'Cause I Could Be Your Stoker
Summary: In which, Vere's stomach growls for the taste of you, your soul, your suffering, on a very lonely night. The only way I can describe this is morbidly erotic.
The gentle silk of night draped over Vere like a blinding blanket. He couldn't even count the days he'd been trapped in here, revenge clear in his mind's eye like a perfect portrait. The sound of his nails tapping against the floor undoubtedly annoyed whatever guard remained outside, and every 'tsk' made Vere's cold heart light up with joy, in the mildest sense of the word. Still, there was a deep-pitted hole in him that couldn't be filled with any amount of food, and when he thought of what he craved, he saw your eyes—his body protesting in its famished state as he pictured you.
"Oy, cut that out, would you?"
The guard cried out in annoyance. An audacious one, Vere thought to himself. Yet, this night was not one where he was feeling amused. He stood up, reaching his claws through the small, barred window. The guard stood just in front of it, obscuring the sight forward. If he squeezed his fingers, Vere could scratch the back of the guard's neck. So far, yet so close. A huffed sigh left him, mood dampening even more so as his stomach growled. He tapped his sharp nail against the floor even faster.
The smell of your soul made his mouth water, and as the seconds passed by, he intoxicated himself with the thoughts of you. Suffering had seasoned your mind with something inexplicably enticing, and to taste the ugliest edges of your being made Vere's mouth dry with thirst. Allmother, where were you when he needed you? Laying face up, having the blank ceiling staring back at him—it was driving him mad. He needed the hot squelch of your blood in his mouth, he needed to drink the feel of your skin, the filthiness of your deepest desires, and he would not sleep until he did.
Your name fell on his tongue, sweet like dessert, as if repeating it would make you materialise before him. His tail swished in the memory of your voice, the red of his hair not nearly as beautiful as the red of your pumping, hurting heart. Your loneliness was delightfully tempting, for you wanted touch, and he had everything you wanted, and more. The faint memory of Kuras’s smell lingering on your cloak soured his mood, but that thought only provoked a strange sense of perversion within him. You were his to claim. What was Kuras going to do about that? Fight? Like his holiness would dare upset his favourite experiment.
The thought of the vast expanse of your back against his hand made his veins run hot with vexing desire, and the thought of brushing his claws, scratching your back with the flames of pleasure until that fucking doctor knew who you had fallen to—that felt too pleasing for Vere’s own good. His body betrayed him, and the feel of you made his saliva thick and hot. It was pathetic, this consuming lust for your life. Ais would laugh at the sight, red eyes glowing in the dark. Fuck, you were getting him worked up.
The world was often cruel to Vere, but not like this. You were the apple of his eye, quite literally. You beckoned him forward like the snake did to Eve, and in a way, he wanted to see this to the end. The taste of you remained a hopeful mystery to him, and the fire you had lit in him would lower into a simmer, but like a stove in nature, the heat would not subside. Not until you let him take a bite.
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