#blood drinking

[fanged-lover]

*paws at you* can I drink your blood

*paws at you* can I drink your blood

*paws at you* can I drink your blood

*paws at you* can I drink your blo

[z-grist]

Dante and Nero

Insta/bluesky: z.grist

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩'𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 Remmick x male reader

Summary: The village called it sacrifice. You called it betrayal. Bound in blood, abandoned in the woods, you were meant to die. Instead, you were claimed. Now the monster they feared is on your lips, in your veins and between your trembling thighs and he’s not letting go.

Tags: Dark Remmick. Dub-con. Deeply devoted and religious village. Forced marriage. Vampire x human. Possessive Remmick. Stalking. Obsessive behavior. Protective Remmick. Manipulation. Corruption. Blood path. You are sent as a martyr and come back as a villain. Minor characters death. Vampire x human sex. Monster fucking. Blood drinking, blood kink, blood play (Our boy needs to be kept hydrated). Rough sex. Dominant Remmick. Submissive male reader. Heavy make out session. Size difference. Rimming. Anal sex. Breeding kink. Overstimulation.

Based on this idea from a dear friend of mine, hope you’ll like this.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 8000

The village of Rensford sat half-forgotten in a dead end of the world, boxed in by thick, clawing woods and jagged hills that never seemed to let the sun rise fully.

There were perhaps two dozen families, and they shared everything: the narrow well, the worn grazing fields, the crumbling schoolhouse that had never known more than ten children at once. They prayed each morning for health, a mild season, a neighbor’s child to be born strong and not soft in the head. Every evening, before the cold set in, everyone gathered at the church. No matter how tired they were, they always came.

You lived in the far end of the village, past the drying sheds and the old abandoned mill, alone in a squat stone house that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of whitewash since your parents passed. They had been taken by fever one spring, buried out in the weeping field and after that no one asked questions. You were quiet, hardworking, helped with bread-making and tool repair.

The church was the pride of Rensford: a huge, lopsided thing of grey bricks that didn’t match, three wide iron bells, a crooked steeple that cast a long shadow at noon. It always smelled of candlewax and cold stone and no matter how fiercely the wind howled outside, it stayed still inside. The altar was plain oak, but behind it hung an immense iron crucifix flanked by dozens of dried herbs.

Father Ilan had hands like bark and a voice that never rose above a mutter. He spoke of keeping the dark at bay and sin that lurked in idleness.

The night everything changed was in early autumn. You’d helped shear the sheep that morning, your hands raw from the lanolin and your back aching. When sunset came, no bells rang.

The crops disappeared first and by dusk, the church was packed, clutching candles and holy tokens, some crying. You stood near the back, next to the door. Father Ilan was speaking, saying prayers, Latin laced with old speech you didn’t understand.

Someone screamed when the door slammed open against the wind, followed by laughter.

He stood in the frame like something ripped out of a nightmare, soaked from scalp to boot in blood. It streamed from his fingers and stained the corners of his crooked smile. Fangs glistened behind lips that parted too slowly, like he was savoring the way the whole church screamed as one.

You saw the red in his eyes, not bloodshot but glowing molten red.

“Evenin’,” he said, in a voice low and amused, like he was entertained by the scent of your terror. “Awful rude of ye lot. I was hopin’ for a warm welcome. Bit of supper…”

The floor dripped beneath him, blood ran down the aisle in lines.

“Father,” he drawled, tilting his head, “ye wound me. Been ages since I was in a house o’ God. You’d think ye’d be nicer.”

“What do you want?” Ilan barked, voice trembling but hidden well.

The thing paused. He licked his lips, eyes passed over the room, children sobbing and old folk collapsed in prayer.

He sniffed once. Twice.

Then he saw you and froze, a wolf that’s finally found the one door left unlocked.

Like a beast catching the scent of prey, his grin widened slowly. The candlelight caught on the wet curves of his fangs. Your blood turned to ice as something in your belly curled and twisted like a snake.

He didn’t look at anyone else, as if he could sense something in you that caught his attention.

“Me?” he said, slow, soft and teasing, giving a wide, bloodied smile. “I just wanna be let in. Proper manners an’ all, y’know. Knock. Wait. Be welcomed.”

Then, in a voice softer than breath, but loud enough to ring in your ears, he stole another glance at you before adding, “But reckon I could make myself at home either way.”

The nights did not return to normal after that first one. He came again the next evening. And the next. And the next.

Sometimes it was the livestock: shredded open in their pens, blood sprayed so far up the barn walls it stained the rafters. Other times people who were caught off guard by the sun disappear faster than expected.

They came back different. Eyes too bright, sharp teeth and an insatiable hunger for blood.

The worst part came with dawn. They would stand outside controlled by their new owner, sobbing, eyes pleading while mothers wept to see their sons hissing in the daylight, skin burning.

The people of Rensford stopped praying for deliverance, they prayed for quickness. For Remmick to pass over them, to take a neighbor instead, but it didn’t stop.

Through every night, every horrible wail and brutal tearing, you felt his presence on your skin.

He left you things. Once, a dead rabbit on your doorstep. The second time, a bouquet of beautiful wildflowers, ones that only grew deep in the cursed parts of the woods.

One morning, as you were feeding the hens, hands gentle on the wooden scoop, trying to focus on the clucking and not the ash smear across the far field, a voice called out.

It was Joran, the tanner’s son. He looked shaken, eyes red.

“Father Ilan wants to see you. At once.”

The hens kept pecking, you wiped your hands on your apron.

The scent of incense never faded as you entered the imposing structure, clinging to your tongue like old breath. The doors opened with a groan, thick oak that never quite shut all the way.

There he was, tall despite his stoop, his beard gray and wiry, robes dark as soot. His face seemed carved from old bark, creased and weathered.

His eyes, pale and sharp, flicked to you.

“Come, my child.” His voice was too soft.

You moved in, steps echoing between the pews. The place never looked smaller. The wooden benches were worn smooth by generations of knees and elbows. The stained glass above the altar was mostly opaque with grime but still, there was a glory here, terrible and vast.

You sat near him at the last bench before the altar. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder. You could smell the oil on his skin, the wax clinging to the folds of his tunic.

“I hear you’ve been tending the animals better than ever,” he said, smiling faintly. “Mara and Doff must be fat as pigs by now.”

Your lips twitched upward. He’d remembered their names. That did something strange to your chest, a kind of pang. You hadn’t heard them spoken aloud in weeks.

“You’ve done so much for us,” he went on. “Even after all you’ve lost. You’ve never stopped serving. You’re a light in this dark world. A blessing.”

You wanted to feel proud but all you could think about was blood. Blood in the hay, on your doorstep, on teeth that smiled too wide.

Your gratitude dimmed behind memories that swam up like rot in water.

Then, without a word, the old man stood too quick for his age.

His robe dragged behind him like shadow made cloth as he approached the altar where, beside the cracked old Bible, stood a silver goblet.

He lifted it and brought it to you.

“Drink this, my child,” he said gently. “You’ve earned it.”

A father’s tone in his voice that you craved when the cold wouldn’t go and when the fields were quiet.

It was warm in your hands, the rim was etched with faded prayer, worn down from generations.

You lifted it, excepting the sharp yet sweet taste.

What you got was thick and viscous, bitter in a way. You blinked but didn’t say anything.

He sat beside you again, speaking gently.

“We are plagued by a monster. A mockery of God’s creation. A demon with the face of a man.”

Your vision blurred a little. The pew beneath you felt…too far away. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“He has set his sights on someone,” Ilan continued.

You blinked, tried to speak. Your mouth moved but made no sound.

“And it is you.” Something hot flooded your cheeks. Fear, confusion, denial.

“Only those burdened with sin call the devil’s eye,” he said, no longer gentle. “He senses and feeds from it. There is something in you, child. Something… inviting.”

You tried to speak again and this time you choked on it. Your limbs tingled, blood roared in your ears. You gripped the edge of the bench but your fingers felt like wax.

“What…?” you managed to croak.

Your breath hitched. You stumbled up from the bench, knees buckling.

“What are you… talking about…?”

He didn’t answer as you backed away, mind swimming, the walls too tall now, the light too bright.

He caught your shoulder and held you close, pressed to his chest.

“Sleep, child,” he whispered. “We’ll sing for you in the morning.”

You shook your head. Weakly and uselessly, his hand stroked your hair.

“They’ll remember you as a savior. Not… corrupted.”

His breath was warm near your ear, your knees gave out, head slumping forward on his chest.

You woke with a start that never quite reached your limbs. Your eyes blinked open, then fought to stay that way. Everything ached starting from the dull, pressing soreness of limbs held in place too long, like something had wrung you out and left you on stone to dry.

The sky above you was bruised purple, the last remnants of sunlight filtered through a heavy canopy of ancient trees. They leaned in like watchers, bark split and knotted. The light barely reached this far in and already the shadows were thickening, bleeding across the underbrush, pooling in the hollows of gnarled roots and sunken stone.

It was colder than it should have been, breath puffing slow, uneven and barely visible.

You tried to move but nothing gave. Your wrists were bound in twine so tight it bit into the skin. Ankles too, secured with rough cord that rasped against the bone. You were splayed on a wide, flat stone, its surface cold against your spine, ribs and bare thighs. You could only lift your head a little, feel the pull of the thin reed tied at your waist like a belt, nothing but a symbol to be broken.

Just like you.

The cloth over your face was rough wool, darkened at the edges with sweat and tears. It draped over your eyes, not blinding you completely but shadowing everything, like seeing through a veil of mourning. It shifted with every breath, rasping gently over your cheeks, letting only filtered light in.

You could smell iron and crushed herbs, sap and blood all over yourself, astringent and sharp.

Your chest rose shallow beneath the linen clothes they’d dressed you in, humble, ceremonial and sacrificial. Crude garments: coarse, undyed, threadbare from intent. They clung to you in places, hitched high over one thigh where the fabric had bunched from movement or from the ropes pulling tight.

They barely covered anything. Mid-thigh, no sleeves, sides cut wide and low. One hip completely exposed to the cold air, ribs visible beneath the opening, one nipple half-hidden by the threadbare drape, the thin cloth sheer soaked in sweat and blood that offered no true protection from the wind.

It moved along with the wind.

It slithered cold fingers up the exposed sides of your ribs, into the thin shift, making it flap and press in turns. When it blew from the north, the cloth lifted high enough that the stone beneath you kissed bare skin. You clenched your teeth, there was nothing you could do.

The cuts burned.

Tiny, deliberate lacerations lined your exposed skin along your thighs, your sides, even low on your neck where the collar hung loose. Thin slices that bled and they kept going, they’d used some foul herb that kept the blood wet, slick and resisting clotting.

It soaked the linen in patches, at your side under your navel, a red streak down your thigh like a line traced by a lover’s finger.

They were never meant to cleanse, but a bait for who you were meant to.

The ritual wasn’t to save you, but to offer you for the wellbeing of those that sent you.

The air was thick, damp with the coming night, pressing down like a second skin. You could hardly move, limbs splayed out and bound to the cold altar stone with cords so tight your hands throbbed. The raw scrape of rope on flesh pulsed in waves, burning and biting as you shifted your weight again, desperately twisting your wrists only for the twine to dig deeper, grooves forming beneath your skin.

The hood over your head was a mourner’s cowl, coarse and scratchy, hung low over your brow and cheeks, the itchy fibers clinging to your mouth when you tried to breathe. Every exhale fluttered the wool and every inhale dragged it back against your lips. Warm, wet fabric pressed to your tongue like a gag. You could taste your own panic.

The sky beyond the veil was bruising darker by the second from violet to black. You saw flickers of it through the frayed edge of the hood, just slivers of dying light snared in the branches high above.

A leaf cracked.

Your breath hitched, chest barely moving. You were nothing but ears and heartbeat, deaf to anything but your own blood.

Then came a violent rush of air and the stone beneath you shifted as something fast landed on it. One moment you were alone in the woods, the next his weight was upon you, towering over your restrained body.

Lips crashed down on the cuts, tongue dragged wetly down your jawline and landed at your neck.

“Ah… fuuuuck,” he groaned low, a thick rumble that passed through his chest into yours. “Yer sweet. It’s makin’ me high, darlin’.”

You arched what little you could and that mouth latched onto your inner thigh, beneath the slit of the shift. He sank his mouth to the open cut there, tongue thick and textured, pressing into the wound with slow, savoring swirls. He licked you like you were melting sugar on his tongue, the wet heat of his breath pumping fast, moans slipping up through his nose with every pass.

A graze of teeth came, something sharp dragged over the open flesh.

You jerked and it didn’t stop.

The tongue vanished. Then it was on your chest, your ribs—everywhere. He lapped from one wound to the next, following the red trails down your belly like a feast line. Your shift was useless now, soaked and half-peeled back, exposing you to the air and to him. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a body lit from within with need.

The tongue found your right pectoral and paused, a hot exhale before he opened his mouth wide and devoured it.

His mouth closed over your nipple and sucked hard, tongue working fast, swirling in sharp, maddened spirals while his teeth scraped faintly. All of it sent a shock through your spine. Your thighs twitched, bound ankles scraping against the stone.

His name wasn’t on your lips but a noise, choked, helpless and very wrong.

He pulled off with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva stretching between your nipple and his blood-smeared mouth.

Panting fast and shallow.

Could feel as he clenched his hands, claws dragging across the stone beside your head, then one of them slammed onto your cowl.

The claws caught the fabric and sank into it and they came close to gouge out your eyes. The cowl was yanked up and off, and you were met not with the sky but him.

Up close, there was nothing human left.

A red so deep in his eyes, blood coated his chin, chest, throat—your blood still dripping down his tank top in sluggish, gleaming trails. The fabric clung to his chest, tight and soaked, showing every ripple of muscle. The stench of sweat and gore clung to him like perfume, overwhelming and choking.

His lips were parted, thick and bitten red, tongue darting out to catch what slid from the corner of his mouth, teeth too sharp. Droplets hit your face, warm, slow, staining your cheek.

“Didn’t even need to see yer face,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and something darker, almost shaking with restraint. His accent hung heavy like molasses dripping from a blade. “Knew it was ye. I’d know this scent if I were blind. I been thinkin’ ‘bout ye f’ so long…”

His hand hovered near your face and then he leaned down to press his forehead to yours.

“Name’s Remmick. Tell me yer name, now, pretty thing,” he whispered, voice like gravel dragged through silk. “I wanna hear it. Been wonderin’ it ever since I saw ye standin’ ‘round all those fools. Knew right then ye didn’t belong to ‘em. Ye were the prettiest thing I’d seen in years and I seen wars, sweetheart.”

Your heartbeat was screaming in your ears, every throb thundered beneath your skin, drowning out the rest of the world in that chaotic pulse. Those obscene fangs glinting beneath a grin that spoke of appetite. Death was straddling your hips and breathing through blood-slick teeth.

Somehow, you spoke first, voice cracked, dry and shivering with disbelief and pain, the knot in your throat catching every word.

“Why… why do you care…?”

That grin widened.

He liked the fear in your voice.

You could ser how it ignited something behind his crimson eyes, how the corners of his lips curled higher, how his chest began to rise and fall faster, hungrier, almost panting.

“You don’t get it, do ye?” he murmured, voice slow and damp. His gaze dropped lower to your throat, staring like a wolf eyeing the trembling of a rabbit’s muscles beneath its fur. His head tilted, entranced by the flicker of your artery pumping just beneath the surface and a thick line of drool spilled from the edge of his mouth, mingling with the blood that still glistened on his chin and lips.

He leaned in.

“Won’t kill ye,” he whispered. Hissed. “Could never waste somethin’ this perfect. Yer mine now darlin’, an’ I ain’t lettin’ ye go.”

Then he descended down into the crook of your neck where your shoulder met the column of flesh he’d been fixated on and he smothered you in blood and wetness. His mouth dragged across clean skin, leaving slick trails of spit and iron-red behind, breath steaming in the cooling air. His tongue shot out, hot and heavy as it lapped where his fangs had grazed, licking up the slow-dripping dots of blood he’d caused to spill.

You stiffened, gasped, breath catching hard as you tried again to pull away but the cords bit deeper. He could feel your pulse jump beneath his mouth, and he moaned, the vibration traveling straight into your skin like a deep tremor, making your back twitch involuntarily.

“Ye ain’t scared,” he whispered, voice husky and reverent. “Ye want it. Been wantin’ it.”

You didn’t. You did. You didn’t—God, what was happening?

Then his hips rolled down hard, forcing your bound thighs wider, despite the cords keeping them flush together, as his clothed erection dragged against yours, massive and heavy. Even through the thin, bloodied fabric of his ruined pants and your torn shift, you felt every inch of it slide against your own straining length and your body responded before your mind could protest.

You arched your back, hips lifting into him by instinct and a choked, broken sound fell out of your throat. He growled at that, deep and possessive.

He snapped his hips forward again, grinding and rubbing your cocks together, smearing your shared arousal through the filthy linen. His mouth didn’t stop either, attacking your throat with hot, messy kisses, pressing lips and fangs and tongue into your skin with no rhythm, just need, moans rough and low between every wet smack of his mouth.

“I knew it,” he breathed, “knew you were diff’rent. Them other folks… they looked down their noses ‘cause they couldn’t understand ye.”

His lips trailed sloppily along your jawline, over your cheekbone, peppering your skin with red-stained kisses. The blood on his mouth smeared hot over your skin, clinging in streaks and warm smudges as he kissed harder, more frantic.

“Ye know what it’s like, don’t ye? Bein’ the one they cast out. Left to rot.”

He pulled back enough to hover right above your mouth. Iron, sweat and earth were the scents emanated from him.

His breath fanned over your lips, heavy, hot and metallic, chest heaving, a soft groan curling from the back of his throat.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked, voice low, rough and almost kind.

Your breath caught, staring up at him, wide-eyed, the trembling of your lips betraying the war in your chest. You didn’t understand why he gave you a choice. Why was he asking? Why hadn’t he torn your throat out, ripped you open like the others?

Why this?

Like he heard your thoughts. “I could hear yer heart, f’r hours,” he murmured, gaze still locked on your mouth. “When ye were all alone, prayin’ to a God who ain’t never answered ye… never loved ye.”

You didn’t even realize you’d said your name aloud. It slipped out, breathless, trembling, but real and he froze.

The wolfish grin was gone but not the hunger. One clawed finger lifted—drenched in blood—and pressed against your cheek.

It slid down gently and cradled.

Then your jaw was in his palm, his thumb barely grazing your bottom lip.

“I like yer name,” he whispered and smiled again, a dreadful smile with red-stained fangs out, shaking with restraint.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked again, voice husky and sweet, but beneath it, something cracked in desperation.

You nodded once, lips still pressed together in a blood-slick line but he didn’t move.

“Need t’hear it,” he whispered, voice breaking like a prayer. “Need t’hear it from that beautiful mouth.”

Your lips parted. “Please,” you whispered, the word trembling, wet with something half-sob, half-lust.

The sound he made wasn’t human as his mouth crashed down with feral hunger, lips too wide and hot, soaked in blood and spit. Those fangs dragged along your inner lips. You felt slices, sharp and wet, his top canine cutting lightly the skin of your lips and you gasped, stupidly, into him.

A mistake.

His tongue shoved deep at that, lapping at your gums, your teeth, under your tongue, searching for where the blood was pooling, sucking it in hungry slurps. He pressed and scraped every inch of your mouth, a nick bloomed under your tongue, light cuts decorated the inside of your mouth invaded by his sharp one.

Your cry vanished into his throat and he moaned low in response, not sweet but hoarse, the noise vibrating down through your locked jaws into your lungs. The sound is all hunger and possession, a desperate, throaty groan that trembled down your spine and coiled around your heart.

With every swirl of his tongue, you felt the blood being pulled from your small wounds, collected at the edges of his lips, drawn to the corners of his throat. His cheeks hollowed when he slurped at the cut beneath your tongue, lapping thick and greedy, every gulp obscene.

Your face twisted in shock and breathless heat, tasting copper, spit and the ghost of his earlier kills.

He kept your lips locked tight, sealing you in, mouth still grinding against yours, tongue flicking quick now, almost angry, twitching left and right like he couldn’t decide where to drink from next. You felt a sting as his fangs scraped again, carving a new slit and he—God help you— was purring. A sound that made your stomach twist with confusion and the faintest lick of fire. He sucked the blood down and his hips jerked against your side like he could taste your arousal underneath the pain.

He pressed harder, chest crushing yours, ribs grinding raw where your wounds bled again, the pressure making you see stars. You groaned into him, eyes squeezed shut and that seemed to spur him deeper, head tilted, jaw working, tongue thrusting in again, again, dragging the wet length of himself across your teeth.

When he finally pulled away, red spit snapped between your mouths, thick and glossy. It clung in ropes from your chin to his, dripping down your throat as you gasped in fresh air, chest hitching, breath ragged with lungs that screamed in relief.

Then his lips jumped down at your neck.

The wound there, half-clotted now, stood no chance, his tongue found it and jammed in. He moaned, the sound buzzed through your skin.

The warmth flooded again and he drank, mouth pressed so deep against your throat it made your pulse skip. His fingers dug into your hips, claws creating shallow arcs into your side between slurps and grunts he emanates low and thick in his throat.

His mouth never left your skin, tongue swirling through the gashes he’d opened along your ribs, teeth occasionally grinding against your wound like he didn’t care whether he made more blood, only that it was fresh and yours. Your pulse still raced, pumping that warmth up for him, feeding him like he was bred for it.

But under that satisfied hum, the words came not sweet. Not tender.

“I should tear ‘em all apart.” he rasped against your abdomen, voice muffled by flesh and blood.

His mouth pulled back, leaving a long smear of spit and gore over your abdomen. He bared his fangs at your skin like he wanted to laugh at it.

“fed ‘em their own teeth for what they did to ye.”

A lunge. He dove back to your hipbone, licking along the curve with a long, wet stroke of his tongue, then dragging his lower fangs lightly along the flesh until a thin new slit bloomed, beading red.

Around a mouthful of your blood, he snarled:

“I’ll peel that priest open. want t’see what sound he makes when his lungs start fillin’.”

You twitched under the calm finality in his tone. Remmick’s hands clenched around your thighs, fingers bruising, claws pressing divots into your muscle like he was resisting something worse, his lips just brushing your inner thigh, tongue dipping between the notch of your hip and thigh, slick and slow, licking at a thin trail of blood that hadn’t yet dried.

He followed it upward with his mouth, small kisses, wet and hot, fangs tapping gently along your trembling skin.

A ripping noise broke that intimate silence that grew, soon after pain blossomed at your side. His claws tore the shift from your body, shredding a piece of it in one huge swipe.

Three deep gashes carved from chest to hip, sharp and perfect, blood gushing.

He didn’t let it spill, immediately lunged, mouth first, onto the wounds, suckling at them like open fruit, catching every stream with frantic laps of his tongue. His fangs tickled your skin with every drag, mouth painting you redder than you already were.

His tongue trailed down again, lapping between your thighs, that blood-drenched grin already forming on his face before his claws even moved.

Two swipes and the cords at your ankles burst, fibers twanging apart under the weight of his strength. Another flash of motion and the tattered hem of your shift was gone, torn straight through, shredded into nothing.

Hot breath, soaked in the stink of blood and spit, hit the curve of your bare ass. You jolted, not even thinking and your thighs parted automatically.

“Ohhh,” Remmick rasped, already leaning in, voice sticky with amusement, “they tied ye up ‘cause they knew, didn’t they? Knew those legs’d open up for me the second I looked at ye…”

His claws gripped your thighs, fingers spanning the thickest parts with ease and locked them around his shoulders, digging in hard enough to bruise as he spread them wider, forcing your knees up and out.

Your toes curled as his mouth descended, tongue dragging from your perineum up until it lapped a hot, wet line right over your hole. You made a sound you didn’t recognize, head tipped back and mouth parted in a gasp that never quite left your lungs.

He sucked in a breath, grip on your thighs tightening, claws pricking now, holding you open before his tongue dove.

A thick, forceful push, hot muscle breaching your hole in one wet plunge. “Aaahh—!” you cried, body jolting as your hips bucked instinctively upward. He didn’t stop, just grunted and shoved his face deeper, tongue spearing into you with greedy force.

The breath was punched out of you.

Each lick dragged a moan out of you. Each curl of his tongue sent sparks racing up your spine, coiling in your gut. Your cock throbbed untouched, pressed against your stomach, dripping pre-cum in slow, hot trails down your abdomen as he devoured you, tongue flattening to lap, then curling to thrust.

His fangs grazed the sensitive skin of your hole with a slow drag, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. Blood beaded instantly, warm and wet, trickling down toward your thighs in thin red lines.

He licked the blood with long, luxurious strokes, tongue dragging through the slick mess like it was honey, moaning with every swallow.

His stubble scratched your thighs raw as he mouthed at you, tongue plunging back inside, curling and writhing, fucking you open while he sucked the blood.

A white-hot bolt of something unbearable ripped through your gut like lightning, your whole body convulsed, back arching, head snapping back as your untouched cock pulsed and jerked, spilling hard and hot over your chest in thick, white stripes, mouth open in a raw, cracked sob, fingers clenching at the stone beneath you as every nerve lit up.

He kept going and didn’t stop.

Remmick’s tongue worked faster, sloppier, his moans loud and unashamed as he devoured you through it.

The world tilted as arms wrapped under your waist, hauling your hips off the altar, your torso pinned by the ropes but everything below now suspended, thighs hooked tight around his head.

“R-Remmick—please—!” But he didn’t answer.

He buried his face between your cheeks again, tongue spearing deeper, licking blood and whatever else he could find with desperate hunger. His fangs scraped again, more blood and heat while his arms flexed, holding you aloft like you weighed nothing at all.

Your cock was already hard again, bobbing in the air, twitching with every suck. You could feel his breath through your entire spine, every rumble in his throat vibrating against your guts, hole raw and leaking, tongue fucking you so deep it felt like he was trying to reshape you from the inside out.

You lost count of how long it lasted, every sound he made was desperate. Worshipful. Terrifying.

His fangs dripped, breath trembling as he lifted his head and lowered your thighs, face absolutely soaked in red.

He hovered there, frame hunched and twitching like something trying to decide whether to worship or devour, biceps flexing as he reached for you again.

New red streaks were drawn with his tongue across your chest and ribs, no longer from fresh wounds, just messy strokes through blood already spilled, the warmth of it mixing with saliva and sweat as he mouthed sloppily at your skin.

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your side, “fer goin’ so hard. Ain’t had anyone t’hold in so long. The things ye do t’me…”

Your breath hitched again as his hips pressed harder down, the rigid length of him grinding against your slick hole, lips parting with a weak moan as the heat of him lit your nerves like dry tinder.

Remmick’s eyes rolled slightly at the feel of it—your body soft and twitching under him, your legs wrapping tighter, your hole flexing against the hard line of his cock. His lips parted, tongue dragging slowly along his fangs.

“Fuck,” he hissed, low and strangled, a sound torn from the back of his throat. “Need ye. Need t’be inside ye, now. Wantcha to feel me so deep ye can’t even fuckin’ pray unless it’s t’me.”

His clawed hand traced your neck, then slid down to your chest and pressed sharp, piercing the skin and blood welled instantly.

He was already on it, mouth slamming down, slurping and sucking with animal fervor the sound echoed like wet meat in a slaughterhouse, one claw dragging blood down your chest as he fed. The muscles in his jaw twitched with every swallow, throat moving visibly as he gulped.

You observed how it all occurred, dazed and half-wrecked, but for some reason still alive, unlike how those who betrayed you wanted it to be.

Here he was, monstrous, blood-drenched and cruel, but the only one who hadn’t lied to you.

The only one who shared the ache of abandonment and loneliness. Who even now, somehow, was holding back from ruining you too soon.

Your legs locked tighter around his waist and pulled hard. He growled low in response, mouth still latched to your bleeding chest. The sudden pull made him jolt closer, rock-hard cock pressing deep into the slick of your hole and his mouth left your shoulder with a wet, bloody gasp.

Forehead touching yours, droplets of blood slid down from his chin and landed on your parted lips. Your tongue caught one and shallowed.

His lips twitched before he leaned in and you met him halfway there, mouth opened over yours and tongue pushing deep. His fangs clinked against your teeth, a reminder that this could end in a single bite.

One clawed hand cradled your neck now, a deadly grip held in perfect check. The other dragged down between your bodies, across your abdomen, down to the base of his cock to free it.

The weight of it pressed down, tip slick from precum and blood he’d collected with his claws. You felt it glide along your entrance as he growled low at the contact.

“Tell me,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek and the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “M’I invited?”

“Pleas—“ small and shaky, immediately interrupted by him pressing forward.

The stretch hit first. A slow, dragging pressure that pushed past your rim with that first devastating thrust, the head thick and already soaked with blood and slick, forcing itself deep into the slick mess he’d made with his tongue and spit.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw slack and lips wet, unable to even form words, body jolted inch by inch as the thick drag of his cock sank into your guts. It kept going, forcing your legs further apart as they twitched around his waist, hole clenching helplessly around the length that shouldn’t have fit that made your brain hum with warped, searing need.

“Hhhhhnn—‘s good,” he breathed into your ear, voice hoarse and breaking apart. Your hands clawed the altar beneath you, fingers digging at the cold stone as your hips bucked and your cock jerked where it lay against your stomach, every inch deeper made your vision blur.

When his hips met your ass, cock hilted to the root, he stilled.

Your hole stretched wide around the base of him, pulsing with raw soreness and slick heat while your whole frame shaked.

“Can’t tell if them tears’re from pain or pleasure,” he muttered, breath sticky against your lips, the taste of your blood sharp between you. “Not that it matters.” A crooked grin pulled at his mouth.

“Long as you keep makin’ those sounds f’ me.” He pulled out only a few inches and drove back in hard. His claws dug into your waist to hold you still as his cock rammed back inside, filling you deeper than before.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each thrust hit like a punch, wet slaps echoing in the woods, your hole making slick, messy sounds as it stretched to take him. Blood smeared across your thighs where his skin met yours.

He angled his hips and hit something inside you that made your back arch like a bow.

“Ahh—nnh, Remmick—!”

“There,” he growled. “There is it.”

He slammed into it again, claws now wrapped tight around your cock and making you cry out as your hole fluttered around the thick intrusion, milking him.

His thrusts grew messier, harder, blood and slick smearing between your thighs and down your ass.

You came hard, spraying up your own chest, your stomach, onto his wrist and claws, sobbing brokenly as your hole clenched down around him.

With a final slam his whole body shuddered. He came with a guttural grunt muffled by the skin of your neck, hot ropes flooded into your gut, cock pulsing again and again as he filled you. Your hole stretched around the base, unable to stop the spill, his seed leaking out already, mixing with blood and slick as he collapsed half on top of you, panting, groaning into your throat.

He lifted his head to look at you, warm and coppery breath that came slow. He didn’t move, not one inch. His face hovered inches from yours, looming over your crumpled, used body as you trembled beneath him. Trails of red streaked down the curve of his cheek, along the ridge of his snarled jaw, catching at the corner of his mouth where his fangs still gleamed, coated in streaks of drying gore.

There was no name for what was behind those crimson pupils fixed on you, wide and unblinking. Unmoving and terrifying in that stillness.

The claws rose, glistening with your blood and hovered beside your face, three fingers curled, two half-extended.

You knew what was coming, your eyes closed to embrace the last seconds of life you had, tilting your neck as an offering just like how you were meant to be right from the start, a sacrifice for the well being of everyone else.

A cool breeze brushed your skin and the pressure on your arms disappeared when the rops were cut clean.

A single beam, golden and sudden, lanced through the branches high above when you opened your eyes. You squinted, eyes stinging from the brightness, pupils shrinking as the canopy above shifted and spilled morning across the stone.

He was gone.

The altar beneath you felt colder now without his weight. The stone rasped against your skin as you stirred, every nerve screaming in protest, your muscles sore and trembling from use. Your spine creaked, your knees shaking as you pushed up with an elbow and slowly, painfully, sat upright.

The shift that clung to your body wasn’t even clothing anymore.

What had once been white was now a shredded ruin, barely covering anything. Slashes ran down both sides—some clean cuts, others torn by fang or claw—stained entirely through with smears of deep maroon. Your chest was bare, one side of the fabric having slipped down entirely, revealing a trail of blood and bite marks from neck to sternum.

You looked lower.

The hem barely covered your hips, and the back was shredded. Blood had dried there in dark, rusted patches, crusted into the cotton, while other stains still shimmered faintly under the new sunlight. Between your thighs, soreness pulsed steadily, a heat that lingered more from what had been taken than any wound.

Shifting slightly on the altar stone, you winced.

Then, against your better judgment, your hand lifted.

You pressed your fingers to your own throat. Felt the tacky edge of a new bruise. Then you dragged your palm slowly—slowly—across your chest.

Your skin was a mess of scratches and welts. Some are shallow, some are deep. Your fingers caught at one of the gashes near your ribs—three claw marks carved in parallel, dried blood crusting at the edges. You traced them.

Your breath hitched.

It hurts.

But beneath the sting, your skin prickled with something warmer. Your hand moved down, across your belly where more scratches fanned out across your hips, painted like strokes from a mad brush, some with teeth marks sunk between. You found the bruises on your thighs next, purple and red where his hands had held you down.

You rose slowly and a burst of pain tore down your ribs where his hand had marked you, pressed there, each step sent new flares of agony through your gut and chest. Still, you pushed upright again, leaning on trees, yanking free thick ropes of liana that hung from the forest canopy and twisted them around your frame to bind the shredded remains of the shift back into something wearable.

Hours passed like wounds: slow, bleeding and hard to count.

By the time you reached the edge of the village, the sky had turned black.

You stood in the tall grass on the hill overlooking the main clearing, hidden in the shadow of the trees and watched.

They were dancing.

Every family, every face you’d known since you were a child. They laughed around a roaring bonfire at the center of the square, the glow painting their skin gold, shadows flickering long and tall, celebrating their freedom.

Assholes.

You stood there, one hand pressed tight to your ribs where your body still throbbed from what had been done to you—no, what they had done to you. A lamb tied in white and left in the woods.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the trees, you heard a rustle. You didn’t need to turn.

You dragged yourself forward, moving along the edge, behind houses with thatched roofs and crooked beams until you made it to the church.

One of the great wooden doors stood half-open and, gritting your teeth, you staggered to it and shoved with your shoulder.

The hinges groaned and the sound echoed inside like a bell tolling doom.

Three heads turned.

Father Ilan stood at the altar, tall and rigid in his soot-dark robes, two younger men flanked the pews, holding firewood and altar cloths, frozen mid-task. They stared.

The priest’s mouth opened slowly and his face was everything you needed to see.

Horror, recognition and best of all, fear.

You staggered forward two steps, holding your ribs, and let your voice come low. “That’s the face I made,” you said hoarsely. “When I woke up… tied down and threw away like garbage.”

He flinched but not enough, his hands folded before him, as if in prayer.

“You shouldn’t have returned. Not as you are. Not as that devil’s… plaything.”

You blinked, the words didn’t even sting, they felt expected.

Ilan turned slightly, eyes hard, lips thin.

“You brought him here. He’s taken root in your blood. You reek of him.”

You didn’t speak and he raised his voice. “This place is sanctified. He cannot touch it. But you—” he pointed now, eyes blazing—“you are the vessel for our freedom.”

To the men behind him: “End the ritual. Before the rot spreads and all suffer.”

They dropped their tasks and advanced.

Your knees trembled, but you didn’t back away. You clutched your side, pain radiating sharp and hot as one of the claw marks pulled.

“The devil,” you whispered, “ain’t in the woods.”

The men hesitated. One slowed.

You met the priest’s eyes.

“He’s in this village. In this church.”

That did it, broad hands caught your arms from behind before you could step back. Pain tore through your exhausted body as they dragged you toward the altar, feet skidding on cold stone, knees buckling.

With that last bit of breath you had, you cried out “Remmick, come in!”

The words hung in the air like sacrilege and the church doors groaned as they were pulled open, moonlit rushing in.

Remmick stood there soaked from crown to sole, he was dripping fresh crimson. It clung everywhere in his face, his throat gleamed red, boots squelched as he stepped forward, leaving sticky prints across the stone.

He grinned, fangs out, stained scarlet.

“evenin’, Father.” he drawled, raiaing one clawed hand in mock greeting, blood flinging from the tips as he gave a lazy wave.

Then his gaze shifted to you and that grin softened, something warm bloomed beneath the madness.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed.

The two men holding your arms froze for only a breath.

One second he was across the room, the next he was behind the man on your right.

The claws sank deep before the man could even scream and sank his fangs deep in his neck.

The second man had turned to run but it didn’t matter as Remmick levitated towards him and fangs sank into the throat before the poor bastard could draw breath, ripping a full chunk out, the artery split wide open, blood spraying in a crimson arc across the air.

The priest was already scrambling, standing by the side door, eyes wild, robes flaring around his feet while holding a wooden stake ready to use to purify your corrupted body.

He gripped it with both hands, ready to complete his divine mission…

…until a clawed hand caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it far past where bone could follow.

The crunch was wet and loud, the elbow snapping backward, tendons unspooling. The stake fell with a clatter, useless.

“Y’oughta know,” Remmick whispered low into the priest’s ear, voice thick with smoke, “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine.”

His other hand raked across Ilan’s face, four slashes bloomed deep and vertical from scalp to chin and blood poured down his beard, into his eyes.

Remmick caught him by the throat and lifted.

“I hope yer god’s watchin’ now,” Remmick said softly before throwing him outside.

The old man flew like straw, hitting the grounf outside with a sickening thud, bones cracking under the weight.

The firelight outside revealed everything, all of the villagers were standing in a wide circle, backlit by the flames.

Eyes gold, mouth slack with fangs bared.

Each one of them turned and moved together as one mind as they pounced. Teeth met throat, claws met ribs, screams choked in blood as the man’s body disappeared under their hunger, hands flailing once before they vanished beneath the swarm.

Inside the church, your body gave out, too weak and in too much pain.

Remmick’s arms caught you instantly and lifted you to your feet, claws anchoring around your waist like he’d never let you fall again. You sagged against him, breath hitching. His chest heaved with breath, his body soaked in blood both his and not, muscles flexed and quivering with residual fury.

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to the crook of your neck.

His breath was still ragged, wet with blood, panting. More blood smeared across your throat, fresh and hot, his mouth now streaking your skin with red over the already dried layers.

He buried those blood-caked claws into your hair, cradling your skull with terrifying gentleness, thumb brushing against your temple.

“I told ya, didn’t I?” he murmured. “Told ya I’d come for ya.”

He pulled back slightly and you saw it, beneath the gore and the fangs, something horrible and tender bloomed.

Devotion.

Claws against your palm as he cut just a line.

You hissed as warm blood beaded along your lifeline. Remmick bit his own hand, fangs punctured the base of his palm and thick blood poured from it in lazy rivulets.

He pressed the wounds together.

Palm to palm in a bloody path.

How marriages were made back when he was still a lad.

“Yer my kin now,” he breathed, that blood-slick smile returning, fang-bared, panting and waiting.

Your lips met his as you leaned forward, fangs brushing your tongue but you didn’t flinch.

The blood between you smeared across both chins, dripping down your joined hands. His growl melted into a moan as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, one clawed hand sliding up your back to hold you close, the other still wrapped with yours.

The honeymoon was gonna hurt in all the right places.

[aventurineswife]

Hello I wasn't sure if requests are open but I wanted to request something. How do you think Phainon, Mydei, and Anaxa (separately) would react to a vampire reader who's become addicted to their blood, due to them not being able to have any for a while, and the reader just pounces on him whenever they get desperate enough.

Addiction is Another Word for Devotion

Tags: Mydei x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Vampire!Reader, Blood Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Romantic Tension, Intimate Feeding, Addiction Themes, Soft Angst, Tender Intimacy, Possessive Dynamics, Forbidden Love, Warm Devotion.

Warnings: Blood Drinking, Vampirism, Sensual Intimacy, Power Dynamics, Addiction, Dependency, Self-Sacrifice, Slight Angst, Possessiveness, Violence-Adjacent Intimacy.

It always started with the eyes.

Anaxa knew the look—your pupils dilating, fangs pressing faintly into your lower lip, that restless shiver in your body like a violin string strung too tightly. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, watching you from across the study as if he had orchestrated this moment.

“You’re trembling,” he remarked dryly, voice smooth as ink bleeding over parchment. “Or is it hunger? I do wonder which one you despise more—your craving or your restraint.”

You tried to protest, but the sharp tang of his golden blood whispered from memory, and your control snapped. In a blur, you were on him, straddling his lap, your lips grazing the line of his throat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t push you away. If anything, he tilted his head, exposing more skin, the golden-threaded eyepatch glinting in the candlelight.

“Careful, little revenant,” he murmured, one hand sliding to your waist, the other curling in your hair. “Every time you pounce like this, you risk proving them right—that I am a corrupter, a heretic. Feeding you, indulging you, teaching you to crave what is forbidden.”

But his words only made you shudder harder. His scent, his warmth—everything about him was intoxicating. You sank your fangs into his neck, and the taste of his blood was like fire and symphony all at once. Bitter and divine. Forbidden, yes—but utterly irresistible.

He hissed softly, though it was less pain than pleasure. “Ah… reckless. Greedy. Beautifully foolish.” His fingers tightened, nails biting your skin through fabric. “Do you know what you’re drinking, beloved? Not mere sustenance, but rebellion itself. My very damnation.”

You whimpered against his throat, feeding, unable to stop. His heartbeat thundered under your lips, steady and unyielding, and every swallow was like a secret he let you share.

When finally you tore back, breathless, blood staining your lips, he laughed lowly. Not mocking—something darker, more intimate. He brushed his thumb along your mouth, smearing gold across your cheek.

“Look at you,” he whispered, eye blazing with fire. “Addicted, yes… but not to my blood alone. To me. To the truth I embody, the heresy I cradle. You’d burn yourself on my flame again and again just to taste it.”

You wanted to deny it, but he kissed you instead—slow, devastating, tasting his own blood on your tongue. And when he pulled back, lips golden, he whispered against your skin:

“Take it. Take as much as you need. Let the world brand me damned if it means keeping you alive.”

And you knew, no matter how dangerous this addiction became, he would never deny you.

Phainon was the kind of man whose presence eased storms, and yet—you were the storm that broke against him.

It had been days since you last fed. Your restraint was thinning into threads, and he saw it. He always saw. His eyes softened when your hands trembled, when you avoided his gaze, when you pressed your back to the wall as if distance might protect him from your hunger.

“You’re suffering,” he said gently, kneeling before you despite the sheer power he radiated. His hand reached for yours, warm and steady. “You don’t have to bear it alone. Not with me.”

The words cracked something inside you. Before you could stop yourself, you lunged, knocking him onto his back. Your fangs grazed his throat, your body shaking with desperation. For a heartbeat, you feared he would shove you away, call you monster.

Instead, Phainon’s arms came around you—secure, grounding. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “If my blood will keep you standing, then drink. I’ll endure it a thousand times if it means you won’t suffer.”

You sank your fangs in, and the taste nearly made you weep. His blood was warmth incarnate, sunlight poured into mortal form. Not burning, not violent—just radiant, filling every hollow place in your soul. It was too much. It was everything.

Phainon groaned softly, his breath hot against your ear, but he didn’t resist. He only stroked your back, murmuring reassurances even as you fed. “Steady… breathe with me. You’re safe. You won’t break me. I’m yours to lean on.”

When at last you pulled away, tears streaked your face. “I… I can’t control it. I’ll hurt you. I’ll take too much.”

He lifted your chin, his smile aching with tenderness. “You could drain every drop from me, and I’d still rise for you. Because my flame doesn’t burn for myself—it burns for the people I love. For you.”

The confession hung heavy, raw. You trembled, whispering that you didn’t deserve his devotion.

Phainon only leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Then let me be undeserved. Let me be the fool who gives everything, even my blood, because you’re worth more than my fear.”

And when he kissed you, lips lingering with the faint taste of copper, you realized he wasn’t just your flame—he was your dawn.

Mydeimos was not a man easily taken off guard. His instincts were sharp, honed in battlefields drenched with blood. Yet even he couldn’t always anticipate you when your hunger snapped its leash.

The first time you lunged at him, he caught you by the throat in a single, crushing grip—eyes blazing gold, his voice a low growl. “Control yourself.”

But then he saw it—the desperation in your gaze, the trembling restraint, the way you shook as if tearing yourself apart from the inside. His grip faltered. His chest rose and fell heavily.

“…Damn it,” he muttered, before dragging your body flush against his. “If you must feed, then do it. But do it on me—and me alone.”

You gasped at his words, but your fangs sank into the heated skin of his shoulder before you could think. His blood roared across your tongue like wildfire, molten and unyielding, every drop steeped in struggle and survival. It wasn’t gentle nor intoxicating—but it was battle itself. A kingdom’s grief. A lion’s roar.

Mydei’s hand buried in your hair, forcing you closer as if daring you to take more. His growl vibrated through your bones. “Greedy little beast… You think I’ll break? I’ve endured worse than hunger. If my blood chains you to me, then so be it.”

You fed until you thought you’d drown in his essence. When you pulled back, panting, he was flushed, his markings burning brighter, blood dripping from his skin. And yet, his eyes blazed with something fiercer than anger.

Desire. Claim. Defiance.

“Listen to me,” he said, cupping your face. “You will not pounce on strangers. You will not crawl to anyone else when the thirst consumes you. You come to me. Always me. Do you understand?”

You nodded, dazed and trembling.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, smearing ichor across your lips before he leaned down and kissed you, savage and unyielding, tasting of iron and fire.

When he finally broke away, he pressed his forehead to yours, voice hoarse but certain:

“If you’re addicted, then let it be an addiction you bear with me. I’ll shoulder the hunger, the pain, the ruin. Because I am yours, and you—” his lips brushed yours again, “—are mine.”

[wr1tten1nl4mbsbl00d]

Thinking abt m!reader getting sandwiched between vampire! Hannigram while they feed off you..

Legs draped over Will’s thighs, leaning back into Hannibal’s chest as he held your hand in a gentle yet firm grip.

Their heads on either side of your neck, Will lapping at the flowing blood like he was starving while Hannibal let it stream into his mouth, licking the occasional stray drop. Once the initial sting subsided, it was actually rather ticklish.

He felt your grip falter in his hand and informed Will that you were done for the night, to which he nodded and began bandaging your wounds. They both knew you’d sooner pass out from blood loss than cut them off (which they made sure to scold you for), hence the hand system.

Barely conscious by this point, they carried your dizzy self into bed; Will cuddling and kissing you while Hannibal cooked an iron-rich meal for when you woke up :)

[unmuzzled-cryptid]

I am a man, and I fought for it, and nobody can take that from me. if these sons of bitches want to get their hands on me, I will make them suffer for it. and I will be good, I will be good, I will be good. - (hell followed with us by andrew joseph white)

[theshatteredstar]

Dude oh my god I just discovered your blog earlier today and I am OBSESSED with your works!!! I really love how you write the bucci gang (esp the bruabba x reader ones 🥵)

Since requests are open, is it alright to request a Don!Giorno x reader where he’s experiencing vampiric tendencies around the reader recently and they ended up sleeping together? He’s been pinning for the reader for SO LONG but (and she does too!) but passione business has been getting in the way for a couple of years & they’ve been busy with it. With the sudden change in his physique (I know turning into a vampire doesn’t work like this but god, vampire!Giogio is underutilized in fics 😔✋🏻) he ends up taking a little sip for reader and things go down from there~

Omg so sorry if this is waay too descriptive! You can change it up a bit too!! I’ll introduce myself at the 🍀 anon for now!

-🍀 anon

Orion - Vampire!Giorno x Fem!Reader

A/N - DONT WORRY IT WASNT TOO DESCRIPTIVE, IT WAS PERFECT I GOT YOU! ALSO I LOVE VAMPIRE GIOGIO Um... Just... Don't look at the word count... HAHAHAHAH I DONT WANNA TALK ABOUT IT, Thank you for the request 🍀 anon! I hope you enjoy it! <3

Warning - Blood Drinking This takes place 7 years after GW - Both Giorno + Reader are 22

♡ Smut ♡ Word Count - 3800 (idk man...) .MINORS DNI.

Slender fingers press softly into his temple as he stares exasperated down at the papers in his hands, a rare annoyance coiling in his chest with an exhale as he places them back down and leans back into the plush material of the chair.

It was already early in the morning, the sun not peaking across the horizon yet thankfully, curtains and doors still open over the city below. 

The wind was soft and cool in the dimmed room when he stood, slipping to the balcony to look out, almost in longing.

He misses the feel of the sun on his skin, the calming warmth against him as he rests by your side. Sometimes he wonders if you hate him for it, that he can’t walk by your side in the sun. That you can’t go to the places he wants to take you. 

He knows you miss it just as much as he does.

A light sigh on his lips as he steps back inside and closes the door, pulling the curtains closed as the sunlight flickers over the horizon, a deep sadness curling into his skin.

He knows you deserve more. 

It’s selfish of him to hope you don’t want more.

He catches his reflection in the mirror as he heads towards the door, he looks more and more like his father everyday, it's almost terrifying how similar they look, the thought alone makes his stomach churn.

He remembers the day he found out just who Dio was from PolnaTortoise. The cruelty he wrought on people.

He often wonders if he’s capable of that same cruelty. 

A vampire. 

An impossible biological anomaly, but here he stands in his office.

Eyes darker than the softness they once held, fangs sharp against his closed lips. But that isn’t the part that terrifies him, it’s the subtle bloodlust that coils in his stomach whenever you’re around him.

You’ve been by his side in Passione since you helped them defeat Diavolo 7 years ago, not once have you given him a reason to distrust you, but giving him thousands that made him fall in love with you instead. 

You know about his… Affliction. 

But you aren’t ever scared of him, just silently adapting your world for him, keeping the safe house dark during the day so he doesn’t have to worry about the pain ripping at his skin, you even offered to let him drink from you.

He couldn’t. 

The thought of hurting you makes him feel like a monster.

He steps out of his office in a daze right as you slip from your room into the hallway, noticing him immediately as you walk to his side, he can smell you before he hears you as his head turns to you with a soft smile.

“Good morning, Y/N. Sleep well?”

“Morning Giorno, I did thank you, have you been working all night again?” 

Even when he doesn’t need to sleep as much as you he still looks exhausted, you can see it in his eyes when his shoulders relax more by your side.

“There’s just so much to do lately, nothing to worry about. I promise.”

“Giorno.”

Your voice is always kind, even as the commanding tone slithers into it, concerned for his well being even if he’s not fully human anymore.

“You should sleep, give me what you were working on.”

His hand raises to rub his face slightly, a small yawn on his lips while he doesn’t notice your wandering eyes on him. You don’t know exactly what’s happening to his body but you definitely aren’t complaining, muscles taut under his shirt, you wonder if his muscles are all that’s changed. 

Your eyes widen at the thought, cheeks faintly pink as you look away immediately. 

He’s your boss. 

You shouldn’t be thinking of him like that. 

He’s your friend.

He can hear the way your heartbeat spikes, hand falling from his face as he looks at you almost suspiciously, watching the way your cheeks flush and you avoid his gaze purposefully.

“Are you okay? Your heart is beating very fast.” 

He steps closer to you slightly, a playful look in his eyes as he tests his little theory, maybe it was all just a coincidence.

No. 

It’s definitely him causing your heart to jump.

“Am I scaring you?”

Your eyes meet his with a soft frown on your face, making his smile widen when he watches your cheeks burn brighter. 

“What? No! Of course not… It’s just a little hot in here.”

The hum is immediate as he leans towards you, grinning so wide that you can see his fangs slightly, making you swallow thinking about how they would feel against your skin. He watches the way your eyes fall to his mouth, pupils dilating more in the dark house.

As if he could hear your loud thoughts he stepped back again, straightening up with a tense exhale and closed eyes.

“Gio?”

“It’s okay, just… The usual.”

You know about the bloodlust that he feels, always kept in check with a gentle smile and usual composure. He’s never bitten anyone, never even tasted someone else's blood. 

It shouldn’t excite him as much as it does to imagine you below him with his fangs in your throat.

“Giorno. Can I help?”

“No. I won’t hurt you.”

“What if I want you to?”

The words slip from you before you can stop them, eyes wide as you stare up at him in panic, watching for every tiny change in his expression as your heart stutters in your chest. 

He’s just as wide eyed as you when he realises what you said, and by the look on your face you aren’t lying about it, even if you’re incredibly flustered.

“You shouldn’t.”

It's barely a whisper as he forces himself to look away from you, swallowing as his breathing catches in his throat, feeling the way his body reacts to you immediately. 

An almost amused exhale on your lips as you turn to face him fully, you can see just how much he wants to and it’s definitely a much bigger want than you were expecting him to have…

“Probably not but I trust you Giorno.”

“I’ve never… I don’t want to lose control.”

You know the risks as well as he does, even with your stand he has too much strength for you to remove him without hurting him. You know he would rather you kill him than ever lose control like that.

Your hands cup his face to make him look at you, god was he always this tall? His eyes find yours in the dimmed hallway.

“I trust you.”

“Can I kiss you?”

His immediate question makes you blink up at him in confusion, fingers still gently on his jaw as he leans slightly towards you, eyes not leaving your lips for a beat too long before glancing up to meet your gaze.

“I… You want to kiss me?”

“Please?”

A hum soft on his lips as they almost brush yours, gentle and intimate as you stand so close together, one of your hands dropping to his chest unconsciously.

“I like you. A lot…”

“I like you too, Giorno.”

“Even if I can’t take you to the beach?”

He looks almost sad, eyes watching you for any hint of rejection as he lightly reminds you of exactly who he is.

“Moonlight walks are more romantic anyway.”

“I can’t give you everything you want.

“Gio. You already have…”

He can’t stop himself from pressing his lips to yours, gentle as his fingers curl around the back of your head and hold you against him. 

You can't help the soft moan into his mouth when he nudges you back to pin you between the wall and himself, his fangs faint as they scrape against your bottom lip when you move, making you giddy at the thought of him biting you. And he does. 

Just not intentionally.

Gentle hands dragging you impossibly closer to him as he deepens the kiss, fangs nicking your lip just enough to cut, making him let go in panic and step back immediately, a whispered apology already falling from him. 

You don’t let him back up anymore when you grab his hand, pulling him gently back forward.

You know he could have just stood there and not let you move him, he lets you anyway, worry on his face when he glances to your lip. The smell of your blood lingering in the air between you both makes his mouth water and his heart jump excitedly.

“Taste it. You aren’t going to hurt me.”

After a long hesitant pause he leans down and licks the blood on your lip.

The shift is immediate, eyes wide and hungry as he pushes you back into the wall, lips against yours in desperation. He doesn’t stop the groan into your mouth as he tastes you on his tongue, chest rising and falling rapidly as the urge to bite you becomes almost all consuming, barely dragging himself away from you when his fangs rest on your lip.

“Shit. I… We should stop.”

You step forward and take his hand in yours, as sweet as ever even while he looms over you with barely contained bloodlust, like you don’t realise the amount of danger you’re in as you smile so sweetly up at him before nudging him towards your room.

“It’s okay, I want you to.”

He doesn’t move this time, standing stiff in a panic as he tries to will away the urge to pin you onto the plush carpet and take everything you’ll let him have. That want terrifies him. 

What scares him more is that you want it as well. 

You can feel his hesitation, the tense in his body as he stares at you like he wants to devour you whole. 

“Hey, It's okay, lets stop."

“If I lose control, I want you to stop me… Please?” You know what he’s implying, you also know Gold Experience Requiem wouldn’t allow that, but in some way you think his stand wouldn’t allow him to hurt you either.

“I promise.”

He steps towards your room, hand slipping onto your waist with a nervous exhale, his body relaxing some when you press yourself against him, showing him that you trust him not to lose control.

His eyes follow to where you sit on the edge of your bed, a gentle smile on your face as you wait for as long as he needs to, his heart pounding in his chest in excitement.

He’s been avoiding this for over a year, after his vampiric genes started activating it took him a while to even be in the same room with you without the desire to bite you being overwhelming. Why you? Why no one else?

A shaky sigh falling from his lips as he stepped towards you, you always have a way of flustering him, even as the boss of Passione, his one weakness is always you. 

His eyes are nervous as you meet his gaze, throat bobbing weakly when he swallows, attempting to speak before closing his mouth again with a huff.

“Giorno, we don’t have to do this.”

“Have you thought about it?”

“You feeding on me?”

He nods slightly, eyes staying on yours, you can tell he feels guilty for wanting this, you know he needs you to tell him the truth.

Maybe even to tell him to leave so he can keep what little control he has remaining, hands clenched at his sides as he tries not to reach out and touch you.

“I have…”

“Often?”

Your embarrassment tells him everything he needs to know as you look away, making him think back to every strange interaction he’s had with you. Until it clicks.

He’s silent for too long as you look back up at him, his eyes wide as he stares down at you, a grin pulling at his lips.

“How often?”

Shit. 

You don’t answer as your cheeks burn, knowing if you looked away again he would know immediately, hoping that maybe if you kept eye contact it would throw him off.

“Your heartbeat is very fast. Answer the question?”

It was a command wrapped in the guise of a question, you know he wasn't asking you, he was waiting to see if you’d choose to lie.

“A lot.”

Your tongue darts out to lick your lip as you sit up a little straighter, tasting the blood on your tongue as you meet his gaze again, used to see him so calm and composed, suddenly seeing a very amused, excited Giorno standing Infront of you.

You desperately try to keep your eyes on his face with his body so close to you, until he leans down with a hum, palm pushing your shoulder back with the same tenderness he always holds for you, no matter how strong he is.

“And how often is that? You know I have very good hearing, right?” 

The smile on his lips not leaving as you move back onto the bed, watching him climb on with you, hand on your waist to stop you from trying to move away, making sure he elongated the word ‘very’ as emphasis.

“How good is very?” 

“Good enough I can hear you moan no matter where I am in the house.”

He definitely knows.

You almost miss the sweet, nervous Giorno you usually see, the giddiness in him almost a stark contrast to how he looks, tight shirt over muscle so big you wonder how it doesn’t rip.

Your wide eyes making him laugh as he leans over you, wanting to kiss you but realising your lip is still bleeding lightly.

“You can kiss me Giorno… Please?”

The kiss is softer this time, more controlled even when he tastes your blood, like he has more of a hold on it this time, even if its painfully obvious how much it’s affecting him.

His fingers twitching against your hip as he unconsciously grinds against you, breaking the kiss with a panicked look in his eyes when he realises.

Only for you to pull him back down to kiss you again with a whine, when he breaks from you he doesn’t pull away fully, pressing his lips to your jaw, voice a gentle whisper in your ear.

“Tell me how often you think about it.”

“Every time.”

The groan that slips from him tickles your neck, his fangs grazing your neck as he kisses down the column of your throat, a faint whimper on your lips as you tilt your head back for him.

“Tell me what you think about.”

“Giorno…”

“Say it,” 

You feel the smile on his lips when he connects back to your neck, sucking softly and very lightly nipping at the skin as he waits for you to answer.

“God…”

He can’t help the amused laugh against your neck, body trembling with little giggles as he pulls away, a much sillier grin on his face.

“You think about God?”

“Shut up… I think about you, I'm just embarrassed.”

“Don’t be…”

“Thank you Gio, I’m no longer flustered about it.”

His grin widens as he looms over you, it’s a little scary to see someone so ominous grinning over you while you’re pinned fully to the bed.

“If it makes you feel better. I touch myself listening to you.”

“Giorno!”

“I think we’re a little past thinking it’s shocking, hmm? Tell me what you think about.”

His tongue is warm as he licks across the pulse point on your throat.

“I think about you feeding on me… While you’re inside of me.”

You feel the soft vibrations when he hums against you, pleased you finally told him.

His fingers pull you further under you as he rests his arms either side of your head before gently grinding down against you, lips brushing yours as you moan softly at the friction.

“Do you want me to?”

“Please Giorno.”

His hips stop immediately so he can move back and take his shirt off, your eyes immediately falling to his body with a soft exhale.

His grin widening as his fingers slip to the hem of your shirt as you let him take it off, his mouth immediately falling to lick softly at your nipple, hands dropping to your trousers to take them off with a hum when your fingers tangle in his hair.

You feel insanely shy laying under Giorno completely naked while he stares down at you like he wants to devour you,

“You’re nervous.”

Not a question.

Fact.

He hears the way your heartbeat shudders below him.

“Well, uh… It’s not everyday you’re completely nude under your vampire mafia boss…”

“I'm not your boss right now, it's just me.”

Your fingers reach out for him as he leans into you, lips pressed softly against yours as you feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance, moving his head back just enough to look at you.

“Can I?”

“Please Gio.”

You’re thankful for his broad frame as he pushes into you slowly, your hands curled around his back as his head falls into your neck, soft pants as he lets you adjust before he attempts to move again.

“Holy shit Giorno. What kind of genes do you have?”

It’s barely a sentence as you mewl out panted words while your head falls back into the covers, a breathy laugh from Giorno above you.

“Sorry… I didn’t think I was that big.”

God it’s cute the way he’s so embarrassed, still half way inside you while he lets you get used to the stretch of him. 

“You can… Hah, move Gio.”

“You sure?”

“If you don’t move I will drag you down here myself.”

Your empty threat immediately cuts off into a broken moan when he pushes in, hesitating for a second not wanting to hurt you before sinking in fully when he sees the way your pretty eyes roll back and your walls tremble around him.

“If you kill me… I’m haunting you.”

He doesn’t respond to your moaned threat, head resting against your chest as he pants softly, trying to calm himself down before he starts to move inside of you.

His eyes meet yours when he starts rolling his hips, slow deep thrusts that rip the air from your lungs in the most delicate way, moans falling from your lips with every time his cock fills you so perfectly again, he can barely believe you’re underneath him like this.

Not when he’s been imaging this for months, the soft clench of your walls making it impossible to focus on anything but how pretty you look. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

He risks a look down at where you’re taking him and bites back a soft moan, watching his length sink inside you over and over.

“Giorno… You... Okay?” You can see the way he’s barely in control as his hips rock sweetly into you, dragging broken moans from you, eyes fluttering as you watch him.

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

"I'll tell you if you hurt me… Stop holding back.”

You should have waited.

Should have prepared yourself mentally that he would actually stop holding back, trusting you’d tell him if he pushes too far. 

His thrusts turn almost hateful. Not fast.

Hard.

Every drag of his cock makes the desperate moans catch in your throat, slipping your hand over your mouth to keep yourself quiet, his eyes snapping to your fingers as he pulls your wrist away, demanding your other hand all while you’re falling apart beneath him.

Just for him to curl one hand around both of your wrists and pin them above you.

“Let me hear you.”

It was practically a growl with the way he rests his lips against your throat, feeling you clench at the thought he would bite you.

“Beg for it.”

“Beg…?”

“Me to take you.”

“Fuck… Gio, please. I want to make you feel good… I want you to taste. Please…”

“You remember what I said?”

You whine in response, barely a nod as you feel your orgasm coiling around you, a pathetic warning on your lips as he tilts his hips slightly making you cry out, wriggling slightly to try to stop him hitting your g-spot so perfectly.

“You don’t have to wait, let me feel you.”

You don’t get to choke out that you want him to come with you when his fangs pierce your throat, it hurts more than you expect it to as he moans into your neck, tongue warm as he laps at your blood. 

A broken sob rips from your lips as you cum hard around him, cock still thrusting so deep inside you that you’re barely able to keep from screaming as your head falls back, clenching around him so tight that it makes you whine at the size of him all over again.

You can feel the stutter in his hips as he drinks from you, groans falling from his lips as he tries to not cum inside you so soon all while losing his control with how perfect you taste.

“Stop holding... Back, Giorno. I’m yours.”

The moan that you drag from him is sinful, mouth pressed against your throat as he lets your blood drip softly into his mouth, overwhelming him so much he doesn’t even realise he's about to cum until his length twitches inside of you.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him inside you as he rocks his hips into you. 

He comes so hard you can feel every pulse of his length against your cervix, whining at the way his cum pours out while he fucks you through his orgasm with broken moans pressed against your neck. His tongue still lapping at the blood, the soft dizziness pulling at you from the light blood loss as you lean your head back. 

“Gio…”

He barely hums in response as his hips finally still against you, letting you feel the soft twitches as he comes down from his high, still pressed against your throat as he stops lapping at you, moving to press his head against your jaw.

“That was better that I imagined it would be…”

His voice was breathless in your ear, you can hear the grin on his lips as you laugh softly, limp in his arms as he kisses your shoulder lightly.

“Me too.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“I think you’ve ruined me…”

You sound just as breathless and giddy as he does, watching him pull back so he can look at you, letting go of your wrists with a soft apologetic look as if he’d forgotten he was holding you down before leaning in to kiss you, hesitating when he realised your blood was still on his mouth.

“You can kiss me… It’s just blood.”

He looks thankful as he leans in and kisses you, just once.

Soft.

Reverent.

“Thank you.”

“I think I should be saying that, Giorno.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Did you think I was done with you?”

[emoboy-cunt]

imagine a vampire whose bite has masculinizing effects on their victims... hide your cis girlfriend, because this bloodsucker wants nothing more than to turn her into a handsome, obedient, and monstrously strong thrall. she’s not even going to remember you once she becomes a creature of the night… he’ll just be one of many pretty boys in a vampire’s harem! don’t look so sad– he’s more beautiful than ever before. would definitely kill you, though.