would come was nick.

cassie was successful in cutting dean off. was the only one that was, really. jude might have come if cassie hadn't declared herself his caregiver, and ran off with him in the night. it is wishful thinking at best.

sam...

he didn't think about sam if he could help it.

no matter what, though, dean ended up here, in this exact position. knelt on the soft mattress of his unused bed, letting nick sink his teeth into dean's shoulder, his throat, his mouth. blood coated his skin like a second layer. it didn't ever bother dean; nick always cleaned up after himself.

"a new one," he all but snarls into the curve of dean's shoulder. "do you think so little of me, of us, that you dare repeat the same mistakes you always end up making?"

he's a little heady with nick's venom working through him. there's a lot of it, too, because nick is incapable of stopping himself. he's starved until dean makes the decision to call on him, and so he does not hold back on the fixes he feels entitled to.

and dean could never be mad at him for it, because this is the monster that he created.

"it will be different this time," dean slurs around his own pointed teeth. the sired taste like nothing to him, but he's always finding himself lost in the moment, with nick. they were both gluttons, in a sense.

nick leans in to capture his mouth in a kiss that is more teeth than lip, puncturing dean's bottom one with his fangs and sucking on it. "you said that about sam," he dares to say, dares to, because there was an unspoken rule that no one could talk about sam, and only nick ever seemed to breach it.

"sam was—"

"a mistake," nick interrupts, lifting his mouth off of dean's. his eyes are pitch black, his mouth is stained and glossy red. still, as weak as it's making dean, his chest swells at the sight of the color staining his skin now. no longer so pale and death-stricken. "we were all your selfish mistakes, dean, and now sam is in the caverns—"

dean grasps at nick's throat with his fingers, pushing him backward, creating space. "enough."

"staked," nick strains out anyways, and maybe he would have kept pushing, would have forced dean to confront his worst possible choice, if not for the floorboard outside of the bedroom door creaking.

you, stood watching, mouth agape. it must have been quite the sight. two men, nearly naked, coated in the deep dark of one of them's blood.

not to mention how the conversation steered. nick had reacted the same way to hearing about dean's slip in judgement. black magic to restore as much humanity back to his long dead brother as possible, and then the turning process to try and prolong him.

black magic was never simple, and never gave without taking. sam was less than human, less than vampyr, and now permanently staked in a coffin in the caverns so that he could not tear through the fabrics of the world and destroy it.

nick's mouth curves upward in a bloody, toothy smile at you, which only serves to make dean grimace. you were not safe around him; not when nick was always the most possessive over what he deemed to be his sire. "little fang."

mortification shifts onto your expression now. as dean always could, he sensed the general sense of where your head was at. he always could with his sired. nick needed dean in every way he could possibly imagine, and still, it would never be enough. you were beginning to realize why dean was so adamant on breaking the addiction quick, because your head was beginning to swim with the same thoughts that tormented nick.

dean did not want him to invite you in here. for some reason, this felt too intimate and intense for you to be thrown into. dean was doing so good with you, keeping you at arm's length, close enough to get your fix until you were free from him, far enough so that breaking away would not be difficult.

it is to his horror that dean is the one to say it. "come in." it's barely a breath. it weighs a thousand pounds on his chest. "if you'd like to."

nick's gaze is a physical weight on him. it speaks a thousand words that he does not utter out loud. i told you so, it seethes in dean's ear, you are the same as us, as much as you despise it. addicted and foolish. desperate and needy.

it is both relief and torment that you turn the other way and leave. relief, because you still have a chance. torment, because the voices were right.

he was not a good man.

dean was going to end up hanging a portrait of you, too.

notes. lots of lore cld still be unpacked with this random au i threw together starting last night. so if u want a part two or something ... let me know hehe. i tried to make it as gothic as possible bc u know ... the title or whatev ... but if it's not good or it's too much MINDDDD UR BUSINESS ACTUALLY. anyways thank u for reading love u!

tags. @titsout4jackles @moonstruksandco @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @itzavahere @sagegreen17 @bruceewayne @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @deansbeer @blushpinkdoll @warpedless @sabrinasopposite @k-slla @deansbite @foolinthera1n @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @whyyouegg @bluemerakis @fallbhind @florchids @figthoughts @beausling @chevroletdean @mccartneyqp @bluestrd @sthefferrete @rubyvhs @tortureddarkstar @aileenunfiltered @frosttbitessam @theosaurous @blushpinkdoll

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Don't Mess With The Doctor's Wife 💘 | Carlisle Cullen Snippet

Twilight Masterlist Part 1

Characters & Pairings: Carlisle Cullen x female!vampire!reader (romantic), Bella Swan x Edward Cullen, Edward Cullen x reader (platonic)

Content warnings: fluff, light angst, suggestive themes right at the end | female reader (she/her) | wc: 1.4k

Premise: Just some good ole fluff of a married vampire couple of a few dumbass teen immortals.

Note: So many people loved 'The Doctor's Wife' and asked if I could continue it! not sure if I'll make it long imagines but I definitely plan on making small snippets like this that is good ole fluff of the golden couple of the Cullens dealing with their chaotic teenage immortal children. Enjoy and thank you so much for the positive reception on my work!

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“Honey….,” Carlisle leaned against the door of their bedroom, treading carefully on water he knew better than to cross. But their whole family dynamic was at stake and as the patriarch--and coven leader--he needed to fix it. 

Without any bloodshed.

Her glare, however, spoke against his hopes for peace. “Don’t honey me, Carlisle Cullen.” Clothes flung everywhere, the room in utter disarray contrary to its usually unkempt nature. “He is being ridiculous and you know it.” Tossing a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps into the suitcase she gave him another look, “And yes, I know he can hear me.” Carlisle had opened his mouth, but closed it, his wife not having to the mind reader in the family to know what he was about to say. 

“You have every right to be upset. I’m not happy about the situation either, but we have to do what’s best for our family.”

Carlisle came over to where she was, beginning to pack his clothes into his own suitcase. Brushing away the stray hairs that fell from her hair scarf, Y/n’s eyes turned serious, “What happened was unfortunate--and it is a shame Bella got hurt. He’s been beating himself over it the entire weekend and I understand that, Carlisle. But what I don’t appreciate is him uprooting us and using you as the excuse.”

Following Bella’s birthday party gone wrong, Edward didn’t waste a second in making the executive decision to the family that they had to leave Forks. Saying they were a danger to Bella and to ensure her safety and no more harm comes to her as a result of his doing, they needed to remove themselves from the picture. And Edward’s genius move was to tell Bella it was because the staff at the hospital were starting to notice Carlisle’s lack of aging. 

“His concern is valid. We’ve been here four years now. It was bound to happen.”

“So you’re telling me you’ve heard people talk at the hospital?” She challenged.

“I don’t need to hear them say it aloud, Y/n,” he tells her with a knowing look. “Their stares are enough confirmation. I had one nurse ask me last week if I had a skincare routine.” His attempt at a joke doesn't work. She doesn’t so much as crack a smile, but he tries again. “Soon they’ll be asking what botox doctor I go to.”

Y/n knew Carlisle had a point. It always happened wherever they moved. They settled down, spent maybe five or six years until all the kids graduated from high school for the hundredth time, then did it all over again. If it wasn’t nosy hospital workers, it was teachers. If it wasn’t the bakery owner she frequented asking how she managed to look 27 after seven years, then it was the engineer she was collaborating with on a project. 

“It’s not fair,” she goes on, carefully folding her dress shirts, skirts, and pants. Not looking forward to having to pack up her art studio. All the supplies, artwork, and projects she was working on. “And I feel so awful for her,” her frown made his own appear, “You see the way she looks at him. It’s utter devotion, as though he was a sentient being sent from the heavens. And Edward,” her voice drops to a whisper, “he worships the ground she walks on. And this decision not only punishes her, it punishes him.”

The pair fall into a silence when the front door opens and slams shut. Edward’s lingering scent disapparating, causing Y/n to groan and place her head in her hands. The anger and not caring if her adoptive son heard her rant suddenly vanished. Replaced with shame. 

Carlisle sighs, setting down the pile of towels he folded to walk over to her. Gently grabbing her shoulders, he brings Y/n into a comforting embrace, letting his hands fall to her waist, allowing her to sink into his arms with a content hum. 

“Listen to me,” she closes her eyes, not wanting to meet his gaze where she’ll find judgement. “I sound ridiculous--and I’m being unfair to him and his feelings on the matter.”

“You care for him dearly,” Carlisle strokes her hair, “he understands that. And I think deep down he knows you’re right, but won’t admit to it because he believes he’s doing the right thing for Bella.” Carlisle leans back to look into her eyes, “Remember, he was turned at a young age--and has never experienced this type of love before. He’s learning all this for the first time.”

“I know,” she mumbles, deflated but understanding. They stayed in their embrace for a few minutes before separating to continue packing up. Edward returned later that night with brighter eyes, indicating he had fed to which resolved some of the tension between the two when they finally sat down to have the conversion they’d been dreading. Him apologizing for uprooting the family suddenly, and for the harm he was to cause Bella. And Y/n apologizing for the words she spoke before he left. They hugged it out, neither able to stay mad at the other, and Edward helped her pack the art room throughout the remainder of the night. 

The time away from Forks was odd but somewhat comforting. Carlisle and Y/n decided to spend their time on the island they owned just off the coast of Brazil. Rosalie and Emmett traveled to New York, Alice and Jasper in Mississippi and Edward in Rio de Janeiro. They spoke on the phone frequently, sent letters and postcards, or emailed. Edward would spend a night or two on the island to hunt, Y/n painted canvas after canvas, and Carlisle worked on a medical textbook he was in the process of writing.

“You hear that?” She asked one night when they were cuddling on the couch. A random movie playing on the TV.

“What?”

“It’s quiet,” she whispered, a grin spreading on her lips. “No kids. No animals. No workers. Absolute silence.” Carlisle mirrored her smile. 

“You’re right. We haven’t had complete silence in ages.”

“More like eighty years--give or take,” she snorted. 

When the shit hit the fan in Italy, Y/n nearly killed Edward herself. Not just for the danger he put himself in but for the whole family. Alice and Rosalie also met her wrath--Rosalie for not explaining clearly to Edward the vision, and Alice for dragging Bella to Italy. 

Yeah, none of them wanted the smoke. 

The sight of the three siblings sitting on the couch with their heads down and twiddling their thumbs while Y/n paced in front of them while shouting a motherly tangent had Emmett straining to hold back his laughter. Carlisle didn’t dare intervene. 

Back in Forks the family settled back into their routines. Carlisle in the hospital and Y/n working on projects. The kids in school and planning for the summer. 

Then shit hit the fan again.

This time in the form of a newborn vampire army created by the red-headed lover of the tracker they disposed of the year prior. Victoria. And she was out for revenge against Edward and Bella. 

Y/n was not the fighting type, but that didn’t mean she did not know how to throw down. She could get her hands dirty if she desired. Emmett and Jasper taught her the ropes, Edward taught her how to anticipate opponents moves. 

“C’mon old man!” she dodged Carlisle’s attack, giggling as she pivoted to kick lightly at his chest. “Don’t be getting sleepy on me now. That’s not like you.” Carlisle smirked, catching her off guard by grabbing her waist and flipping her onto the ground.

“I’d watch who you call old, sweetheart,” he mocked right as Jasper yelled, “Never turn your back on your enemy!” 

Let’s just say…they did more than spar that night once the sun went down. 

[lay-z]

Just a sneak peek of a concept that has taken root in my brain.

TF-141 x fem!vampire!Reader. Aye?

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do this my way, sunshine. Am I being clear?"

Sunshine. You don't know if you should scoff or laugh about the pet name. Is it because you're anything but a ray of sunshine or because it's one of the few things that can actually harm you? A reminder that you're not indestructible perhaps?

"Very clear," you purr, adding, "Johnathon."

Captain Price wrinkles his nose at that and you find it incredibly endearing, the way he both hates and desires you; knowing about the latter, because you can clearly pick up the tiniest hint of arousal in his human scent.

"Rule number one," he grumbles, tightening his crossed arms over his bulky chest, "I'm sir, Captain or Price to you from now on. Rule number two, you answer to me and you'll learn to respect me. Especially in front of my men. Understood?"

You regard him in silence for a moment, gazing up at him with sharp, ruby eyes while you're sitting perfectly still in the chair in front of his large and very cluttered mahogany desk. A desk so messy, it makes your fingers itch to clean it up.

"Honestly, I feel like you'll only come up with more rules and I should probably write all of this down," you retort, obviously wanting to taunt him as you feign looking for a pencil on his desk. "I have terrible memory, you know?"

You never forget anything and you couldn't if you tried. It's both a blessing and another curse that's part of your condition. A side effect, one could say.

And you anticipate him slamming his mammoth palm on the desk with an exasperated growl even before it connects with the wood with a loud smack. You heard the spike of his pulse, the way his muscles flexed and synapses in his brain fired when his temperament made him react to your teasing.

Captain Price is such a prime male human example; being with him almost makes you feel giddy in a way that you haven't felt in decades, and this whole arrangement that is slowly starting to come together only adds to the long forgotten feeling of excitement.

"This is all a bloody joke to you, innit? Meanwhile, I'm over here, taking a huge fucking risk turning to someone like you for help!"

Your eyes zero in on the thick vein in his flushed neck as he yells at you, throbbing and alive, and you can feel your mouth water with saliva as the urge to bite and feed on him, to make him yours, starts growing in your chest cavity.

As you let out a soft, breathy laugh, completely unbothered by his outburst that probably has his soldiers cowering, you flash him a charming smile. "Pardon me," you chuckle softly and relax back into your chair, "I'll be good now, Captain."

Captain Price narrows his steel blue eyes at you suspiciously as he slowly lowers himself back into his office chair and the old leather creaks under his weight.

"I highly doubt that, sunshine," he sighs gruffly, rubbing a hand over his tired face before dropping it on the desk again, glaring at you once more. "But I'll take my chances with you."

"You want your little Sergeant back, don't you?" You ask rhetorically, because this is why you're here, why he brought you back all the way from Urzikstan to the UK after you'd stumbled into the scene, had your hungry self been lured in by the thick scent of blood and death that day.

The Captain stiffens in his seat at the mention of Soap, the man who got captured by their enemy after being shot and left behind in some tunnel.

You don't need a verbal answer from him to know that you're right.

"Exactly," you coo, letting out a little laugh. Giddy. Excited. Just happy to be involved, honestly.

" and I can bring him back. No biggie."