soft sukuna with overly affectionate clingy fem!reader >3
m.list
soft sukuna tries to act like heâs annoyed when you follow him from room to room, but he actually slows down his walking pace so you donât trip while youâre trying to hold onto his sleeve.
soft sukuna will be sitting down trying to look serious, and when you climb into his lap and bury your face in his neck, he lets out a really long sigh, but his bottom two arms immediately wrap around your waist to hold you steady.
soft sukuna has a special way of head-patting you where he uses his big hand to cover your whole head, and even though he says "you're such a pest," heâs actually using his thumb to pet your temple really gently.
soft sukuna gets very quiet when you're being extra clingy in front of other people; he won't look at you, but heâll reach back and grab your hand, squeezing it so tight to let you know he likes the attention.
soft sukuna pretends he hates it when you use his chest as a pillow, but if you try to move away because you think he's uncomfortable, heâll grunt and pull you back closer until youâre tucked right under his chin.
soft sukuna lets you play with his extra eyes and face markings when youâre bored, and even though he tells you to "stop touching the king," he actually closes all four of his eyes and starts to drift off to sleep because he likes the feeling of your fingers.
soft sukuna always makes sure youâre wearing one of his robes when itâs cold, and heâll act like heâs just "tired of hearing you complain about the chill," but really he just likes seeing you drowned in his scent and clothes.
soft sukuna has a habit of resting his chin on top of your head whenever youâre hugging his middle, and heâll start humming a low, rumbly sound that feels like a cat purring just to make you giggle.
soft sukuna secretly loves it when youâre needy and ask for kisses; heâll roll his eyes and say "you're so demanding," but then heâll give you like five kisses all over your face until you're smiling.
soft sukuna gets a little bit protective when you're not touching him; heâll literally hook a finger into your belt loop or the back of your shirt just to keep you within arm's reach at all times.
soft sukuna lets you brush his strawberry pink hair even though it takes forever, and heâll sit perfectly still on the floor while you put little clips in it, only complaining when you accidentally pull a tangle.
soft sukuna loves when you fall asleep on him; heâll stay in the exact same position for hours, even if his legs go numb, just because he doesn't want to wake you up from your nap.
soft sukuna sometimes gets overwhelmed by how much he wants you, so heâll pin your hands above your head and growl softly about how dangerous it is to be this clingy to a curse, but then he just ends up peppering your neck with soft, slow kisses and bites.
soft sukuna likes to pull you onto his lap while heâs sitting on his throne, whispering into your ear about all the things he wants to do to you later, while his hands wander just a little bit lower than your waist to make your heart race.
soft sukuna gets this look on his face where his brows knit together like heâs actually mad, but itâs just because he canât handle how adorable youâre being while youâre clinging to his arm and looking up at him with those big eyes; he gets this overwhelming cuteness aggression that he clearly has no idea how to deal with, and heâll suddenly reach out with both sets of hands to grab your face, squishing your cheeks together until your lips pout out, and heâll growl under his breath, âi really canât stand you sometimes, youâre so fucking cute it makes me want to bite your head off,â before he lets out a frustrated huff and just shakes you back and forth really gently.
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukunaâs jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukunaâs lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukunaâs dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rotâsomehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukunaâs attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lordâs table, and dismantled the manâs entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
having ryomen sukuna as your boyfriend is like having your own six foot four two hundred thirty pound body guard and you absolutely love it.
âseatbelt.â heâll say when you hop into the passenger seat of his truck and immediately go to fix your mascara in the mirror instead of ensuring your own safety.
âis your location on?â heâll ask as youâre actively using his forearm as a support beam to hurriedly slip on a pair of dangerously high heels so you can meet your friends waiting outside.
âwhen i call ân check up on you, you answer, got it? yâknow iâll come find you if you donât.â heâll kiss into the crook of your fragrance oiled neck before you leave.
and whenever youâre in public with him you can literally just turn your brain off, because why would you need to think when your boyfriend can do it for you?
like when youâre strolling outside on a summer day, features illuminated gorgeously by the sunâs golden rays. lips freshly glossed and phone held out in front of your face as you try to get the angle right for your selfies. just as you go to snap the picture you distractedly take a step towards the asphalt to cross the street without looking, only to get photobombed by a large hand reaching out, palming your forehead like a basketball and pulling you back onto the sidewalk.
or how about when youâre tugging him through the mall and on your way to your seventh store, your shopping bags laddered up his left arm and your arm looped around his right, dainty finger tips brushing against the slightly raised lines of his tattoos as he follows your lead and listens to you go on and on about whatever the fuck.
and youâre just strutting beside him without a worry in the world in one of those skimpy little skirts he absolutely fucking despises (but paid for anyway) when your lip gloss accidentally slips from between your manicured hands and clatters onto the ground.
as soon as sukuna hears you go âoops!â heâs already stepping behind you to shield your backside from view with his body because youâre bending right over to pick it up without even thinking about who you might flash, or whoâs ass he might have to beat for looking too hard. and as the ever yearning man he hates to admit he is, he canât help but let his head weigh down a bit to selfishly steal a glance at those pretty pink panties youâre wearing and lick his lips at how deliciously they cling to your cunt.
heâs suddenly grateful for your shopping addiction, as he can now use one of your many bags to hide the bulge tightening within his pants as the two of you continue walking. maybe that skirt isnât so bad, he thinks.
sukuna was tired of the bitchy girls he always had to deal with â wether they were from a one night stand or a girl that got hooked from his flirty antics, it always ends the same way â he rejects them and they run off to start rumors.
so yeah, he was done with girls. okay,maybe not completely, he still had some late night fucks after a party, but not without making clear that's where it ends. but other than that, he basically quit the game.
imagine his surprise when he fell in love with a stranger not even a week after that. yes, you heard that right, he the playboy himself fell in love. no less than with a girl he didn't even know before.
it wasn't an extraordinary day or night, just their usual frat parties where half the campus would come to drink or make out with someone. except this time, his eyes landed on a woman who couldn't look more out of place â even while being dressed up all pretty, a look on her face like she couldn't wait to get back home.
if someone told him that not even ten minutes after spotting you, he would have a conversation about how he had the perfect nipple atonomy for piercings, he would laugh or look at them like they were crazy. except this time, he's not laughing.
"i'm serious, have you never thought about it? they are like the perfect size and color." he's unsure how to respond â he's not even sure if he should answer at all.
"...no? i mean maybe? like one or two times." his usual confident, flirty voice falters, like it's the first time a girl talks to him without showering him in compliments. like he's expecting you to laugh it off and tell him you're joking.
well, you're not. "you probably should, dude. but don't let the same piercer as the one who did your eyebrow piercing do it. it's really off center." sukuna takes in second to replay your words in his head, and when they finally connect, he looks like he aged ten years.
"excuse me?"
you don't seem to notice his passive aggressive tone, or you just blatantly chose to ignore it. "yeah it should be way over here. yours almost looks like an centered one." you apparently also don't notice the way he genuinly flinches when you reach to point with your finger at the right placement.
he doesn't even try to look or understand where you're poking him â he's just looking at you with a dumbfounded expression. and god knows why, he felt fucking butterflies in his stomach, a warm feeling spreading in his chest.
there's just no way he, out of all people is feeling a spark because a girl is criticising his uneven piercing. he pushes the thoughts aside and a small smirk forms on his lips. "you know, that's not how i thought the conversation was gonna go."
and bless your heart, because you genuinly have no idea what's strange about this conversation. "oh, i'm sorry, did you want to talk about something else?" you sound extremly worried all of a sudden, like you didn't mean to hurt his feelings.
your strange personality doesn't seem to shy away the man infront of you â no, he's even more intrigued now. "how come i don't know the name of such a pretty girl?" it's supposed to be flirty, but sukuna should probaly have known better.
"that's probably because we never talked before. usually people tell you their name when you meet for the first time. otherwise people may think you're stalking them because that's kinda creepy knowing someone's name without asking y'know. but i know you're sukuna, not because im some weirdo who's stalking you it's just you're known as the community dick no offense intended."
the more you ramble on the more sukuna looks like any hope he had to take you to his room left his eyes. he probably should've known you wouldn't take the hint â definetly his fault. after a second of processing your speech his eyebrows shoot up in a mix of confusion and offense?
"...community dick?" his mouth open and closes like he wants to add something to his queestion but he has no idea what to say. the worried look on your face returns for the second time this evening, realising you're talking before thinking.
"no, yes, kind of? there's like nothing wrong if you like pleasuring women , actually that's like really nice of you, it's kinda empowering y'know like feminist and all."
any sign of seriousness leaves his expression and a rare sight for the fratking â a genuine laugh escaping him at your poor attempt of sweet talking yourslef out of calling him a slut.
there aren't many moments where sukuna actually really laughs when talking to girls â a charming smile being all it takes for most to drop their panties.however, it seemed like you had no interest in dropping anything at all.
except for your drink.
right on his bare chest.
it was an accident â truly, someone shoved you off balance and your drink spilled right on his abs, the sudden cold liquid making him hiss at the contact.
his eyes look down at his muscles seeing them drenched in a sticky substance, the alcohol making it's way down to wet his pants.
you gasp, hand covering your mouth. "oh my god â i'm so sorry. there are like no napkins anywhere nearâ wait i have an idea." he's about to tell you it's no big deal, he was shirtless after all â he could just jump into the pool or whatever but he stops dead in his tracks when you bend down.
right until you're face to face with his stomach.
he's about to ask you what you're doing â but freezes instead the moment your tongue darts out to lick the drink. "wh-what are you doing?" he sounds genuinely at a loss of words. you only answer after making sure no liquid would have time to go under his pants. "all good! your pants are totally save now no worries."
well he is worried â just not about his pants, but the boner he hopes you won't notice. he's unsure if this was supposed to be some kind of seducing tactic â but looking at your innocent expression he discards that idea. you really had just licked a man who you met ten minutes ago and looked like you had no idea how it looked to anyone watching.
there's a rare pink tint at the tips of his ears and he opens his mouth to say anything â but closes it once he realises he has no clue what to say. he also really doesn't know if he should feel as turned on as he is.
"thank you..?" it comes out like a question, like he's unsure if he should be thanking you. you're either ignoring his bewildered expression or you just don't even notice it at all.
"you're welcome. no prob." there's a moment of silence, neither of you knowing what to say until he breaks it.
"so is there a chance i can get your number?" to make sure you understand where he's going with this he adds, " romantically."
yeah he may have not thought the evening would turn out like this, but who is he to complain if his girl got a lil kick to her? after all â he still bagged the number.
âWhat do you mean she wonât eat?â Sukuna asks, tapping the side of his face in frustration.
âWell.. weâve been bringing her food.â one servant mentions,
âShe just leaves it by the door untouched.â another one spoke,
âOr.. we find it in her trash.â The third one standing before him lets out quietly.
Sukuna groans to himself hearing the last sentence, dragging a hand over his face.
Moments later he bursts through your doors, your ladies in waiting behind him carrying his dinner, enough to share for two. Jumping at the sound of his rough footsteps you turn around to see them setting up. Your brows furrow at the sight, turning around the flow of your dark curls follow.
âYou.â He points, âGet over here and eat right now.â
âhmphâ you ignore him, nose turned up to the ceiling as you continue to face away from him. The next words coming out of his mouth in a more slightly angered tone, âIf you donât get over here right now, Iâm gonna walk over there and hand feed you myself.â
Silence.
You knew he wasnât going to do that, he wouldnât dare. Your servants leave after helping him set up, and he just plops himself down in front of the table, staring at your back. The view striking enough to make him tug at the collar of his robe, your hair reached your mid back, luscious and healthy. âMust I really hand feed you in order to make you eat?â
Once again not answering him, he finds himself conflicted about how to approach this, exhaling deeply, âHey. Iâm talking to you.â
You act as if heâs not even there, walking around your room like a huge man bigger than your average isnât sitting in the middle of it, trying to ignore the smell of the delicious food sitting on the table in front of him. Yet the smell of fresh white rice filling your nose only makes your stomach rumble desperately, sending you signals to pick up something, anything.
The corner of his mouth tugs at the sound of your stomach rumbling. He sighs, leaning on the palm of his hand, stirring the bowl of hot soup, âYou know.. Had you finished your meal like a good girl, I was gonna have them bring you some sweet mangos.â
A very telling look on his face as he dramatically signs again, shrugging. âBut, if you wonât even bother..â
âI guess I could have them for myself, you know theyâre the sweetest in the spring.â he drags, noticing how your mouth is basically watering at the mention. Mangos are your favorite fruit, and he knows that. After a second of contemplating, you walk over to sit on the other side of him. Looking down at the steamed food, he watches you finally take your first bite of food in days.
Why you werenât eating was neither here nor there, heâs just happy youâre eating. The two you finish the food quietly, and to no surprise you wanted more. So, seconds came pretty fast and you find yourself leaning back a bit and rubbing your very full belly.
A sigh, a smooth sound of how content you were comes out. No time wasted from him to have your treat he promised in his hands, the smallest, most peaceful smile rested against his lips.
âSee. Look at you, feeling all better now that youâve eaten.â he praises, sitting next to you as he holds up a fork with mango on it. âahhâ you open your mouth awaiting for the very king of curses to feed you. Which he does so with no complaints.
Grand Duke!Zayne and you are so loud during sex that there is an unofficial consensus among the staff to avoid your wing at night completely, and most of the times during day after finishing essential housekeepingđ;
The heavy oak door to your chambers had barely clicked shut before Zayne's lips found your neck, his large hands already working at the laces of your nightgown.
"You're impatient tonight, Your Grace," you breathed, though you made no move to stop him.
"Hush." His voice was a low rumble against your skin. "I've been in council meetings for six hours listening to the old baron droning about grain taxes. Let me have this."
It doesn't take long till both your moans shadow the ominous creaking of the bed and the rattling of various ornaments in the room.
...
Your two handmaidens, Elara and Mina, look up as they hear the noise, before facing each other and shaking their heads, scurrying out before they traumatise their poor ears.
"I swear by the gods," Mina whispered, her cheeks flushed crimson even as she pressed a hand to her chest, "last week I went up to fetch my embroidery scissors. I forgot he'd returned from the border. The things I heard..."
Elara winced. "How long did it take you to recover?"
"Three days. I walked past the door at the wrong moment." Mina's voice dropped to a horrified hush.
They rounded the corner into the servants' stairwell, where the stone walls offered blessed, deadened silence.
"The new stable boy asked me yesterday why no one goes to the east wing after supper," Elara said, adjusting her wimple. "I told him it was being renovated."
"Renovated." Mina let out a choked laugh. "That's one word for it."
...
Down in the kitchen, the cook had taken to serving late-night tea with a knowing look and a sympathetic pat on the shoulder for any servant who emerged from the upper floors looking particularly haunted. The head housekeeper had a rotation schedule that mysteriously exempted the entire eastern corridor from evening duties. Even the guards had been known to draw straws for who had to walk the night patrol past the Grand Duke's chambers.
"The chandelier," one guard had whispered to another just last week, his face pale. "I watched it swaying. And no windows were open."
...
Upstairs, oblivious to the quiet terror they had inspired among the staff, Zayne's hand braced against the headboard as the bed (solid oak, reinforced twice by a skeptical carpenter) protested loudly beneath you two.
"Ah...Zayne...the bed..." He drove deeper, hooked his hips just so, and your warning dissolved into a sound that would have made a nun blush to the tip of her toes.
"Don't worry about the bed, my duchess," Zayne growls against your throat. "It's not more valuable than your pleasure."
He hikes your leg up higher over his shoulder and thrusts deeper, dissolving whatever you were about to say into a loud moan.
...
There is a thud and a sprinkle of plaster and ash, and a porcelain vase wobbling dangerously close to the edge of its console table, and your handmaidens, chef and two of the night guards stare at each other awkwardly.
"Do you think," whispered Elara, "they realize we can hear them from the kitchen?"
Mina finishes her tea, and produces a pack of earplugs "Not if I can help it. Take some, and goodnight." she stuffs two into her own and walks back to her quarters.
it's no surprise that sukuna does not shave. i mean have you seen him? there's just no way a man like him would waste time doing something so meaningless. especially because he knows how much you like it.
everytime it always happens the same way â you're laying in bed with your husband, your head on his chest â the closest you will come to him cuddling while you're still awake.
you're casually tracing shapes on his arms, chest wherever you can reach comfortably â he would never admit it but the feeling of your fingers caressing him so softly makes his usual tense body relax.
"are you done petting me like a dog?" there's no real bite to his voice â quite the opposite â he sounds like he's almost purring but trying to show he doesn't actually enjoy it.
you just hum, ignoring him, letting your hand trail down his chest, stopping to touch his chiseled abs, appreciating the view. your eyes trace down lazily, taking in the v-line dipping into his boxers.
but your eyes get stuck on something else â the thick pinkish hair going from his bellybutton all the way down to his waistband, dissappearing under the material. lowering your hand to touch the hair with your pointer finger, you start playing with the hair, moving up and down â even pushing down his boxers a bit to have better access.
"i love your hair. it's like a map leading to your dick." the way you say it so casually has sukuna almost choke on his breath â which doesn't happen often. he looks away from your face to look at the hand touching him, the sight making his cock twitch in his underwear.
"i'm trying to sleep woman, stop talking about my cock." the bulge forming between his legs is almost ironic. ignoring his weak protest, you lower yourself until your face to face with his happy trail. when you give the hair a small kiss he visibly tenses, a grunt escaping his mouth.
you don't stop at one peck â your lips moving from the top down until you reach the waistband of his boxers. "so pretty." you sigh against his trail â and sukuna? he has no idea how to react â he's not used to women swooning over a patch of hair on his stomach.
ignoring the obvious boner, you continue kissing and licking, making him groan â his dick aching, begging to be touched. "want to see where the trail ends?" his voice is rough, hands moving to push your head down.
he doesn't need to tell you twice, your hands already moving to push down the clothing covering him â ready to discover where the road leads to.
it's no surprise that sukuna does not shave. i mean have you seen him? there's just no way a man like him would waste time doing something so meaningless. especially because he knows how much you like it.
everytime it always happens the same way â you're laying in bed with your husband, your head on his chest â the closest you will come to him cuddling while you're still awake.
you're casually tracing shapes on his arms, chest wherever you can reach comfortably â he would never admit it but the feeling of your fingers caressing him so softly makes his usual tense body relax.
"are you done petting me like a dog?" there's no real bite to his voice â quite the opposite â he sounds like he's almost purring but trying to show he doesn't actually enjoy it.
you just hum, ignoring him, letting your hand trail down his chest, stopping to touch his chiseled abs, appreciating the view. your eyes trace down lazily, taking in the v-line dipping into his boxers.
but your eyes get stuck on something else â the thick pinkish hair going from his bellybutton all the way down to his waistband, dissappearing under the material. lowering your hand to touch the hair with your pointer finger, you start playing with the hair, moving up and down â even pushing down his boxers a bit to have better access.
"i love your hair. it's like a map leading to your dick." the way you say it so casually has sukuna almost choke on his breath â which doesn't happen often. he looks away from your face to look at the hand touching him, the sight making his cock twitch in his underwear.
"i'm trying to sleep woman, stop talking about my cock." the bulge forming between his legs is almost ironic. ignoring his weak protest, you lower yourself until your face to face with his happy trail. when you give the hair a small kiss he visibly tenses, a grunt escaping his mouth.
you don't stop at one peck â your lips moving from the top down until you reach the waistband of his boxers. "so pretty." you sigh against his trail â and sukuna? he has no idea how to react â he's not used to women swooning over a patch of hair on his stomach.
ignoring the obvious boner, you continue kissing and licking, making him groan â his dick aching, begging to be touched. "want to see where the trail ends?" his voice is rough, hands moving to push your head down.
he doesn't need to tell you twice, your hands already moving to push down the clothing covering him â ready to discover where the road leads to.
Synopsis: Youâre a witch known for making love potions. They're fake. The reviews are real. Your track record? Immaculate. Until a duke walks in, covered in blood, and demands you reverse the spell you cast on him.
You didn't cast anything.
He doesn't care.
And now you live in his mansion.
Love Potion or Love at First Sight?
"Are you sure this is it?"
"Yes yes! This is the love potion. Now pay up or leave because I have other customers to attend to!"
You groan at the woman hesitating in front of you, wasting your time.
You're an infamous witch known in the black market for selling all types of spells and potions for a hefty sum.
Your most popular item? The love potion.
Which is actually just⌠an aphrodisiac.
But after selling 170 potions? You've only ever received positive reviews. All from noblewomen, lovestruck and happy with the results.
What can you say? You've always known men to be lustful creatures, barren from emotions. After selling a 170 with zero bad reviews? Your ideology is proven correct.
"Are you sure it works?" the woman whispers.
"100% customer satisfaction guaranteed!"
She still looks nervous.
"And if it doesn't work, you can come back and I'll give double your money back as refund."
The woman nods. Pays. Leaves.
Another positive review, you think to yourself. Already confident and marking this as your 171st success.
âŚ
You just didnât expect your first bad review to appear right in front of your face.
The door slams open.
A man stands in your doorway.
Black hair. Red eyes. Blood splattered across his face, his clothes, his sword.
"So," The bloody man starts.
"You're the witch selling cheap love elixirs all over the market."
You don't answer. Your hand slides toward the defense charm under your counter.
Because this wasnât just any man, this was the war-crazed duke feared by all of society.
"You better pay for this."
âŚGuess you'll be closing the shop for a while.
___________
And⌠you've been working at his mansion ever since.
Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, despite swearing up and down that you never did anything.
He doesn't believe you.
He won't believe you.
Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?
Obviously, youâve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.
So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.
You could only curse that woman.
The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.
Damn her.
What the hell did she see in this man anyway?
Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about. The one who's had three fiancĂŠes and buried all of them. The one who allegedly keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard behind the west garden.
The madman of high society.
If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission. Never opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!
But you didn't know.
And now you're stuck with the aftermathâŚ
___________
At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.
Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.
Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.
And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.
Even that wasnât enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.
Wherever he was⌠that became your workspace.
Youâd turn around and heâd be there.
In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like heâd been there the whole time.
Like he had nowhere else to be. Donât dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!
Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry. Still demanding. Still barking orders about reversing the damn spell.
But he never hurts you.
His threats are loud. His hands are rough. His voice could shatter glass.
But you've started to notice something.
He always stops. Itâs all bark but no biteâŚ
And it becomes a routine.
You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.
At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.
No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, allowing needing you to stay in his chambers at night.
He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.
You don't know when this became normal.
You hate that it feels normal.
__________
Tonight, you try to get up.
His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?"
You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.
"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"
"Stay."
His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.
"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, your grace."
"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."
You've heard this before. The first time, you froze. The second time, you nearly cried. The third time, you started noticing the pattern.
He never follows through.
Not with you.
"Your grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"
His jaw tightens. His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.
But he knows you're right.
He's quiet for a long moment. Thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.
"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."
"âŚI'm sat."
You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.
And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.
He, on the other hand?
Dead to the world.
The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.
His face is slack. Peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.
You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby. The way his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.
At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.
Now you're starting to think he just⌠can't sleep without you.
Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.
And yet.
Here you are.
Watching him sleep.
Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.
Usually the guards.
You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.
"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."
His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.
Your quill scratches to a halt.
"âŚI hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.
His smile deepens.
He doesn't wake up. He just⌠rests. Peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.
You stare at him.
Then you look down at your notes. At the page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells.
At the truth you've been avoiding for weeks.
Nothing is wrong with him.
The potion didn't work.
He's just like this.
You set down your quill.
Press your palms to your eyes.
And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.
Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.
___________
Little did both of you know.
The potion didn't work on him.
It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, anything ingested.
The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort. A vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.
He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.
Not because the potion had affected him.
But because he was annoyed.
Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.
Until he saw you.
And something in his chest pulled again.
Not the potion. That was already gone.
Something else.
Something he didn't have a name for.
He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.
It's not.
He was just love-struck at first sight.
And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.
Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.
yandere prince! who you forgot could be as terrifying as he was right now.
"open the door [Name].." he whispered from the other side, and you nearly did.
god he was soo sweet right now, so ever lovingly gentle. and you knew. you knew that if you opened the door he would be nothing short of beautiful and sweet and everything you'd ever want him to be.
"i can hear you seeetheart, don't be scared, this isnt my blood anyway."
what a sickening thing to say. his blood or not you wouldn't be able to unsee the choked gurgling from the man your prince decided to partially decapitate.
"[Name], baby..don't fight with me please? I love you so fucking much, I would never hurt you and you know that.."
"I...you promise?"
Hook, line amd sinker.
"Just open the door i'll show you..."
You creaked the wooden board open by a sliver, Anoul immediately pulled you into his arms, uncaring that the blood from his clothes was melded into your chest now.
He didn't waste another second, pulling up your face into his lips and covering you in kisses. Rather bloody ones.
"My prince Iâ"
"My princess? Come." He cut you off by lifting you up and into the room you were just hiding in.
"[Name], you know you can never leave me, not even in death right?" His face was nose to nose with yours.
You didn't answer. Maybe because you didn't want to believe it, or maybe because you did.
⥠ŕžŕ˝˛ęąáŠ ŕŁŞÂ Â × Â Â âš kento covers himself while eating u out !
kento is the biggest munch you've ever been with! he'll eat it for breakfast, lunch, & dinner if he couldďźand trust me, he absolutely tries to !ďź
but there's one little peculiar thing he always does . .
he always covers himself with a blanket over him while his face is buried deep in your sweet core. when he did it the first time you two ever got intimate, you just thought it was something he did out of respect for you and you wouldn't put it past him to do something like that so you let it be.
as time went on though, he continued doing this and so you couldn't help wonder why. so today you decide to find out just that.
while he's ever so sweetly lapping at your slicked folds, you very slowly lift up the blanket and peek in to see your beloved. he doesn't seem to notice at first since you're still letting out those cute whimpers of yours. but then, he soon hears a soft giggle from you and that makes his eyes shoot up to look at you.
and gosh, he looks so goddamn cute & sexy at the same time â so greedily suckling on your puffy clit and stretching you out with those thick fingers of his, it's like he's completely lost in the moment. then . . his eyes flit up to meet yours whose peaking so adorably with that pretty smile on your face.
kento stops like he'd just been caught doing something naughtyďźtechnically he had been!ďźand then his entire face flushes a shade of pink, smushing his cheek to your inner thigh. you'd never seen him get flustered like this & you genuinely feel your heart do flips at how cute he looks.
"honey . ." he mutters, squishing his face even more into the plush of your thighs. ". . what are you doing?"
"just looking at my lovely boyfriend." you muse, running your fingers through his hair. "because he's always hiding himself when he's eating me out."
the flush on his face gets darker as he lets out a tiny groan, embarrassed & bashful. ". . i just get shy about it, sweetheart. i don't know why but i just do."
your heart flutters at his adorable admission, and with that, you lower the blanket back down & you can hear kento hum in delight as he dives right back in to devouring you â¤ď¸ !
⥠ŕžŕ˝˛ęąáŠ ŕŁŞÂ Â × Â Â âš kento covers himself while eating u out !
kento is the biggest munch you've ever been with! he'll eat it for breakfast, lunch, & dinner if he couldďźand trust me, he absolutely tries to !ďź
but there's one little peculiar thing he always does . .
he always covers himself with a blanket over him while his face is buried deep in your sweet core. when he did it the first time you two ever got intimate, you just thought it was something he did out of respect for you and you wouldn't put it past him to do something like that so you let it be.
as time went on though, he continued doing this and so you couldn't help wonder why. so today you decide to find out just that.
while he's ever so sweetly lapping at your slicked folds, you very slowly lift up the blanket and peek in to see your beloved. he doesn't seem to notice at first since you're still letting out those cute whimpers of yours. but then, he soon hears a soft giggle from you and that makes his eyes shoot up to look at you.
and gosh, he looks so goddamn cute & sexy at the same time â so greedily suckling on your puffy clit and stretching you out with those thick fingers of his, it's like he's completely lost in the moment. then . . his eyes flit up to meet yours whose peaking so adorably with that pretty smile on your face.
kento stops like he'd just been caught doing something naughtyďźtechnically he had been!ďźand then his entire face flushes a shade of pink, smushing his cheek to your inner thigh. you'd never seen him get flustered like this & you genuinely feel your heart do flips at how cute he looks.
"honey . ." he mutters, squishing his face even more into the plush of your thighs. ". . what are you doing?"
"just looking at my lovely boyfriend." you muse, running your fingers through his hair. "because he's always hiding himself when he's eating me out."
the flush on his face gets darker as he lets out a tiny groan, embarrassed & bashful. ". . i just get shy about it, sweetheart. i don't know why but i just do."
your heart flutters at his adorable admission, and with that, you lower the blanket back down & you can hear kento hum in delight as he dives right back in to devouring you â¤ď¸ !
Xavier gifting you a dildo made by his mould because you complained you miss his dick when he is away on long missions.
"It's not like you can mail it to me." You had said at the time.
Then also immediately being a little irrationally jealous when he calls you for phone sex to talk you through it.
"Is that toy better than me?"
He huffs while his hand works his own length in time with your panting and whimpering. He knows how close you are just by the sounds of your pleasure alone.
"N-no bunny, of course not. Nothing.... fuck.... nothing is better than you."
That bit of stuttering wrecks him and he decides to let it go. For now. But those moans are nothing like the other times he's called you to do this and that fake dick is why.
"Push it in deeper. Just like I would if I was there. Don't hold back,"
his animosity is forgotten in favour of you singing in his ear and he fucks his own hand faster and faster to chase the climax with you.
"When I'm back, I'll prove it to you."
He will remind you the real version is always best.
"Xavier!"
Hearing you hit your peak makes him follow you there.
sooo in your hybrid fics, Caleb has banned hear suppressants from the house, how would he react to learning MC was secretly taking them because she didnt want to bother him đ
-đ§ (can I use this emoji?)
Beating the Heat
A/N: You absolutely can use that emoji! Also this is a lilâ on the darker/Yandere side for Caleb. Keep that in mind!
Synopsis: Caleb reacting to you taking Heat Suppressants.
Warnings: No smut, but implied. Caleb is obsessive, forcing to expel pills (not graphic but itâs there), Yandere Caleb, Omegaverse AU
Caleb always knew youâd end up in his arms one day, as his Mate. The first time he presented as an Alpha in front of Gran, he was sure she would have a heart attack.
But YOU oh his sweet innocent girl. Youâd had your first Heat before you could properly present. All because of HIM. Gran had banished him through the attic that unfortunately rested right above your bedroom. He could hear your cries, could hear Gran soothe you with soup and Heat Suppressants.
From that day, he waged war on your Heat.
After returning from the dead (literally) he knew he would claim you. But he wanted to do it properly. Court you, make you comfortable, willingly give yourself over to him.
You always visit Caleb in Skyhaven after he takes long missions. The Unicorn Operatives and Captain Jenna raise a brow but donât question it. Usually this means Caleb wonât get back until late after the briefing but you busy yourself around his Penthouse.
But as you lay curled up on the bed with a good book, the cramps hit you.
~~
Caleb knew there was something off the moment he walked into their shared apartment, the air too thick, scent too sweet... And when a low, pitiful moan echoed from bedroom, he dropped his Colonel cap on the coffee table. Because he knew that sound.
He didn't bother knocking as he charged toward bedroom, almost ripping the door off the hinges as he burst in.
You were curled into a tight ball on the bed, face flushed and covered in sweat as you clutched your stomach through thin shirt. You didn't even look when he entered.
You had barely managed to swallow one pill before your Heat began to rip through you. The bottle of suppressants lay on the bed while you curled in on yourself. âG-Go away. Iâm not-Iâm not goinâ through a Heat without them.â
Caleb's jaw clenched hard enough to hurt, his gaze flicking between your trembling form and that pill bottle like it had personally betrayed him.
âYou little liar." His voice was a low, dangerous growl as he strode forward, snatching the suppressants off the sheets before you could react and hurling them across the room. The plastic shattered against the wall, pills scattering like unwanted secrets.
He didnât give you time to protest. Just yanked you upright by your upper arm until you were nose-to-nose with him, his breath hot against your flushed skin. "I told you what those would do to you," he snarled, shaking you slightly for emphasis. "And yet here we are."
You whimpered, the sound pitiful and weak as another wave of heat crashed over you, muscles locking up under his grip. Caleb didnât soften. Just dragged you closer until lips brushed ear in mockingly sweet whisper.
"Guess what, Pipsqueak? You're goin' through this one raw."
He all but drags you through the apartment, towards the bathroom. Even ONE of those pills was enough to ruin your whole Heat.
It was still early, he could get it out of your system still.
"Calebâwait!â you gasped, but he wasn't listening.
His grip was iron around your wrist as he hauled you into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him with a bang. The sound echoed in the small space like a gunshot.
Inescapable.
You barely had time to register the cold tiles under your knees before Caleb was wrenching open the medicine cabinet, shoving aside bandages and painkillers until his fingers closed around a half-empty bottle of ipecac syrup.
âOpen." His voice left no room for argument.
Your stomach twisted at just smell of it, already recoiling back against sink but Caleb didnât let get far.
âEither swallow it willingly,â He growled lowly while tipping the contents toward your lips in clear threat, knuckles whitening where he held your jaw steady despite your weak struggles.
ââŚOr I hold ya down nâ pour it myself.â
And judging by look his eyes? He wasnât bluffing.
His grip doesn't loosenâdoesn't budge.
"No."
The word is a whipcrack in the humid air of the bathroom, his pupils blown wide with something feral, something that isnât Caleb right now, not your childhood friend, not your protector.
Your sobs donât move him. Your thrashing doesnât either, he just pins you harder against the sink, one hand still locked around your jaw as he tips the bottle closer to your lips with zero remorse.
The syrup touches lips finally â sticky-sweet and nauseating even before the taste hits your tongue properly. Suddenly survival instincts kick in harder than pride; teeth clamping shut at last second while whimpers claw its way up your throat.
"...Please... Donâ make me..." Your voice cracks pathetically around the edges like a child again.
For split-second Caleb hesitates, jaw tightening at sound, before his expression shutters back into cold resolve once more.
"Shoulda thought âbout that before sneakin' shit behind my back."
He doesnât let go until heâs sure youâve discarded every single last drop of those evil suppressants.
He doesn't rush as he wipes your face clean, the rough pads of his thumbs brushing away tears with a gentleness that makes you melt in his arms.
"There we go... All better now." Like he hadnât just been the one to cause this mess.
He carries you to bed, ever so gently to not rustle your already cramping belly.
He lays with you, waiting for your Heat to fully kick in. He brings you water, dresses you in his hoodie that swallows you whole, feeds you fruit as the hours tick by.
It doesn't take long for the real signs of Heat to start. You're already so sensitive, body flushed and panting for more contact as hormones rage through your system.
Caleb's eyes darken when that first shudder hits, his hand tightening on the fabric of your thigh as he leans over you to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. You can feel his breath hot against skin, tongue darting out to taste the sweat collecting there before biting down softly.
"There she isâŚMy sweet little Omega."
If he ever catches Zayne prescribing you those fucking suppressants? Heâll tear apart Akso Hospital to get to him.
Vampire Prince!Scaramouche x Blind!Reader [GOTHIC VICTORIAN AU]
anon . Ýâ i imagine the plot somewhat like this: humans being terrified of vampires because of the outbreak and all that, but User has a family full of aristocrats and lives in an estate (read more of the request here)
warnings (cw) .á yandere ę° manipulation ęą obsessive behaviorăťcaptivity ę° blood drinkingăťbiting x loss of virginity â° dark romance ęą power imbalance â° unreliable narrator x psychological horror ę° chase scene ęąobsessive behavior, â dead dove â porn with (a lot of) plot x sweet ending
word count 17k+ (don't ask)
authors note . Ýâ gifs at the beginning and my eyeball dividers (youâll see when you read, sorry if theyâre creepy) are all edited by me on flipping canva. please donât repost/use the gifs, as theyâre made specifically for this fic and probably wouldnât work in other context, but the dividers you can use. cross-posted onto AO3. the reader has a similar aesthetic to Columbina. PART 2
LINKSâËâšâĄ Ëâđ masterlist | home | ao3 | kofi | discord server
Youâve never seen the sun.
You know it exists.
Youâve heard of its existence.
Youâve read of its existence.
And sometimes you can feel it.
You can feel it when the maids forget to close your curtains all the way, when the warmth of it creeps across your bedsheets and finds your skin.
It feels like being held.
It feels like something vast, something ancient is reaching through the glass just to touch you, just to remind you that you exist in a world that youâll never witness.
You were born blind.
Your mother says that you came into this world with your eyes sealed shut, and when you finally did open them, or think you did, there was nothing behind them.
Emptiness.
Just darkness that has never, not once in 18 years, lifted.
You don't know what darkness looks like. You don't know what anything looks like. The concept of sight is as foreign to you as flight is to a fish. Fish donât know of the world outside the sea, and they donât know how some animals, like birds, can be free and fly anywhere. You feel like a fish, one thatâll never truly grasp freedom because you were born incapable of the tools needed for that.
You understand colors, scenery, and sight in general exist. You understand that other people are lucky enough to experience it. But⌠Itâs something youâve never had, so youâre incapable of missing it.
What you miss is freedom.
⌠Even if youâve never had it.
Your room is your entire world. Itâs large, you know that much. You know itâs large by the way youâve mapped every inch of it with your hands and feet, memorized the distance from your bed to your vanity, from your vanity to your window balcony, from the window to the door that is alwaysâŚ
always locked.
Your family says itâs for your protection. Vampires are everywhere, they tell you. The outbreak has made the world even more dangerous for someone like you.
Someone fragile. Too fragile.
Someone helpless. Too helpless.
SomeoneâŚ
blind.
They never say it, but you know itâs what they mean. You hear the servants whisper it sometimes when they think you canât hear, but being blind since birth has made your hearing way too absolute, so nothing goes unheard with you.
Youâre at your vanity today, in what feels like it could be morning, or late afternoon⌠You donât know. Your concept of time has always been shitty because, in an enclosed space, most of your life has made it hard to learn what time feels like through your senses.
Youâre running a brush through your hair for what feels like the thousandth time in this hour. The bristles catch on a small tangle, and you work through, repeating this process over and over. Itâs something to do, something thatâll fill these endless hours.
You reach, and your fingers find a soft ribbon on your vanity, satin. You like that fabric a lot, itâs nice to feel, itâs not an understatement that you like soft things in your room. Soft always feels pretty to touch. You tie the ribbon into a tiny bow and clip it into your hair without needing to see, your hands already knowing the motion by heart.
Then, you grab your signature, the lace eye mask, delicate, so delicate, and you settle it over your closed eyes like itâs so a part of you that you would even consider it your second skin. Youâve worn one for as long as you remember; you change the fabrics sometimes, but you only wear it in white. Your mother started putting them on you when you were a child, said it made you look more comfortable⌠more at peace.
You think it just makes people less uncomfortable around you.Â
Less unnerved by the girl with the eyes that never open.
You hear a knock at your door.
You turn toward the sound, even though turning does nothing for you, because what would you even see? But even so, itâs just a habit that comes naturally, and youâve been taught to be polite. "Yes?"
"It's me." You recognize the voice as your brother's, and you hear the lock click and feel the air change when the door swings open. You hear his footsteps cross the threshold, heavy boots on hardwood, and then the door closes behind him.
You turn back to your vanity, faced straight in front of your mirror that youâll never see, picking up your brush, to again, brush your hair uselessly because at least itâs something to do. âYouâre leaving today⌠I know, I just donât know why Iâm always the last one to hear about it.â
Like, I donât matter enough.
You hear him cross the room to you. âYeah⌠for a few days.â You feel him stop beside your chair, the slight displacement of air when he does. "There's a nest about two days' ride from here. Mother wants it cleared before it spreads."
"And Father?" You ask, pausing your movement with the brush as you do, like youâre almost scared of being alone without family, even for a couple of days, even though youâre never allowed outside your room without supervision, and your movements pick up again.
âFather?â he repeats, âStaying here, of course.â He pats your head as he continues, "Someone needs to manage the estate while we're gone."
You nod, because this is how it always goes. Your mother or father going with your brother for a hunt, and either parent stays behind to run the household⌠because you canât. Youâre incapable of overseeing the workers and the farmers, and the endless business dealings that keep your family weathering.
You stay in your room.
Always in your room.
Forever and always useless.
You drop your brush onto the table and fully turn your body where you can feel his. "... Can I come with you?" The words slip out before you can stop them, because theyâre a habit.
Youâve asked before, and you wonât stop asking ever, because your voice is all you have. And yet⌠the answer is always the same.
"You know you can't." Your brother says, with a sigh, almost like heâs bored with this useless question of yours, but also feels bad about your incapabilities that make his reason.
Your voice picks up slightly, desperate for this time to be different. âI could help, my hearing is better than yours, you canât deny that. I can detect them before you even- â
"And what would you do when you detected them?" He decides to cut in; his tone feels gentle, but also firm. "Run? Fight? You can't see them coming, little sister. You can't defend yourself."
âI could learnâŚâ you start.
âNo.â he finishes, final.
You sense him reaching out, and then you feel his touch, his gloved hand on your shoulder, he squeezes, just briefly, as if affection could dismiss what youâve been wanting for forever.
"I brought you something," he says right after and your irritation fades oddly quick, replaced by curiosity, interested in anything new you could feel.
Your brother always brings you things from his hunts: trinkets, trophies, little pieces of a world youâre not allowed to experience firsthand.
He takes your hand, and you feel press something into your palm, it feels like cool metal with an intricate design. You run your fingers over it, mapping the shape, and it feels like a brooch, well, you assume itâs one with the circular shape, filigree around the edges.
"It belonged to a vampire countess," he mentions. "Mother put a stake through her heart last week... I thought you might like it."
"It's beautiful." You can't see it, but you know. The craftsmanship is exquisite beneath your fingertips. "Thank you, brother."
"Stay safe while we're gone." He kisses the top of your head, the way he's done since you were small. "Don't cause trouble for Father."
You let out a giggle, fingers still exploring the trinket as your head is tilted at the direction you feel your brother is at. "When have I ever caused trouble?"
He laughs, saying goodbye, and you hear the door to your room open, then close just as quickly, and then you hear the familiar and never foreign sound of the lock clicking into place.
And youâre alone again.
The hours pass slowly.
You read for a while, your fingers tracing over the raised dots of your books, but the story doesnât hold your attention today. Itâs a romance, which is one of your favorites, about a woman who falls in love with a man she shouldnât. The villain of the piece, the one everyone warns her about.
You've always liked the villains.
Not because you think they're good. But because you understand them, in a way.Â
The books paint them as monsters, as irredeemable creatures of darkness, but you know that no one is born a monster. Something makes them that way. Trauma, or circumstance, or the simple cruelty of a world that refuses to show them kindness.
Not a lot of monsters do exist in the world you seem to live in, a lot of these are fiction, fake, or just myths. The only monsters that exist, the only ones youâve heard about are vampires.
You wonder something stupid sometimes, stupid to you, you wonder what it would be like to meet oneâŚ
A vampire.
Your family has a history with them, generations of your family have been hunting them for centuries, and youâve grown up on the typical propaganda your parents teach you.
That theyâre wicked, bloodthirsty, that theyâre dangerous, have inhuman speed and strength. Youâre supposed to hate them, itâs what youâve been raised to hate.
And you do because theyâre monsters.
But sometimes, late at night, when loneliness feels like it might swallow you whole, you wonder if being a monster might be better than being nothing at all.
You set the book aside and make your way to the window. The route is familiar to you. Twelve steps from your bed, turn left, four more steps, and your fingers find the cool glass. You crack it open, just slightly, and the air rushes in.
Itâs spring, you can smell it, and itâs your favorite season. The sweetness of blooming flowers in the garden, the dampness of recent rain, sounds of the sprinklers starting to go off.
You press your palm to the glass and close your eyes, even though they're already closed behind your mask, and you breathe.
This is as close as you get to the outside world.
You can hear the workers in the distance, the thud of someone chopping wood. You can hear voices too, too faint to make out the words. The estate is always busy during the day, full of people you've never met and never will.
You stay at the window for a long time.
Eventually, you close your window and return to your vanity. Sit down to brush your hair again. Tie a new ribbon. Change from your morning gown into an afternoon dress, soft white cotton with lace at the collar and cuffs.Â
You like soft things, white things. Light things, even though you've never seen light.
Your mother says you dress like a doll, maybe you do, and maybe thatâs all you are.
A pretty thing to be kept on a shelf, looked at but never touched, protected but never freed.
You're brushing your hair again, for the thousandth time, when something changes.
The feeling is subtle at first, you canât quite name it, but you freeze, brush halfway through your hair and listen.
The birds have stopped singing.
Thatâs the first change you notice. The constant chatter of sparrows and other beautiful birds that usually fill the air outside your window has gone⌠silent.Â
And beneath that silence, you sense something else.Â
A presence, one that doesnât belong here.
Something is wrong.
You set down your brush, letting your panic settle in, listening to whatever strange instinct that you feel. Your heart is beating fast, and you donât understand why. You shouldnât feel scared, you shouldnât ever feel scared because your room is safe. The door is locked, the windows are too high for intruders to climb, and your father is home.
But the silence drags on for too long, and your senses that most people take for granted, are screaming that someone is very, very wrong.
You could ring the bell by your dresser and wait for your father to come, hope he or a servant hears so you canât alert them of the danger you sense.Â
Alert them of what danger? Nobody listens or would listen if you even tried to alert something you couldnât describe. Maybe itâs nothing anyways, maybe youâre starting to go insane from the boredom up here and are hallucinating feelings.
Maybe the birds flew away because itâs about to rain?
You get up and walk up to your window, cracking it open, listening for anything.
Itâs silent outside, perfect, unnatural silence compared to what youâve listened to merely 15 minutes ago.
And then, distantly, a scream.
It cuts off almost immediately, far too quickly, and you press your hand to the glass, desperate to hear anything more, but thereâs nothing after that scream, just dead silence again.
"Father?" you call, instinctively hoping he might hear even though you assume him to be downstairs in his study. You try again, louder. "Father!"
Nothing.
You close your window and move to your door, feeling the handle, try it even though you know itâs locked. It doesnât budge, obviously, and you pound on the wood with your fist, but the sound seems to disappear into the silence, swallowed up by whatever wrongness has descended on your home.
"Someone!" you shout. "Please! Something's happening!"
Nothing again.
You back away from the door, your breath coming too fast. Youâre trapped more than ever, it feels like the walls are closing in, and you canât do a thing about it.
You give up banging when your wrist goes sore and achy, and you walk slow, in defeat towards your soft, large, âsafeâ bed.
Minutes pass, long minutes, or hours. You canât tell, youâve stopped focusing on time, only focusing on your own spiraling thoughts as time passes.
Footsteps.
You finally, finally hear something close by your room. Someone walking through the halls of your home, opening doors, leaving them open, the sounds drift up from the floor below you, distant at first, then getting closer by the second.
Your father, it has to be. Heâs coming back to check on you, tell you that everything is fine, that the scream you heard was nothing, that youâre safe, that heâs safe.
But why would he check every room before yours?
The footsteps climb the stairs to your floor.
You stand, smoothing your dress with shaking hands. The footsteps move down the hall, pausing at each door, and you count them, waiting as they get closer and closer.
They stop outside your room.
The doorknob twists, but doesnât budge. Then you hear the lock to your room click, and the next thing you hear is the door swinging open.
â⌠Father?" You ask, voice small, standing by your bed, body facing the direction of your door.
It's silent for what seems like way too long. Then you hear a voice that isnât your fatherâs.
"Interesting."
You scramble backward, your back hitting your vanity, and you knock something over. A perfume bottle that you hear shattering on the floor. The sound makes you flinch, but you quickly try to balance yourself against the table, swallowing big.
âWhoâs there?â You ask, clearly frightened, not used to hearing a boy's voice that isnât your brother's or father's. "Who are you? Where's my father?"
Your door stays open as you hear the boyâs footsteps cross the threshold into your room, fully.Â
The animal part of your brain keeps sending signals to run even though thereâs nowhere to run.
"So you're the one they keep locked up here." His voice sounds young, now that youâve heard him say more than one word. He also sounds amused in a way that makes your panic spike even more. "I was wondering what was in this⌠locked room."
"Get out." You reach behind you, fingers closing around the handle of your hairbrush. It's a pathetic weapon, but it's all you have. "Get out of my room!"
"That's not very hospitable." He's moving again. You track him by sound, but he's circling you, and you can't keep up. â⌠Though I suppose you have reason to be upset."
"Where is my father?" You grip the brush tighter. "What did you do to him?"
It's quiet, and you can sense that the boy has stopped moving, distance kept from you as he speaks again, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than what you heard before. "I'm sorry to tell you this. But your father is dead."
The words hit you like a physical blow, like a dagger to the stomach. You believe him immediately, because thatâs never something to joke about, and it all does add up. You stagger back, your legs feeling weak, and you catch yourself on the edge of your vanity. "No." You say, even though you know.
"A vampire attack." He sounds sympathetic, and almost what you can assume as slight trauma in his tone, but it does sound oddly fake, "I arrived too late to save him. I'm sorry."
"You're lying." You shoot back, quickly, still in denial, your words not matching your thoughts.
"I wish I were." He replies.
Your⌠father. Your father, who has protected this estate for decades, who has hunted more vampires than anyone else in the region, who kissed your forehead last night and tucked you in, and did the same the night before that, and the night before that, every night for years.
Dead.
âWhy are your eyes covered?â He asks suddenly, random. âDid you get some sort of surgery recently done or-â
You cut him off. "Who are you?" Your voice cracks on the last word. "How did you get in here?"
"My name is Scaramouche." Footsteps again, closer now. "My father does business with yours⌠Did business," he corrects, and there's something in his tone that you can't quite read. "I came to pick up some documents, and I found the door unlocked. I found-" He stops. "I found what I found."
"And you just happened to come upstairs?" Your question sounds weaker than an accusation of anything; no heat found, just despair, still processing your father's demise.
"I was looking for survivors." He sounds close now, very close, and you have no room to create distance because youâre already against your vanity. "The whole estate has been hit. Everyone downstairs is dead. I thought maybe someone up here had been spared." He pauses before adding, "It seems I was right."
Youâre shaking, body trembling all over, and you donât make an effort to hide how affected you are at this information⌠but itâs not that you donât care, itâs that you canât control yourself. You canât control how weak you feel currently, how helpless and small you feel.
"I don't believe you." You muster out with your lips quivering, head tilted slightly down so he canât see your eyes closed behind the mask.
â⌠About which part?" He says back, and thereâs just the slightest hint of a tease in his words.
"Any of it⌠All of it." You raise the hairbrush, pointing it vaguely in his direction. "You could be a vampire yourself for all I know."
You hear him laugh, and it throws you off balance at how little you expected to hear one after an accusation like that.
"If I were a vampire, you'd already be dead." His voice is calm for someone youâre suspecting. "I'm not here to hurt you⌠I'm here to help."
âHelp?â you say, palm tightening on your hairbrush. "By breaking into my room?"
"By saving your life, actually." His footsteps move again, and you tense, but he seems to be backing away, as if he could sense you want space. "The vampires are still out there. Most of them have moved on, but some might come back⌠This house of yours isn't safe anymore. I need to get you somewhere secure."
You let out a fake laugh, crossing your arms, head turned to the side. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Then you'll die."
The bluntness of his words makes you flinch. He doesnât say it in a cruel manner, though; he says it matter-of-factly, like itâs nothing but an obvious truth that heâs ready to watch you learn the hard way.
"I will wait for my mother," you say. "And my brother. They'll be back in a few days-"
"A few days?" He sounds almost incredulous. "You think the vampires will wait a few days before coming back to finish what they started? They'll return tonight, as soon as the sun sets. And theyâll find you in your room⌠alone⌠defenseless. Does that really sound like something youâd want?"
"I'm not defenseless."
"Really? Said by the one holding a hairbrush."
Your cheeks burn at how right he is. You know a hairbrush isnât a good defence weapon, itâs not even a weapon in general, but you donât let go of it, because doing that might let him think you trust him.
"Look," he says, and his voice softens again, similar to the tone he gave when he told you your father is dead, "I understand you're scared and that you don't trust me. But I'm the only person standing between you and the same fate your father just met. Can you at least let me help you?"
Say no.
Tell him to get out.
Scream at him.
Tell him to let you mourn in peace.
ButâŚ
Heâs right.
Youâre alone in a house full of corpses.
The family you have that arenât corpses are days awayâŚ
AndâŚ
You have no way to defend yourself against creatures that move faster than any sound your ears that are better than most can pick up.Â
âHow do I know youâre telling the truth?â You ask, voice small and unsure. âHow do I know this isnât some trick?â
"You don't." He's honest, at least. "But what choice do you have?"
None.Â
You have no choice at all.
Slowly, reluctantly, you move past where you sense him and lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. You canât stand any longer because of the grief eating you inside. You lower your head and press a hand to your mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to escape.
Your father is dead.
Your father is dead, and you're alone with a stranger, and everything you thought you knew about your safe, sheltered life has just shattered like glass.
"You're blind."
The statement catches you off guard. You raise your head, even though you can't see him, can't see anything.
"Yes." You respond, voice tiny.
"I thought the mask before was for some kind of surgery, but you donât react to my movements," he says, like he's working something out. "And your eyes seem closed beneath it⌠Why is that?"
"They've never opened." You lie, they can open if you want to, but you choose to keep them closed under the mask at all times. And you don't want to feel the need to explain such an odd choice to a stranger.
He takes note of that, and itâs quiet for a while; you canât tell if heâs nodding at what you said, or staring into the mask deeper. But finally, as if he got the concept of a girl like you being blind, he says, in a quiet tone, âThat must be⌠difficult.â
"I manage⌠Iâve gotten this far at least." You say, voice threatening to break as you talk, as youâre still trying to hold back tears, trying not to look smaller than you already feel in front of this stranger.
You hear footsteps again, ones that seem like heâs getting closer to you, but theyâre slow this time, careful, aware, like heâs approaching a frightened animal.
"I'm going to sit next to you," he says, tone so gentle in a way that any people pleaser hearing it would say yes in a heartbeat. "...Is that alright?"
Youâre too tired and so⌠scared to even muster up a no. You donât give him a response, and you feel the bed dip beside you. Heâs a little too close for someone who's a stranger to you, but you donât move away or tell him to move.Â
Being this close to him, you donât feel warmth next to you⌠It feels like he himself is cold.
"I won't let anything happen to you." His voice is soft, really soft, and you can sense confidence in it that makes you believe him, just a little bit, but not enough. "I promise."
Your head is tilted down, and your fingers are toying with the edge of the lace on your dress as you think before asking, âWhy do you even care? Iâm just some blind girl youâd be better off leaving behind⌠You could just go to your home, where itâs probably safe, but⌠You arenât.
âI donât know why I care to stay.â He sounds surprised as he speaks, as if the words are foreign in his own mouth, as if his own answer to you is something heâs never said before. âBut I canât allow someone to die defenseless, especially if I have a chance to save them before they even reach that level of danger.â
And with that, you start crying. Tears are sliding down your cheeks beneath the mask you wear, and your breath is hitching. And what you feel next is a touch youâve never felt before. A touch by a gloved hand, his hand, on your face, tilting your head, probably in his direction, and brushing away the wetness with care a stranger shouldnât have.
His thumb traces the curve of your cheek as you donât make an effort to pull away. He does it gently, tenderly, and youâre so desperately lonely, more than ever, that you lean into the stranger's touch.
"You're so young," he says, not commenting on your tears. There's something strange in his voice, something you can't identify. "How old are you?"
You swallow before saying, "Iâm eighteen."Â
"... Eighteen?" He repeats it like he's savoring the word. "I'm nineteen. Just a year older than you, shame we havenât met until now. Just as much as it is a shame your parents choose to keep you locked in a room, not knowing it doesnât keep you safe, just traps you, especially when there could be danger right outside your room⌠or in it."
You let him finish, before managing out a, âYou sound older than that⌠nineteen.â You feel his thumb brush over your cheek as you talk, wiping a tear for you, and that makes your voice come out tiny at the end.
âDo I?â You hear him make a soft laugh, thumb moving on your cheek again. âMaybe youâre right. Iâve seen a lot for my age.â
His gloved fingers trail down your cheek, along your jaw, and then they're gone. You miss the contact immediately, and you feel pathetic for doing so.
"Wait here," he says. "I need to make sure the way out is clear. Then I'll come back for you, I promise."
"Don't leave me."
Your voice breaks on the last two syllables, a tiny sob leaking out from your lips right after. It sounds so childish, the very thing you hate feeling like, but the thought of being alone again in this room without a body to cling to⌠it makes your chest hurt with panic.
"I won't be longâŚ" he starts.
"... Please." You cut in, voice fading in such a weak way that you suddenly feel his hand on yours, squeezing gently through the glove heâs wearing.Â
"Alright⌠I'll stay." He settles more comfortably on the bed beside you. "We'll wait here together until it's safe to move. Iâll be as patient as you need me to be, but⌠Itâs getting late, and the sun will set soon. We'll need to be careful and leave before the others come back."
"Others?" You ask, confused at the random mention of a group.
âThere was more than just one vampire, Iâm assuming, one canât just kill every person here without getting caught, especially since itâs daylight and that works against them.â He sounds like he knows a lot about this, but you donât find that suspicious because if you were in his shoes, youâd assume the same. âI donât see them now, maybe I came hours after they left, maybe I came just as they left, but Iâm certain that theyâll return at nightfall. They always do.â
You donât trust him as heâs still a stranger to you, but you nod at what he says, because it does make sense, and he seems to be the only option you have currently.
The hours pass in silence after that.
Sometimes he speaks to fill it, asking you small, minor things about yourself, your life, your family⌠Itâs odd he seems so interested in you. He doesnât need to fill the silence with questions; he could just leave, or he could just keep it silent and not interact until youâre ready, while he sits there bored. But he doesnât, but you also donât match the energy needed to keep a conversation flowing, you answer each other in fragments, too grief-stricken for full sentences.
Sometimes⌠he just sits beside you, quiet and still, and you listen to the sound of his breathing.
It occurs to you, distantly, that you haven't heard him breathe once.
But you're too tired to think about what that means.
"It's time to go."
His voice pulls you from the half-sleep you'd fallen into. You spring upright, disoriented, and his hand steadies you.
"The sun is setting," he says. "We need to leave now."
"But⌠I want to see my father first." Your voice still sounds broken from the crying you did; you stopped about an hour ago. Youâre sore, almost emotionless on the outside, but split open in despair on the inside.
"Are you sure that's wise?"
"I need to say goodbye." Your voice is firm despite the trembling in your hands. Youâre suddenly aching to meet your father's body now that the idea is in your mind. "I need to... I need to touch him one last time. Please."
He's quiet for a long moment. You can feel him considering, weighing options you can't see⌠or you just imagine that's what heâs doing.
"... Alright," he says finally. "I'll take you to him."
He stands, and then his hand is extended toward you. You know this because he tells you, guiding your fingers to his palm. His glove is soft, fine leather, and his grip is steady as he helps you to your feet.
"I can walk on my own."
"I'm sure you can." But he doesn't let go of your hand. "But the halls are... difficult. You told me itâs rare when youâre outside your room, so let me guide you."
You let him lead you because youâd feel even worse if you stumbled over something that couldâve been avoided with his help.
Your sense of smell has always been another good trait of yours, one that you hate, because bad smells are hard to ignore.
And what you smell when you step out of your room, holding his handâŚ
Itâs bad.
Something copper-rich that makes you feel like you might just gag.
Blood. You're smelling blood.
"Don't let go of my hand," he says quietly, careful to speak if thereâs somebody or something lurking. "And try not to touch anything."
You just nod and trust him to do everything for you, everything to keep you safe.
Trust?
Where the fuck did that come from?
He leads you down the hall, down the stairs, through rooms you've never been allowed to enter. Your free hand trails along the wall occasionally, feeling the familiar texture of wallpaper, and then something wet, and you jerk your fingers back.
"I told you not to touch anything."
"I know⌠Iâm sorry," you say, voice weak. âI just rely on touch a lot, especially with the things I havenât explored yet.â
He doesnât respond, his grip just tightens on your hand⌠firm in a way that feels possessive.
You walk for what feels like forever before he makes a full stop.
"He's here," he says. "In front of you⌠About two steps."
You let go of his hand.Â
Take one step⌠Two.
Your foot bumps against something soft and heavy, and you sink to your knees.
Your hands find him by touch. The broad chest, the fabric of his coat, the familiar shape of his shoulders. Your fingers travel up, trembling, to his face⌠his jaw⌠his cheek thatâs already going cold.
And then his neck. Your fingers come away wet.
"No." The word is a whimper, more panic than denial. You press your palm to his throat, feeling the ragged edges of torn flesh, the slickness of blood that hasn't dried yet. "No, no, no-"
You gather him into your arms as best you can. He's heavy like the dead weight described in some of the books you read. And heâs so cold, cold in a way that makes you break further, sobbing suddenly, ugly wrenching sobs that tear through your chest.
"Papa." You haven't called him that since you were a child. "Papa, please. Please wake up. Please don't leave me alone. Please-"
He doesn't wake upâŚ
Heâll never wake up.
You press his hand to your face, just to feel it one last time. The rough calluses on his palm. The familiar weight of his fingers. You memorize it, brand it into your memory, because this is all you will ever have of him now.
Behind you, Scaramouche watches this all play out in silence.
He watches you cry until you canât cry anymore, how your voice sounds raw at some point, how your father's blood soaks into the fabric of your dress.Â
He watches⌠watches as you just kneel there, holding him, unwilling to let go.
And he doesnât feel an ounce of guilt.
"We need to leave." His voice is gentle in a way that, if you were paying attention enough, he almost sounds like heâs faking kindness. "I'm sorry⌠really, truly sorry. But we need to go."
"I can't leave him." You yell, shocked at the desperation mixed with anger in your tone.
"You have to."
You resist the moment you feel his hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you away gently, you clutch onto your fatherâs coat⌠but⌠all that crying, all that grief, everything has made you too exhausted to fight back. So you let yourself get pulled to your feet.
His hand finds yours again, holding them in a way strangers shouldnât, and he guides you away from your father's corpse.Â
A corpse he is the cause of.
You donât look back when you walk away, hand in Scaramoucheâs, because that would imply you could see, and youâve never seen anything, anything in your life.
Youâve never been allowed to be normal.
You've been outside before, briefly, under heavy supervision. But this⌠this is different. This is the world, vast and open and terrifying, and you cling to Scaramouche's hand like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.
"Where are we going?" Your voice is hoarse from crying.
"My home⌠It's safe there. You can wait for your mother and brother to return."
You walk in silence for a while. The ground changes beneath your feet, smooth stone, then rough earth, then gravel, then something softer. Grass, maybe. The air smells like trees and night-blooming flowers and something else, something you can't identify.
The room they've given you is beautiful.
At least, that's what Scaramouche tells you. He describes it in detail: the canopy bed draped in white silk, the antique furniture, the chandelier that catches the light just so. You can't see any of it. But you can feel the softness of the sheets, the smoothness of the polished wood, the weight of the heavy curtains that you've never been able to move.
"Can I open the window?" You ask one day.
"Not right now." His voice is gentle, apologetic. "It's not safe."
"... But I want to feel the sun."
"The sun is dangerous right now. Theyâre still vampires in the area. They might see the light from your window and know someone's here."
It doesnât make sense, none of it does. But you're in a strange place, dependent on a stranger's kindness, and you don't have the energy to argue.
"Okay..."
He visits you every day. Or every night, you've started to realize. You can never quite tell when he arrives, but it always feels like evening, like the world has gone dark and quiet outside your sealed windows.
Itâs weird he never shows up during the day.
He brings you food prepared by servants youâve never met, carried up on silver trays. Sometimes he feeds you himself, guides the utensil to your lips, and the intimacy of it should make you feel embarrassed⌠but youâre not.
Because youâre falling in love with this strange⌠kind stranger.
Well, is he a stranger anymore?
Itâs stupid how quickly youâve fallen for him. Itâs been a week, and you barely even know him⌠but heâs the only person you have now, the only voice in your silent world, and when he touches your hand or brushes the hair from your face, you feel something warm bloom in your chest.
"Tell me about yourself," you say one evening, or morning⌠You can't tell anymore.
"What do you want to know?" He responds, casual, ready to share whatever it is you want.
"Anything⌠Everything." You're sitting on your bed, your back against the pillows, and you can feel him next to you, how he moves closer to you. "I don't even know what you look like."
"... Would you like to?"
"Yes."
You feel him take your hand, slow, and raise it to his face. "Go ahead," he says. "See me."
Your fingers tremble as they make contact with his skin⌠his skin is cold, colder than it should be, colder than anyoneâs skin youâve felt. But itâs smooth, and you feel that makes up for it.
"Why are you so cold?" You ask.
He leans into your touch, and you can hear a slight sigh come from him, as if this relaxes him. "I run cold... I always have."
You map out his features, feel the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips. His cheekbones are high and prominent, and his face is narrow and elegant.
"You're beautiful," you whisper, even though you can't see him.
He tilts his head at your touch. "... Am I?"
You smile, tiny in response. "I can feel it."
His hand covers yours, pressing it flat against his cheek. He's still wearing his gloves, even though you wish he weren't.
"What color are your eyes?" you ask even though color is foreign to you.
"Do you even know color?â He chuckles, playful in a way. âItâs dark violet⌠almost indigo, in some lights."
You nod, fingers still exploring. "That sounds pretty⌠What about your hair?"
"Similar, actually. Very dark, with hints of blue." You feel him shift, leaning closer. "Does that help? Can you see me now?"
"I donât see, Scara.â You giggle, comfortable around him enough that you use a nickname now, âBut I think I can imagine." You're building him in your mind, piece by piece, as you speak. "You're taller than me?"
âIm sure you can feel that Iâm a little taller than you, but, unfortunately, not by much.â He laughs softly. "I'm quite short, by most standards."
"And thin?"
"Very."
You lower your hand from his face, and you feel him catch it before it falls. He holds your hand between both of his⌠gloved ones.
"Can you take off your gloves?" you ask.
He pauses, with clear hesitation at your question, squeezes your hand just once before saying, âIf thatâs what you want, then I will.â
You hear a soft sound of leather being removed, and then you feel his bare hand in yours. Itâs cold just like his skin, but smooth, and soft, and you trace the lines of his palm, the shape of his fingers, and he pretends it doesnât tickle.
"You're freezing." You note, again.
"I told you⌠I run cold."
You come up with a solution. âWe should go outside, in the morning, when the sun is warm. Itâll help⌠and I like the outside air.â
You feel him go still beside you, like what you just said is something nonnegotiable, something he couldnât ever possibly agree to.
For reasons you donât know yet.
Then, as for what youâd assume to be a distraction, his free hand comes up to touch your cheek, and you sense him getting closer, leaning in.
"We can't go outside," he murmurs, and his lips brush yours.
Youâve never been kissed before, this is your first one, and he does it softly, and you donât even know what to do. His mouth moves against yours, gentle, but also patient for you, and you try to follow his lead because this is something you definitely want.
When he pulls back, you're breathless.
"It's not safe," he whispers against your lips, continuing his last murmured statement while his thumb rubs over your lips. "I won't risk you."
"But-"
But he kisses you again, and that cuts you off. This kiss is deeper than the first, as he slides his hand into your hand, cradling the back of your head, and tilting his own head into the kiss. You melt into it⌠into him. And when he breaks away this time, youâve forgotten what you were going to say, all you just want is more of that feeling he just gave you.
"Trust me," he says. "I'll keep you safe. I promise."
And you trust him way more than anyone in your position should.
More days pass after that⌠or nights, you donât know.Â
You've lost track entirely.
He kisses you now. Often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Always through gloves, always careful, but the touches are becoming bolder. More intimate.
He kisses you a lot after that day, after that first kiss. Often⌠really often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Glove gone, because now he knows you donât care about the cold. The touches are careful, but theyâre also becoming more bold as the days go on⌠more intimate.
You don't mind, of course. And of course you want more.Â
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
He just finished feeding you lunch, and he set the tray aside, setting onto the bed beside you. His presence has started to feel too much like home.
âI like it when you kiss me⌠touch me and all, it feels nice.â You start, voice small, nervous even as your head is tilted down, hand curling at your duvet. âI want moreâŚâ
Heâs quiet as you speak, after you speak. You feel him looking at you, even though you canât see his gaze. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." You respond, eager, but shy.
You feel his hand cup your cheek, turn it to face his direction, and you lean into his hand instinctively.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Do you know that?"
âButâŚâ you shake your head, tiny. "I can't see myself."
"I know⌠But I can." His thumb traces your lower lip. "You look like a doll. Like something precious that should be kept under glass."
"... Is that how you see me?"
"It's how I want to keep you." He leans in, and his lips brush yours. "Safe... Protected. Mine."
The word sends a shiver through you. Mine.
He kisses you, his tongue sliding past your lips. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, his hand fisting in your hair. The kiss goes on and on, dizzying, overwhelming, and when he finally pulls back, you're panting.
"More?" he asks.
"Please."
His mouth moves down your jaw, along your neck. His lips are soft against your skin in a way that makes you whimper, involuntarily at each kiss.
"You smell incredible," he breathes against your skin. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"No."
"You smell like..." He trails off. His mouth lingers at the curve of your neck, just above your pulse, and you feel his breath go shallow. "Like everything I've ever wanted."
You don't understand what that means. You feel his lips pressing kisses to your throat now, gentle and almost reverent, and you tilt your head back to give him better access.
"Lie back," he says. "Let me take care of you."
You obey his words, taking it as permission for what you were already going to do. You sink back into the pillows, your white nightgown riding up around your thighs. You hear him move, feel the mattress shift as he positions himself over you.
âHave you ever been touched before? He murmurs, pressing more kisses down your throat as he asks.
"No." You breathe out.
"Good."
His hands find the hem of your nightgown, and you feel his fingers slide beneath, skimming up your thighs, and your breath catches at that.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says against your mouth.
You've never wanted anything less in your life for him to stop.
He moves down your body, trailing kisses along your collarbone, your chest, the swell of your breasts through the thin fabric. And then he's sliding lower, pushing the nightgown up, disappearing beneath the sheets.
"... Where are you going?"
"Relax." His voice is muffled now, distant. "You'll see."
You won't see, you think. You never see.
But then his lips are on your thigh, pressing soft kisses to the sensitive skin, and you stop thinking entirely.
You feel him make a nip at your skin, just slightly, and you let out a soft whimper before you can stop yourself.
"Did that hurt?" He sounds curious, not concerned, curious.
"N-no. It felt..." you start, voice tiny.
"Good?" he finishes for you.
"Yes," you agree.
You feel him smile against your skin. And then his fingers are hooking into your underwear, sliding the soft satin down your legs, and you're bare beneath his gaze.
His mouth finds you, and you can feel his tongue licking up through your folds, a sensation youâve never felt before, and you cry out. Itâs nothing like the vague descriptions in some of the smut youâve read⌠occasionally, itâs overwhelming⌠consuming.
"Ah... Scara..."
"That's it." His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh. "Say my name."
His tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, and your hips buck involuntarily. He pins them down with one hand, holding you still.
"So sensitive." He sounds delighted. "And you can't even see what I'm doing to you. You can only feel it."
Every touch feels magnified tenfold. This is what being blind has given you⌠this heightened awareness⌠this desperate sensitivity.
He slides a finger inside you, and you gasp.
"Tight," he murmurs. "We'll fix that."
He works you open slowly, one finger, then two, stretching you while his tongue continues its assault on your clit. It feels too much by the way you canât help but squirm, but it also feels like not enough, and also just everything all at once.Â
"Hah... please... I need..."
"What do you need?"
"I don't know... more... something..."
He adds a third finger, curling them up, finding a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your closed eyes. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking gently, and you shatter.
The orgasm crashes through you like a wave. You cry out, your back arching, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he works you through it, relentless, drawing out every last tremor.
When you finally come down, he's crawling back up your body. His mouth finds yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good?" he asks.
"Yes... hah... yes..."
He pulls back and you can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sounds of clothes being removed. And then his hands are on your nightgown, sliding it up, over your head, leaving you completely bare.
"You're beautiful," he says again. "So beautiful."
His hands run over your body, mapping your curves, and you wish desperately that you could see him. See what he looks like above you, naked and wanting.
"Can I touch you?" You ask.
"Yes."
He guides your hand down, down, until your fingers close around him⌠what youâd assume to be a cock. He feels hard, and the shape of it seems big. Itâs heavy in your palm, and warm, warmer than the rest of his cold skin.
"Oh..."
"Do you feel what you do to me?" His voice is strained. "How much I want you?"
You nod, speechless.
He moves your hand away and positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. Your breath catches at the feeling, realizing that this is really happening, that youâre really losing your virginity.
"This will hurt," he says. "At first."
"I know."
"I won't be gentle."
"... I don't want you to be, Scara."
And with that, he pushes inside, one thrust, all the way.
You scream, not from pleasure, not yet, just from the sudden fullness, the pain of being stretched beyond what you thought possible. He swallows the sound you make with a kiss, his mouth claiming yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head.
"Shh." His lips move against yours. "Breathe."
You try to listen and breathe, but itâs hard when heâs inside you, especially so impossibly deep, filling every inch of your body. But you donât feel pressured, as heâs very patient, holding you still and letting you adjust.
"Does it hurt?"Â
"Y-yes..."
"It won't for long."
He starts to move, itâs slow at first, long strokes that pull out almost all the way before pushing back in. His thumbs simultaneously rub soothing circles on your belly, a strange counterpoint to the ache between your legs.
And then the pain starts to fade... Replaced by something else. Something warm and building.
"Oh... hah..."
"There we go." He picks up the pace slightly, noticing. "That's it. Feel me."
And you do, you feel every inch, every thrust, every time he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, and he swallows each one with kisses.
His mouth finds your neck again, and he kisses, sucks, and marks the skin there. Heâs obsessed with your throat, you realize, with the way his lips keep gravitating there, always lingering.
"Can I..." You gasp as he hits that spot again. "Can I ask something?"
"Anything."
"Will you... Will you bite me?"
He goes still.
For a moment, you think you've said something wrong, that youâve gone too far. But then his hips start moving again, harder than before, faster, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
"You want me to bite you?"
"Yes... please... I want..."
"Are you sure?"
"Ngh... yes... please, Scara..."
His teeth sink into your neck.
Itâs not hard enough to actually break your skin, but itâs hard enough that it hurts, that it makes you cry out, that it makes the pain mix with pleasure in a way that you canât tell them apart. He bites you again, and again, marking your throat with red impressions of his teeth.
"Mine," he growls against your skin. "You're mine."
"Yours... hah... I'm yours..."
He's fucking you harder now, losing control, his breath ragged against your neck. And then he's tensing, burying himself deep, and you feel him spill inside you.
And when he cums inside, something he does happens by accident.
His teeth clamp down hard on your neck. His teeth donât even feel like teeth when he does it; it feels like a knife piercing your skin, something sharp, not like human teeth.
You let out a confused whimper in response to it, and his hips are stuttering, groaning against your throat, and the pain you feel fades into a strange, floaty warmth.
When he pulls back, his mouth lingers on the bite, kissing it, licking at something wet that trickled down your neck.
"Sorry," he murmurs, still inside of you. "Got carried away."
"S'okay..." You're drifting, boneless, blissed out. "Felt good anyway..."
He laughs softly, and you feel his thumb trace the bite mark, pressing gently, and you wince.
"I left a mark." He points out.
"I don't mind..."
"No?" He kisses the spot again, more focused on kissing that than your own lips, and then he licks it, slow and deliberate. "I'll have to be more careful next time."
Next time. The words warm you from the inside.
He shifts, pulling out of you, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's lying beside you, pulling you into his arms, and you curl against his chest.
"Will you stay?" you whisper. "Tonight? Sleep with me?"
"Yes."
"You never stay."
"I'll stay tonight." His arms tighten around you. "I'll stay as long as you want me."
You press your face against his chest, feeling safe in someone's arms, something that has always felt foreign to you until now.
"I love you," you whisper, 3 words youâve never said to anyone once before.
He goes still at your murmured confession, not expecting to hear those words from you so soon, but he doesnât mind it. His hand finds your hair, and he strokes it gently in a way that makes you curl into him further.
"I know," he says. "I love you too."
You fall asleep like that.
Wrapped in the arms of a monster you can't see.
You wake up to him still on your bed, his hand still on your hair, like nothing changed after you went to sleep.
Well⌠except for the fact that your nightgown is back on. You remember falling asleep naked in his arms, but now the soft fabric is back, covering you, and you wonder if he dressed you while you slept.
"You're awake."
His voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. You lift your head, even though lifting does nothing for you, even though you can't see him, no matter which direction you face.
"How long was I asleep?"
"A while." His hand starts to begin itâs pattern of stroking you hair. "You needed it."
You settle back against him. The silence is comfortable, easy in a way you've never experienced with another person. You've spent your whole life alone, and now you're not, and the relief of it is almost overwhelming.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Tell me about your family." You trace a small circle on his chest with your finger. "Your father⌠What's he like?"
Theres a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. "He's a busy man," Scaramouche says. "Always working. I don't see him often."
"And your mother?"
Another pause, a longer one this time.
"My mother," he repeats, and there's something strange in his voice⌠something heavy. "My mother is... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"She lives here. In this estate." His hand stills in your hair. "She's⌠powerful. Important. Everyone knows her name, fears it, respects it. But⌠she's never been much of a mother to me."
You wait, sensing there's more.
"She's neglectful," he continues, quieter now. "Always has been. Too busy with her own concerns to notice her son. Too wrapped up in her own world to care about mine." He laughs, but it's hollow. "I hate her sometimes. Most of the time, actually. But somewhere, deep down, I suppose I still..."
He trails off. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, not questioning why you canât find it.
"I'm sorry." You say, clear sympathy in your voice.
"Don't be." His hand resumes its gentle stroking. "It's just how things are."
"Can I meet her?â You ask, more curious than eager. âYour mother?"
He tenses when you ask that, and he tries to cover it up, acting normal by continuing his rhythm in your hair. "Maybe," he says. "Someday. I'm not sure."
You accept the non-answer, itâs what youâre used to. Your whole life has been built on them.
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
"My mother and brother." You swallow. "Do you know if they're back yet? From their trip?"
The silence that follows after what you say feels different than any question youâve asked. It feels heavier, makes you feel oddly tense.
"Why do you want to leave so badly?" He says in a tone lacking of any emotion, in a way that sounds scary and not at all like the sweet boy youâve grown to love.
It catches you of guard, definitely, and you shake your head immediately, frantically even.
âI donât⌠not at all, Scara. I would never want to-â You stop, realizing what you just said without giving it a single thought. Never. You just fucking said never. You clear your throat, trying to fix your words. âI just⌠I want to know if theyâre safe⌠thatâs all. It has nothing to do with me wanting to leave.â
You feel him shift beneath you, feel his hand move from your hair to cup your cheek. That motion would normally make you feel secure, safe, loved by him. But right now⌠youâre just confused at his behavior, confused on why he canât just give you a proper response without having you fall apart first.
"I visited your estate two days ago," he says finally. "To check. And they weren't there."
Your heart drops hearing those words. Itâs been two weeks, they should be back by now on there trip, shouldâve been back days ago, but what Scaraâs telling you makes you think they never made it back⌠or did, and got killed by the very thing theyâre skilled at hunting.
"What do you mean they weren't there?"
"I didnât just look, also. I asked around⌠not your dead servants, but I asked your neighbors, anyone alive in the vicinityâŚâ His thumb traces your cheekbone, it seems like heâs doing it to comfort you, but to you it feels like heâs mocking you. "Iâll be nice and say they're possibly missing."
All blood drains from your face as you process his words, you feel your body go cold just like his⌠you feel the relapse of emotions you felt the day your father was murdered.
Your father is gone.
Your mother⌠and your brother are missing.
You have no one.
⌠no one but him.
âNo,â you whisper, shaking your head in denial, hoping that the worst isnât as true as it seems. âNo⌠that canât be right. They were supposed to come back⌠they always do, I never worry about them when they go on hunting trips⌠I just feel sad that Iâm never allowed to come with them. I wish I was now⌠I wish my brother wasnât such a stupid asshole that only sees me as something weak⌠because maybe then, Iâd be able to say goodbye.âÂ
You burry your face in Scaraâs chest, trying not to sob, but the tears threaten anyway. âIâd rather die with them, than not be with them at all.â
Scara watches this display of your⌠emotions without uttering a word, none until youâre finished.
âShh.â He starts, voice soft and nothing compared to the uncanny, emotionless one like before, he strokes your head as you cry onto his chest. âIâll check every day for you, I promise. Iâll go back and look, over and over, day and night if I have to. And the moment I see them, Iâll bring them to safety and tell you immediately.â
The words donât help, not at all, because how would something as a promise youâll never be able to see experience, actually, and I mean, actually make you feel better.
âLet me come with youâŚâ You sit up, desperate, clinging onto his shoulders. âPlease, Scara. I want to go home⌠I want to feel my house again, smell it, actually open the curtia-â
He cuts you off, âYou canât.â His tone is calm in a way that it makes an insane contrast with how much youâre currently spiraling.
"Why not?" You say, just as desperate as your words before.
"It's not safe." He says it like itâs already been decided, confirmed.
âI donât care if itâs safe or not!â Your voice cracks. âWhat the hell, Scara, theyâre my family⌠my fucking family! Iâm an adult, not just some child that wants to be locked all the time, I can fend for myself, Iâm sick and tired of being forced to stay in bed like if I even stepped out of it, Iâd be in danger.âÂ
"You can't come with me." His words are, again, firm and final. Youâve heard them before, a thousand times, coming from the very people youâre so desperate to find.
You're too fragile. Too delicate. Too blind.
But thereâs a difference here because Scaramouche doesnât say any of that. He doesnât call you helpless, he doesnât point to your disability as the reason. He knows your senses are strong, heâs seen you navigate his estate, memorize the layout of your room, detect his presence before he speaks. He knows youâd be more useful than him at searching, that your hearing could pick up things his eyes might miss.
So why won't he let you?
"Theyâre vampires out there," he says, as if reading your thoughts. "The ones who attacked your home. They're still in the area. I won't risk you."
Vampires.
You think of your father, his throat torn open, his blood soaking into your hands. You think of the creatures that did that to him, the monsters that hunt in the night, and hatred rises in your chest like bile.
"I hate them." The words come out bitter. "I hate vampires. They're disgusting creatures. Monsters. They killed my father, they destroyed my life, and I hope every single one of them burns."
Scaramouche doesn't respond.
You keep going, unable to stop yourself.
"My family has hunted them for generations. We've killed hundreds, thousands. And it's not enough. It'll never be enough. They're a plague, a disease, and the world would be better off if every last one of them was wiped from existence."
Still nothing.
You take a breath. "But..." You pause, uncertain. "I would like to meet one. SomedayâŚ"
"What?" Scaramouche finally responds.
"A vampire." You turn your face toward him, even though you can't see his expression. "In my books, they're always described as hideous. Monstrous. Twisted things with rotting flesh and hollow eyes. But⌠I don't believe that. I think they must be beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. And I want to feel one, just once. Even though I know it would be impossible. Even though they'd kill me before I could get close."
Itâs quiet in the room, and you wonder if youâve said something wrong, you wonder if he hates vampires as much as your family does, that maybe he was raised the same as you, but isnât weird like you.
"You imagine them as beautiful," he repeats slowly.
"... Yes."
"Even though you hate them."
"I can hate something and still find it fascinating." You shrug. "I've never been able to separate the two."
He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he changes the subject entirely.
"Have you ever opened your eyes?"
The question startles you because no one has ever asked that before. People assume you can't, that there's something wrong with them, that keeping them closed is a medical necessity rather than a choice.
"No."
"Never? Really?"
"I choose to keep them closed." You touch the edge of your lace mask, feeling the delicate fabric beneath your fingers. "I can't see anyway. Opening them wouldn't change anything."
"Then why keep them closed?"
You hesitate because this is something youâve never told anyone, not even your family. Something private, sacred, held close to your chest like a secret.
"Youâll probably find it stupid⌠but I'm saving them," you say finally. "For someone special."
"Someone special?"
"Someone who'll stay with me for eternity." The words come out soft, almost reverent. "Even in a human life. Someone who'll love me and protect me, but who'll also let me feel protected on my own. Someone who'll trust me to keep myself safe. Someone that I love enough to open them for."
You pause, your chest feeling tight.
"Someone who'll love me forever."
The silence that follows is so heavy you could drown in it.
"Only a vampire can love you forever."
You tilt your head, confused by his response, and let out a nervous giggle ,thinking what he said to be a joke. "What?"
His lips find yours before you can say another word; he kisses you softly, gently, cutting off your confusion before it can fully form.
"I'll love you for an eternity," he murmurs against your mouth. "And you can choose when you want to open your eyes for me."
You melt into the kiss, the strange comment already fading from your mind.
Days pass.
He sleeps in your room now, every night, he crawls into bed beside you, pulls you against his chest, holds you until morning⌠or what you assume is morning, you never know for certain.
He still feeds you, more now that the relationship you two have seems more established than ever. You wish though, that it was different, that you could feed yourself, and he does the same infront of you. One day, as heâs feeding you, you ask, "Can I eat with you? At a table, like normal people?"
"Maybe one day," he says.
That day never comes.
The day does come for a different shared experience, one that doesnât involve eating but involves a lot of trust and intimacy.
"Let me bathe you."
The words catch you off guard completely. Youâre sitting on your bed, tracing the embroidery on your pillowcase when he says it. You were going to bathe later, in a few hours, itâs not necessary to do it now⌠but you shake your head, almost at yourself, continuing to trace as you respond.
"I can bathe myself."
"I know you can." You hear him move closer, feel the mattress dip as he sits beside you. "But I want to do it. Let me take care of you."
Youâve been bathing yourself your whole life, navigating through your bathroom with the ever-present fear of falling. Youâve memorized the layout of every bathroom youâve ever used, mapped the distance from every object⌠you donât necessarily need help.
But⌠the thought of him doing it, of his hands on you, of not having to worry about slipping and cracking your skull on the edge of the basin because he'd be there to catch you...
"Okay."
His hand finds yours, and itâs cold, as always, but youâve stopped flinching at the temperature. Ever since that night, the first night, when his skin pressed against yours and you were too overwhelmed by the softness of it to care about the chill. He's touched you more since then, like something shifted between you and he no longer feels the need to hide.
He leads you out of your room and down a hallway you havenât memorized yet. You count the steps as you both walk, fourteen until you turn left, seven more, then a door on the same left side of the wall.Â
"Bathroom," he says, unnecessarily, leading you inside and shutting the door behind you both, locking it. "Stay here."
You stand on a rug, seemingly in the middle of the bathroom while he moves around the space. You hear water running, the squeak of a tap being adjusted, the slosh of liquid filling something large and deep. A bathtub bigger than any you've had before, by the sound of it.
"Temperature's good." His footsteps return to you. "Arms up."
You raise your arms, and his hands find the straps of your nightgown. Itâs a short white babydoll dress, and he slides the straps off your shoulders, slow, deliberate, and the fabric pools at your feet.
Youâre naked now, fully exposed, and you can feel his gaze on you like heâs physically touching you, tracing the curves of your body, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You canât see his expression, but you can feel the weight of his attention.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.
His fingers find your face and they trace along your jaw, up your cheekbones, and then higher. They go to the lalce mask youâve worn everyday since childhood.
"Can I take this off too?"
Your breath catches at that question. No one has ever seen you without it, not since you were a baby⌠too young to keep it on yourself. It's part of you now, as familiar as your own skin.
But he's already seen everything else. What's one more piece?
"... Yes. You can, ScaraâŚ"
Heâs gentle as he unties the ribbon at the back of your head, sliding the delicate fabric away from your face.The air feels strange against your closed eyelids, more exposed than even your naked body.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment.
"You're not opening them," he says finally.
"I never do, I told you."
"I know." His thumb brushes across your closed eyelid, featherlight. "Your lashes are longer than I expected."
You don't know what to say to that. You've never thought about your eyelashes. You've never thought about any part of your face, really. It's just... there. A thing you can't see, can't evaluate, can't compare to anyone else's.
He cups your face in both hands and tilts it up toward him.
And then he kisses you.
Not your mouth, though, you feel him press a soft kiss on your cheekbone⌠then your eyelid, so gentle you can barely feel it, then the other one⌠reverent.
Worshipful.
You giggle because you canât help it, the kiss on your eyelids tickles, and itâs also so sweet. Youâre overwhelmed by the tenderness of it.
He doesnât just stop there, he kisses your mouth next, lips moving against yours, his tongue sliding past your teeth. You melt into it, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and you realize he's still fully clothed while you're completely bare.
"Your turn," you murmur against his lips.
"... What?"
"Your clothes." You fumble for the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy. "Take them off."
He laughs, soft and amused. "Eager."
"I want to feel you."
He lets you try, lets you figure it out yourself. Your fingers work at the buttons, struggling with the unfamiliar task, because youâve never worn buttons before, and he doesnât help. You get three undone before you give up, frustrated.
"It's hard when you can't see what you're doing," you mutter.
"Most things are."
You can't tell if he's mocking you or sympathizing⌠Maybe both.
He takes over, shrugging out of his shirt, then his pants, and then he's as naked as you are. "Come on." His hand takes yours again. "Water's getting cold."
He guides you to the edge of the tub, and helps you step over the high rim. The water feels perfect, warm, but not scalding, and you sink into it with a sigh of relief. The tub is enormous, deep enough that the water comes up to your chest when you sit.
He slides in behind you.
His legs bracket yours, his chest close to your back, and you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against him. You let your head fall onto his shoulder.
"Comfortable?" He asks.
"Mm." You say, completely lost like youâre under some kind of spell.
He reaches for something, you hear the click of a bottle opening, and then his hands are in your hair. You feel him lathering shampoo through the strands, his fingers working at your scalp.
You let out a tiny, embarrassing (to you), whimper at the feel of it.
No one has ever done this for you, never touched your hair like this⌠with this much attention, this much care. His fingers press and circle, finding the stops that make the tension drain from your shoulders, and you go boneless against him.
"Good?"
"So good." Your voice comes out dreamy, like youâre distantly there. "... Don't stop."
He washes your hair thoroughly, rinsing it with ahndfuls of water, and then he reaches for another bottle, conditioner, you assume, and he works through the ends, detangling with his fingers, patient and methodical.
You could fall alseep like this if you arenât careful. Being here⌠feeling this⌠makes you want to stay here forever, floating in warm water, his hands at your hair, his body solid and real behind you.
His hands go lower⌠down your neck, across your shoulders. Heâs washing you now, his palms sliding over your skin, leaving trails of soap. He washes down your back, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.
And then he goes to the front of your body. His hands cup around your breasts.
You gasp, but you donât pull away. His palms are slick with soap, sliding over the soft flesh, and his thumbs find your nipples, he circles around them, clearly teasing.
"Still okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless, and you nod. "Yes, keep going."
He doesnât rush after your full permission, he touches you like he has all the time in the world, like your body is something to be explored and memorized, the same as you do any room you come into. He learns the weight of your breasts, the way your nipples harden under his attention, the sounds you make when he pinches just slightly.
He lingers at your breasts for way too long.
"More?" His voice is low, rough against your ear.
"Please, Scara⌠"
His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip⌠between⌠your thighs.
You spread your legs without being asked.
He touches you slowly here too, like heâs learning, just like everywhere else. His fingers trace along your folds, slipping through the slickness that has nothing to do with the bath water. He finds your clit, circles it ones, then twice, and you let out the cutest whimper in response.
"Sensitive," he murmurs, youâre always sensitive, one of the few things you like (and hate) about being blind. "I like that."
And because heâs obsessed with it, because he seems to always go to it, his mouth finds your neck. He presses kisses to the curve of it, and you feel his teeth, just barely, tiny nips that send shivers down your spine. You're too focused on his fingers to pay much attention, too lost in the way he's touching you, slow circles that build heat in your core, especially when he slips two fingers inside.
He learns what makes you gasp, what makes the little hitches of breath you cant control, and he exploits it ruthlessly. Pressing harder when you react, curling up in the spot that makes your eyes roll back behind your eyelids and always pulling back when you get too close.
"Scara..." You're squirming against him, trying to grind into his hand. "Please..."
"Please what?"
"I need to cum... Please let me cum."
He bites your neck, harder than before, and itâs hard enough to sting. While he does it, his curl up into your cunt, abusing that spot of yours perfectly, in the way youâve been needing this entire time.
The orgasm crashes through you, your body arching in the water, waves sloshing over the edges of the tub. He works you through it, his fingers relentless, his mouth still pressed to your throat, tiny bites you barely register through the pleasure. You're distantly aware of his teeth breaking skin, just slightly, just enough to taste, but it's lost in the overwhelming sensation of cumming on his hand.
You slump back against him, panting, trembling, and his hand moves away from between your legs to rest on your stomach.
"Good girl," he murmurs against your skin.
You're too blissed out to respond.
He holds you like that until the water goes cold. Then he lifts you out, wraps you in a towel, and carries you back to bed. You fall asleep in a new nightgown he got for you, in his arms, still floating.
You donât notice the small wounds on your neck until the morning, when you accidently touch it because your neck feels weird. But even then, because you cannot see the weird look to it, how it just looks like two holes punched into your skin, you donât think much of it.
Needless to say, youâve become dependent on him.
He's the only person you see, the only voice you hear, the only touch you feel. When he's not in the room, you sleep. You can't help it. There's nothing else to do, no one else to talk to, and sleep is the only way to make the waiting bearable.
Sometimes, when you can't sleep, you walk. Around the room, tracing the walls with your fingertips, memorizing the furniture and the layout and the exact number of steps from the bed to the door.Â
The door that's always locked.
You think it's been three weeks.
On what feels like the twenty-second day, something changes.
You wake up alone, as usual. Reach for the door, as usual. But when you turn the handleâŚ
It opens.
That makes you freeze because why would the door be unlocked? Did he forget to lock it when he left? But⌠Scara doesnât seem the type to make a mistake, ever.
Your heart pounds.
You've memorized your room, but⌠you don't know what's outside it. The hallway, the stairs, the rest of this place that might be a mansion or might be something bigger. You're terrified of unknown spaces, always have been. The thought of stepping into an area you haven't mapped makes your hands shake.
But you're also curious.
And right now, curiosity is stronger than fear.
You step into the hallway and cling to the wall, feeling the texture beneath your fingers, and you start walking, slow. Youâre careful as you walk, one hand staying on the wall, the other extended in front of you.
Your goal of finally being able to get out of that room without Scaraâs supervision is to find a window. Not to jump or anything sucidial in that manner, youâre happy⌠happy in the sense that youâre trying not to think too much of your family, and think more of how Scara treats you. You want to find a window so you can feel the sunlight again. The curtains in your room are too heavy to move, and you miss the feeling of warmth on your skin.
But you don't find any windows. Not ones you can reach, anyway.
What you find are stairs.
You navigate them slowly, one step at a time, clinging almost for dear life onto the railing. Down, down, stop, hover your foot just to make sure that whatâs under is really a step, then down, down. Theyâre more stairs than there should be, more than any normal house would have⌠this place is enormous, which would be any blind person nightmare to walk through, if theyâre alone.
But you manage.
You reach the bottom, and the floor is soft here, carpet maybe. And being down here, you can hear voices.
Not Scaramouche's voice.
Multiple.
You freeze hearing them, every muscle in your body going tense. The voices seem to be coming from a room nearby, the people, you assume, probably donât see you, so your panic does fade, just slightly. You inch toward the room you hear the voices coming from, and you feel for the door, it feels ajar, which is better than it being fully open, and you press yourself against the wall, moving as silently as you can.
"-tired of this," one voice is saying. It sounds like a maleâs voice, deep, rough at the edges. "Three weeks and we're still tiptoeing around."
3 weeks? Thatâs the same amount of time youâve known Scara.
"The prince wants her kept alive," another voice responds. Also male, but higher, more nasal. "What the prince wants, the prince gets."
The⌠prince?
"But the smell." The first voice again, frustrated. "Do you have any idea how maddening it is? Human blood, everywhere, all the fuckinâ time. It's all I can focus on."
Your blood runs cold.
Human blood.
"He keeps her locked up," the nasal voice continues. "Won't let anyone near her. He wonât even let us look at her."
"The prince has always been selfish." A third voice, bored. "You remember what he did to that village last century? Killed everyone, just because one of them looked at him wrong."
The first voice laughs. "Scaramouche has always been-"
You stop breathing.
Scaramouche.
They're talking about Scaramouche.
They called him prince.
Business partners' sons aren't royalty. Business partners' sons don't have people calling them prince, don't have people talking about villages they destroyed last century.
The man you've been living with, sleeping with, kissing, loving-
"Do you think the human smell's gotten stronger?" the first voice asks suddenly. "Over the past few minutes?"
"Now that you mention it..."
You run.
You donât think before you do. Plan? Out the fucking window youâre never allowed to feel. You donât have time for any of that, this is life or death, these⌠whatever these people are, vampires, sound hungry for you.
Your hands frantically feel along the walls, your feet stumble over unfamiliar terrain, youâre looking for a door⌠an exit, anythingâŚ
And oddly enoughâŚ
You donât hear those men chasing you.
You don't hear them at all anymore, and that's worse. That's so much worse, because vampires are silent, vampires are fast, vampires can move without making a sound-
You collide with a body.
The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You stumble backward, your hands coming up instinctively, something you assume to be a defensive position. Your arms crossed in front of your face, body curled inward, the way you've read about in books.
A familiar laugh cuts through the darkness.
"That's what you'd do if a vampire ever tried to attack you? Seriously?"
Scaramouche.
Something in his voice is different⌠the gentleness of it has been stripped away, like the way he acted before, was all just an act he was too good at. He sounds amused, yes, but in a cruel way, a mocking way.
"You-â Your hands go down now that you know who it is, but not in a way that you arenât ready to try and defend yourself. You're shaking, trembling all over. "Y-you're a-"
"A vampire." He finishes for your stutter, and he says it causally too, like this confession is nothing to him. "Yes. Obviously."
"You killed my father, didnât you." You say, hurt at the betrayal, the heartbreak is painfully clear in your voice.
"Mm. He died quickly⌠if that helps."
Something inside you snaps.
You lunge at him, fists swinging, you canât see where youâre aiming, canât see if youâre even close to hitting him, but you donât care. You want to hurt him⌠you need to.
Your fists connect with nothing.
Heâs moved, and you donât know where, you just know heâs not where he was, and that causes you to stumble forward, off-balance. You feel a hand catch with your wrist, twisting it behind your back, and suddenly, youâre pressed against him, your back to his chest, and you can feel his mouth at your ear.
"That was pathetic," he says pleasantly. "Try again."
You struggle, trash, try to break free of his grip. And he seems to barely even be trying, his tight grip is effortless, his body immovable like a statue. Youâre fighting with everything you have, and heâs just⌠standing there.Â
"LET ME GO!" You yell, loud, ready to bite at his hand if he tries covering your mouth.
"No." He says, casual, while youâre frantic.Â
"YOU KILLED HIM!" Tears are streaming down your face now, soaking into your mask. "You killed my father!!â You scream, your own throat burning and your next words come out quiet, broken, âYou made me think⌠you made me⌠love you-âÂ
"I didn't make you do anything." His voice is cold, a perfect match with his body. "You fell in love all on your own. I just... helped it along."
Your voice raises again. "You're a MONSTER!"Â
"Yes."
"I HATE YOU!"
"Do you?"
âILL NEVER LOVE YOU!â You donât stop screaming, you donât care if someone hears, you donât care about anything but seeing your family right now. âILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU! Do you understand that, you fucking ugly, disgusting VAMPIRE. I hope someone drives a stake though your nonexistent fucking heart and-â
"Careful." His grip tightens on your wrist. "My patience has limits."
âI donât care, I donât fucking CARE ABOUT YOU. LET ME GO!! LET ME GO.â
He does, and you stumble forward, nearly falling. You spin around, your hands up, and your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Fine," he says, and he sounds bored. "You want to go? Fucking go."
You freeze, hearing something you definitely didnât expect. âWhat?â
âThe door is right behind you, Iâll even open it for you, so you wonât struggle to find it like I know you will. You can walk out⌠into the night, because it is night right now, where theyâre dozens, and I mean, dozens of vampires far less patient than me, and you can fend for yourself.â He pauses and you can feel amusement, something mocking in his tone. âIs that what you want?â
Yes.
No???
You⌠you donât know.
"You're bluffing.â You say instead.
"Try me." He counters.
You hear footsteps, his, walking past you, and a large door creaking open from behind. Cold air rushes in, and itâs the same air youâve been craving to feel weeks ago, and you can sense, just by it that heâs right, that it is nightime.
"There you go," he says. "Freedom, just like you want. Take it."
You want to be the brave one and run, sprint out that door and never look back.
But youâre terrified. The night is full of monsters, ones youâve never encountered once in your life, apart from this one, and as much as you hate to admit your disability being the very think that makes you weak⌠youâre blind, and that ruins any chance of a proper escape you could ever have.
"That's what I thought." He sounds amused noticing your hesitation. "You want to prove you can protect yourself? That you don't need anyone? Then prove it."
You turn, following the air your feel and take a step forward, than another.
"Brave," he murmurs. "Or stupid. We'll see which."
You keep walking, out the door, into the cold, onto the ground that feels like dirt and grass and leaves. Youâre also not wearing shoes, only socks, white ones with lace that cuffs at your ankles, you feel stupid remembering your lack of footwear, and you know thatâll just make this even more dangerous for you.
âHow long have I known you?â He asks, suddenly.
You turn your head back toward his voice. "What?"
You hear the irritation in his voice, like heâs annoyed he has to repeat something he said that he knows made clear sense. âHow long has it been since weâve met?â
Your brows knit, confused at why this is a question heâs asking now. âI donât know, I donât remember.â
âGuess it then.â
You think, even though youâd rather be running right now "... Three weeks?"
"Close enough." You hear him step out after you. "I'll give you a three-minute head start."
You back up, arms crossed. "What the fuck? Excuse me?"
"Run." His voice is soft now, almost gentle, despite that one word sounding like a clear warning. "And I'll chase. That's how this works."
Your hands drop at your sides, "You're going to-"
"I'm not going to let some nobody vampire eat you." He sounds almost offended. "Just who do you think I am? You're mine. If anyone's going to kill you, it'll be me."
Your blood runs cold.
"A little tip," he whispers, and suddenly he's right behind you, his breath cold against your ear. "It's better to hide than to run too far. But even then... your scent gives you away. So either route you take, you're completely fucked."
You run before he finishes speaking.
The forest swallows you.
At least, you think it's a forest. Theyâre trees everywhere, you can feel them, their bark rough against your palms as you push past. You don't know where you're going, you can't see the path, can't see anything, can only feel and smell and hear.
You donât even know hiding spots, if one you took would actually keep you hidden, or make you look obvious. Every direction you take feels dangerous, every step feels like a giant risk. You could be running toward more vampires, or running off a cliff⌠or just looking like an idiot, running in circles.
Your father is dead.
The thought crashes over you like a wave, nearly sending you to your knees.
He killed your father⌠Scara. How fucked up at you to still be reffering to him as the nickname youâve been calling him? Heâs the same man who held you, kissed you, made love to you. And heâs the same one who tore out your fathers throat and then walked upstairs, pretending to be your savior.
Your mother and brother might be dead too, because Scara told you heâd visit your estate daily, and now⌠with everything youâve heard, and heard him confess to you, you wouldnât be surprised if he did harm them, kill them.
Or worse, they might be alive, mourning you, searching for you, never knowing that you're just a few miles away, trapped by the very monster they've spent their lives hunting.
And you loved him.
You fucking loved him.
You⌠love him.
And thatâs the worse part. Because even now, even knowing what he is, what he did, theres a part of you that wants to run back or stop running and just wait. That part of you just wants to throw yourself into his arms and pretend none of this is real.
Is he a monster?
He killed your father, lied to you, manipulated you into falling in love with him.
But was he a monster when you fell in love with him? Was he one before you knew? Was he always one, or did the truth change something fundamental about who he is?
You donât know⌠You donât know anything anymore.
You just donât understand why you?Â
The trees seem to shift around you⌠you think youâre going in a straight line, but you keep feeling the same bark, same pattern, like youâre circling back without realizing.
He's playing with you.
Heâs not chasing you, heâs herding you. Heâs using his speed, his silence, his knowledge of this terrain to push you in whatever direction he wants.
You spin around, reaching out, trying to detect him.
Nothing.
Then you hear a rustle to your left, you turn, heart pounding.
Nothing.
A snap behind you, you spin again.
Nothing.
Heâs everywhere and nowhere at once. Circling you like prey, messing with your senses, the very senses youâve always relied on, the ones that are supposed to be better than anyone elses.
It's not enough.
It's nowhere near enough compared to a vampire.
"I can't do this anymore!" You're crying, tears streaming down your face, your voice cracking. "I'm tired! Iâm so fucking tiredâŚâ You rub your head, exhausted, spiriling. âI can't-"
A laugh echoes through the trees. "Already?" He sounds delighted. "That was barely what? Two minutes."
"Please-"
"But you wanted to prove yourself, remember?" His voice comes from everywhere at once. "You wanted to show me you could protect yourself. That you don't need anyone's help."
You spin again, reaching blindly.
"Then do it."
Something shifts in the air and the next thing you feel is pain.
He slams you, hard, very fucking hard against a tree, and your back hits the bark hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs. Before you can recover, his mouth his on your neck, and his teeth are sinking in.
Sharp, knife sharp, actually, sharper than any knife, any sewing needle, itâs nothing compared to the playful nips like before.
You scream⌠or honestly, try to. What comes out is more of a whine, high and broken and pathetic. He bites again, different spot on your neck, just as hard, and again, and again, and fucking again. Heâs relentless with it, like an animal, his mouth is everywhere, marking you, claiming you, and all you can do is hang there and take it.
"This," he growls against your skin, "is what I've wanted to do since the moment I saw you."
"Please-" Another bite cuts you off. "Please, I don't want to die-"
"I'm not killing you." His tongue drags across a bleeding wound, and you shudder. "Just tasting... You're too valuable to waste."
"I don't want to be a vampire-" You're sobbing now, ugly and desperate. "I don't want to be a monster like you-"
His teeth sink again, harder this time, obviously for your comment of calling him a monster, and itâs hard enough to make you scream for reach. The sound echos through the forest, and he groans against your neck like itâs the most beautiful sound heâs ever heard.
"Call me that again," he murmurs. "See what happens."
You canât do anything else anymore⌠not even your voice seems to work as the blood loss is making everything fuzzy and distant. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, in your neck also, where heâs been taking and taking like youâre a snack. All you do is whimper helplessly, hands limp at your sides.
When he finally stops biting youâre barely even conscious. You feel him, distnatly, because of how blacked out youâre feeling, him licking the wounds, cleaning the blood thats dripped down your neck, pressing soft kisses to each bite mark like an apology.
Except heâs not sorry.
And he never will be.
Your legs give out.
He catches you before you even have the chance to fall onto the dirty ground. His arms slide under your knees, your back, lifting you easily, bridal style. Like someone out of one of your romance novels. The irony would be funny if you weren't too exhausted to laugh.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper, as your head falls limp in his arms. You think apologizing sounds better than continuing to yell at him, at this point, and your words come out weak, barely audible from the bloodloss. âIâm so sorry, Scara⌠P-please⌠take me home⌠even if itâs just for a second. Let me see- I mean⌠feel my house again, just one more time, and you can do what you want.â
âI am taking you home, obviously,â he says, and his voice sounds calm, pleasant for someone who just tore your throat open in a forest. âMy home is yours now, more than ever.â
You shake your head, a weak no coming out as you continue, âPlease, Scara⌠I want to see my mother⌠my brother.â
"Thatâll never happen, you donât see y/n, remember?"
"Please-"
"You will never feel or sense their presence again." He starts walking. "Those are just terrible people whoâve kept you locked in a room your entire life. Whoâve made you feel like a burden. And you want to go back to that? They donât even deserve you. They donât even let you live.â
You start crying again, quiet, weak tears youâre too exhausted to wipe. âW-what? How can you even say thatâŚâ But your voice sounds so, barely audible, the weight of them feeling low in a way that seems impossible to defend yourself, your own family. âYou donât know them⌠they⌠theyâre my familyâŚâ
"They're your prison." He cuts off your pathetic attempt at trying to defend, his own words heavier than yours tenfold. "But you're free now. I'll teach you to protect yourself. I'll teach you to keep yourself safe. I'll let you go outside, feel the sun, do anything you've ever wanted. I couldnât before, because I couldnât let you know I was a vampire just yet."
Your voice cracks, and you can feel your hair sticking to some of your tears, âB-but I donât want-â
"With time, of course." He sounds almost reasonable. "I can't trust you yet. But it's a promise I'm confident in."
You grit your teeth, but even thatâs a weak movement of yours. "I hate you."
"Do you?"
"I'll never love a monster⌠A vampire like you." Your tone is filled with disdain, even in this state.
"You already have." His arms tighten around you. "You're letting me carry you right now. You're fighting your own emotions, telling yourself you hate me, but you don't. If you truly hated me, you wouldâve kept fighting. You wouldâve clawed and screamed until I had to knock you unconscious to get you home."
You don't respond because you donât have one.
"Here's what's going to happen," he says, and his voice drops, turning serious. "As long as you continue to love me, as long as you never stop, I'll keep your mother and brother safe."
Your tears suddenly stop hearing that, processing that last part faster than youâve processed anything before.
"They're alive," he continues. "I know where they are. I've seen them. They've been back for a week, mourning your father, setting up a funeral while I watched from the shadows. Your brother misses you. Your mother sleeps in your room at night, waiting for you to come home."
Tears stream down your face again.
"But if you show hatred for me..." His voice goes cold. "If you try to run again. If you make me think, even for a second, that you've stopped loving me. I'll kill them. And your attempt to escape won't even matter, because you're never leaving anyway."
You're silent the rest of the way because of that.
Because youâre scared to speak now, scared to say anything that might sound like hate.
Or love.
Or both.
He carries you back to your room.
The room youâve been staying in, youâve assumed was for guests. But as he lays you on the bed, tucking the blankets around you, he says, "This room is yours. I decorated it especially for you."
You don't respond, but you listen.
"The rest of this mansion is dark," he continues. "Red and black to be specific. Everything is dark-toned, dark-colored, shadows and gloom. But this room..." He pauses. "This room is different. Itâs white⌠soft, light."
You still don't respond, but he knows youâre listening.
"That's what I associate you with," he says quietly. "Light, in the middle of all this darkness."
You turn your face away.
"I left the door unlocked on purpose," he adds. "I wanted you to find out eventually⌠I didn't want to be dramatic and tell you myself."
Youâre still silent, so much that if he didnât know you, heâd assume you passed out by now.
"Do you have any questions?" he asks.
You do, you have so many that your head might explode. But, you feel weak, and only one matters right now to you.
"Do you love me?" Your voice is hoarse, broken. "Actually love me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "You're the only person I've ever cared about. And I'll love you forever."
"Why me?" You turn to face him, even though facing him doesn't mean you can see him. "What about me could you possibly want? You've only known me for three weeks."
"When I walked into your room that day," he says slowly, "I felt something I've never felt before. Something as stupid as love at first sight. I've seen thousands of humans in my time on this earth. Hundreds of years of faces and bodies and souls. And you're different than any of them."
"How?"
"You dress differently⌠Probably because you can't see." He sounds almost fond. "You're beautiful, even with your eyes always closed. And I'm impressed with how much you manage without sight. How you need to feel things before you're comfortable with them. How your senses are stronger than any human I've ever met."
"That's my favorite part about you," he says quietly. "Your senses. The way you experience the world. It's... fascinating. Beautiful, in its own way."
You don't know what to say.
So you donât say anything.
Eventually, he leaves.
You stop counting the days.
What's the point? Time has lost all meaning. You're here, in this room, and you'll be here forever. Whether it's been three weeks or three months or three years makes no difference.
You avoid him.
Not physically, you canât avoid him physically, because he still comes to your room every day, still brings you food, still sits at the edge and talks to you. But the difference is that you donât respond, or engage. You give him nothing to work with, not love, and no hate, just⌠emptiness.
He watches you a lot.
You can feel it, his eyes on you, all the time, even when heâs giving you space. Even when heâs standing on the other side of the room, heâs watching, waiting.
For what?
You donât have a fucking clue because you arenât giving him shit.
You stop eating, too.
Itâs not conscious, not something youâre doing in retaliation⌠you just canât. The food tastes like ash in your mouth, and swallowing feels like choking, and eventually you just stop trying. You loose weight of course, which turns you into something you hate, getting weaker, more fragile, but even though that is something you hate⌠you donât care at this point.
Youâd be fine dying like this.
He gets mad pretty quickly.
You can hear it in his voice, when he threatens you, tells you heâll force the food down your throat if he has to, calls you childish, pathetic, weak.
You barely flinch or react when he yells, and he hates the lack of reaction, hates how emotionless youâve become⌠depressed, almost like a corpse that only chooses to move when theyâre forced to. And your eyes being closed never helps that.
You eat, only to get him to go away, and you donât let him feed you. You take the fork from his hand before he even can, and eat mechanically, joylessly, and you donât let him touch you.
He doesn't push, surprisingly.
He respects the boundaries you've drawn, even though you know he doesn't have to. He could force himself on you. He could pin you down and take whatever he wants. But⌠he doesn't.
Itâs like he respects you as a person in the way your family never has, even though the situation is dark.
Oh yeah, your familyâŚ
The only time he actually makes a threat about your mother and brother is when you make a mean remark towards him, specifically calling him a monster, telling him you hope he burns, anything your brain can muster out that sounds good enough to be hatred.
"Careful," he says each time. "Remember what I said."
And you remember.
And that makes you shut your mouth.
On what you think might be the twelfth day of silence, you break.
You donât know why⌠you donât know what about that day makes you crack, but when he walks into the room that evening, you donât stay in bed, you donât turn away from him.
You get up, cross the room, and wrap your arms around him.
He goes still at the sudden motion he hasnât felt in days from you. You feel the tension in his body, the surprise, and youâre crying, tears soaking into the fabric of his top, and youâre holding onto him, tight, with strength youâre surprised your weak body can manage.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, your head desperately nuzzling onto his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Heâs quiet for a long moment, still processing all of this, and then, finally, his hands wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you feel warm⌠protected when he does.
"I'm sorry," you say again. "I'll stop fighting. I'll let you love me. I'll... I'll give it back. I'll try."
He lifts you effortlessly, and carries you to your bed, carefully settling you against your pillows. You try desperately reaching for him, craving his touch back, even though it was just a second, and he settles beside you. He touches you again, his hand on your face, thumb brushing away your tears.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know you will."
He kisses away the wetness of your cheeks, and you whimper, and he doesnât stop. He presses his lips to your closed eyes, the very ones he worships when youâre without your eye mask, and he kisses your forehead, your nose, and when his mouth finally finds yours, you melt into it.
You give in.
Completely.
When he pulls back, you feel him smile against your lips.
You realize, itâs the first time youâve ever felt him smile before.
Like he won.
The days become easier after that.
Not good, or happy just⌠easier. You talk to him again, let him feed you, touch you⌠hold you. You donât tell him you love him, though, you canât, maybe not ever you feel, but you show him in other ways.
You offer him your hand.
He takes it, confused, and you guide his to your wrist. "Drink," you say.
He doesnât ask if youâre sure, if youâre aware that the skin on wrists is thin and that cuts, punctures there hurt worse, burn even. He just lifts your wrist to his mouth, and his fangs sink in. You gasp at the pain, whimpering as he sucks, because that pain fades rather quickly into something else. Something warm and floaty⌠and almost pleasant.
You offer him your neck, too.
This becomes a routine. Everytime he visits your room, which is every night, you tilt your head, exposing your throat, inviting him to drink. You donât need to say the words anymore, he understands.
He's not gentle with it at all.
You don't want him to be, anyway.
His teeth tear into you, hungry, possessive. He drinks until youâre dizzy, until you can barely stay upright, and then he licks the wounds clean, pressing apology kisses on them and he holds you as you recover.
"You're getting better at this," he murmurs one night, his mouth still pressed to your throat. "Taking it so well."
You donât respond, you donât talk when he feeds. You just thread your fingers through his hair and hold him closer.
He keeps his promises.
The door is unlocked now, all the time. You can leave your room whenever you want, wander the halls, explore the mansion. You still cling to the walls, still map everything by touch, but the fear is fading⌠slowly. And he helps you the first couple of times, teaching you what each room is, giving you a large tour while he lets you move independently, without his hand, but of course, he steps in when youâre close to tripping or falling.
He takes you outside, too.
The first time he does, you cry. Actual tears just streaming down your face as you stand in the garden and feel the breeze on your skin. The air is fresh and clean and alive, and you haven't felt anything like it since before your father died.
He watches from a distance.
You donât know how far, you just know here there⌠in the shadows, keeping you safe while letting you believe youâre on your own.
When the sun rises, he retreats further. He goes into the deepest shade, where the light can't reach him. But he stays, always.
You don't know how many days have passed.
Months, maybe. It feels like months. The seasons have changed, you can feel it in the air, smell it in the flowers, hear it in the birds that sing different songs now.
You're sitting in the garden, your face turned toward the sun, when you realize something.
You love him.
Not the fake love he manipulated you into. Not the desperate clinging of a captive to her captor. Real love⌠Terrible, terrifying, all-consuming love.
He killed your father, kept you prisoner, threatened the rest of your living family⌠and yet, you love him anyway.
Maybe that makes you as much of a monster as he is.
"Scaramouche."
He appears beside you fast, and silent as always. You've stopped being startled by it.
"I want to show you something," you say, turning to your right, where you sense him.
"What?"
Your hands are shaking as you reach for your face. For the lace mask you've worn since childhood, the one you've never removed in front of anyone.
"Wait." His hand catches your wrist. "You don't have to-"
"I want to."
You pull the mask away.
You feel vulnerable much like that day in the bathroom, much like some of the nights in bed with him when you take it off, just so you can feel him kiss your eyelids again. You feel vulnerable, because you know what youâre about to do, and youâre ready for it also.
Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.
Nothing changes for you when you do it, you can see anything youâve never been able to see, and no doctor, nothing supernatural will ever change that.Â
But⌠the act of opening them, of revealing this part of yourself that youâve kept hidden for eighteen years, feels monumental.
He's silent.
For a long, long moment, he's completely silent.
"Are they..." You laugh nervously. "Are they white? Do they look strange? I've always wondered if they're all one color, or if-"
"They're beautiful." His voice is reverant, fully reverant, not a mock in sight.
"What color are they?" you ask. Not that it matters, you don't know what colors look like anyway.
"I'm not going to tell you."
You knit your eyebrows, rolling the eyes only he can see. "And why not?"
"Because you don't need to know." His hand comes up, cupping your face, and his thumb traces the skin beneath your open eyes. "You just need to know that they're the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
You lean into his touch, your eyes still open, still staring at nothing, and you feel tears start to fall.
"I love you," you whisper head tilting in his touch, to him, it looks like youâre staring up at him, to you, youâre just falling the direction where you sense him. "I don't know when it became real. I don't know when I stopped pretending. But⌠I love you, Scara."
Heâs quiet, again, heâs always quiet after you drop big moments on him, quiet because youâre unable to see the expression he makes, but you imagine him smiling, a pure smile on his face. His forehead touches yours, and you can feel his breath ghost across your lips.
"You asked me once," he says softly, "what kind of person could love you forever. Who could stay with you for eternity. Who could protect you and trust you and give you everything you've ever wanted."
"... I remember."
"Only a vampire can love you forever," he murmurs. "Only a vampire like me."
He kisses you.
And you kiss him back.
And somewhere in the distance, the sun begins to set.
