#sigh idek if anything of this makes sense and is coherent

[sunshinereddie]

rr

[bisougi]

ambrosia

“Eager, sweetheart?”

→ pairing: min yoongi x reader → genre: dom!yoongi, vampire!yoongi — smut, suggested angst → warnings: cussing, blood, double orgasm, mild degradation, semi dub!con, stockholm syndrome vibes, oc is damaged, idek → word count: 4.5k

note: this is ridiculous and just an excuse for me to write vampire yoongi smut. its been sitting in my drafts collecting webs (haha) for months now, so hopefully you can at least try to enjoy it. all i know is that im sick of editing it in attempt to make it better, so you guys can have it.

With a dramatic and exasperated sigh, you swing your coat off and carelessly throw it aside. No matter how many times you thank the universe for your stable job at the local bar, your shift seems to drag on for a couple hours too long every night.

There’s a dull ache that has settled deep within the bones of your legs, so you plonk yourself down on the leather couch and kick your feet up on the coffee table. If your father was present, he would’ve scolded you for the disrespectful action; luckily for you, you live solitary in a mansion built for six.

The miserable emptiness you feel will always be there, but over time, you’ve learnt to accept the fact that your father put you—the youngest in the family—in charge of maintaining the mansion.

As if by routine, your eyes catch the shelf that holds all of your family photographs. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you reminisce about the memories displayed in stills until your gaze shifts to the pitifully familiar photograph of your mother.

You shut your eyes, now cowering away from the memories as your bottom lip quivers in attempt to keep your tears at bay. You didn’t even get to say goodbye.

You shoot up from the couch, unwilling to torture yourself further by staring at the photo of your beautiful mother who was faced with her tragic demise far too soon. You make your way to the profligate staircase, the matured wood creaking under your feet, reminding you of something directly out of an old horror film. Unfortunately, there’s no other way to reach your favourite room in the entire estate.

Whenever you enter through the large ebony door, the most significant moments of your childhood come flooding back to you. The pleasant scent of aged wood pervades your every sense as you scan over the towering bookcases; neglected, dusty shelves hold novels you’ve read at least four times and novels you’ve never even picked up, however, the most vital aspect of the room sits alone in the centre, the lustrous shine of the moon illuminating the object through the sizeable skylight.

The grand piano.

You skim your fingertips over the polished black exterior. Fluttering your eyes closed, you deeply inhale and gently lower yourself to sit on the bench. After a couple of hand stretches, your feathery light fingers innately find the correct keys when you decide upon playing Für Elise. It’s a classic piece; you don’t need to keep your eyes open, let alone read any sheet music. You know it like the back of your hand.

With a final breath, you allow your hands to take over, your fingers gliding across the piano keys as if you were born to play the instrument. Over a decade of intense practice has certainly paid off.

Every last knot of tension in your body loosens at the sound, allowing you to sway to the music emitting from the very pads of your digits. Your breathing gradually shallows, and soon, your hands are overpowering your mind. The piano is the conductor of the trance you fall into when you play; it’s better than any drug, its ability to rid bodily tensions astonishing. Those who don’t play will never understand such relief.

The tempo picks up, flipping the entire sound of the song on its back. Your mood shifts alongside it, leaving a focused crease between your brows as the music advances from gentle, to frantic, to sombre, to aggressive, so on and so forth. The versatility is one of the things you adore about this piece.

The song approaches its closing and a sweat droplet trickles down the curve of your face. Your breathing is heavy when your fingers release the keys for the last time, almost as if you’ve completed a workout. You can’t remember Für Elise ever making you so exhausted and emotional.

A few moments pass and you slide your hands down the expanse of your thighs, taking your time to steady your breathing and relax the muscles in your face. Without the sound of the piano filling the room, it’s eerily silent. The only sounds that can be heard are the puffs of air being released unevenly through your mouth—

Clap, clap, clap.

You freeze, eyes widening as you sharply inhale for the last time and lock your jaw, refusing to exhale in fear of making a noise.

It’s in my head.

Your heart is pulsing violently in your ears, so loud that it makes it difficult to focus on anything else. You’re washed over with a feeling of sickness, the unalloyed panic roiling the bile in your stomach as you challenge the urge to vomit all over your instrument.

You remain still, listening to the echoing applause mingling with the continuous thrumming in your ears. The sound is amplified with every passing second you allow it to near. A shiver shoots straight down your spine and goosebumps rise on the surface of your skin in its tracks, the small hairs coating your body standing on end in cold fear.

The clapping halts and after a few seconds, you shakily exhale. You still can’t find it in you to blink, your fixed stare refusing to leave the piano keys.

What feels like an eternity passes before you muster up the courage to redirect your gaze. You gingerly reach for your phone in your pocket, drawing it out with a trembling hand and keeping it prepared to make an emergency call.

With a tilt of your head, your comically wide eyes catch movement behind you in the reflective surface of the piano. You can’t decipher what the movement is, you just know there’s something—or someone—behind you.

Your whole body is aquiver as your finger swipes over the emergency dial, missing it amidst your fit of terror. Before you can attempt to hit it again, a large hand inches into your peripheral vision and a violent gasp tears through your throat followed by a bloodcurdling scream—but nothing comes out.

The hand is tight over your nose and mouth and tears erupt from your sockets, streaming down your cheeks like a ruptured dam. You kick and writhe in the stranger’s grip, desperately trying to pry their hand away from your face. During the weak attempts of fighting for your life, your phone crashes to the ground in the heat of your trepidation, but just as your vision begins to soften, a deep voice emits from behind you and slices through the sound of your thrashing.

“Hey,” he sighs, “stop kicking.”

Instinctively, you stiffen at his command and he chuckles lowly at your movement. “Docile.”

You fight to keep your eyes open and struggle even harder to keep them in focus while you threaten to lose consciousness.

“My apologies, I forgot.”

He releases you and you gulp down oxygen so harshly that it scratches raw at your throat, leaving you spluttering and scrambling around on the floor to fetch your phone so you can call the police, but it’s nowhere to be found.

You stand upright as you make eye contact with the intruder, continuously moving backwards to get as far away from him as possible until you see your phone in his hand. Upon impulse, you lunge forward to snatch it from his grip, but his reflexes are borderline unearthly. He moves quickly, the phone now behind his back and entirely out of your reach. At this point, you’re heaving, backing up so quickly that the hefty piano shifts on its feet.

“You’re very talented, darling.” He plods forward, a smirk decorating his.. deceptively handsome face. His hair is black and tousled, eyes sharp and catlike, skin sickly porcelain and pale pink lips naturally in a pout that makes him look younger than he likely is.

You disregard his compliment, your chest rising and falling unnaturally fast as he languidly moves closer by taking one more step. You don’t trust yourself to form coherent sentences, but you dared to make an attempt.

“H-How did y-you—“

“Ah, she speaks.”

“I don’t.. I don’t have much money—“

The man chuckles again—this time, it’s more of a scoff. He bows slightly to become eye-level with you, “relax, sweetheart. Do I look like I need your money?”

Your eyes dart down to his attire; he’s wearing a silk button-down shirt, the first two buttons undone to reveal more of his porcelain skin. It appears to be on the expensive side.

“Then.. w-why are you here? I’ll call.. I’ll call the police—“ You stammer, wedging the small of your back further into the piano when he takes yet another step. “Don’t come closer.”

He cants his head, his potent smirk widening as he nears again and shows you he’s not going to quake at the hands of your meaningless threats. There’s mere inches between you now, and you can’t retreat further without tremendous pain or tipping the piano over.

He’s stepped further into the light now. You take the time to scan his features over and over again so you’re able to describe him when the police show up, but when your eyes reach his, you notice something bizarre.

“Your eyes..” you mutter, leaning forward to get a better look, “they’re—“

“Red? I’ve been told.”

You swallow thickly and your cluttered mind spirals. Red?

He raises his free hand and you wince, shying away from the unknown man. He holds it in the air to silently inform you of his unthreatening intentions, but your eyes screw themselves shut when he steadily moves it towards your face and allows his knuckles to lightly graze your warm cheek.

“Now, _____, I’m going to keep this short and sweet. You’re a smart girl; maybe you’ll make the connection with a touch more information.”

You nod, incapable of doing anything different.

“Good girl.” He praises your compliance, although, the lump in your throat suggests you’re not prepared for whatever this stranger has to say to you.

“Every novel in this library,” he waves his index finger around for emphasis, “I’ve read at least several times.”

You don’t say a word.

“I’ve been around since you were just a girl, and yet, I haven’t aged a day.”

Silence.

“I can smell you, and not just by that flowery perfume you wear; I can smell the mouthwatering pheromones that radiate off of you in plentiful waves. You can’t even smell those yourself.”

A tangible tension occupies the space amongst the two of you when he takes one final step, your chest colliding with his and your faces remaining barely an inch apart. His voice has lowered to a hushed whisper as he watches your trembling lips.

“I can hear your heart hammering in your chest, I can hear the blood travelling through your veins at this very moment, and,” he darts his pink tongue out and dampens his bottom lip as he inches closer, “if you were to bleed right now, I’d drain you of your sweet ambrosia faster than you could scream for me to stop.”

He closes the space between you, his soft, cold lips clicking with yours like a puzzle piece. You become rigid, unable to reciprocate, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away. The voices of your conscience are scolding and yelling at you to push the man away and run for the hills, but you can’t. He’s got you under a spell you can’t escape, much like your piano.

Finally, you move your lips and flutter your eyes closed, sighing deeply into his disturbing eroticism. His kiss is that of something beyond what could ever be considered human, his tongue forcing its way past your lips and his hand moving to cradle your lower back, pulling your body against his with a strength that quite literally knocks you off your feet. You stumble, arms shooting up to hold onto his shoulders for leverage but he balances you upright all on his own, deepening the kiss and reducing you to nothing but liquid in his hold.

He slides his wandering hand down further and runs it over your ass, groping and clawing at the soft flesh. The gesture elicits a whimper into his mouth and he cancels it out with a guttural groan you never thought you’d ever have the privilege of hearing.

The enigmatic man wraps his arms around your waist and hoists you up onto the piano, separating your legs and lodging himself between them, his cold lips still locked with yours and his tongue continuing to tease your own. It’s better than anything you’ve felt for a long time considering your amplified desire for affection, a direct result of the forlorn void in your chest.

But you frown into the kiss. If this is going to happen—and only God knows why it is—you want to make him feel good, too.

Your hands move to his hair, dainty fingers subconsciously tugging on the short strands at his nape. He tips his head backwards for you, exposing the cold flesh of his neck and offering more canvas for you to assault; no time is spared as your mouth gets to work, nipping, biting, licking and sucking at one area in particular and pulling away, anticipating a red bruise. The total lack of one frightens you, but just as before, you can’t bring yourself to stop when a deep moan that morphs into a breathy titter emits from him. You draw your mouth away from his neck and give him a timorous yet triumphant look through your lashes.

“You’re very lucky I have self control.” His lips quirk at the sides as he tilts his head back down. “My first instinct certainly isn’t to tend to your rather pathetic level of arousal.”

You gasp when his icy cold hand makes contact with your clad crotch. The temperature of his skin is glacial enough to seep through the protection of your clothing and the sensation is foreign, but good enough to have you bucking against his motionless hand and shying away from his half-lidded gaze.

“Eager, sweetheart?”

Your shameless grinding loses pace as you nod, struggling to get any words out. It feels nice, but it’s not enough. Your body reacts to his every word which is doing nothing but doubling your thirst.

Before you can register what’s happening, he has pulled your shirt up and over your head, leaving you exposed in your underwhelming white bra and wishing you’d pampered yourself this morning. His doll-like lips trail wet kisses from your jawline all the way down the valley of your breasts, eliciting yet another breathy whine that echoes in the spacious room.

You impatiently curl your finger underneath his chin to catch his lips again, refusing to stop for too long. He happily hums into your mouth, the sound reverberating throughout your body as he latches his fingers beneath the waistband of your black jeans, tugging them down leisurely and with utmost ease. Breaking the kiss again, he looks down at your panties that are already completely soaked through.

“I’ve barely touched you.” He pouts with faux-innocence, eyes boring into your finely dressed lower region which is when you realise he’s still fully clothed, dress shoes and all. Without a second thought, you make a bold move and reach for the buttons of his shirt, but he speedily catches your wrist before you can lay a finger on him.

“Do you want to undress me?” He husks, voice an octave lower than before. You nod once more, but he he shakes his head in response, fed up with your lack of speech. “Tell me what you want. Verbally.”

You clear your throat before speaking, “yes, I want to.”

“You want to what?”

“I.. I want to undress you.”

He offers a content sigh, running his tongue along the underside of his bottom teeth — that’s when you catch a glimpse of two mirroring fangs in his mouth. His eyes darken when he notices your discovery and your mind is sent into a whirlwind, finally connecting the dots.

“You’re a va—“

He tears the weak material of your panties and finds your swollen clit in one swift motion, rubbing fast circles over the bundle of nerves and cutting your statement short. You can’t suppress the salacious moan that tumbles from your throat and you grind on his cold fingers as you did before, only it’s a million times better when it’s skin-to-skin.

“Well done, doll.”

He teases your entrance with the tip of his finger as he abuses your clit, never fully plunging a digit in regardless of how you hopelessly chase his touch. You’d do anything to have his fingers inside you right now, panting as the strength of your craving causes your walls to contract around nothing.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you’ve ever known it to, lower stomach knotting with every short circle he creates with his finger. It becomes pleasingly painful and within a couple of laughable minutes, your heart is rattling against your ribcage, your vision blurring until your climax can be felt on the very tip of your tongue.

“I’m Yoongi.” You hear his faint, honeyed voice whisper into your ear amidst your pleasure.

“Y-Yoongi—” You repeat, shamelessly moaning his name like a mantra until your throat runs dry.

Your entire being is overcome with an explosion of relief, leaving you but a moaning, trembling mess draped over the vampire’s shoulders. He removes his fingers from the sensitive nub and cups your heat, cooling you down and massaging you through your orgasm.

But before you can make mild recovery, he grabs you by the hips and thrusts you further onto the flat lid, compelling you to lay down with a single hand on your chest. Your back hits the surface unceremoniously, the blow knocking the air straight from your lungs and leaving you breathless.

Yoongi is quick to snatch your jaw in his hand, forcing you to look him in the eyes as he straddles your waist. The glint of lust laced within his irises is so blinding that it could easily be mistaken for malevolence. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this, _____.” He drawls, edging his face closer to yours. “You want me, don’t you?”

His words make you completely disregard his claims and a string of distorted admissions escape your puckered lips before you can make any effort to stop yourself. The vice-like grip he has on your jaw leaves an ache in your bones, but it feels too good to warrant any complaints.

“Undress me.” He demands, releasing your face and using his hand to guide yours to the buttons of his silk shirt to which you hastily pop. You’re careful not to crease or tear the shirt that you assume is worth thousands of dollars, and a gentle tug of the material leaves Yoongi’s entire torso exposed. He’s lean, petite and—unsurprisingly—sickly pale skinned all over. Despite that, there’s not a single flaw on him; his skin is smooth, similar to ceramic and smoothened with utmost precision.

As you pop his last button, you remove your hands from his clothing and rest them either side of your head. He smirks down at you, undoing the button on his fitted slacks and tugging them down the slightest bit, just enough to reach into his briefs and pull himself out. The mere sight of his length is enough to send your mind into a frenzy, a fresh warmth growing in your core as you make note of the thick blue vein travelling upwards from the bottom of his shaft. He’s not fully erect yet, so he wraps his hand around himself and offers a few quick pumps for good measure, shifting his weight on his knees. As much as you’d like to take the lead, your body hasn’t yet ceased its spasmodic aftershocks from your first climax.

When you’re within close proximity of someone, you can usually feel the heat of their body, but with Yoongi, it’s the polar opposite. He’s cold, the temperature hitting your bare skin even through his slacks. With every passing second that he’s not inside you, you become more and more impatient. You huff, writhing around on the reflective surface and rubbing your thighs together in attempt to grant yourself even the most minor relief. You’re humiliated to say you’ve never felt so empty and desperate before.

Yoongi hums, watching you with curiosity evident in his features. “I forgot what it was like to desire sex so much. You humans are like the werewolves,” he chuckles to himself, “always desperate for a fuck, oozing arousal over the smallest things. Your scent is much more pleasant, though.”

“T-The werewolves?” You stutter out, suddenly realising that the entire world you thought you knew was falling apart around you and becoming something you thought could only be true in films and television shows.

“Ignorance is bliss, sweetheart.”

With that, the head of his cock presses lightly against your burning entrance. For a short second, you think he may allow you to adjust to the intrusion, but you stand corrected when he pulls back and snaps his hips forward with the entire weight of his body, winding you for the second time.

His breath hitches in his throat as he splits you open, hunching over and allowing himself to hold his weight with his arms as you cry out in a strangled moan. You feel sick with pleasure, the sensation of being filled up coursing through your every vein in the form of powerful blows.

Deciding to have a little fun, his following thrust is not as merciless as the first. He works up a painfully slow and consistent pace, observing the way you react as you whimper through attempts to even out your breathing.

“Please, Yoongi.” You beg him, screwing your eyes shut and running your hands down the length of his back. Your fingers dip into every ridge in his spine until you reach his waist, applying pressure with your greedy hands and motioning him to move faster.

“Too slow?” He hums, basking in the sheer amount of your desperation. “How about this?” Yoongi growls, pulling his cock all the way out and slamming back into you so hard you feel your body jerk upwards.

“Fuck, fuck, yes,” you groan, your thighs stuttering as you claw at him, “again!”

“Manners, darling.”

Before you can finish sobbing out a prayer of pleas, he repeats his actions and hits your sweet spot for the second time, third time and fourth time. He relentlessly fucks into you, holding your waist with one of his large hands to assure you don’t shift too far up. The sound of his hips making contact with your pelvis is something you’ve never heard before, and God, is it the best type of filthy.

Aside from his locked jaw and fixed stare, the only other thing that suggests he’s having sex is an almost inaudible grunt he releases every time he hits balls-deep inside of you. You’re keen to evoke more of a reaction from him, but you can’t pinpoint exactly how until you shakily run your hands from his navel to his chest, feeling his grip on your side tighten and his gaze falter when your finger skims over his nipple.

A flame ignites within you and you return your finger to the peculiarly sensitive bud, watching him as carefully as you can when his jaw slacks and locks again after a sound threatens to escape.

Before he can huff and angrily demand that you stop, you surprise yourself and pinch him with shaky hands. Yoongi’s arm supporting his weight stutters and his jaw slacks entirely, mouth falling agape in a wonderfully lewd groan that mingles with yours in the atmosphere.

“How bold of you.” He scoffs, ramming into you especially hard and earning himself an obscene whine and another cry of pleas.

“I-I’m so close—”

“You know, _____,” he breathes, releasing his grip on your side and moving his hand to caress your cheek, “I’ve always had other plans for you.”

Before you can question what he means, he closes the space between your mouths in an intoxicating kiss. His tongue works magic as he swallows down the filthy sounds of your approaching climax, thrusting in and out of your throbbing heat as hard as he pleases.

After a moment of frantically chasing each other’s mouths, Yoongi pulls away from your swollen lips and redirects his attention elsewhere; your neck.

“The perfect target.” He whispers, moving your hair aside and running his finger down the delicate skin where your carotid artery lies beneath, goosebumps trailing his touch. Before the situation can dawn on you, Yoongi lurches forward and his fangs pierce straight through the papery skin at the crook of your neck, launching you headfirst into an earth-shattering orgasm that reverberates from the crown of your head to the very tips of your toes and back again.

Your fingers tangle themselves within Yoongi’s hair as the strangely erotic sting of his mouth draining every ounce of life from your body settles in your clouded mind. The colours in your world progressively desaturate and you can only imagine the blanching of your face when your ears tune in to the guttural sound of Yoongi swallowing down mouthfuls of your berry red blood, although you struggle to hear it over your own whining as you unravel atop the instrument.

“You taste fucking divine.” He moans deeply into your supple skin, licking a stripe up your neck to collect the trickle of blood that spills from the clean wounds he created. “You’re even sweeter than I imagined.”

You mewl weakly in response to his vulgar praise, your grip on his hair loosening as your body begins to shut down. The last string you have connected to consciousness threatens to snap but the rush of your orgasm keeps your eyes in obscured slits just long enough to see Yoongi appear back in your direct line of sight.

“Stoic little thing, aren’t you?” He smirks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing your blood into the corners of his lips. His breathless, husked voice is the last thing you hear before your eyelids become heavy, your tired eyes glazing over and your vision fading to pitch black.

You’re floating in thin air and feeling more at peace than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, but it’s terribly short-lived when you feel an inexplicable rush of electricity course through your body. You can hear the thud of your heart increase to a pace that should be sending you into cardiac arrest, the sound morphing into a blaring ring in your ears until you promptly regain all of your senses, your body violently convulsing until you’re coughing and spluttering, gasping for air and fully awake again.

Colours are brighter, sounds are louder and everything is moving slower.

note: me, queen of leaving my oneshots on cliffhangers even though i most likely won’t write a sequel