#gooooooooood i can’t stop thinking about vampires lately sorry (not sorry)

[dawn-moths]

tw: predator/prey dynamics, reader is kidnapped under the guise of being saved, you could consider this dubcon at the end i suppose.

words: 900+

Vampire!Childe who finds you wandering through the freshly fallen snow that blankets the forests of snezhnaya, a trail of blotchy, splattered red following in the wake of your frantic, uneven footprints, leading him to you like a shiny lure dangling from a sharp hook.

Every new sound that echoes from the treetops makes you lose another notch of sanity, all logic wrung from your mind like water from a cloth until all you’re left with is the terrified instinct to keep running, don’t let it catch you.

You swore you could hear the distinct, almost but not quite human chittering of a mean chuckle every time you stumbled and nearly fell, as if the shadows took amusement in your suffering, but whether it’s all in your head or not doesn’t matter anymore.

You just have to keep running.

Against all odds, you just have to keep running.

Childe could smell you from a mile away even if your blood hadn’t been spilt, your sweet, sinfully human scent wafting through the air on a crisp breeze, tangled with the heady aroma of the thick pine that crowds the space of the wilderness.

He wants you, and so he shall have you.

But not until he’s let himself indulge in the thrill of the hunt.

The moonlight reflects off the shimmering snow, bright enough to light your way as you stumble through the woods, wounded shoulder clutched tightly in your hand, more panic flooding you every time you felt a new rush of sticky warmth slipping from between your fingers.

It lights his way too, not that he would even need a shred of illumination to see by. The night sky could be as black as the abyss and he’d still be able to find his way to you effortlessly, rushing over the twisting, uprooted terrain with the precision and grace of a dancer under the cover of pitch darkness.

His mouth was already watering at the thought of it— the thought of you, and how you’d taste— long before he’d caught you in his sights. And now, perched up in the top of a gangly pine, shrouded by all the course, spiky greenery, all he has to do is wait.

Because you’ve lost a lot of blood— far too much to remain standing for much longer, let alone trudging through the snow banks at the pace you currently are— and Childe can hear the beating of your fragile little heart, slowing more and more by the minute, soon to be claimed by the ruthless cold.

By the time you’ve collapsed against the nearest tree, breathing labored and growing more rigid and frozen with each second spent stationary as the cold laces through your aching bones, Childe closes in to make his move.

Besides, he figures you’re better off with him than left to face your final moments alone in the dark and snow. At least he’ll let you die in the comfort of warmth when that time comes to pass.

“Well, well, well…” his silky, unfamiliar voice coos, sparking a jolt within your psyche to get up, get away yet your physical form is too exhausted and delirious to exhibit much fear or fight. You simply loll your head back to rest against the tree trunk your back is pressed against, blurry vision going in and out of focus as you try to make out the figure standing before you, catching blotches of tangerine and carmine and charcoal amidst the endless sea of ivory and pine.

And then he’s kneeling by your side, fangs soaked with saliva as he concludes, “What do we have here?”

You reach for him, your trembling, bloodied hand missing a few times before finding the edge of his cloak, grip growing weaker and weaker as you breathe out, the words nothing more than a wispy puff before your lips in the frozen air, feebly begging, “Please… help me…”

Childe clicks his tongue, brushes the tips of his long, ungloved fingers across where your wound is saturated at its darkest, so quick and light you barely even feel it. He curls his tongue around the two digits that are stained with shining red— your blood, a voice in the back of your head warns you of, only it’s just a little too distant for you to register at the moment.

You feel your stomach clench and twist with dread, all the while your heart flutters and skips a beat at the sudden sound of him moaning around the taste of you.

“Please…” you plead once more, and this time, he seems to hear you.

“Don’t worry,” Childe assures you in a gentle whisper, much less sinister and sultry than before. And then you feel yourself being lifted from the frost, body floating yet still hanging heavy as your dead weight keeps your anchored tight to gravity.

Childe looks at you— looks through you, as if gazing deep into the pool of your very soul— and flashes a sharp-toothed smile. “First we’ll get you somewhere warm, and then…” There’s a chuckle laced into his next words, something cruel about it, like a cat that looks forward to toying with a mouse before killing it just for the sake of sick entertainment. He says, “And then we’ll have dinner.”

He sets off before you can even try to protest or form another thought, racing across the freshly fallen snow without leaving a trace, a phantom in the night, a reaper coming to claim your poor, lost, unlucky soul.

You lose consciousness before he reaches the edge of the forest, the darkness of your unconscious mind the last reprieve you’ll get before you wake up to find yourself faced with what will likely be a new kind of horror.

But Childe won’t just chain you up and drink you dry like most others of his kind would.

No, first, like a cruel cat toying with a helpless mouse, he has to have a little fun.