Need some hc of them in their s/o instagram comments
Of course!!
Bowers Gang in their S/O Instagram Comments Headcanons!!
You started to grow confident in your outfits and you took selfies, showing off how good you look, especially if you learned a new makeup technique or started to work out
Depending on the weather and the seasons, you'd wear slightly revealing outfits if it's hot outside or show off pictures of you in your gym clothes
The gang are all complete opposites of each other when it comes to you posting like each member is pretty different
Patrick would comment weird shit and almost get banned because of it. For example, he'll be like, "Just beat my shit to this ❤️❤️" or just comment emojis like "😍" or "😘" while thinking of the most diabolical things he'd do to you (Yk some people don't deserve to have dicks.. Just me??)
Belch would 100% hype you up and notice small details about your picture and be like, "Is that a new belly button piercing??" or "Your new glasses are so cute my darling" I feel like he'd also be the type to be like, "YO THAT'S MY PARTNER RIGHT THERE"
Henry wouldn't comment much, but might give you something like, "You look bad as hell" or just a simple "Damn baby" and he'd definitely use your pictures for goon material or just sit and stare at your pictures with a little smirk on his face
Victor either wouldn't comment and just spam like your posts or he'd say something plain like, "Cute" or "Pretty girl/boy <33" while enternally giggling and kicking his feet at all of your pictures
Long story short, don't look at your comments if you get a notification from Patrick lolz
Patrick Hockstetter x Fem!Reader
Synopsis: how come Patrick managed to get someone just as crazy as he was?
Genre: suggestive. Smut-ish?
Tags: crazy person x crazy person ig. You and him r freaks. Might expand on this some other time. Established relationship. Dead animals & insects. Stalking. Blood play. Knife play. Primal play. Play play play. Bacon bacon bacon.
Wc: 1.1k
He doesn't love you.
He doesn't love you because he doesn't feel love. He doesn't love in general.
Patrick's only obsessive of you.
The only thing he feels when he looks at you is obsession, an overwhelming desire to consume you. To be as close as he can.
He doesn't believe it's love. It might be, but even if it is, he wouldn't dare to admit it, ever.
Don't fret too much though, despite the fact that he doesn't love you. He's very, very, very obsessed.
Way more than he usually is when he's with a new toy to play with.
But you seem to be different than them.
You aren't a plaything, you're a challenge.
A feral dog that matched how he treats you.
Maybe even a step further.
Nah, that's impossible.
But you matched him on your own pace.
You don't even remember how the both of you ended up dating.
If you were to guess, you'd say he approached you first, knife in hand just in case you gave him a reaction he wasn't happy with.
He didn't need to use it, you accepted him with open arms.
Which is code for; he fucked you hard on the spot.
And you enjoyed every second.
And it gets worse (better) now that you're dating.
If you were anybody else, they'd think you were forced into a relationship with him.
But since you aren't exactly... right in the head, you seemed to be a perfect match for him.
How very cute.
They weren't wrong. Not in the slightest.
With every shove, you push just as hard.
But Patrick is someone with quite a lot of surprises under his sleeve.
With him, you'll never be bored.
The both of you together... well, that's just two people entertaining each other.
He'll find some roadkill in the middle of the road and give it to you like a cat.
Maybe he'll even kill a possum or two.
If he kills it himself, then he deems it as much more intimate.
You'll tell him to wash his hands right after you place the dead animal in it's own designated box full of corpses that he's given you.
Some people would recoil in disgust if they were in your position.
You however, spend your time taxidermying the lifeless bodies.
You had to dig into the bottom of the pile to grab the oldest one.
And you'd have to do it almost daily, given the fact that he'd gift you one every two to three days.
He's never seen that before.
Someone who actually accepts his gifts without being grossed out.
At all.
Along with you and your particular hobby. He'd catch you in the middle of doing the taxidermy.
Outside your window, he wouldn't even tap on the glass to catch your attention, simply observing the way your fingers worked delicately with the needle and the thread. Sewing the animal's stomach close after you've stuffed it.
He has no shame in admitting that he wished for you to do that to him.
Cut him open and mess around with his insides.
Thanks, you just gave him a new kink.
Since he gave you something, you should give him something too, right?
Nothing too close to dead animals, maybe a few insects here and there.
With your gloves and your mask on, you reach to grab the dead cockroach that's been lying on it's back underneath your table for weeks.
If you weren't busy, you'd take the time to stuff it as well.
Maybe tie it up with your dead hair. Into a cute bow.
And you'd give it to him casually too.
Well, you'd leave it in his locker because you know for a fact that if you gifted him something he liked then he'd fuck you wherever you were.
Not that you'd complain, but you'd prefer not to have your pussy broken inside a classroom.
His favourite place to fuck you -- besides your bedroom with the window wide open so everyone could hear your moans --- was in the forest.
He'd let you run as fast as you could.
And then he'd chase you down.
If you were lucky, you'd escape him and get the chance to leave rows upon rows of hickeys and bite marks.
But if you weren't, if he caught up.
Then you'd have a long night ahead of you.
He'd do all sorts of filthy things once he catches you.
His go to would be tying you up to a tree and taking you.
Which is admittedly the least crazy thing that he's ever done to you.
You don't know how long you've been tied to that fucking tree, but you do know for a fact that you relish those moments.
When he'd hunt.
When he'd prey on you.
You were always the prey, Patrick never let you be in control.
He'd rather kill you before you see him that vulnerable.
In bed.
In your everyday life, you walk him like a dog.
You feed him.
Literally.
He breaks into your home and takes your panties.
All of them, so that you'll walk around town with your pussy bare.
So that he could take you whenever.
You buy new ones almost every other week with how frequently he steals them.
You make sure to touch yourself every night with them on.
You don't know what he does with them.
But if it's soaked with your cum, he could eat it off of the cotton.
Licks it up as he strokes his cock to the taste of you.
He'll return it to you, a mixture of his cum and spit.
He'll make you wear it, too.
Oh, and he's marked you too.
Carved his name to your stomach, to your thighs.
Made sure you were wide awake for it, too. He wanted to hear you scream in pain.
The thing was that you didn't know if you were screaming from the pain, or from how good it felt to have the sharp tip of the blade touch your skin and drag along your flesh.
Oh, and when you looked in the mirror. Tracing your fingers across your dug up flesh, pooling the blood and lapping it up.
He'll dig his head to lap it up as well.
Sometimes, he'll even reopen your wound, just to lick the blood dry.
You have no idea how crazy you make him.
And he'd making you lose your mind a lot more with every second you spend with him.
Join th taglsit
Needed to get something out to get my creative juices running again.
No this isn't me projecting my own kinks what r u on about....
cw: this was a desperate attempt to be as movie accurate as possible in accordance to both the films timelines and plots. bare with me :’)
——————
every ballroom attended, every society joined, and yet no trace of his beloved elisabeta. arriving at paris, france, vlad prepares for the celebration at the hotel du louvre: where his servant promised to return his lover back to him. in the midst of this, he decides to take one last stroll around the city of love.
——————
the paris opera house, 1889.
behind the opera house curtains was a surge of movement, a restless ambience filled with the hurrying steps of dancers, orchestra musicians dusting themselves and their instruments, seamstresses adding last-minute touches to costumes, stagehands peeping into the dancers fitting rooms and watching the ladies drown themselves in cheap beer those pervs would sneak in for them. everyone had their own place, their own duties and groups. no body laid still, as the opening night would be nothing short of chaos in the opera house.
you were a performer amongst the sea of other dancers. young, full of life, and a captivating beauty that drew you plenty of attention. in and out of the establishment, all eyes were on you no matter where you went. despite your humble background, daughter of a tailor who unfortunately passed when you were younger.
your father was a kind man, generous and honest. or so you were told, the memories with him faded with age. all you knew was the opera house and the ballet mistress, madame giry.
a poise, well-respected woman who kept the girls in check. she’d taken you under her wing and allowed you a comfortable life at the opera house, so long as you performed well as a dancer. not a job, she told you, just something to keep you occupied until you find your own path.
you were a good performer, beauty aside. your image was alluring, your movements flowed effortlessly and you were a quick learner. a promising talent, very promising. all praises you'd received from madame giry and her daughter, whom you'd grown very close to since you met her at the age of seven, meg giry. with hair that shined like the sun on a warm day and honey brown eyes, she was a living angel in your eyes. the two of you rehearsed together, spent countless nights up and daydreaming about the futures you wanted for eachother. she hoped to find a wealthy man and have a family, you often said nothing.
"do you think you'll end the night empty handed?" the soft voice that emerged followed by the provocative language belonged to none other than meg, breaking you out of your dazed trance. taking your hand as you passed by the drunkards loitering the halls. you hadn't noticed you'd been positioned in the same place for a while, looking over the railing onto the first floor where the dancers stretched and laughted amongst eachother. maybe you were nervous, maybe you'd prefer to sleep in just this one time. maybe both.
"i think i'll end this night sweaty and tired, miss giry. and good afternoon to you, too." you laughed, following behind the blonde as you two hurried down the spiral staircase to join the rest of the ballet in their rehearsal.
the sun began to set as rehearsals went on, until madame giry dismissed the girls and suggested they explore the city, as tonight was the centenary celebration of the french revolution. paris was crowded, much more than usual. families gathered at the nearby festival, hotels were filled and the laughter of people echoed across the city.
meg accompanied you as the two of you left the opera house, the two of you changing into gowns suited for going out. her hand lost grip of yours as soon as you arrived at the festival. beaming lights and lively crowds, the alley was filled with tourists and families. the air smelled of cinnamon and hot chocolate, a warm and inviting scent.
your hand found comfort in gripping the handle of your black umbrella, fingernails tracing the textured grip around the bar. eyes searching endlessly for meg, you gave up and decided to enjoy the night alone. either way, you two were to report back to madame giry an hour before the opera house opened to the public once again.
one hour to myself, you thought. might as well make the most of it.
you started at the hot chocolate stand. the smell drew you to it, naturally, and you purchased a cup for yourself. two small marshmallows floated above the brown liquid, steam emitting from its surface and hitting your face. your eyes looked around, blinded by bright lights and colorful decorations scattered around the street. most of your time was spent at the opera house, in the dimly lit hallways and the small comfort of your shared room.
you received special privileges being so close to the giry family, you and meg were able to share a room. the rest of the ballet shared one room, which probably explained why you felt so astray from them. they were their own clique, their own kind of popular in their eyes. maybe it was envy of your skills, of your ability to perform almost effortlessly, of being able to dance with the wind. you were not blind to the fact that you clearly had more experience and talent than the girls. you weren’t one to brag, but they were some to bitch. that’s why you preferred having meg as your only companion. life was simpler that way.
—------------
the crowds did not surround him this time, they did not lay their greedy eyes onto his own that lacked life. the warm bodies he moved past were laughing amongst eachother, embracing one another and filling the atmosphere with a feeling vlad could only describe as a distant memory. no matter where he was, whether the skies illuminated rays of colors in the night, or the plains were covered in the brightest of flowers, he could not allow himself to enjoy any beauty in his life. for the beauty in his life died when elizabeta did, too. for now, his body devoid of life roamed endlessly in this world. there was no peace on this planet he could find that would allow him the chance at moving on, not without her.
with a glimmer of hope in his heart, vlad continued on his stroll, hoping this would ease his nerves before he returned to the hotel where him and his lover would possibly reunite.
the smell of fresh baked goods could not mask the warm, iron-like aroma that filled his nostrils, being so close in proximity to people. it was nice blending in, not being fawned over or condemned. it allowed vlad the opportunity to bask in the moment, to allow his mind to lower its volume and just be.
“forgive me!” a soft voice erupted the silence in his brain as a strange body nudged against his, followed by the gentle caress of a hand on his bicep. eyes narrowing down to meet the owner of such melody, his eyes met with yours. dark, ominous, you couldn’t quite tell what it was in his look that sent a warmth to the core of your stomach, and an everlonging feeling for more. but more of what?
“you are forgiven.”
his voice bled thick of a romanian accent. it was deep, alluring. the words, only kept brief, rolled off his tongue like a purring cat. his lips curved into a barely noticeable smile, so subtle you wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t perked his head to the side, eyes now glaring down your frame. he looked at you with softer eyes than you've experienced, after years on stage, at the eyes of lustful men.
his lacked that; they held something kinder, purer. it was as if the longer he stared at you, the more he would learn about you. and yet, he didn't. it unnerved you what he was thinking, why he made you feel a familiar yet distinct warmth in your heart you couldn't recall ever feeling. he himself didn't understand why he swore he felt his heart pulsing 400 years later, and why it felt like how it used to around his first and last love.
you were no extraordinary being, you were quite beautiful, vlad could admit that. you smelled divine, the blood pulsing through your veins didn’t pass him. your skin, surely made of the sweetest of sugar, was inviting; it was comforting, familiar. it smelled of a home he once had before his lover took it with her. she took the idea of permanence, of belonging, from his life. vlad was unsure why in this moment, though, he felt something similar to home standing in front of you.
a minute had passed before the staring grew too intense, and the silence between you two became almost unbearable. assuming you had bothered him upon accidentally bumping into him, you were about to bid farewell before he interrupted your train of thought.
“excuse me, i seem to have lost my mind and my manners. vlad the second, prince of wallachia,” his hand extended to grab the soft hand once on his arm, leaning his head forward ever so slightly and carefully bringing your hand up to where his lips brushed against your knuckles, “count dracul.”
his lips hovered there for a second longer, eyes peering up at yours as he placed a gentle, feather-like kiss on the back of your hand. his lips were cold but soft and gentle, like a snowflake had fallen on your bare skin and left a tingling sensation afterwards. it left you longing for another chance to feel his lips on you again.
it was intoxicating and unnerving how quick you were to find interest in this stranger. it was nothing like you’d ever experienced before. keeping yourself indoors for most of your life, surrounded by the same group of people, it was not often you had the chance to speak to a man outside of the stage crew or guests at the opera house. unless it was business manners, conversing with a gentleman was out of your norm.
you watched as he rose back up, straightening his posture and allowing your arm to fall back at your side. he guided your arm down before he realized he had been grabbing ahold of it the entire time, and let go. despite his touch being cold, your skin seemed to feel more exposed to the cold of the night the moment your contact broke.
clearing your throat, you introduces yourself and returned that subtle smile back to him. despite his striking beauty, you reminded yourself not to give in so easily. if you learned anything about men from the other dancers at the opera house, is that they are very good at using their charm to get their way. and you would rather die than allow yourself to fall victim to such tricks.
“now, what is a thing like you doing here alone? it is so easy for a flower like you to get lost in a crowd like this.” vlad did not know what possessed him in that moment to continue this interaction with you. he didn’t need the attention of another to occupy his mind, and yet he found himself indulged in this conversation.
“i’m enjoying the festival until i must return back to the opera house.” you weren’t sure what possessed you either, as you had no issue in blurting out personal details about yourself, completely ignorant to the fact that this total stranger could have ill intent towards you. That worry did not cross your mind once during this time, he didn’t seem the type. didn’t feel the type.
“ah, you are a ballet girl.” his tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, a proper smile forming on his pale lips. a pair of lips you caught yourself staring at for a second longer than you intended, a stare that he was not blind to.
“yes, sir, i am.” you nodded, flustered at the way his discovery seemed to satisfy something within him. “tonight we open the opera house with the very first performance of the season.”
vlad stayed silent for a second, and an unreadable expression came across his face. as if he was pondering, all whilst examining you. eyes tracing over your features, down to the way your hands found comfort yet again playing with the handle of your umbrella that rested in front of your hips. he was unnerved by the thoughts that raced through his mind. you had just met, and yet he already contemplated taking your comment as an invitation.
it was a gesture of kindness, an opportunity to indulge in art before he continued with his plans for tonight. he would not allow himself to be distracted, especially not tonight. but seeing you perform for a bit wouldn’t cause any harm. or so he thought.
“well, i wish you the best of luck with your performance. it was a pleasure meeting you.” his hand grabbed the front of his top hat, his free one gently tugging at the front of his black coat as he bowed, taking one last glance at you before giving you that soft smile and walking away. you stood dumbfounded, eyes still staring at the spot he once occupied, before you turned your head to look for him. and in a matter of seconds, he had vanished. and though he was physically no longer in view, you found yourself still feeling the lingering of his gaze on you throughout the night.
—-
carlotta, the leading soprano of the house, quit right before the doors opened. you had arrived through the back entrance when madame giry stopped you once you reached rhe stage to join the rest of the dancers for a quick debrief. you heard the voices of people arguing as you grew closer to the scene, overhearing something about carlotta complaining about things happening, and her refusing to perform until said things stopped happening.
the redhead was always complaining about something, so it came as no surprise to you that tonight was her breaking point. you were too busy watching as she stormed off to notice that two older gentlemen were arguing over who would replace the soprano, if they would have to refund a full house. until madame giry’s voice interrupted the tense moment, suggesting you could sing for carlotta.
“what- the chorus girl? don’t be silly.” the shorter grey haired man scoffed, facing away in frustration at what he assumed to be a joke.
“let her sing for you, monsieur, she has been well taught.” madame giry insisted, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. you looked at her, then the pair of men standing before you. a sigh emerged from the brunets mouth, before he threw his hands up and exclaimed.
“fine, fine!”
tonight, you wore a costume different than you were ever used to. a white, off the shoulder sparkly gown adorned your body, flower jewelry falling down your hair like raindrops. the stage lights were shining down at you, and only you.
the roaring of applauses echoed in the grand house, flowers being thrown at your feet. and for the first time, you felt seen. tonight was the most cherished you’d ever felt, ever since the interaction you shared with the prince. his lingering gaze still burned like a fire in your mind, it almost troubled you during your performance.
madame giry accompanied you to your dressing room, belonging to carlotta, before she left the house in a fit. upon entering, you were met by dozens of bouquets scattered on tables, chairs, and the vanity across the room where your reflection stared back at you.
the older woman congratulated you once more, before giving you privacy. your feet mindlessly found themselves walking to sit at the vanity, eyes still captivated on your gown. your hands placed on your lap, your fingertips danced along the knuckles of the hand that was caressed earlier. your eyes closed momentarily, basking in the scent emitting from the fresh flowers besides you. envisioning the brief interaction you shared with the prince, your fingers were replaced by his lips in your mind.
a sudden draft of breeze made you shudder, eyes opening to look at the reflection behind you. the window that was usually kept locked was now cracked open, the whistling of the wind filling the silent space. the candles lit and placed around the room flickered, dancing and casting shadows on the decorated walls. you stood up, brows furrowed as you reached to close the window and lock it, staring out at the busy city. you thought about the encounter
once more, before brushing it aside.
turning around, you shrieked as the man from earlier had appeared just where you were sitting, hands folded in front of him. that damned smile was plastered on his face, and despite the circumstances, he looked just as good as you remembered.
“you! how- how did you get in here? don’t take another step or i’ll scream! ” your voice caught in your throat as you placed a hand on your rapidly beating chest, staring at the intruder in disbelief.
“don’t be afraid, i mean no harm.” his voice was sincere, soft, like it was a few hours ago. his hand rested above his heart as he began to take small, calculated steps towards you. “i merely came to congratulate you personally for an exquisite performance.”
“you…” still unable to formulate any coherent words, you looked away, lashes fluttering as if to clear your vision from the hallucinations you were sure you were experiencing.
“my apologies for scaring you, the door was unlocked and i forgot to knock. please forgive me.” vlad stepped closer once more, now only a few feet of space dividing you two.
you had so many questions, yet your brain fogged up in that very moment as you looked up at the prince. he had that same look in his eyes as he did earlier. you couldn't understand why he seemed so keen on studying you. it made you uncomfortable, though not out of discomfort, but rather his staring made you awfully self-conscious.
vlad's mind couldn't help but see your face and elisabeta's, like a glitch in his vision that would warp both your faces into one, then two, then one. his mind and his heart fought a silent interal battle, a battle in which his beloved and the new beauty before him took control of his mind.
he then remembered maria told him to meet at the hotel at 10 sharp. the brass clock resting on the dresser besides you warned him.
09:51.
he did not leave. this would trouble him later on. yet, that was a problem until then.
“thank you.” your voice faded into nearly a whisper, unable to look away from his face. in the candlelight, you were able to see a faded scar running down the right side of his face, beginning underneath his eye.
“your voice, it was like a liquid sunlight during cold winter nights like these. i am glad to have seen you tonight.” it was almost like a confession he dared not to admit. it felt wrong, experiencing these feelings of need and want for another body. another soul. it felt even more wrong that you had managed to let elisabeta slip from his mind for the first time in 400 years of longing.
vlad took another stride at you, his hand subconsciously moving up to reach your jaw, a gentle caress of his thumb tracing over your skin. you did not look anything like his beloved, you were a different kind of beauty. not one that replicated that of elizabeta, for nobody could replace her. though, yours was, too, irreplaceable. it was haunting, haunting him for his inability to control such feelings. this craving that he had not felt since he became condemned from death finally resurfaced and nestled at your feet.
your eyes trailed down to his parted lips, unaware of the space between you two slowly closing in. you felt like you were no longer in your body, like your soul was stuck somewhere in limbo and his body was this magnetic force, and you could not stop yourself from moving closer to him. your faces, only inches apart, and lips close enough to eachother that a slight shift from either of you would give you the satisfaction you’d yearned for all night.
"i have a feeling this won't be the last i'll be seeing of you."
You have been given away to a man known throughout Eastern Europe as a brute, a killer, and a monster, and yet somehow, he does not act like any of those. You can't help the feelings that arise in your heart for him, and eventually, gentlemanly manners are thrown out the door when you give the signal.
Warning: arranged marriage, talk of vlad having killed people, sumt, oral (f receiving), p in v
A/N: Thank you to the Anon who requested this!! I would have posted it with the ask, but tumblr was being weird and not letting me. And a special thank you to @xxladymjxx @take-everything-you-can for reading and helping with ideas, @littlesubbyflower helping as well as making the wonderful header, and @hellfire--cult for helping me find a title!
You have always dreaded the day your father would sell you off to the highest bidder. Fought tooth and nail with him to reconsider, to allow you to marry for love rather than political alignment. It was a fate—you thought—worse than death, and yet he did not care. It wasn't long before your heart was given away for you, to the Prince and Voivode of Wallachia, a man whose name was steeped in blood. A man whom you were taught to fear lest he take you to the stake.
With shaking hands, you fixated on smoothing out the pleats in the skirt of your wedding gown. The dress was heavy and not because there were yards upon yards of fabric tailored to you or because of the silver embroidery and precious stones, but because of what this dress meant—the loss of your freedom.
"Stop fidgeting, girl. It is unbecoming." Your mother's shrill voice came through the fog, clouding your thoughts. "Now, stand up straight, it's time."
"Mother, please, I would rather be sent off to war than this. Anything but this." You held her hand like a vice, begging her for some way out.
She only shook her head and snatched her hand away. "I thought I taught you better than this. Do as your father says, and do not embarrass this family in front of the Prince." She pinched your cheeks to give them color before turning to leave. "The choir will begin in one minute, you will enter then."
It was no use calling after her, and it was no use trying to run away; there were guards at every entrance to the church, making it impossible, especially in this dress that needed at least two maids to help you remove. So, down the aisle to your doomed fate it was.
As the choir began, your heart leaped, beating faster than you ever thought it could. The giant oak doors opened, and every guest rose to their feet, all looking your way, all except your husband to be. He stood, back facing you, dressed in an armor chest plate and a white doublet and breeches with a sword attached to his left hip. The air that surrounded him felt thick as you approached, your dress restricting your movements. The Princeonly turned to you once you reached the stairs; he offered his hand to you, and you took it hesitantly, letting him guide you.
You took the few spare moments before the Priest began to examine the man you were to wed. His hair swept around his face, almost blocking him from your view, but as his head turned and you saw him fully, your breath caught in your throat. The stories told and the rumors whispered had led you to believe that this man was a monster, beastly and garish to look at, but the man before you was anything but. The candlelight made him look almost angelic with his sharp angles and full lips. His skin was white as milk and freckled. What demon would ever look so sweet? But that was exactly it, wasn't it? The devil will always come in a form you may trust.
The ceremony went by in a blur. You followed instructions and repeated words, but only because your body was guiding you; your mind floated miles above, enraptured with the man who was beside you.
It wasn't until you were being ushered into a carriage that you came back to your senses. As the door slammed, you realized it was just you and your newlywed husband. The silence was so thick, you could have cut into it. What were you to say? You didn't know the man, only what was said about him, and you doubted that it was an appropriate conversation to be held.
The ride was bumpy as the carriage took you farther away from the home you knew and towards an unfamiliar place. It had only been an hour, and still, neither of you had broken the silence. That is, until a quite harsh jerk had you toppling across the coach and into the Prince. He caught you in his strong hands and set you up right again.
"I am sorry," you apologize.
He waives his hand, dismissing you. "It is quite all right."
You couldn't help the blush that formed on your cheeks, his voice… this was the first time you were hearing it clearly, the thoughts in your head not distracting you from the low tenor that vibrated soul. You wanted to hear it again.
"Is your home far?"
He looked at you, eyes scanning, deducing why now you were asking him questions. "A three-day ride if the horses are fast."
"Oh, then we will be lodging somewhere for the night, I suppose?"
"We will make camp in a few hours. There are no lodgings on this road."
Your eyes widened. You were to spend your wedding night in a tent in the woods?
The carriage stopped just before dusk, and the men worked quickly to build tents, gather wood for a fire, and cook. It was dark when your husband helped you to your tent. He stayed for only a moment to tell you dinner would be ready soon before leaving quickly.
Sighing, you went around opening your trunks, trying to find something more comfortable to wear other than this outrageous wedding dress, although you didn't know how you were to extract yourself from the copious amounts of pleats and lace when your ladies' maids were nowhere to be found. You refused to go looking for them as you were tired from travel and wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
It took almost fifteen minutes for you to even begin to loosen the tight bodice, but it only did so much when you had been tacked in at certain spots. Your hands ceased their flailing when you heard footsteps and the curtain over the entrance of your tent flung open. You turned slowly, face heating as you realized someone was watching you trying and failing to undress.
"My Lord," you startle when you see the Voivodestanding there.
He narrows his eyes at the awkward angle your arms are bent, "What are you doing?"
"Undressing," a huff, "well, trying to at least." You answered.
Taking a step forward, he lets the curtain fall behind him. "Would you like some help?"
You eyed him wearily. From the stories you had been told, he was a brute of a man, taking anything he wanted without asking, and yet here he was asking if you would like his help.
Reluctantly, you accept.
He strides toward you slowly, as if you were a terrified fawn ready to bolt at any moment. "If you could turn around, please."
His hands never left your shoulders as you turned.
A shiver ran down your spine at the electric touch of his thick fingers as he gently caressed the skin of your neck he moving your hair out of the way. Gradually, the lacing of your dress fell away, the cut the strings tacking you in with his knife. The moment was intimate, and you could feel your heart racing. His fingers brushed against the thin fabric of your shift, goosebumps rising in their wake.
"I shall leave you, dinner will be by forthwith." He gave you no time to respond before he left you, with a heart full of confusion, and clinging to the bodice of your unfastened dress to your chest.
Quickly, you untied your skirts and folded them neatly into a trunk before dressing yourself in a less restrictive dressing gown, as you weren't leaving your tent for the rest of the night.
Food was brought to you on a pewter plate. Bread and some kind of meat, it didn't look too appetizing, but you were starving.
And then, you waited. And waited. And waited.
Yet, your husband never came. The candles began to die as you laied on the makeshift bed and the only thoughts in your head were, Where is he? Shouldn't he be here? Wasn't this supposed to be our wedding night? Does he not find me attractive? You couldn't understand why they were swarming in your mind. You shouldn't be concerned whether or not a man you were forcefully wed to liked you.
You awoke the next morning to the rustling and murmuring of the men around the camp. The smell of porridge cooking had your stomach growling.
Elina and Alba, your ladies maids, found their way into your tent with breakfast, apologizing for not attending to you the night before.
"We thought to leave you and your husband be," they said, cheeks tinged pink at the implication.
"Your efforts were in vain, ladies, for he left quite abruptly after unfastening me from my wedding gown." You replied between bites of your porridge.
"How peculiar," Alba hummed. "Usually, men can't wait to get to the marriage bed; they always want an heir sooner rather than later."
You gasp at her forwardness before laughing softly; you had never known her to speak so forwardly.
"I believe I overheard a few of the men whispering around the fire earlier that the Prince had forgone supper and was acting out of sorts after leaving your tent. Are you sure nothing happened?" Elina asked.
"Yes, I'm sure. All he did was help me undress, and then he left, before anything could have happened."
You didn't catch the look the two women gave each other before starting to gather your garments for the day.
After having dressed, your tent was taken down, and you were again ushered into the carriage, only this time, your husband did not accompany you. Instead, he sat stoically atop a striking dapple grey steed.
He was so alluring, you couldn't bear to take your eyes off him even as the long journey began. The way he moved in rhythm with his horse became your entertainment in the boredom of the carriage box. You admired his hair as the sun shone upon it, bringing out the gold and copper tones, and imagined your fingers running through the tresses.
The curve of his lower back and the broadness of his shoulders completely captivated your attention. Your mind wandered to places it shouldn't have, explicit thoughts, unbecoming thoughts.
"What are you doing?" You shake your head, clearing the visions. "This man has murdered people, and here you are gawking at him like a Christmas roast."
Later on, the night progressed much the same as the night before, only your ladies' maids helped you undress.
Around midday on the third day of travel, your new home came into view.
Large and imposing with its spires slicing into the clear sky, and yet it was beautiful, magnificent. It was larger than any estate you had ever laid eyes upon. The stone itself seems to have been carved in the foot of the mountain behind it, leaving the western side a sheer cliff to the lake below.
Once the carriage stopped, the Prince opened the door, offering you his hand as you stepped down.
"Thank you, my lord."
He nodded curtly before speaking. "I am sure you are tired; allow me to walk you to your rooms."
You couldn't help the small smile that bloomed on your lips. "Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you."
Again, as you followed behind him upstairs and through twisting corridors, you became distracted by his straight posture and poised shoulders—enough so that you almost collided with him as he came to a stop.
He opened a heavy, creaking door and motioned for you to enter before him. The room beyond was beautiful. Red velvet curtains hung at every window, matching the duvet, a lovely contrast to the dark wood furniture and light stone walls.
You turned to him, still standing in the threshold. "This is wonderful.
"I'm glad it is to your tastes." A small smile crossed his lips. "I'll leave you then, let you rest."
As he turned to go, you called out to him. You hadn't been able to push from your mind the fact that he hadn't once tried to consummate the marriage or what Elina had said the day prior.
"I- my lord, am I not desirable to you?" You were surprised at your emboldened words.
He turned, an eyebrow raised in question. "What do you mean?"
"We have been married for two full days, and you have not once…" You couldn't bring yourself to say it out loud.
"Ah. Yes." He took two long strides and was standing before you, his heat penetrating your skin. "Contrary to the beliefs of many, I am no brute. I will not touch you unless you ask it of me."
His words left you dumbfounded, and your preconceived notions of him started to crumble.
Several days later, you were taking a stroll through the gardens alone when you heard heavy footsteps on the ground.
"Hello," you smiled at him, and he gave you one back. You had learned rather quickly that he was a man of few words, but all that needed to be said shone through his eyes, like a fathomless ocean.
"Would you like to help me pick flowers? I'm making a crown." You held up your half-finished flower crown to him.
He reached out and touched one of the delicate petals. "I would love to."
You tasked him with holding your pickings until you had enough to finish the crown you were working on and to make another. He sat with you on the cool grass as you wove the stems together
"What is your favorite flower?" His voice softly broke the silence.
You thought for a moment before speaking. "I'm fond of Snowdrops. I haven't seen any in the garden, but there's still time for them to bloom."
The Prince only hummed in response.
"Do you have a favorite?"
"I haven't thought about it," he answered.
"Well," you look at the two finished flower crowns in your lap, "tell me when you have."
Standing to your feet, you placed a crown gently upon each of your heads before returning to the castle.
The next morning, you awoke to a vase filled with snowdrops greeting you on your nightstand.
You couldn't pinpoint the exact moment you began to fall for your husband, but as you sat across the informal dining table from him, you felt a warm tug in your heart. It had taken a while before your dinners were spent here rather than the extravagant dining room, where you both sat awkwardly at either end of the long table, taking sneaking glances at the other.
Now you were in a private parlor, seated only an arm's length away, enjoying food you could only describe as heavenly. Roasted chicken cooked to perfection with a variety of vegetables, breads, and fruits—but there was one thing you did not recognize. The dish was white; you could tell there were layers to it, but what you did not know, and pomegranate seeds were sprinkled atop.
The man in front of you, perceptive as ever, noticed your eyes examining the dessert. "Try some. It is good."
"I'm not sure I want to." You reply, unsure. "I haven't a clue what this is; we have nothing like it where I am from, my lord."
He rolls his eyes and scoots the dish toward you. "Eat it."
"I don't think so, no, thank you." You try to push it back to him.
"Then close your eyes."
"What?"
"I said close your eyes. Trust me."
Eyeing him wearily, you shut your eyes. You hear a stenciled scrape against a serving dish.
"Please, open your mouth."
Reluctantly, you did as told, and when you did, you were met with an interesting flavor. Sweet and milky with the slightest hint of rose, followed by the crunchy texture of slightly ground pistachios.
Opening your eyes, your husband is staring right at you, his eyebrows lifted, waiting for a response.
"That's actually really good," you express, and you reach for your own spoon to take another bite. "What is this called?"
"Güllaç. It comes from the Ottomans, and is one of the only fond memories that come from my time spent in the empire." His eyes darkened at the mention of the ever-looming Ottoman Empire.
You knew from stories what might have happened, what he could be thinking about. So you reached over and touched his hand, running your thumb over the back. "If it brings you pain to think of, please, don't relive it on my behalf, my lord."
"You are most kind… I believe I will retire. Good night." He kissed the back of your hand in goodbye as he stood abruptly and exited the room, leaving you with your hand tingling where his lips touched and wondering if he was alright.
Two nights after, you found your husband in the library, book in hand, lounging by the fire. He looked so peaceful as his eyes scanned the pages. You wondered what he was reading.
His eyes flickered to where you stood barely in the room and then back to the book. You took that as your cue to make your way to him, sitting in the chair next to his. The fire cracked, fending off the night chill.
You watched him for a good five minutes before he spoke. "You are staring."
Heat crept up your neck as you blushed. "I'm sorry, my lord, I was just admiring."
Looking up at you, he snapped his book closed and placed it on the table between the two of you. "I do have a name, you know," he said seriously.
"Yes, I know that."
"Then, I would prefer if my wife used it from time to time."
You smirked at him. "Only if you do the same, Vlad."
And he did, he said your name. It made butterflies erupt in your stomach. How could your name, the one your mother shrieked when you were in trouble or your father said with greed as he signed your life away, make you react this way? The way it rolled off his tongue like a prayer had you swooning, thankful that you were seated and not standing on shaky knees.
When you went to sleep, you dreamt of all the other ways your name would sound coming off his lips.
The next morning, you woke early, the sun barely peaking into the valley. The quiet footsteps of the servants that sounded off the rock walls let you know that the castle was wide awake, preparing for the day.
Slowly, you clambered drowsily out of bed, shivering at the cool morning air. Faint glowing embers shone through the ash in the fireplace, the minuscule emittance of heat not enough to reach you from feet away.
With shaking hands, you grabbed your dressing down, wrapping it around you snuggly.
Your slippers made soft thwacks against the flagstones as you walked aimlessly through the castle, letting your heart guide you. Before you knew it, you were outside and were met with the sound of metal ringing. As you ventured closer to the source of the sound, you began to hear muffled grunts.
'What could be happening at this time of morning?' You thought.
Turning a corner, you were met with the source. Vlad stood before some contraption made of wood, his sword in hand, chest bare. Your eyes examined him, watched each precise movement he made. It was like watching a dancer perform, entrancing.
He wasn't big and corded with muscle, but you could tell he was strong with the way he held himself upright and the amount of power behind each slice and lunge.
You couldn't help the flutter in your stomach, and you couldn't stop it as it traveled further down.
The rising sun brought along better light to which you were able to see the sweat covering his pale and freckled skin.
Your heart began to beat faster, and your legs crossed. A frisson of excitement could be felt in the warming morning air.
Vlad continued his training, oblivious to your audience or how his ragged breaths made saliva pool in your mouth and sent a pang to your core.
You wanted to touch him, dig your nails into the soft skin of his back, and have him take you hard and animal-like. You had to have him now, and you would.
When he finally lets his sword rest, you stroll to him, swaying your hips just enough. When he spotted you, his eyes trailed your body in its state of undress, lingering on the swell of your hips in the fine fabric before locking on your own.
"Good morning," you spoke, voice soft.
"Good morning," he smiled back. "You're up early."
Wrapping your arms around yourself your you spoke, "I was cold."
"I can send for someone to relight your hearth."
Shaking your head, you placed a hand on his bicep. Your heart skipped a beat when it sent a tingle up your arm.
Looking at him through hooded eyes, you bit your lip anxiously, clearly nervous about what you were going to suggest. "There are other ways to warm up."
Vlad's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles going white.
"Are you-"
"Yes." You were never more sure about anything in your life. You couldn't wait any longer.
Slowly, he stepped forward, and you took one back. He cocked an eyebrow at you, and you just grinned a wicked grin before turning on a dime and sprinting to the castle. "Catch me!" You called out, stooping briefly at the threshold to see if he was following. He was, and at top speed.
Screaming in excitement, you bolted down the hall, almost crashing into a group of servants as you rounded a corner. "Sorry!" you yelled after them, not stopping lest he apprehend you before reaching the bedroom.
While climbing the stairs two by two, you tripped over your nightgown, causing you to stumble slightly. You could hear Vlad bounding up behind you, gaining on you quickly. Swiftly, you regained your composure and raced for the door. You could just see him down the corridor, gaining on you.
You were almost to the door when he grabbed your wrist and pushed you against the wall. You shrieked in joy. His lips were parted, letting his heavy breaths escape, mingling with your own.
"Vlad…." Your chest heaved against his own.
His eyes were dark, void of that bright blue you were so used to seeing. They flickered from your gaze to your lips over and over, making you dizzy. Finally, before it was too much to take, he surged in and kissed you. His lips were warm and soft against your own. Hands roamed your body, scrunching in your night gown, groping for anything they could.
goosebumps appeared on your skin when his hand drifted up and lingered at your neck. You leaned into it, the feeling of him, wanting him, needing him to put pressure.
"My Prince-" a yelp severed your sentence. He was lifting you into your arms and carrying you through the door to your room, all without breaking the kiss.
You were only parted when your husband gently tossed you to the sheets. It was overwhelming, the lust you felt for him in this moment. It was almost paralyzing.
"I have waited for you to say those words to me for weeks. Have wanted you in silence; I could barely keep my hands to myself. You are a temptress, a succubus, and I will gladly fall to ruin for you."
He stepped into your open legs, pushing your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side, exposing you.
You barely noticed your nakedness, all you knew was that you wanted him then and there, you disnt care how, as long as he touched you. "Please, please, I need to feel you." You pleaded, hips grinding into the air.
"Be patient, my Beloved, I will give you what you desire in time." He said as he fell to his knees, large hands caressing your skin, pulling you closer to him, and settling your legs over his shoulders. The air from his mouth cooled the wetness at your core.
Vlad let out an eager groan before licking his lips, like a lion about to devour its prey. In a single, fluid motion, he placed his mouth upon your center. The gasp that escaped you quickly turned into an uncontrollable moan when he began to softly suck. Your hands shot to his hair, gripping onto the strands for dear life. It had never felt like this, not when you had touched yourself.
His teeth nipped greedily at the sensitive nub until your hips bucked and strained against his hold. Your breath hitched and caught in your throat when a pang of arousal echoed through you.
Your legs snapped closed around his head, his low growl vibrating against you. His fingers gripped the tops of your thighs, but he did not loosen them; he only dove into you deeper, plunging his tongue into your opening.
"Oh- ahh." You threw your head back, closing your eyes tight. You could feel that spark, the growing electric feeling deep within your bones. He was bringing you to the very precipice of your being.
His tongue coaxed and teased until you finally gave way, body tensing in his grasp. Pulling your legs away from his head, he leaned up only slightly so that he could speak. "Look at me."
You shook your head in answer.
"Look at me. I want you to look at me." He punctuated his sentence with a sloppy kiss to the inside of your thigh.
Giving in, you propped yourself up, shakily, onto your elbows and gazed at him with lidded eyes.
Vlad kept contact with your stare as he sank back onto you like a man starved. The intensity of the moment, of being watched as you fell apart, had you coming undone in a matter of seconds.
He licked you through the shockwaves, pulling strained moans from your swollen lips.
Breathless, you stared at the canopy above your bed. "That was…" You didn't know where to start, how to describe what you had just been through.
Taking his time, Vlad crept back up your body, his hands began to move, sliding across your curves, fingers tracing over the flare of your ribs as you took a deep breath in. The warmth of his pals as he cupped your breasts had you sighing. His thumbs passed over your sensitive peaks, causing them to pebble in his wake.
"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," he breathed, voice filled with reverence. Leaning down, he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your breasts, tongue flicking over your hardened bud.
Pressing his body to yours, you could feel the evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers. Wanton need built up inside, emboldening you as your hand inched its way down to undo the ties of his pants. Before you could unlace them completely, Vlad stopped you.
"I told you, have patience. I don't want to hurt you." He muttered, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, nipping at your pulse point.
"But I need you so much, so I feel like I might die," you bemoan dramatically.
He only chuckles, "You'll have me soon enough."
With a fervent motion of his hand, Vlad pushed the waist of his trousers down his hips, exposing himself. Your eyes widened at the sight, and your breathing became ragged as he slipped himself past your folds into your aching center.
The stretch wasn't painful, only slightly uncomfortable. As he sank into you deeper and deeper, the pressure built. Your legs wrapped around him, urging him further into you.
"Yes, my love, my prince, yes- ahh," you keened, shuddering as he bottomed out.
Vlad's right hand cupped your thigh while the left tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you in to kiss him. "I want nothing more than to map your body in kisses, learn every secret, sensitive spot that brings a moan to your lips and causes your body to writhe."
His mouth barely left yours, locked together like you were his lifeline, tethering him to this plane of existence.
Your fingers clawed at the expanse of his back, no doubt leaving long, red marks as a testament to your ecstasy.
"Move," you whine, "I need you to move."
Vlad obliged, slowly beginning to rock his hips. Your own rolling to meet the shallow thrusts. Moans mingled in the air shared between you.
He sat up onto his knees and grabbed your waist. From this angle, the thrusts were more intense. You could feel him better this way, punching into you.
"Faster," you begged him, needing to find release from the throbbing ache building inside you.
"I don't want to hurt you." He rasped.
Shaking your head, you cry out, "You won't, my love, you won't hurt me."
He studied you for a moment before gripping your hips and pistoning in and out.
The room might have been cold when you awoke, but now it was stifling hot. Sweat was beading across both your foreheads and where skin touched skin.
A chorus of grunts, groans, and whimpers echoed through the room as he began to rut into you.
And then, it was like something snapped within you. Your cries became louder and your back arched off the bed. "I- I'm-" you stutter out, hand reaching for him.
He locks his finger's with your own. "I know." The rhythm of his thrusts begins to falter, "I am as well."
With one last drive, you came undone, body shuddering rapture. Vlad wasn't far behind, spilling himself into you.
Exhausted, you both lay there, catching your breath. As you came down from your high, the room began to feel cold once again. Vlad noticed you shivering and pulled you into him before covering you both with the duvet.
His fingers played with your hair, pulling you into a blissful sleep, but before falling into slumber, a voice kept you.
"You," Vlad says before kissing your lips.
"What?" You ask with confusion etched on your face.
"You," he says once more, his fingers caressing your face. "In the garden, you asked me what my favorite flower was… It's you."
Thank you for reading, everyone! Please take the time to like, reblog, and comment! It is really encouraging to read all of your reactions!
My inbox is open for requests or just to chat! Here are my rules for requests!
I don't normally do a taglist, but @nebulastarr asked nicely, and I thought I'd oblige this one time 💗
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: nobody notices him - until she does. now, michael can’t get her out of his head. he has to have her.
𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: fem!reader, vampire!michael, obsessed!michael, SMUT (DUBCON due to HYPNOSIS and BLOOD LOSS, blood kink, biting kink, afab!reader, creampies, overstimulation [m], cunnilingus, cum eating), stalking, murder, gore, abduction (?), third person (michael's) pov
𝗮/𝗻: This fic has been kicking my butt for a week and I'm relatively satisfied with it. I wanted to get it out before the new year. (fun fact: new years is my second favorite holiday and not even because it's an excuse to drink. I just like new beginnings. and January.) Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
music; more music
Few pains were worse than hunger but the thirst would drive him mad.
Michael clutched his sides, wishing he could squeeze the ache into oblivion. Less people came out as the days grew colder which meant infrequent meals. And, when he could eat, it was garbage. A week passed since his last meal and unless he wanted to eat rats - which he didn’t - Michael had to hunt.
He swayed. His shoulder scraped the grubby brick wall. The rats barely evaded his heavy, uncoordinated steps. Vermin flocked to him when the hunger pains started. It was a pheromone thing. It overrode all sense of self preservation and urged them to come. Satisfy. Tame the beast.
Michael grit his teeth and nudged them away.
The alley opened onto a lamplit street, slick from earlier’s downpour. The skies would open up again soon. Michael smelled it. The metallic stench of ozone smothered him. A wintry wind scattered garbage across the blacktop like tumbleweeds. He shivered and pulled his damp Carhartt tighter around him. He might not die from the cold but it didn’t mean it wasn’t uncomfortable.
The barren sidewalk was a blow to his hollow stomach. The empty aquarium windows of each sad sagging storefront made it seem like a ghost town. Their flickering neon signs pathetically begged the air for customers to gorge on, but just like Michael, they couldn’t conjure prey from thin air.
A rat squeaked and Michael eyed it, then crammed his hands into his pockets before he did something stupid.
Minutes passed, maybe hours, when a man finally lumbered past Michael. The glow of a cigarette blazed between his weathered lips. A fraying ball cap covered a greying rat tail that twined down the man’s bulging neck. He smelled like clothes that had been left in the washing machine for too long and piss. His blood would taste like dishwater and still Michael’s mouth watered.
Michael gripped the rough edge of the alley for support, wiping syrupy strings of drool from his lower lip when a door slammed open beside him. Michael toppled out from the shadows and landed on the sidewalk like a jackass. Peals of laughter spilled from the bar - and even if Michael knew it wasn’t because of him, he seethed. The desolate streets echoed with their noxious howls, (was anything ever that funny?), making his head throb.
Michael glowered at the thing that startled him.
A girl.
Well, a woman.
The bar’s tawny light cast a halo around the fluff of hair spilling out of her knitted cap. She reeked of cheap beer and tobacco, though Michael couldn’t tell if that’s what she imbibed in or if it was a byproduct of being in that bar. Regardless, she was drunk. You don’t stumble out of a bar with glazed eyes if you weren’t.
Her rosy grin fell on him as the door squeaked shut.
"You okay?" she giggled, like he was another bum who had one too many.
Michael clamped his mouth shut. The wind rustled past her, blowing away the barfly stench and bringing him something much sweeter. God, was that her?
Her blood smelled like every good thing Michael ever had - which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot. It was Thanksgiving and Christmas rolled into one; a Sunday roast on a Friday afternoon; an oasis amid the desert. Succulent. Ripe. Perfect. His stomach actually growled.
She didn’t wait for an answer and bent down, offering two appetizing wrists for him to sink his teeth in.
Michael had to be hallucinating. Meals never presented themselves to him. The wafer-thin skin stretched over thick, pulsating veins would practically melt in his mouth once he bit down. His throat burned with anticipation of the gobs of steaming blood he’d suck down.
And then he realized she was probably waiting for his hands, not his fangs.
Michael could have stood on his own, but he didn’t. He didn’t even try to drag her to the ground even though he could have - easily - but hunger made him stupid. It felt rude to reject her.
Her human warmth seeped into his fingers and he sucked in a breath. It was like plunging his hand in fire.
Her lips pushed into an ‘o.’ "You’re freezing."
Michael hunched to protect his cavity of a belly. Greasy strands of hair fell over his eyes as he inched into the light.
People weren’t like rats. They could sense that Michael was wrong, especially when he hadn’t fed for a while. Their pupils shrank. They scrunched their noses like they smelled something foul. Crossed the street as quickly as they could. Refused to meet his gaze. It was a primal instinct that kept them alive and away from him.
Even drunks could sense it in their muddled minds, so Michael waited for her to skitter back. Now that she could see him in all his wretched glory, she’d put up a fight. He just hoped he wouldn’t lose a substantial amount of her blood in the process, but he wasn’t above licking cement if he needed to.
Instead, she stared up at him with twinkling eyes. Her pupils were as swollen as ever. Her lips stayed quizzically parted. She reached for her neck and unwound her lilac scarf. She tossed it over his shoulders.
"Stay warm," she slurred and walked away.
She didn’t run. Didn’t back up or pull out a cellphone and pretend to talk to someone. Just … walked. Well, stumbled. Semantics.
Michael stayed rooted in place, under that dingy lamp’s ray with a rapidly cooling scarf draped over his chest. It stood out against the beige, black, and grey he draped himself in. Realistically, it wouldn’t do a damn thing since he didn’t have a working heart, but the smell … The smell was everything. He grazed his fingers over the hem of the scarf and felt - odd.
Across the street, something clattered to the ground. Michael whipped his head around. It was the man from before, cursing like a sailor as he stooped for his zippo. Michael’s lip curled.
He was right. The man’s blood tasted vile but it quelled the gnawing emptiness. Michael wiped his bloodied mouth on the corpse’s sleeve and dragged him behind the dumpster. A gust of wind blew through the alley and Michael’s new scarf fluttered. Somehow, he managed not to stain it. Michael brought the scrap of fabric to his nose and inhaled. Heat seeped through him. He could have written it off as a full belly if the tingle hadn’t settled in his chest.
Michael stole the corpse’s hat, (not like he was going to need it anymore) and pulled it low over his brow.
Finding her was easy with a scent to guide him. She hadn’t gone far, still wobbling woozily down the streets. He wondered why she hadn’t called a cab or a friend. It’s what most people would have done in her place. Any one who cared about her would be horrified that she was alone like this. Worse, she didn’t even realize she was being followed. Dangerous things came out at night - he should know - but she didn’t have a care in the world.
They reached a cluster of tall brick buildings and she staggered up the stairs of one of them. Michael crept over the useless fence hedging the grass. It wasn’t tall enough to keep a dog out, let alone him. Moments later, a light came on in a downstairs window. Michael peered through the glass and that strange, fuzzy feeling returned.
He smiled.
Michael didn't think of it as stalking. It was curiosity; a glimpse of the life he could have had if it weren't for his father.
The girl never closed her curtains all the way. (More proof of her painful naivety.) And Michael never watched anything inappropriate. He just ... watched.
He learned her favorite colors. Her favorite show (a crappy Dark Shadows rip-off). The music she liked. Her name. Her affinity for being pants-less when alone. How, sometimes, she spoke to herself. That she had a stuffed animal she snuggled when she slept.
Everything in her little world was an invitation: the coziness of her shoebox apartment, the slouch of her leather couch, the old coffee table and crimson lampshade whose beads swayed when she walked past it. Her apricity brought him ... comfort? A snapshot of a simple life, bleeding buttery gold and umber. Nothing at all like the amaranthine chill of eternity. Her scent leached through the window, giving him what her scarf no longer could. He siphoned sniffs of it from the air like an orphan outside a bakery.
God, her scent ...
It could start and finish wars. He found himself dreaming about it during the day and fiending for it at night. A feast fit for a king.
Michael wasn't a king, though. He was barely a peasant. And his nights fantasizing about a meal he couldn't even reach cut into valuable hunting time.
Watching her was an act of self harm, but it was also the antiseptic. He'd tried to forget her. Really. Stayed away for a whole week, camped out in his dismal abandoned building with its leaky roof and stained cement floors. Michael had never been so depressed. At least here, at her apartment, he could forget reality.
She pranced around her kitchen, glancing away from her skillet to the answering machine. Michael thought - not for the first time - if he had her number, he would have called. Of course, he'd need a phone first ...
She decided to wear actual pants tonight. Denim. Loose. Good at hiding the assets Michael came to look forward to. But she made up for it by wearing the world's tightest tank top. Black. The skinny strips of fabric criss crossed with the maroon straps of her bra. It painted a picture so vivid, Michael could feel the heft of her breasts in his palms.
Her hips swayed to the song on her radio, something with a deep, pounding bass that screamed fuck me. Even her hair was done.
She tapped her spatula on the rim of her pan and checked the phone again. She captured her lip between her teeth and, as if gaining the confidence she needed, she grabbed the receiver like a liferaft.
"Hey! I was just checking if you'd left yet. If you haven't, d'you think you could pick up a video-" She could have babbled on forever. She might have, if an invisible gag hadn't fit itself between her teeth. Michael leaned toward the glass as her smile melted. "Oh."
If Michael's heart beat, it would have clenched at the pain in her voice.
"No...! No, no worries. I totally- yeah, no, totally understand. Maybe we can-?"
She cut herself off. Her throat bobbed. Shoulders sagged. Without another word, she put the phone back in its cradle and stared at the meal simmering on her stove. Poked the food dejectedly with her spatula. Sniffled.
"Fuck," she whispered. Michael pressed his fingers to the cruel pane of glass separating them. "Get a fucking grip."
She marched the length of the counter, massaging her temples. Then, she disappeared into her bedroom. When she re-emerged, she wore a pair of sweatpants: loose, grey, and paint-speckled. She'd taken the bra off and Michael's eyes bugged out of his skull. But even a see through tank top couldn't quell the ugly knot of thorns strangling his ribs.
Michael huffed. Dropped his gaze and stared at his muddy boots until the urge to kill ebbed to a manageable level. Every fiber of his being throbbed with a wrongness. He'd felt pain before but this was something entirely different.
It wasn't the first time Michael watched others disappoint her. A phone that never rang with an answering machine that stayed empty. The only letters in her mailbox were junk advertisements and the occasional postcard from her parents. She even kept her cell charged just in case someone texted. They never did.
She wiped her tears before they were fully realized and turned the radio off. Michael ground his teeth until his jaw threatened to crack in two. She retrieved her tupperware and dumped half her meal into it, haphazardly plating the other half on her chipped plate.
Quietly, she sunk into her couch so low her head threatened to disappear behind the edge and began to eat. She didn't reach for the remote.
It was an acute loneliness Michael was all too familiar with.
No one in her life knew what they had. They were careless gods dumping a loving flame into a jar with a tight lid. Her, with her life-giving smiles. Her kindness ... None of them deserved her. Even a monster like Michael could see that. Someone less fortunate would kill to bask in her light even for a second and they squandered it.
"Excuse me?"
A voice - not hers - broke Michael from his trance.
"Excuse me?"
He glanced over his shoulder and found a woman standing on the illuminated sidewalk. Blonde. Tanned. Glowering at him like Michael was something she'd stepped in. She clutched the leash of a yippie, crusty little dog who bared its needle-like teeth at him.
The stranger drew herself up. The dog growled.
"What do you think you're doing?" She all-but shouted. "Why are you watching that girl?"
Any louder and it would surely bring unwanted attention, which was exactly what she wanted: to shame Michael. Force him to run like a pervert caught with his pants down.
Michael wasn't a pervert but he had started to drool.
When was the last time he ate? A week? Two?
"You're not supposed to be here." The woman enunciated each reproachful syllable.
You think I don't know that? Michael wanted to shout. He couldn't open his mouth without releasing a torrent of saliva, and that would have really been embarrassing.
His stomach gurgled.
The stranger's blood was the best thing Michael drank in a long time. The healthiest, too. Still, it ... lacked something vital. It wasn't Hers.
Michael dumped the corpse behind the rose bushes. The dog vanished to god knew where. He wiped his chin clean and licked the remnants off his fingers, staring up at the sky. There wasn't a moon. The clouds congealed in a thick spread, blotting out all heavenly light.
His girl wouldn't be some gas station snack. No. When Michael got his hands on her, he'd savor her. Every lick. Every drop. Every clot. She was a meal. Something to enjoy over hours, possibly beyond tht.
Michael tried to shove that thought away, but it kept cropping up from the moment he'd seen her. Post-meal, it sounded like the best idea in the world. The only thing that made sense. Michael would cherish her. He wouldn't leave her in the dirt. He wouldn't drain her in one go. Michael would listen to her. Talk to her, even. Laugh with her. Bask in her light the way no one else did. He'd make sure she was never crippled by loneliness ever again.
He would become Prometheus.
Stealing her was easier said than done, especially after the serial killer rumors started.
In Michael's defense, he wasn't used to pacing himself. He had never had a steady stream of meals right at his fingertips, so he usually gorged himself when the opportunity arose.
The apartment complex was an excellent flytrap. His girl had nosy neighbors pouring out the door, each one itching to tell him off like a bad dog. Michael got careless. He even knocked off a security guard and a cop. Their fault. Honest. But, Michael learned his lesson, and forced himself to get better at hiding his nightly visits.
It didn't undo the damage he'd done.
Michael didn't think she was scared. Sure, she glanced over her shoulder more often and got stricter about the gap of her curtains, but she seemed normal. That was, until it was eight o'clock and she still hadn't appeared. He stayed by the window, cutting more and more frown lines as the minutes passed.
When she appeared, she wasn't alone.
Michael recognized the man's face. He was a neighbor. A painfully oblivious asshole named Peter. Michael only knew that because the endless stream of girls crooned his name like a broken fucking record. Peter! Oh, Peter, you jerk! Peter, you're so handsome! Peter, stop it!
Michael left ol' Petey alone because his head was stuck up his ass, too blinded by cleavage and ass to notice his lurking. Now, though? With the way Peter leaned against his girl's doorframe with an oil-slick smile, Michael wish he tore his throat out months ago.
That ugly feeling returned.
Michael wasn't jealous. No way. It was the same feeling he used to get at the breakfast table when his siblings stole the last blueberry muffin even though they didn't like blueberries and Michael did. They did it unthinkingly. Selfishly. Uncaring of who the muffin was meant for.
Peter overstepped.
His girl giggled. Michael couldn't see her face from this angle, but he's sure her star-like eyes were fixed on Peter's unworthy face like he'd hung the moon.
"You sure you're fine by yourself tonight?" Peter asked.
Michael would be well within his rights to break the window and rip Peter's head off.
"Yeah," she said.
"You're not lying to me so I'll leave, are you?"
"No," she laughed. Her hair bounced as she shook her head. Michael heard her heart quicken. "Promise. And I'm sorry about-"
"Don't mention it," Peter cut in. "I think we're all on edge."
Michael's frown deepened. What did that mean?
She turned her face ever so slightly and Michael caught sight of the tear tracks and puffy eyes.
"And, if you get scared or hear anything," Peter continued, soft. Michael saw red. "You know where to find me. I won't let some killer get to you."
She nodded shyly and said her goodbies, shutting the door behind her. Michael pressed his back against the cold stone wall and ran a hand over his face. Even though he didn't need to breathe, he couldn't catch his breath.
What the fuck had he done?
Michael hit himself and dug at his chest where his frozen heart wasn't beating. He hadn't messed up this bad since ...
... Well, it had been a while.
Peter made himself a nuisance, which is how Michael found himself outside the bar where he first met his girl. A few curious rats poked their heads around the corner, sniffing him. Gauging if the beast was hungry.
Michael was hungry. Dangerously so. After a month of a full belly, returning to the old ways was slowly killing him. Michael could handle hunger. What he couldn't stomach was leaving her alone with him.
The bar didn't have any windows - they'd bricked them up years ago - so Michael's only option was to go inside. Waiting wasn't an option. Not when Peter could be in there, running his hands over Michael's property.
The word WELCOME painted on the cement stoop was scuffed from years of service, but it did the trick. Michael opened the door.
The stench of sweat, piss, and smoke overwhelmed him. There was blood, too - oh, god, there was blood - but it smelled as pleasant as wet dog. Watery blood, drug ladened blood, even cancerous blood from bodies in slow death. The sort of blood Michael used to choke down without complaint. His belly growled low in warning, but Michael kept his head low and held his breath.
The bar's wood paneled walls had seen better days. The planks that weren't stained or smashed were outright missing, revealing its rusty rebar guts. Old, greasy men in their old, greasy clothes haunted the pool tables and dart boards. Some were leathery. Some gaunt. Pinched noses and sun-mottled gizzards and crooked greying teeth. The same decay reflected on each and every one of them.
Tucked in the very back of the room was his sunlight.
She braced her elbows on the sticky plastic tabletop and spoke animatedly, “… And so he insists that the baby isn’t his, but it’s so obvious that it is his son, and Clara is stronger than me for putting up with his bullshit -“
Peter was too preoccupied with ogling the bartender's ass as she delivered their drinks to acknowledge.
Nothing would stop Michael from marching over and popping Peter's eyes out of his sockets. No one would even know what happened. By the time they did, Michael could have feasted at his own all-you-can-eat buffet and used the empty bottles as take-home containers.
Instead, Michael skulked toward the bar and pulled out a few crumpled bills he'd taken from his last meal. The bartender didn't noticed the discolored edges, nor did she ask for Michael's ID. The people previously sitting around him conveniently migrated elsewhere.
Michael pretended to nurse his beer as he observed her. She was still talking. Peter still ignored her, turning his attention to the dartboard. What was the point of taking her out if he wasn't going to pretend to be interested?
Well, Michael knew, but he didn't want to think about it.
Abruptly, Peter turned his attention toward her and his hand fell from the table to her thigh. She stilled. Peter leaned in way too close - if he kissed her, Michael would have said fuck it ripped his tongue out.
Instead, he whispered in her ear. "I'll be right back. 'Kay?"
She nodded.
Peter went outside, leaving her all by herself at that rickety table.
Michael swallowed. His girl sunk into her chair and stared at her lap. He could go up to her. In a perfect world, he would have. He'd stride over and say something quippy and she would laugh and forget all about fucking Peter.
But Michael was a realist. He knew the reaction he'd get. He needed to bide his time until the golden opportunity presented itself. Then, he would be ready and nothing would go wrong.
Michael left his bottle at the bar and slipped out the front door, back into the bitter night. Peter stood in the alley, muttering a litany of profanity as he rummaged through his pockets. He noticed Michael.
"Got a light?" he asked. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
"Yeah."
Michael fished the zippo from his pocket and passed it over.
Peter grunted. His way of saying 'thank you,' Michael supposed.
Michael leaned against the opposite wall, keeping his fists safe within his jacket pockets. The alley seemed dirtier than the last time he'd been in it. Bits of faded police tape littered the cracked pavement. They found the body. Funny. If they hadn't, Michael could have given Peter a good scare.
Michael cleared his throat. "What are you doing with that girl in there?"
Peter's eyes flicked toward him. Fire danced in his pupils. He passed the lighter back and sucked on the cigarette until the cherry glowed orange.
"Pussy's pussy."
Peter expected Michael to laugh, but all he managed was a tight smile. His rage roiled, that he could be mistaken for a run of the mill sleazebag like him. It clearly irked the man because he narrowed his eyes.
"Why?" Peter goaded. "You interested, bub?" He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth and scoffed. "She's kinda annoying, but she's desperate. If you're into that."
Michael's jaw twitched.
Then, Peter added, "I guess she's cute in a plain-ish way."
"Mh."
Michael had been twisting the lighter in his pocket, desperate for a distraction, but his hand cinched around it. The plastic cracked and fluid oozed between his fingers.
"Nice tits, though."
Michael's grin reached its limit. "Really?"
"You didn't notice?"
Michael wouldn't answer that. He cocked his head to the side, humming. "I was more curious about what she saw in you."
"'Scuse me?"
Michael shrugged. His gums pounded like a second heartbeat. His fangs cut into his tongue. "Trash winds up in the gutter one way or another."
"The fuck does that-"
Those were pathetic last words, but Michael didn't have it in him to let Peter finish.
His blood was repulsive. A single drop of it on Michael's tongue was enough to make him gag. Most blood was too precious to waste, but Peter's needed to be dumped. So, Michael ripped his neck open and let it gush to the ground. He sunk his sharp nails into Peter's flesh and ripped, piece by piece, chunk by chunk. The stupid fuck was lucky Michael let it go on this long.
Michael loomed over the remaining gore puddle, unsatisfied. Sure, Peter didn't exist anymore, but his memory remained. Every disgusting word he'd ever spoken to Michael's girl lingered in her mind. Every touch. Every lie he fed to her. He was as alive as ever, and it burned through him like a wildfire.
The softest hitch of a breath caused Michael to whip his head to the side.
There she stood. His angel. Mitten-clad hands clasped over her mouth, eyes wide with horror.
"No," Michael rasped.
She stumbled back, but Michael was on her in a blink. He shoved her against the grimey brick as she swung at him. Her arm glanced off him with little impact. He covered her mouth, hand damp with that loser's blood, which didn't help the whole not-screaming thing.
"No, no, no, please!" It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not today. Not now. Fuck! "Why did you have to come outside?"
Michael said her name and her eyebrows pulled together in utter confusion. Bad plan. Her muffled shrieks resumed and she thrashed against him, not that she would ever be strong enough to fight him off.
"Stop squirming," he hissed. "Look at me."
She didn't want to, but humans were stupidly easy. In trying not to obey, her eyes locked onto his for a fraction of a second and that was all it took to seize control.
Her shoulders slackened. Eyes glazed like a piece of taxidermy.
Michael rarely compelled people. They didn't let him get close enough to try. Besides, Michael didn’t want mindless puppets. He wouldn’t have done it if there was another way, but his options were limited and he had to stop her before she hurt herself.
"I would never hurt you." Michael couldn't keep his voice strong. Her terror had cut him deep. "You're - you're the only thing that matters, okay? Peter didn't care about you. You should have heard the - the vile things he said. He wasn't a good man. I would never forgive myself if I just stood aside and let him-"
Michael shook his head. He was babbling, and she didn't need to hear that.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "But please, don't be scared of me."
She blinked her doll-like eyes with slow understanding. He let his hand slide off her mouth. A red, malformed handprint streaked across her chin. Michael stroked her jaw and it was like hovering a hand over an open flame.
"Who are you?" she asked in hushed tones.
He swallowed thickly. "Michael."
It registered to her with that molasses slowness, like someone coming out of anesthesia. A light flicked on in her head.
“Michael.” She sang his name like a hymn. “You’re all messy.”
She wiped her mittens over his mouth, trying to wipe Peter from his cheeks. Her mouthwatering scent wafted toward him and Michael swallowed a moan. He forced himself to stay still despite every fiber of his being begging to have a taste.
"I don't think this is working," she said, half joking. But she was right. It wouldn't help.
"It's - you don't have to," he said.
"Well, you can't go back in looking like that."
She gestured to him, like he was splattered with beer instead of viscera. She sighed and pulled the glove off and licked her thumb. A question pushed itself to the tip of Michael's tongue, but he didn't have a chance to ask it before she swiped it over the corner of his mouth. A good, old fashioned spit shine.
Michael trembled and squeezed his eyes shut. He hated himself for missing a single second of this, but it overwhelmed him.
"Damn," she muttered. "Worth a shot."
When she pulled away, Michael wanted to cry. He peeled his eyes open and wondered if, maybe, he was dreaming. Michael didn't deserve good dreams like this. He didn't deserve a reality like this even if he desperately wanted it.
"You can't go in like that either," he stammered.
She glanced at her clothes, noticing the stains for the first time. Michael waited for her to scream. Surely, whatever iota of calm he'd imbued in her wouldn't withstand the shock. But she sighed, plush lips pushing into a frown.
"Aw man. I really liked this coat, too."
It wasn’t only her coat, but Michael didn’t have the strength to point out her face in case it broke the illusion. Covered in all that blood, she looked …
Well, she looked like him.
"I'm sorry."
She rolled her eyes. "It's not your fault, dummy." It was, actually. Still, she sighed again and wiped a flesh chunk away. "We should clean up, though."
"My place is closer," he blurted.
Stupid fuck! his mind hissed.
She looked up, eyes star-bright. Like his offer was a favor, not a burden. She didn't even ask him how he knew her apartment was farther away.
Her breath plumed like a storm cloud forming each word: "Lead the way."
They washed up in an old gas station manned by a teenager who wasn’t paid enough to care or notice. The closet of a bathroom barely fit both of them, but it was private. They didn’t have a mirror. Someone destroyed that a long time ago, so all that remained were the pegs that once held it to the mottled tile.
Michael soaked a wad of brittle toilet paper under the faucet.
“Here,” he said.
She accepted the sopping lump. “What are you, Michael?”
A tingle trilled down his spine. She turned his name into a spell and even a bathroom that smelled of calcified shit couldn’t mask her blood.
“Does it matter?”
He wondered how anyone could look so ethereal under sterile light like she did. She leaned against the sink, hair tousled, heart pumping syrupy ichor quicker to her frosty extremities. Her eyes, big and shiny, reminded him of the rats.
“Normal people don’t rip men to shreds with their bare hands.” She dabbed the paper across her chin. “They aren’t so … cold, either.”
“Is that so?” He scoffed and scrubbed his face with his own mushy ball. The paper flaked like pill bugs. He thought his little party trick had wiped the slate clean but apparently not. “Do you have a theory?”
“Yeah,” she said, and kept it to herself. It was for the best. Michael wasn’t sure what he’d do if he heard the ‘v’ word.
When they looked clean enough - barring their clothes - Michael led her through the back exit of the gas station and through a small wooded area until they reached a vine-choked abandoned building.
Having her in his home was like housing the Holy Grail in a moldy plastic cooler. She didn’t wrinkle her nose at the graffitied walls or the water stained cement. She didn’t tiptoe around the debris or ask, ‘You live like this?’ even though he would have preferred it. Her lackadaisical attitude freaked him out. Michael comforted himself by assuming she was mentally screaming.
“This way,” Michael said, and ushered her to the least offensive part of the room.
Old bedsheets hung like curtains, blocking off a small section of the building. He lifted the corner and let her in, then flipped a switch on the extension cord. The space heater roared to life, followed by a naked bulb, illuminating the patchy couch and coffee table with an orange glow.
It wasn’t the same as her golden apartment. It looked artificial in every way, but Michael knew - after he decided he wouldn’t kill her - that he’d need space for her. A place she might, if not love, then tolerate.
It wasn’t done, though. Michael assumed he’d have more time to get things together, and looking at it through her eyes made him want to shrivel up and die. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Get warm.”
“You should, too,” she said. Then, she remembered. “Or…?”
Michael pressed his lips together. Being here was worse than the gas station because he didn’t have fecal matter to fortify him. He didn’t want to talk. Talking meant breathing, and breathing meant smelling her, and smelling her broke the illusion of self control.
Stilted, he said, “I need to change.”
He ran from the homemade tent into the cover of darkness. Michael didn’t have an unlimited supply of clothes. He was careful when he fed so he wouldn’t ruin what he owned. Tonight was the exception. (He was already cursing himself for ruining his good jacket.)
Michael replaced his ancient band t-shirt with a grey, waffle-weave henley. His stomach growled, but for the first time in his life, there weren’t any rats around to take the edge off. Michael gnashed his teeth. The one fucking time they made themselves scarce … It would be fine. It had to be. Even if it hurt - especially then - he could control himself.
Michael rejoined her. She had removed her ruined gloves and coat and curled up on the couch under one of the fluffy blankets. Her scent slammed into him like a brick wall, intensified by the heat and the frantic pump of her heart to warm her blood. No longer an orphan standing outside of a bakery, but a starving man trapped inside one. Damn him for not drinking more from that jackass. He could have choked it down, even if it tasted like toxic waste.
“I brought this for you.” Michael passed her a hoodie - it was too big for him and he never found an occasion to wear it. So you don’t freeze, but that would have been too many syllables. Too much of a chance to taste her in the air.
“Thank you.”
His throat bobbed. “If you need to leave-“
“Do you want me to?” she asked, voice too soft to be real.
Michael shifted uncomfortably.
"When people realize Peter’s dead, they’ll look for me." She shifted to accommodate sliding on Michael’s hoodie. "Those people … that was you, too, wasn’t it?"
He jerked his head down.
The roar of the heater would have drowned out the admission if Michael had normal senses. "I thought you looked familiar."
Panic curdled his senses, filling his mouth with the sour tang of anxiety. She couldn’t mean that. Not literally. Michael would have smelled her fear if she noticed someone watching through the window. She must remember him from before - a wisp of a memory from that drunken night.
"I wouldn't-" His mouth moved faster than his brain. "I wouldn't do that to you."
Her expression remained impassive. "I know."
She said it like it was the simplest truth in the universe. More concrete than gravity. More certain than the crust of the earth. Michael hated himself because while she believed him, he couldn't stop thinking about that throbbing vein on the side of her throat. Thin as tissue. Melt-in-your-mouth packaging wrapped around gooey goodness. An eager rat poking its nose at the beast.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asked a second time.
Michael stared at her boots, crusted with viscera. "I wish I did."
His esophagus burned, eyes watered with want. Michael couldn’t change what he was or what he needed.
If she left him, he’d never see her again. Michael felt it in his bones. She would return to the real world and remember the horrors, leaving him to his wintry grave of nothingness. Maybe she would be alone, too, but alone in the sun, safe from him and his urge to gorge on her.
"I don’t want to go," she said, like she was trying to help his decision. Like it was a choice to be made lightly. Like he wasn't moments away from losing himself.
He looked at her from under his lashes. “You will.”
Her eyes softened with pity he hadn’t earned. “Michael?”
He moaned that time.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael clutched his neck, digging the point of his nails into the flesh. "I'm ... I'm so hungry."
Something akin to fear crossed her face, and then it was gone. Her lips parted and she looked at him with the utmost concern.
"What do you need?"
Ragged, he said, "You."
The pain tearing him open from the inside was nothing like starving. He could deal with the white-hot poker melting the mushy flesh of his throat. He could handle his stomach boiling like molten battery acid. What he couldn't handle was the suffocating urge to devour her whole. He felt it in every fiber of his being, that need to possess, consume, and hold. Have and not share. Absorb and squeeze and merge into one singular self, to be filled by her and fill her in turn.
"Okay," she whispered, damning him.
Michael lurched back. "No."
"You won't hurt me," she parroted.
"I will."
"You won't."
She tossed the blanket off. That was all. A quick, frustrated shove and yet the movement triggered something inside Michael. A frenzied instinct that screamed Prey! Prey escaping!
Michael had her cornered in the bend of the couch before she could blink. She gaped, body pressed to his sinfully. All his fault. Had he been normal, the squish of her breasts would have sent him over the edge just like that. Somewhere deep inside, that horny young man was freaking out, but the monster had control.
Michael let himself breathe without fear. One breath. Another. And before he knew it, her head was thrown back and his lips caressed her neck. He let his tongue slip out and tasted her. A candied shell.
He bit.
Her body lurched as his fangs penetrated her, muscled seized with agony, lungs constricting around a silent scream. What came out was a weak cry - a call into the void, a song meant just for him.
Her blood was even better than he imagined. More than every happy thought he’d ever had, it was hope. It was life. Michael sunk into her, wrapping his body around hers like a kid squeezing a juice box. He gulped her by the mouthful - hot and perfect. Springtime blossomed in his chest. He moaned. She gasped.
Her fingers flexed around the nape of his neck. She quivered like they all did. Michael couldn’t remember feeling what she felt. He just remembered what it reminded him of: that shitty rollercoaster his father took them to that one summer. An ancient wooden thing with metal wires keeping the stilts from tipping over. Michael had thought, surely this will be the day the coaster collapses. But it didn’t. And he rode it a dozen more times, and each time he reached the top he thought it was the end. That thrill of facing death left him dizzy and drunk.
Having his blood sucked was kinda like that.
“Michael?” Her voice quivered.
Michael wrenched back. He gripped the cushions for support, tearing the fabric open. Aged yellow fluff spilled from the rip.
Her skin was ashen. Her eyes glazed and half-lidded like someone losing a battle to exhaustion. But she was alive. That was the first time Michael could say that about a meal since … ever.
She rubbed the back of his neck with shaking fingers. “You’re warmer.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said, drunk off her. “I want-“
“Take it.”
“I want you.”
Bloodless lips quirked like a fish hook. “Take me.”
Michael kissed her. For the first time ever, their bodies felt like the same temperature. Sparks fizzed like whizzbangs within his sternum. The small noises she made fueled a primal want within. Something changed, though. Her blood still called to him, but not as much as her body. The beast had been fed. The horny young man reemerged.
They rolled against each other. Well, Michael did most of it. Dazed and weakened by the bloodless, all she managed were a few twitches of her hips when he grazed a good spot. Michael kicked the blanket completely off the couch. Pants were ripped and pushed aside, underthings too, and Michael rucked up her shirt to massage the breasts he’d thought too much about.
It was better than he imagined. At her center, she was still a blazing sun, and when Michael sank inside her, he knew he’d let her burn him to ash.
"Fuck," he whined.
Her brows pinched, quivering mouth forming a silent cry. Her wonderful, slick walls sucked him in, sucked him deep, tight like a vice.
He knew he wouldn’t last.
The night was full of unpreparedness. He should have remembered that. But how was he expected to stop when her pussy dragged him back every time he tried to pull out. Eventually, he stopped trying to leave and pressed his whole weight into her, humping her sopping channel with abandon. He moaned for her, slurred her name until it lost all meaning. She whimpered in tandem with his greed.
All it took was a little moan. A dulcet keen of his horrible name dripping off her tongue like honey. "Ah-! Michael." And he spilled himself inside.
His orgasm broke him. The wires of self control snapped before his eye, a pleasure like none other bulldozed through him.
"Shit," Michael whimpered. "I’m sorry."
Always screwing up. Even if this was the most glorious screw up he’d ever experienced.
“Let me try again,” he slurred.
He ground against her, forcing his sensitive, softening cock to stay inside. The drag of her sticky walls against his spent member bordered on torturous, but he wouldn’t dare stop his thrusts.
"I can make it feel good," he said. An empty promise. Michael was so out of his head, he couldn’t tell up from down. His thighs tingled, his muscles screamed, but he’d left her wanting.
She groaned, "Michael-"
No. Michael pushed his forehead to hers and stared at the space between their bodies. His reddened shaft, soaked with mutual slick, twitched. He had to keep going. For her. She’d willingly given so much of herself to him. It was the least he could do. He wouldn’t let her grant him the easy way out.
"Please," he whined.
In.
"Please."
Out.
"P-Please."
In.
"Please."
Out.
"Oh, f-fuck, please."
The velvet hug around his dick brought tears to his eyes. Every pass brought him to new heights of torturous euphoria. His cum sloshed around his slowly hardening cock, spilling out of her hole and accumulating around his base in a creamy ring.
Michael gripped her hips to ground himself, unable to stop the filthy slew of whines that escaped him. He was too overstimulated to be mortified. He built a rhythm, slow and deep, much less frantic than the rabbit-race he’d won before. He pressed a hand to her belly and she sighed. Her eyes rolled around like pretty little marbles.
Too much. Her heat coaxed him to a full erection and he grit his teeth, biting back the rising urge to cum a second time. But Michael had never been great with self control. When he took, it was never in moderation. He rocked into her, choking on sobs of pleasure as she lay blissed beyond belief beneath him.
It started in his belly, a knot so frayed it couldn’t withstand a single tug before he snapped and came a second time, pumping her pussy full of his spend. She pried the orgasm out of him like it was a shard of glass. Ethereal punishment. Michael couldn’t believe he had more to give, but he’d never been good about this method of self care. Ejaculation was a luxury, and he’d built up at least a couple decades worth of frustration in his overfull balls to pump into her.
Agitated, Michael didn’t wait for his legs to stop shaking. He tore himself out of her depths and dropped to his knees. She was too far gone to care. Body limp, eyes turned to god - or, in this case, the exposed ductwork - she probably hadn’t realized Michael failed to make her cum twice. She keened as he spread her thighs. Her body slumped low in on the cushions, flopping like his perfect little rag doll.
He moaned when he saw what he’d done. Her pretty, puffy pussy leaked fluid. Creamy white semen mingled with her own sticky lubricant. It formed webs between her lips.
Michael dragged his mouth over her inner thigh. Her blood pounded against the skin there, practically begging for him to imbibe. He grazed his fangs over it and her pulse responded. He couldn’t make himself break the skin. A scrape would do until she’d recovered.
Michael knew what to do in theory. The few high school fumbled he’d had in the backs of cars gave him the vague idea. When he reached her sex, Michael forgot all of that, though, and dragged the flat of his tongue through her seam.
"O-Oh-!"
She jolted, coming to life when he reached a particular spot near the top of her pussy. He liked it when she twitched. Liked watching her muscles spasm and hearing the sputter of her pulse.
Michael mouthed at her, suckling the knot of flesh - so perfectly swollen - that made her cry. He clumsily slithered lower and lapped at her hole, daring to plunge inside and scoop their amalgam onto his tongue and down his throat.
He liked the taste they made.
Beyond that, though, there was a taste similar to her blood. Hedy and intoxicating, stoking the greed he thought he ejaculated away - it was her arousal.
Her needy pussy was so responsive to his haphazard movements, gushing for him. All for him. Her stomach heaved as she sang him a delirious song of his name and other mush-mouthed yelps.
Michael didn’t need to breathe, so he didn’t care when her legs closed around him. He didn’t care when she started bucking harder against him. He didn’t care until finally her cunt contracted and she sobbed, then melted into the couch like he’d stolen her bones.
She was asleep by the time Michael crawled out from under her. Yes, just asleep. Not dead. (Michael made a point to check. He'd never hallucinated a heartbeat before but he'd also never had sex post-feed before, so he wanted to make sure his judgement wasn't impaired.)
He would have liked to kiss her again, he thought. But he'd wait until her lips would be responsive. He licked a small trail of blood that had escaped her wounds and circled the jagged holes with the tip of his tongue. Michael would find bandages when he went out, but he would leave that for tomorrow.
He grabbed the fluffy blanket off the floor and pause. Then, careful not to wake her, climbed onto the couch and pulled her on top of him, and draped the blanket around them. Eventually, Michael would get up. He could only stand her scent for so long before he'd snap. But, he would indulge himself. Just for a moment.
MORE NSFW BARKOVITCH HCS!!!!!!!!!!!! MORE BARKOVITCH CONTENT!!!!!!!!!! HES MY FAVORITE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! pls and ty :3
gary barkovitch nsfw hc's
hehe he's my favorite to write for. i finished the book last night and rewatched the movie so i'm in full-on writer mode now lolol
-basic affection turns him on tbh, he's not used to people actually liking him
-he might try to be dominant but it never lasts long lol. unless he's in one of those moods where he just needs to fuck for the sake of cumming, in that case you're just kinda along for the ride
-he's a moaner, like, full on pornographic shit. he's soo loud and he'll get really embarrassed and probably cry if you ask him to be quiet. sooo don't do that! he wants his/your roommates to hear and will be upset if you don't also
-he's also a biter. whether its you or him or a pillow, he's gotta bite down on something because he gets so overwhelmed
-was terrified to have sex with you at first but now he wants to fuck literally all the time. years of bottled up sexual frustration have now been unleashed, sorry babe...
-you've woken up to him humping you in his sleep multiple times, its very cute. you don't even bother to wake him at this point, you just sit back and let him do this thing
-he wants to cum in you sooo bad, grabs his camera to snap a picture of it before fingering it back into you. the sight of it makes his head fuzzy
-lowkey selfish in bed but learns not to be cuz he's terrified of you leaving. has gotten pretty damn good at oral as a result
-if you don't cuddle him afterwards he assumes that you hate him and starts bawling. you have to pull him into your lap and assure him that you were just going to get water
-cries when he cums cuz he's a sensitive boy!
-one day when cleaning up his room you find a folder full of nude pictures of you, buried underneath a bunch of random bullshit like he was hiding it. gets super ashamed when you bring it up to him
-if you get in an argument and yell at him he WILL get hard, tries to cover it up but its no use
-leaves hickies everywhere. swears he won't but he just can't help himself, your skin is too pretty to not mark up
-will get rough with you if you're giving him head. doesn't mean to but its so hard to resist the urge to fuck your mouth :(( he just gets so caught in the moment
-superperv. will take pictures up your skirt when you aren't paying attention. feels guilty afterwards yeah, but not enough to delete them lolol
-if you're hanging out with friends he'll try to get handsy and whines when you tell him to quit it. he just loves you so much!! he doesn't care if other people are watching
-do not expect aftercare from him cuz he's gonna fall asleep. if anything you're the one who has to take care of him. he'll apologize about it but he lowkey doesn't really care
-super thick happy-trail, will get very flustered if you play with it
-likes to be degraded unless he's in an extra sensitive mood that day, you just gotta be good at reading his body language tbh
-keeps his hair long so its easier for you to tug on, he loves that shit!
-spit in his mouth and he'll be cumming then and there
I love the long walk so so much, Barkovitch has my heart and if you’d write literally anything relating to him you can have my soul. 🙏
Happy Halloween, give me your soul. Also, the Long Walk doesn't nearly have enough content on here. I wish I had more long walk asks. <\3
YANDERE GARY
TWS: self harm, mention of masturbation, obsessive and abusive behaviours.
Yandere Gary's song is IFHY by TYLER, THE CREATOR.
HOPELESS
A romantic that has never had the time or opportunity to flourish, Gary is obsessive to the most alarming degree. He can't go a minute without his thoughts circling back to you. A daydreamer that itches to act on impulse but would rather itch his skin raw than embarrass himself in front of you.
His head is a minefield. It's never been a fun place to get stuck in, but now there's you. You manifest as pockets of warmth and excitement, something so much safer to think about compared to all of the other horrible, boring things that cause him strife. The back and forth between bliss and that drives him crazy, and you indirectly become his safe space.
When he gets angry, the bad thoughts infect the good ones and spoil them forever. They're poisoned with insecurities and past failures he's frightened of repeating. He overthinks every minuscule interaction you've never even had. You won't know Gary wants you until he's long gone in self loathing reconstruction.
He'll grow to both idolise and resent you. He's too deep in his head to get out of the pattern and act on anything he wants until it's festered and become wholly impure. Here he is, out past curfew, fantasing about holding your hand as he trails behind you on the dark sidewalk, glaring at you for being such a stupid bitch and not knowing he needs you.
He gets aggressive and assertive with himself in some effort to force action. Too insecure to actually go through with it, he often tweaks out in front of his mirror after preening, smacking himself in the face and punching his wall, which makes his dad shout. He'll suck a bloody knuckle and sniffle at his reflection, scowling at everything he wants to make look better.
You are perfect and that is horrible. He wants you, but he isn't sure if he wants to want you. You cause him so much trouble and you don't even seem to care or know. At the same time he's not certain he deserves you, but when he gets desperate enough he'll delude himself that you deserve one another.
HUNGER
He follows you around. It's not to creep you out. He cares deeply about what you think of him, deeply enough that he won't even dare to properly introduce himself. What if you see something you don't like? It'll ruin everything before it's even begun. He can't stomach that. He can't bear to spoil anything, but it's too hard to stay away, so you've got a paparazzi.
It makes him inexplicably angry that you don't love him back. He knows it's not your fault, he hasn't given you much to work with. Not being able to blame you almost makes it worse, now he can only blame himself. He rarely dares to dream of your acceptance. Most of his fantasies are soured by the idea that you're judging him. He feels as though you might be able to read his mind from across the road, as he snaps picture after picture.
Nights are spent following behind you just out of view, muttering bitterly to his camera screen as he narrates fiction, weaving a story with an identity crisis, it can't decide if it wants to be a romance or a horror. When he gets home he'll chatter animatedly to the photos he's taken, and cry in his bed post false lovers quarrel.
He's never wanted anyone or anything more than this. You make him feel pathetic and boyish, weak. He doesn't think that's okay. He might ask his father for advice and be told to man up. "Ask you out, buy you some flowers." When he saves enough to get you a bouquet, he's so fidgety that the stems are picked clean of leaves and petals before they even make it to your doorstep.
Pain sometimes helps. He might bite his lips raw or pick his fingernails until they're bloody to avoid calling out to you on the street or rushing over and just jumping on you. A part of him wants you to know the pain that he's putting himself through, to love him for it, so he dedicates every wince and flinch to you. A silent call of yearning swallowed by the space between you. It's how he keeps himself in check. Sometimes, he wants to hurt you too.
It's a cycle. He tells himself that he'll really talk to you this time, tell a joke that'll make you fall in love with him. Then you can date and he can do all of the things he's wanted to do for ages, like introduce you to his cat and... then the guilt and doubt comes back, as it always does, and whatever feigned confidence he'd been ready to dazzle you with crumbles like the worn plaster on his bedroom wall. Another punch, another smack, then he's reaching for his camera and putting on his coat.
HABITS
Barkovitch can bark and bitch up a storm when he feels vindicated enough, and everything about you sets him off like a live wire. Arguments that he needs to have with himself are going to become your problem, if you ever get that far.
His anxiety borne of you tweaks him out, so he has to find outlets. He might snap at you, throw an arm he didn't mean to. Assuming you're patient and kind with his glaring issues, then he doesn't want to hurt you on purpose. He might fantasise about giving you a good smack when he's really low, but he cares far too much about your opinion of him to ever act out on that. You'll just get the silent, smouldering, hunched over glare instead.
You make him fidget. Skin picking, hair pulling, nail biting. He's developed a whole list of problems that he'll insist are made up. Trichotillomania, Dermatillomania, Onychotillomania... Signs are everywhere. Kisses that are too harsh and taste like blood. Hair in letters he didn't mean to leave there. Discarded uneven nail trimmings that you pick up with your socks. He itches and scratches at his skin until it's bleeding and pink. Sometimes he'll tug himself to the thought of you upwards of fourteen times a day until he's so sore that he can't anymore. He suffers severe OCD.
Speaking of which, he needs to take pictures of you. Each one is a memento of that exact wonderful or horrible moment, all are kept. If he doesn't get at least a picture a day he's convinced you'll die, or stop existing, like you'll poof into smoke and it'll turn out he completely imagined you the whole time. He's gone broke buying so much film and the shop processing fees are way too far up his ass, so a tiny red room in his closet has been set up to develop at home. The walls are sticky with photos, and the washing line he pegs them up to dry on has run out of space. He has a handful of favourites, but they're always changing.
He'll show the best pictures to other boys, gleaming with pride and bragging to see their faces fall. But he's possessive, and when he sees intruige instead of misery, he'll get angry at them for looking. He can't make his mind up. He wants to show you off to prove he's got you, but at the same time he wants to lock you up and keep you all to himself.
Barkovitch yearns to be gentle. He doesn't know that he needs it, but he does. Inherently, in his heart, he is a softer thing. Conditioning tells him that gentleness is weakness, and that's a feminine trait. Neglect tells him that he doesn't deserve a soft touch. Bullying tells him that it's a trap. His head tells him that it's all going to end horribly. But pet his hair, brush his shoulders and hold him without judgement - then you might unlock something that comes with free tears and a lifetime subscription to godlike worship.
I could write about this loser for hours, but I spat this out in a hurry when I finally got to it. Hope it's alright.
