secret bellarke @secretbellarke - Tumblr Blog

once bitten

a Bellarke vampire AU

She wakes with drops of blood on her lips. They land, wet, dark, metal over her mouth, seeping gently through her lips, onto her tongue, soaking into her until she slowly opens her eyes. Eyes that haven’t opened in nearly a century. And her first instinct is to attack.

She senses more than sees something in the corner, something warm, and she lunges at the soft, beating flesh, the blood thrumming beneath the skin, the warm, hot mess of a human she wants, needs to devour, and before he can blink she has her hand in his hair, her mouth open in a snarl, her fangs descending, and he barely has time to draw out his cross to keep her at bay.

He's read the stories, talked to people, he's believed in things he never thought possible, and it's all led him here. Leaning over the original vampire, his last hope to save his sister, holding a cross between him and her to save his own life long enough to get what he needs. It doesn't matter the evil he could be releasing on the world by waking her, as long as his sister is cured. But despite his preparation there's still the fear that blankets him underneath his confident facade, fear that cracks his voice and freezes his feet in place for a moment too long. "Are you really --?" It seems good enough of a question, although the moment he says it he wonders if she even speaks English.

It's been centuries since a cross has repulsed her. It rarely did even before -- only when held by the most devout, only when paired with focused, whispered prayers -- and she's shocked when it repels her now. But she's so weak. So weak, and her tongue moves slowly over her lips, collecting every piece, every last drop and remnant, of the blood that had been used to wake her. It's good, it's so good, she’s missed the taste of blood, the life force she steals and devours and craves, and she opens her eyes as she turns towards him again -- fangs apparent under her lips, eyes black with hunger. And he looks so young to her, so naive and maybe innocent, such a pretty man. He looks like he would be delicious in every way. She's been asleep too long, she knows, when his accent falls askew on her ears -- something more casual, rounder than she remembers -- and she licks her lips again as she draws herself up into a proper stance. "Yes," she whispers.

It's strange to watch her. The way she relishes every drop of blood he gave her, he was so careful about that. Not too much to strengthen her too soon. When Octavia turned... Well she hated what she'd become. Waking up as a vampire had been painful and frightening and confusing. They'd both been thrown into the deep end, but her? After hundreds or thousands of years she still moves and acts like it's been the blink of an eye. She actually enjoys the blood on her lips, and there's a hint of a smile threatening to curl over her fangs, becoming of a vampire. The vampire. The original. He knows he's lucky that she's weak enough to feel the sting of the cross, especially as she’s looking at him like he's a glorified blood bag. He supposes, or reminds himself even, that it's all he is to her kind, and he needs to save his sister before she looks at him the same way, before it's too ingrained into her being. But this one, with her shoulders that square up as she straightens her spine and her accent so proper and other worldly, she's not turned. She just is. He finds a confidence with his fingers wrapped around the wood of his cross, wary of the time he has before she lunges for his neck. "I woke you and I can give you more blood, but I need the cure."

She tilts her head to one side. Watching him. Evaluating him. He seems so young -- so young compared to her thousands of years, spent crawling and gasping and preying on this earth, and so young as a man. A boy still breaking through his growing pains, a man in the shell of his past life. He is caked in the fear he thinks he's hiding, digging deep for a motivation that could only be a loved one. She still has strands of his hair in her hand, from where she had clutched at his skull to feed herself from his throat, and she quirks her head. He smells like he would taste better than anything she's had in years, and she's thirsty. So thirsty. Her eyes are pitch black with hunger, dancing between focus and unfocused, veering between her prey and watching for more, when he finally speaks and she latches on. Eyes gleaming as they settle on him. Unmoving, unflinching. "Blood," she says quietly. And she takes one step forward.

He knows he must look like nothing more than a pawn to her. A nuisance or pest that provides no real threat. The stories he's read about her and the things she's done. Even if they're only half true then he's still completely justified in being completely terrified of her. He knows he's nothing to her and her ethereal power, but at the same time he knows she's weak and hungry. He knows he'll never have this opportunity again. But he still accidentally lets a glimpse of fear flash over his face as she steps towards him. His free hand, the one protectively hovering over the messenger bag hanging from his shoulder, goes to his neck instinctively. "Not from the source," he says in what could almost be a chuckle. That he might be stupid enough to let this ravenous vampire feed on him, words he'd uttered in a similar fashion to Octavia. He reaches into the tattered material for a blood bag and flashes it to her. She may not been around for modern medicine, but he thinks she'll get the idea. He takes a step back and slides it away again before he continues, "The cure. I need the cure. And safe passage away from here. Then you can have the blood. My blood." He's not sure why he added that nugget of information, blood must be blood to her, but then he thinks, maybe it's a sign of good faith. Or a promise for more of the same blood that woke her.

Blood. That's all, the only thing circling over and over in her mind, one word repeating in her head (those drawn o's like a snarl, that hard d like the smack of her lips), one image of hot, flowing, plentiful, dripping blood, hot and red between her fingers and between her teeth. He's young and beautiful, sweet and tempting, and she hears somewhere that he wants the cure, but it's too far away, a distant cavern under a distant sea, tinny and small under this ravenous hunger. Blood. He shouldn't have done that, clapped his hand over his neck, because now she can't take her eyes from it again, this expanse of flesh, skin and blood, soft and so easily breakable, and she takes another step forward, tongue sliding over her fangs. Blood. Warm, flowing blood, over her tongue, coating her lips. And she takes another step, and the boy looks terrified, shows the fear he's tried so hard to hide from her, but she doesn't falter. She doesn't stop, or pause, or apologize. She takes another step, and another, watching him and his thin, fragile human skin.

He draws out a bag full of blood -- his blood, he mentions, like the blood she woke to, and she runs her tongue over her upper lip again -- and promises it to her for the cure. The cure, and she would laugh if she weren't so focused. The one thing consuming her. She needs to consume it. Blood. She sways as she takes a step forward, lips parted, hungry. So hungry. "The cure?" she murmurs. Her voice has gone too far unused, a soft croak that echoes through the crypt. "A cure for what?" She careens forward, another step closer, closer to the boy and his blood, fangs free from her lips and the rotted rags of her clothes falling awry, revealing the curves of her naked body, preternaturally attractive, preternaturally young, and as his gaze drops her eyes are back on his throat. Delicate breakable skin and blood.

Perhaps if he weren't so terrified he'd be annoyed. Annoyed at repeating himself, annoyed that she's ignoring him, annoyed that she's staring at his neck for too long. But he is terrified. She takes too many steps and shrinks the space between them. And each step brings her a little closer from the darkness, outlines of her face becoming clearer, more defined, and the rags that were once clothes barely clinging to her curves as she walks. He knows he shouldn't but he glances at her body while she's distracted looking at his throat. He hadn't prepared for this. Hadn't thought about it. It would be easy to ignore if she weren't so... Hot. Beautiful even. The thousands of years passing over her perfect skin like water over a stone. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it's the vampirism. He sees the words written on the pages of texts he'd read as if they're in front of him now, 'Vampires are designed to be flawless creatures, all the better to lure in their prey,' and right now he's the prey, it's simple. His eyes don't get the message though, as they follow every curve of her body, watch the sway of her hips as she takes another step. The step should be an alarm bell, but he's distracted. It's only when she speaks her question that he manages to pull himself back and remember his situation. He squares his shoulders again, eyes returning to the (beautiful) face that's still so determined to drink his blood. He's horrified to find his arm holding the cross, his defence, slipped a little, and he stiffens it again in the now smaller space between them. She flinches a little and for the second time that day he's infinitely glad that he did his homework. "The cure for vampirism," he repeats, and again it's almost frustrating to have to repeat himself except it's still mixed with fear. "If you give me the cure for vampirism, I'll give you the blood bag and you'll be strong enough to go and wreak as much vampire havoc as you want. Just give me the cure and let me go."

His eyes drop and fall down her body, tracing every curve, dragging over her breasts, her hips. She can feel his gaze over her, that innocent, naive hunger of lust behind his eyes, the darkness he should be resisting, and it pales next to hers. She wants to smirk, gloat in how easily she's snared him, how easily she's won, but she hasn't won yet and she's too consumed. Hunger. Thirst. Want. Lust. She wants blood, his blood, human blood, and she takes another step forward, towards him, faster since his arm slipped and then faltering. That damned cross. She bares her fangs instinctively. It's a nuisance, and she can't wait to break it, snap it in two when she's gotten some of her strength back, curse the God that cursed her millennia ago and tear his relics apart, but for now it's just her and this boy and whether she's going to kill him. She presses forward, another step, until she's pressing against all the repulsion the cross can throw at her. A few feet from him. And she studies his face, carefully, the freckles she wants to bite and the curly hair she wants to grab and the olive skin. From here, she can practically feel his pulse, that steady, earthy rhythm of his heart and his blood, and she can hear it, running through his veins, sweeping through his body, shooting through his arteries, hot, wet, flowing blood. She licks her lips. "You do not need a cure," she mutters, "You are not yet mine." She stops suddenly, mid-thought, and her eyes drop back across his body. The lines of his chest and hips and thighs, his silhouette before her, and she looks at the exposed skin of his throat. Hunger. She needs it, she needs it all, she needs. "Give me the blood. Or give me your neck." It comes from her like a growl, or a snarl, her back arched, leaning forward, animalistic. Hunting.

Her eyes flash at the cross, and her fangs remind him of what he's so desperately trying to cling to. She's a vampire. The original vampire. The strongest, the most resilient, the truest immortal. He scolds himself for his own distraction, his resilience broken so quickly by her albeit perfect curves. He can see her body trace the invisible barrier the cross is providing him. It's comforting to see her stop and offers him some of his confidence back. There's a line, at least for now. Her words surprise him. He'd heard her speak, short and few words, so now he's surprised by the musical quality of her voice. Despite the threatening undertone it's like poetry, her accent refined and proper, and her lips hide her fangs as she speaks. Another moment of distracting, ethereal beauty. Then he remembers why he's here risking everything, "I don't need the cure for me. My sister. I need to cure my sister. She needs --" He’s cut off. By her change, too quick for his eyes to see. She becomes the vampire, the animalistic one. The demand is harsh and forceful, and for a moment he's shocked as if he wasn't expecting it. Like he hasn't seen vampires already. He'd laughed at Octavia the first time she'd been like this because he'd been naive. He'd thought she was still his sister, but instead his laugh had angered her and she'd attacked. He's wise enough now to know he needs to be careful instead of following his instinct to laugh again and tell her she'll never get his neck. This original is weak now, but she won't always be. "If you want the bag of fresh, still warm blood, give me the cure and let me go to my sister."

He promises blood. Fresh, hot blood, just pulled from his veins, thick and red and warm, packaged for her in plastic or beating quiet under his skin. She wants it. Craves it. It's all she has in her head, his blood, coursing through him, innocent, sweet blood she needs, and she pushes closer against the barrier of the cross, taking advantage where her sudden snarl made him drop it an inch in fear. Closer, closer, and her rags fall further from her, her body more exposed, naked breasts and nipples peaked in the dampness of the tomb and flat stomach and curved hips and thick hair between her legs. She can feel him, his gaze, sweep over her, touching on every swell and curve, and as his hand falters again she takes another step closer. Bare feet slapping on the wet, dank stone floor. Fingers clawing her palms, waiting for blood. Hair mussed from sleep and age, tumbling and tangling around her face. Eyes pale blue and harsh. "And why do you believe I have the cure?" she murmurs. Another step, as far as she can, quiet and menacing and dark. "Give me blood," she says quietly, "and I will tell you what I know of your cure."

"You've been asleep for a long time, and while you have things have been written about you. About the only cure for vampirism being buried with you. I have searched everywhere, and it all comes back to you." His emphasis on 'you' leaves his mouth in a small 'o' shape as she takes another step. The rags fall away as if caught in a breeze and she doesn't seem to care. She really is hot. Perfect. Milky skin in curves that look like they're shaped for his hands, and he almost feels like this is one of her powers, like she can become the manifestation of anyone's idea of perfection, but he knows that's not true. He knows he must just be so utterly unlucky that he can't take his eyes off of her. Months of searching, research, planning. Planning every detail to make the trip, to make waking her up as safe as it could be, and now he'll be undone by what? His sexual frustration? He shakes his head a little, not really taking his eyes off of her but neither noticing how close she is, not instantly pulling the cross back up at full arm’s length. "If I give you the blood, you'll kill me before I can blink. Tell me about the cure, and I'll give you the blood." He reaches in to his bag again to bring the blood bag out, the cross slipping a little lower again as he does, and holds the plastic close to his body. "In the spirit of good faith I'm ready to hand it over once you tell me about the cure." 'Good faith,' he repeats in his own head. He's talking about good faith with a vampire.

A millennium. She's been alive more than a millennium, more than a thousand years, and she's seen her name in hundreds of texts and dozens of languages, on the tongues of philosophers and scholars and priests, seen her history and her soul poured into pages against her will, etched with ink and vellum and guiding the reader to her end. She's expected a reader to wake her, brimming with probing questions and an inflating ego, but she's killed them after waking, one by one, and she still hasn't come across someone who came through Anya's writings to find her. Clever boy. Her mouth quirks, nearly in a smile of appreciation, small outside the gape of her fangs. Maybe, she thinks, maybe he's better than just a plaything -- or maybe he's good enough for a plaything, she thinks again, instead of just a meal, as her instincts are screaming for. Blood. Fresh, dripping, hot blood, running over skin and onto her tongue, metal and spice and depth and life.

He shuffles his things, drops the cross, and she takes another step forward. So close now, barely a few feet away, so she can hear every thump and carom of his heartbeat, feel every buzz of his breath and drip of his sweat. "And what if I require the blood to give you the cure?" she says softly, evenly. He fumbles with the cross, the bag, and another step. She's close to him, so close, and she can feel him suck in a breath as she shifts closer. Closer, closer. And she leans in, soft, and kisses him. His lips, soft and supple and sweet, take a moment before they can move against hers, tentative and confused and maybe terrified, but then he's kissing her back and she's taking him down with her. Pummeling headfirst into blinding, aching, unimaginable want. He tastes like ambition and fear and she wants it, drawing him further into her, further in as she leads her lips with hers, moving over his mouth with the slow, easy movements of a thousand years' experience, further in as she closes her eyes and savors the feeling, a kiss, lust, a human lover.

And then she lightly bites his lip with her fangs. It's just enough -- just enough for blood to seep out of the dual wounds into his mouth, onto his tongue, across his teeth, but she chases it, scoops it up with her tongue and swallows. Blood, the blood she wants. Needs. Craves. And she presses against him more completely, cold, naked skin tight against every seam and fabric of the modern clothes she doesn't yet understand, but she's focused on the blood on his lip, intent, consumed. She pulls back long enough to suck on his lip, wrap her mouth around it and suck and savor the blood, then opens to him again, her tongue sweeping across his and scooping it up, over and over, eager, desperate, and she gives a small, wanting moan against his mouth.

"Then you can at least explain the cure before I hand over the blood." He's distracted balancing a bag of blood against his chest as the words fall from his mouth. So distracted that he hasn't noticed something else has fallen too. His other arm is limp by his side, fingers slack around his protective trinket while he closes the flap of his bag with his other elbow. He looks up too late, and she moves far too silently. She must glide through the air rather than barrelling through it like mortals because she's there, suddenly, catching him off guard. Fear seeps out of every pore, and he swears he can feel the tiny hairs at the back of his neck stand to attention. He doesn't usually experience fear like this, so stereotypical and sudden that it feels foreign. He constantly marches through life and into the unknown with adrenaline fuelling his next step into the darkness, but then again he's never truly been this close to the end. She's death. Both in status and the representative marker of his very imminent demise, yet she looks nothing like the hooded reaper that he might expect. If he didn't know what she was, he might relish in how close this beautiful woman is to him, but instead he sucks in a lung full of air and holds it desperately like it might replace the cross he's forgotten. The cross that it's too late to use now. Even weakened she'd swipe it away before he could properly repel her. Her head tilts and he can't even find it in himself to close his eyes in his final moments. He clings to the vision of her face like maybe she's too beautiful to actually kill him. But she is going to kill him. She's going to tear open his throat with ease and drink until she's full, and the last glimmer of his life has floated away on a breeze. He just wanted to save his sister. Now he'll never see her again.

Except the pain he's expecting never happens. Instead she presses her lips to his softly and sweetly. He'd gasp if he wasn't already full of air and pressed against her mouth. For a moment, maybe a minute, he's a strange mix of still utterly terrified and horribly confused. This is not how the stories go. She's hungry and he suspects beneath it all desperate and shouldn't he be dead by now? He can feel his brow furrow for a moment as his confusion intensifies, but the longer she kisses him it's new questions that spring to mind. How are her lips so warm? Why him? They all become nothing as he gives himself over to her. Maybe it's her vampish ability to control people or maybe it's just how good her lips feel against his but he melts into the kiss like she's not above him in the food chain. His lips soften against hers and the cross clatters to the floor somewhere in the background, but that doesn't matter while his hand settles on her still very naked waist. She kisses with intent and power, like he couldn't pull back even if he wanted to. He doesn't want to.

And then pain. Fleeting but sharp. Her fangs dip into his lip and copper floods his mouth quicker than he could imagine. His tongue and his teeth taste like dull metal, and it's unpleasant but then she's there. Saving him from it, sucking it up like she's his saviour rather than his hunter. When she pulls back she takes his lip with her like a lover might, but she's just tasting him still. Moaning as she feeds on him, samples him, decides if she wants to kill him. How much does she like his blood, he wonders morbidly. He doesn't really get an answer. Her tongue slips into his mouth again, but he still doesn't know what it means. A kiss, or is she just chasing the crimson that's leaking onto his tongue again?

She's warmer already. A few degrees maybe but it's noticeable against his hand on her waist and an unexplainable seed of pride blooms in his chest for helping her. For feeding her and warming her. There's a conscious part of him that knows what's happening and then there's this new autonomous part that only wants to please her. He has no idea if the kiss of all vampires does this or if it's just her. Or maybe it's the effects of hers being the first fangs to bite him. Whatever the cause, he's not fighting. He's still gripping the blood bag to his chest between them, and the scientist in his head is asking too many questions about how long he has left to live, but outwardly he lowers his head further into her, groans with pleasure against her lips and finally closes his eyes as if he trusts her.

He tastes like she's been waiting centuries for him. Blood, sating, over her tongue, that thick metal taste she wants, craves, needs, spiced with fear and longing. He tastes like his terror, like the reluctance of his mouth and the stiffness of his limbs, and then his hand comes to her waist and he closes his eyes, and he tastes like bliss and honor. Her eyes glint in the darkness. Watching him fall to her. Prey. Weak and wanting, lapping the copper and richness from the inside of his mouth, she takes him. His blood tastes like the only thing that has ever mattered, what she needs most, what she cannot survive without, and she doesn't let him go. She draws him into her, further, further as his hands meet her skin, still cold from her crypt but warming as she takes from him, heat and lust and life, and she brings up a hand to grasp in his hair, gentle in his curls, tugging him where she wants him, so she can suck at his lower lip, so she can slip her tongue to the darkest corners of his mouth and take. She takes from him. And as he reciprocates, as he groans into her mouth, she uses him. Another prick of her fangs into his tongue, and more blood, and she sucks, harder, growing stronger, swallowing mouthfuls of his blood, his tongue entwined with hers, her handsome little plaything, with a soft, hungry moan she leaves against his mouth.

It's almost telepathic, the way he expects the second bite. His tongue is prepared, flat against the base of his mouth for her to bite with both fangs. There's that voice that he's holding on to asking him why. Why are you letting her do this? He doesn't have an answer, doesn't need one. A much larger part of him just wants her. She tastes sweet, which is almost unexplainable. She should taste like his blood, the blood she's greedily taking from him and he's happily giving her. But she's sweeter still, and her kiss only becomes more intense as he opens his mouth further like he's offering all of himself on a silver platter. He tightens the hand at her waist but only to anchor himself to her as if she's the only thing keeping him standing as she pulls him to where he needs to be. He practically scolds himself for not knowing to move his head there. He should have known and anticipated. Not that it matters. He's still wrapped up in her, the beautiful curve of her mouth and the feel of her skin. He'd seen it before they kissed, but it was only now he really appreciated it. Only now he wanted her so much. So much that, even as he feels himself needing a breath, he can't tear himself away from her. He falls deeper and deeper while she sucks harder at the bites she's made. The corners of his mouth curve against her face in as much of a smile as he can manage mid kiss, and he groans again into her mouth along with his blood.

She kisses him as long as she can. Curls her tongue around his, moves her lips against his, sucks and laps and scoops the blood out of his mouth until she can feel him, gasping against her mouth like he's going to suffocate in her kiss, and she gives him a quick breath, keeps him going, tilts his head and kisses him again. She doesn't stop. She loves his blood, needs his blood, taking, taking all that he'll give her, red, hot, copper coursing into her mouth, as she retreats to suck at his bottom lip more fiercely, returns to suck at his tongue. Somewhere, somewhere she knows he's good at this, handsome, the plaything she would keep, consider making hers after she saw how he fucked, but now it's all blood, blood and wet, and eventually his mouth, his lips aren't enough, and she pulls back, tugging once more on his lower lip, before she moves to his neck. Leaving a smooth trail of kisses in her wake before she bites. She adjusts his head, nuzzles his throat, searches for his veins with her lips before she bites, fangs piercing his skin smoothly, and blood streams out, so much more, so much faster, and the moan she releases is primal. She laps up his blood fervently, focused on the taste over her tongue, pausing to lick her lips, lick up every errant drop, not letting any fall to waste outside her mouth. She drinks and sucks until she can feel him weaken, her beautiful boy, and she pauses long enough to soothe him. To ease him through this. She layers kisses over his neck, moves her hand in his hair, comforts him before she dives back in to the blood pooling at his neck. Makes a small noise of encouragement as his hand slips down to her hips. And she drinks, drinks from him, takes from him what she wants and takes him for herself, moaning and kissing him and draining him of blood.

He's so grateful. So fucking grateful to this beautiful woman when she allows him a gulp of air. It hits him like a wave, soothes the dizziness threatening his head, and he'd mutter a thank you if he had time. But there's only time to breathe in before she's taking his mouth again. As grateful as he is for the air she gave him he's happier for her mouth. How it tastes and moves over his. She's so perfect. He chases her lips as she pulls back, desperate to give her more. Then she's moving, lips light over his jaw, making a quick trail to his neck. He knows what happens next, but now he's not afraid. He's ready to let her take whatever she needs. He's hers now after all.

He moves with her hand as she adjusts him again, giving her access to the full expanse of his neck. She takes her time. Careful and gentle before she sinks her teeth into his skin. It's painful but it's pain he needs to feel for her. Every drop she takes feels exactly like what it is. A piece of him leaking out of his skin and surging straight into her mouth. It doesn't go to waste though because she drinks from him, laps up every drop from his skin, her lips scooping up his blood and her tongue cleaning up the rest. He stays that way, suspended in between pain and pleasure until his vision starts to darken and blur at the edges and he lets out a small gasp despite himself. He doesn't mean to interrupt her and he'd apologise but before the words leave his mouth she's kissing him again, a soft purr from her mouth that tells him how good he's doing before she drinks more. His hand slips down to her hip as his knees shake and he feels himself weaken. Giving in to the darkening vision as much as he's already given in to her. As his eyes close, he thinks about how glad he is that he woke her up and how he shouldn't drop the bag of blood he's still clinging to his chest in case she needs that as well.

Her lips move swiftly over his neck, tongue chasing every last drop of his blood, savoring, relishing, licking up every piece from his shoulder, his collarbone, his shoulder blade, every trickle and stream of the blood pouring from his veins onto his skin and into her mouth. He tastes like bliss, as he closes his eyes and melts away with her, this ecstasy with his fading free will, under her power and control and whims, and she drinks from him, sucks at his neck and draws his blood into her mouth, swallow, lick, savor, repeat, and the more she drains him, the weaker he becomes against her, and he tastes like the darkness and lust she craves and the best kind of sin, the devolving, aching sin of death and gore and her. She moans into his shoulder, fangs digging in again, another wound, another bite and more blood and more, fast and hard spurting into her mouth, and she drinks and drinks from him, hungry and taking and using. He is her plaything, her prey, and she tilts his head further to the side, more expanse of skin, more comfortable, and she hums happily as his knees weaken and he sinks lower, easier to reach his neck when she's still shorter than he is, when he still towers over her and covers her the way she likes in a man. Her plaything. She drinks and drains until she can feel his knees begin to give way, can feel the darkening of his vision and the numbing of his limbs, clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, and she lets him slip through her arms and collapse. And takes the blood bag, tears it open with her fangs, and drinks. It's warm, like he promised, and it tastes like his blood, the same innocence and richness and want, and it isn't as good as from his neck but she devours it. Swallowing, mouthful after mouthful, until some spills over her mouth and tips onto her cheeks, her body, her breasts. His blood is ecstasy, and she groans as she drinks and swallows, as she sucks the last from the bag and lets it fall to the ground at her feet, weak and unmoving like him.

She's so much stronger. With the blood of just one man, she can feel it -- the straightening of her bones, the warming of her skin, the power of her limbs and the swiftness of her movements, her darkness and death sliding back into place. For a moment, she savors the rebirth, the awakening after decades and the return of her power, and then she notices the boy at her feet. The boy whose eyes are closing, the boy hovering over death, brushing it with his fingertips, her plaything. For a moment, she might leave, leave him here to die like so many others she has abandoned, darkened and waiting for an end, but she pauses. Reconsiders. And leans down over him. He manages to look at her, and she smiles softly. He's so pretty, she thinks. A waste of beauty. She leans over him, her naked body over his and streaked in his blood, and she pricks the inside of her lower lip with her fangs. "Drink," she murmurs, before she leans down and she kisses him again.

He doesn't cry out in pain, even as her fangs sink into his neck again, making a second bite. The pain slows. It fades away from a sharp stabbing into a dull ache, like maybe his body doesn't have the strength to feel it anymore. His limbs tremble in her arms that hold him like a rag doll. Her strength and his weakness collide as he falls so far that even with her shorter height she has to lean down to drag him back up to her mouth. He's starting to inconvenience her and he wishes he could do something about it but his body is so weak and helpless. And as the cold floods over every inch of his skin until he's as frozen as he expected her to be he knows this is the moment he will die. He can practically feel death lingering over him like she is, and even as she drops him to the floor death remains by his side while she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders in the darkness. She's so beautiful. Even as she rips the blood bag from his hands with the ghost of a snarl on her face. He's lucky he gets to see her in all her glory before he dies.

He's bleeding out quickly, it won't be long now. He can feel his own heartbeat in the thick, red substance as it spills over his neck. He tries to will his hand to cover the gaping holes and stop the bleeding but he just can't. He can't manage more than absently writhing around on the dank stone beneath him while his own blood splatters on him from above where she's devouring his blood bag. But then she drops the empty plastic and moves as if to walk away. It's like his vocal chords have been snapped. He wants to beg her not to leave him as he dies but he doesn't manage the words, not as his eyes close again, slowly, finally. Until he can feel her. Lean over him again. He fights with the last ounce of life to open them for that, seeing her again. She's closer again, knees bent and by his side, smiling, and he doesn't understand. Take what? Then she kisses him, her lips working against his unmoving mouth, and he tastes copper again.

He can tell instantly it isn't his. Her blood is sweeter somehow, colder, darker. And the copper taste still makes him wince. He doesn't want to drink it, doesn't know what good will come of it, and then something in his head tells him he has to. Is it her voice? Wherever it comes from he obeys it. Drinks the liquid despite the taste. The effect is instant. It's completely the most curious sensation he's ever experienced. It's the opposite of a bite. He can feel the strands of his skin heal and close the gap, but it's indescribable even to himself. Even as he's finally participating in kissing her. His tongue sweeping over her lips for the blood that heals him. He finds his own strength and his arm flies to his neck to verify his healed wound. His eyes widen in shock at still being alive, and as she pulls back, because he couldn't even if he tried, he manages to look up at her with awe and say, "Thank you."

He doesn't drink from her as she drank from him. He fumbles against her mouth, messy, awkward, his tongue weakly crossing her teeth, brushing over her fangs before finding her lower lip, the cut and the blood she made for him, and he licks it up tentatively before he finds the strength to hold and taste and suck. His lips mold to hers sloppily, grasping and weak, his tongue fumbling in her mouth for more of the blood he doesn't want, and it's almost endearing to her, his desperation and ineptitude, his awkwardness and hunger. He drinks from her like youth and naivete, like inexperience and unpreparedness, like a boy. She straddles him, leaning down further against him until their bodies rest close together, one hand soothing through his hair, a thumb caressing his scalp. And she pours her kiss into him, listens to him moan, kisses him so the blood of her lip seeps into his tongue and his mouth and him, so he strengthens underneath her, so she wraps a finger in hers and pulls him back from an end she hasn't chosen for him yet. Her boy. He gasps a thank you and she pulls back to watch him. Studying him, judging, eyes glinting in the dark of her crypt and watching the quirk of his lips as he breathes. She pauses, watching, considering, licking his and her blood from her lips, before she murmurs, "You brought a vial?"

He realises she's sitting over him as he thanks her. Her body covering his like a warm blanket. Warm now that he gave her what she needed to get strong, and she's repaying him with his life. By his calculation that still puts him in debt to this beautiful woman he'd do anything for. He keeps sucking at her lip, running his tongue over it, trying to wipe away the blood and taste her mouth again, just her without the twinge of copper, but blood keeps coming. Coming and coming, and he keeps drinking because she wants him to and he wants to please her. God does he want to please her.

Then she pulls back, towering over him as if to remind him that her power, her strength and speed, well her everything, outstrips him in every way he could possibly imagine. The corner of his mouth curves at the thought. Of course he knows. He knows she was probably still stronger than him even at her weakest. He knows the cross, that thing he should have never threatened her with, was the only reason he had the chance to hold a conversation with her. Silly rules made by ancient fools trying to control the majesty that is her. Her whose tongue darts over her lower lip reminding him of her kiss before she speaks.

He's so distracted that it takes him a moment to realise she's asked him a question that requires an answer. A vial? A vial for what? And then it hits him like a freight train. The cure, his sister, the reason he woke her in the first place. His eyes glint in recognition, and although he can't remember why he needs to cure his sister, since vampires are such perfectly beautiful creatures, he nods anyway. Remembers himself as he replies, "A vial. Yeah. I have a bottle." His limbs react almost wildly with fast movements that overcompensate for his actions. Like he's rediscovering them after losing all attachment to them, moments ago on the brink of death. He reaches for his bag which is luckily not far enough that he has to move from under her and digs his hand inside pulling out several empty miniature alcohol bottles from his plane journey. He holds them up to her, as if presenting them for inspection, with a nervous smile.

He squirms under her to reach his bag, arms stretching far enough to shift his weight and hers over him, hips wriggling as he tries to maneuver an open pouch, sliding and jutting against hers. Her eyes flash, her brow quirks, and she can feel her hunger settling in again, rising in the back of her throat, curling up in her chest, caressing the low of her back, the hunger from giving him strength when she had so little. The want again for blood, for humans, for prey, the bloodlust in her eyes and the growl at the back of her throat. As he settles back down under her, she cycles her hips over his once, hard, almost brutally, to sit straighter, over him, stronger and more dangerous and dominating.

He presents his vials to her and she plucks one from his hands, small but extravagant, and she flips it over in her hands curiously, opening it and breathing in the remnants of alcohol. Whisky, she remembers. She liked whisky once.

And as he adjusts under her she slams her hips into his again, the lightest movement from her but it's too powerful, too much for him and he can just watch. Watch as she lifts a finger to her mouth, pricks her fingertip, and lets it drop into the class. One, two. Two small, delicate drops of blood from her pale, thin fingertip, in a bottle she carefully seals and sets aside. "She must drink from a willing victim. A sacrifice. And as she drinks the last of his blood, she must have two drops of mine. She will change." Her expression barely changes. A small glint in her eyes like a blurred shout from a distance, a turn at the corner of her mouth as she wraps her tongue around secrets no one would believe. A thin line of regret and discord drawn into her brow, and then smoothed. And then she leans over him again, body covering his, aching and deep and absorbing his warmth, and she brushes a hand through his curls under her.

He writes the first one off, the first grind of her hips over his. He's sure she's just adjusting to sit more comfortably over him, and he's too busy finding his bottles anyway to ask. Not that he would question her, since she can do as she pleases. She's given him so much today, he can let her get comfortable in his lap. He watches her as she smells the bottle she's chosen from his hands, and there's almost a quirk of a smile at his choice of drink. And there he was thinking he might be in trouble for his ramshackle attempt at a 'vial.' Instead now he's curious, wondering if maybe she likes whiskey, or liked it once upon a time?

Through the haze of who he's become for her, his curiosity, questions, ring in his ears. He remembers that she was a person with a life, and he wonders what that looked like. He can't imagine it. He can't picture her as anything other that the powerful perfection she is now. With her teeth glinting in some mysterious light, she bites her finger and he watches the drops of blood fall into the glass. She gave him so much more than that. He hadn't drunk much but he'd still drunk a hundred cures compared to the two tiny drops she's put in his bottle and placed next to him. How many other vampires could be cured? All of them? Could she even cure herself?

The scientist in him is silenced by the voice that tells him, again, she's perfect the way she is. It tells him as he barely noticed where she puts the cure, distracted by the second swish of her hips over him. Lighter this time but still strong. Pressure over him that feels delicious. The way her body connects with his and the jump of his hips as they try to push off of the cold stone floor beneath them to meet her. He half sighs and half groans at the feeling. Unashamedly letting the sound fade slowly into the darkness of her crypt. His hands smooth up her legs and to the curve of her waist as she leans forward, and God the lines of her body fit in his hands like he was made to touch her. Her chest pushes into his, colder again, and he's surprised by the reminder of her nakedness. Her nipples almost piercing through his shirt, the unhindered access to her skin as his hands move higher until he's cupping her shoulder blades like he has some choice over whether she stays where she is, close to him. It's a seemingly human motion to run her fingers through his hair, it's gentle and loving and he never really equated those words with the original vampire, who legend said would rip his throat out sooner than give his life a second thought. But it is gentle. And soft. And he whispers into the inches between them, "Thank you for the cure. Thank you for my life."

His hair is light under her fingers. Soft, delicate, easy curls teasing over her fingers as she smooths over his scalp, fragile strands of hair, fragile skin, fragile neck she could snap. There's something different about this one, she thinks. Something rare, if not unique, something that nurses memories of favorite lovers, something that challenges them into myth and doubt. He is clever, too clever, to have deciphered the texts, read between the ink and calligraphy to trace back the sources, deciphered Anya's amusingly unintelligible prophecies to find her archaic, buried tomb, the tomb she carved for herself and kept under trees and stones. He is clever, and beautiful, strong and fragile, so unimaginably human, his dark, savoring skin she wants to taste, delicate curls and freckles she wants to tumble into and map into constellations. She wants to fuck him, to see how he fucks her, wandering hands and jerking hips and an urgent, anxious desperation she hasn't found in a century, a mortal lust that sparks in the pit of her stomach and presses her hips to his again. He's eager, so eager, murmuring admiration and watching her with something deeper than awe, clear focused eyes and calm lips.

And, she thinks, perhaps that's the rarity, the trait that catches her and made her stay and convinced her to save him when she was screaming to leave, to search, to hunt -- compelled, mesmerized, enchanted the way she has enchanted so many victims, he tore free enough to escape and chose to stay. Chose her. Wanted her. He murmurs a thank you between untrembling lips, hands reverent and honest as he tugs at her, as he fails. His skin is too soft for that.

"You should be mine," she murmurs, eyes tracing over him. Her beautiful, clever boy. Her plaything. Hers. His breath heaves under her, and she wants to take it, devour it, squash it, take him as her own. He should be hers. He should be like her, and he should be owned by her, a new companion, a new pet for a new century. She wants, craves, and her tongue darts out over her fangs, curling and threatening, but she is still needs the blood. Blood, and his sunk in her system, filling her veins is not enough, not enough to bring her back to warmth and power and invincibility, not enough to make her strong again. She needs it. More, always more, more now. There was a village nearby when she fell asleep here, small and quaint, etched into the countryside and brimming with people, warm, breakable, blooded people, and she licks her lips and tastes his blood and she goes. "Find me," she murmurs again, brushing her lips again his, feeling his blood, tasting his blood, copper and want, and before he can move she disappears from the tomb and his arms.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

secret bellarke