KYLE GARRICK x READER tw: toxic ( kyle ) , vampire stuff ( blood in cups + mentions of blood ) , very possessive kyle ,
You hadn’t meant to see him again.
The night found you wandering—half-drawn by restlessness, half-chased by the ghosts you never named out loud. Rain clung to your coat in cold, needling strands, and the city’s edges blurred into something shapeless and wrong.
You ducked into the first place still open. Dim light. Dust in the corners. A bar that looked like it had given up on pretending to be anything else. The kind of place that swallowed the broken whole and asked no questions.
Suddenly you felt wrong. Needless to say pricking into your skin, rising goosebumps, you felt watched.
Next to the window bleeding white silk from the moon, you looked out at the gloomy streets, spotting a cafe directly across from the bar.
It was blurry, rain obscuring your vision (trying to save you from the truth). You turned away for a second bending over to an itch on your ankle (the god Hermes urging you to run) standing straight again, you cast a glance out the window again jumping back in fear at the sudden appearance of the man directly outside the glass. Starting at you.
His head was bowed, looking at you underneath hooded eyes shadows pooling beneath them like bruises that never healed.
You froze, heart lurching in your chest like it remembered something your mind had spent months trying to forget.
His eyes narrowed—and the world went too quiet.
No wind. No traffic. Even the rain had gone still, hovering midair like the whole night was holding its breath.
Your heart thundered against your ribs, too loud in the silence. You didn’t blink. You couldn’t. Because if you did, he might vanish again—like the last time. Like a bad dream or a warning you ignored.
But he didn’t vanish. He stood there, soaked and still, watching you with something too human to be called hunger—and too haunted to be called love.
Your lips parted, but no words came out. What do you say to a ghost who never died?
Slow. Controlled. He lifted a hand and pressed his palm to the glass between you, the gesture more prayer than threat. His fingers curled against the pane, and something in your chest cracked open—because you remembered that hand. What it felt like when it held yours. What it looked like wiping blood from his mouth the last night you saw him.
Kyle Garrick. The name dripped through your thoughts like blood into water. Notorious, untouchable. Beautiful in the way monsters are right before they sink their teeth in.
His head was bowed, face tilted just enough to see you beneath the hood of his coat. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes like bruises that never healed, like he’d forgotten what softness felt like—and maybe he had.
You froze, heart seizing in your chest like it remembered what your mind had tried so hard to bury.
The last time. The screaming. The bite. The deal.
You’d run. Left your phone behind. No note. Just silence. You’d changed cities, changed names, slept with a knife under your pillow. And still—still—he found you.
You’d thought he was dead.
You had hoped he was; It would’ve been easier.
His eyes narrowed. And the world went too quiet.
No thunder. No sirens. Just the slow, cold realization that you were still his. Whether you wanted to be or not.
A sharp knock on the glass made you flinch. Once. Then again.
You backed away, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. But he didn’t move. Didn’t shout. Didn’t break the glass like part of you expected.
You knew what was coming.
You didn’t stop until your spine hit the wall behind you. And still, you couldn’t look away. His eyes were following you, just as they always had—burning straight through you.
You took a breath and spun around—slamming into a wall of muscle and cold rain-soaked fabric. Hands closed around your arms, firm and close to bruising. Familiarly terrifying.
“Don’t tell me you missed me that much love?”
His voice was dripping honeyed threats straight from his tongue. The kind that curled under your skin and wrapped around your ribs. You shivered—not from cold. From knowing.
“You said you’d let me go,” You whispered.
He tilted his head. “I lied.”
Simple. Final. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You tried to twist free, but he pulled you closer, trapping you against him with a cold arm around your waist, nose brushing your temple. He inhaled deeply, like he was memorizing you all over again.
“You ran,” He murmured. “You always run. But you know how this ends.”
Your breath hitched. “Please—”
His grip tightened, the threat looming. Always there. Not in what he said—but what he didn’t.
A pause. A slow smile against your cheek.
“I don’t care if you’re afraid. I want you afraid. I want you to remember what happens when you forget who I am.”
He wasn’t born this way. You’d seen the cracks in him once—those brief flashes of a man, not a monster. But the darkness had swallowed him whole long ago. Now, the only thing left was obsession. Cold and eternal.
And you—God help you—used to believe you could love the man inside the monster.
Now, all you could do was survive him.
“I don’t love you anymore,” You whispered, even as your voice trembled. He chuckled in response, low and dangerous.
His lips brushed your ear.
“Love isn’t what keeps you mine.”
And in that moment, you knew: he would never let you go.
Not until your blood ran dry. Not until your last breath.
Outside, the rain had teeth.
It chewed through the streets as he led you outside, your feet dragging across cracked pavement slick with oil and shadows. His grip was iron. Not bruising—no, he was too refined for that. But firm in the way a trap holds prey: patient and inevitable.
You tried to speak. Tried to turn. But the night itself seemed to conspire with him, muffling your voice, swallowing the city whole. A car waited at the curb—sleek, black, predatory. The kind of vehicle that didn’t belong to a man but to a myth.
He opened the door for you like a gentleman, gaze unreadable.
And you—fool that you were—hesitated.
Not because you wanted to go.
But because some small part of you, traitorous and aching, remembered what it felt like to be wanted by something so powerful it would tear the world apart to hold you.
His expression didn’t change. Only his eyes—those strange, haunted things—darkened like storm-swollen skies.
“You think you still have choices?” He asked, voice low and cold enough to frost glass. “You bled me dry with your absence. And now you expect mercy?”
He stepped forward. “You don’t get to leave again.”
He took your wrist—not roughly, not even harshly—but with a reverence that turned your stomach. Like you were something sacred. A relic. A possession returned at last.
His shoulder brushed yours once. You flinched. He didn’t apologize.
You watched the city peel away—buildings thinning into forests, the forest into fog, the fog into nothing. And there, in the cradle of nowhere, his mansion rose like a mausoleum.
White stone blackened by time. Iron gates twisted like broken ribs. Windows tall and hollow-eyed, watching your approach like sentient things.
You thought: This house knows hunger.
The door opened before he touched it.
You shouldn’t have been surprised.
Inside, it smelled of old paper, bloodwine, and ash. A cathedral built by madness, with vaulted ceilings high enough to echo all the things he never said. Candles bled wax onto antique tables. Velvet curtains, deep burgundy, pooled like congealed blood on the marble floor.
He led you through it all like Orpheus through the underworld—never glancing back, as if he knew you would follow even when every instinct screamed not to.
Up the stairs. Down the hall.
To the room that was yours. (a shrine to the idea of you).
The same books you once loved lined the shelves. A scarf you’d lost months ago lay folded on the armchair. A pressed flower between glass on the nightstand—your favorite, now long dead.
You stepped inside. The door closed behind you locked.
You turned on him, breath catching. “You said you loved me once.”
He studied you for a long moment. Then stepped forward—slow, methodical—until the space between you was suffocating.
You wanted to scream. Or sob. Or touch him, god forbid. He was a riddle wrapped in velvet and menace, and you were tired of not knowing which part of him would reach for you next: the man who once kissed you like you were a miracle—or the monster who now held your life like a leash in his hands.
His fingers grazed your cheek. Cold. Gentle.
“I rebuilt this place for you,” He murmured. “Room by room. Memory by memory.”
His gaze sharpened. Smile thinned.
“There’s no door in this house that opens without my will.”
“But you won’t leave,” He added softly. “Because despite the fear. . . you feel it too.”
You wanted to deny it. But the truth clawed at your ribs.
But you feared yourself more—for the part of you that still wanted to stay.
And now—his love was all that remained.
“You’re not a prisoner here,” He said finally.
You looked at him. “But I am.”
“You’re not a prisoner,” He murmured, stepping close enough that his shadow wrapped around you. “You’re a promise.”
The words settled over you like ash. You backed into the wall before realizing you’d moved. His presence filled the space around you like smoke, like something pressed tight into your lungs.
He hovered close—not touching, but daring you to move.
“And promises don’t get to leave.” His hand rose, fingertips brushing your jaw. A question buried deep in the gesture.
“And if I break it?” You whispered.
The words barely escaped you, trembling out of your mouth like a prayer you didn’t believe in. The syllables curled into the space between you, fragile as moth wings—and just as likely to burn.
Kyle’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and something ancient stirred behind his eyes. Something too vast to be human. His hunger wasn’t just for your blood—it was for obedience. For the slow, exquisite agony of your surrender.
His body moved like a shadow changing shape, not touching you—not yet—but close enough that you could feel the chill of his breath as it ghosted across your cheek, down the column of your throat. He was studying you like a scholar studies scripture—reading you, memorizing the fragile cracks in your defiance.
A slow, cold smile touched his lips.
“Then we’ll rebuild you,” He murmured, and his voice no longer sounded like speech. It sounded like a blade being unsheathed. Like the beginning of a song you only hear once—right before you die.
The room went silent again. But now you felt the house watching. Waiting.
You weren’t the guest here.
And somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open. And you know another would follow. And another.
The wolves were circling.
His hand rose—that hand, always gloved in leather when blood was near—and with two fingers he touched your jaw, tilting your face as though you were made of porcelain. Delicate. Replaceable.
His thumb brushed over your lower lip, and the gesture was almost tender, almost reverent—until you saw the crimson sheen on his nail. Not his blood. Yours.
Outside, the house shifted.
Another pair of footsteps, soft as sin, passed down the corridor. Someone whistled—low, tuneless, and wrong. Like a lullaby from a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.
Kyle’s forehead came to rest against yours, and his eyes fluttered shut like he was savoring the moment—like it cost him something not to bury his teeth in your throat right then and there.
“You can run again,” He whispered. “Lie to yourself. Starve. Pretend this isn’t what you want.”
His breath was colder now, threading between your lips like winter smoke.
You swallowed, throat clicking dryly, pulse loud in your ears.
His eyes opened. And there was nothing soft in them now. Only fire and possession.
“Because you’re mine,” He said simply. “And love doesn’t ask for permission. Not here. Not anymore.”
Somewhere behind you, the lock on the door turned.
He stood rooted before you like some cathedral gargoyle come to life—an effigy carved from hunger, and blood, and devotion warped into something unrecognizable.
His hands remained loose at your hips, but the tension coiled beneath his skin told a different story. He was waiting—for you to fall forward into his arms, or to bolt.
You blinked once. Twice. The room around you swayed, the wallpaper too rich in color, the floor too still beneath your feet. It felt less like a bedroom and more like a theatre set waiting for the next scene to begin.
And somewhere beyond these walls, it already had
The halls of the house were colder in the morning, though no sunlight dared breach the thick velvet drapes. The mansion breathed like a living thing—floorboards moaning, walls sweating silence, and chandeliers twitching in their chains as if they, too, were listening.
Kyle said nothing as he led you down the corridor. His pace was slow, but every step felt like a page turning in a book written in your blood. A procession, not an escort. You weren’t being walked to breakfast.
You were being presented.
The dining hall opened like a mouth before you.
Gold-drenched sconces and oil paintings lined the walls—wretched depictions of wolves in mourning, angels bleeding into wine glasses, a table long enough to seat twenty.
Only four chairs were filled.
Price sat at the head. Not lounging. Not upright. Still. As if carved from some dark wood pulled from a drowned forest. His eyes met yours the second you crossed the threshold—unmoving, appraising. He wore a collared shirt, half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the forearm. No tie. A ring on his finger caught the light. You could feel the weight of his authority like a hand between your shoulder blades.
You remember the time where you were branded with a ring. Happy, content. Not anymore.
You didn’t know how long he’d been watching you. Maybe since the night before. Maybe before that.
He leaned back in his chair with a kind of lazy menace, one arm draped over the backrest, the other nursing a steaming cup between gloved hands. He didn’t wear the balaclava now, but his expression gave nothing away. It didn’t need to.
His gaze felt like being dragged underwater—slowly.
Opposite him, Soap, shirt wrinkled, knife in one hand, apple in the other. He carved it absently with the tip of the blade, slicing ribbons of flesh that curled like scrolls across his plate.
He grinned when he saw you.
“Well,” He said, accent thick and casual, “though’ ye’d bolt in the night.”
“I thought about it,” You muttered before you could stop yourself.
The silence that followed was soft. Too soft.
Then Ghost chuckled—low, like a door creaking open in the dark. “I would’ve bet on you lastin’ three hours,” He murmured. “Guess I lost.”
Kyle gestured wordlessly toward the only empty seat—between Soap and Price, across from Ghost. It gleamed at you, pulled out just enough to make refusal feel childish.
No food on your plate. Just a glass of something dark. It wasn’t wine.
No one commented on your silence. You were a guest, yes. But not the kind they expected to speak. Not yet.
Price finally leaned forward, setting both forearms on the table. His presence shifted the entire room like gravity had taken notice.
“She sleep?” He asked, directing it to Kyle. Though his eyes were on you the entire time.
“Eventually,” Kyle murmured, his eyes on you, not the others. “She’s still adjusting.”
Ghost smirked. “To captivity?”
“Call it commitment,” Kyle said evenly.
Soap snorted. “Could call it obsession. But it’s prettier when we pretend it’s romance, innit?”
That one name held enough steel to quiet the table.
You could feel it now—beneath the civil silence. Beneath the candlelight and polished cutlery. The sharp edges. The pact.
You weren’t at breakfast.
You were at a ritual. A claiming.
Ghost leaned forward, one hand on the table, the other still wrapped around his cup. “I’m curious,” He said softly, voice more felt than heard. “Did you come with ‘im willingly?”
But his hand found the small of your back between your chair—lightly pressing. Possessive.
You swallowed. You could feel all three of them watching. Waiting.
The glass at your place pulsed with scent—blood and clove and something that might have once been you.
But you didn’t push it away either.
A little while later they had let you leave the table without protest—like wolves turning their heads while a deer wandered off. You didn’t question it. You couldn’t afford to. You kept your head down, your steps light. You walked as if their silence was permission, not pity.
But the moment you reached your room—the velvet-clad cage of it—you didn’t stop.
Past the door. Down the corridor. Up a stairwell you hadn’t dared approach before. The walls narrowed. The paintings became crueler, darker—twisted studies in pain and devotion. Lovers with bleeding eyes. Saints whose ribs broke open into rose gardens. Angels bound in red silk and silence.
You moved like a breath between cracks. Like myth. Like the last gasp of something doomed.
And somehow—by luck or some trick of the house—you found it.
A door. Wooden and unmarked. Unlocked.
Behind it: a stairwell that spiraled downward like the throat of some great, sleeping beast.
It smelled of damp stone and old iron. The walls were damp. Mold kissed the edges of the banister. You followed it blindly, heart rattling in your chest like bones in a velvet sack.
Then—finally—another door. Not locked. Just heavy.
You shoved it open with your whole body.
And there—the night. Wet, thick, sprawling.
The air struck your lungs like a slap. Cold. Real.
The garden was overgrown. Wild. A graveyard of ruined beauty. Roses spilled like blood down moss-slick statues. Thorns clawed at your legs as you pushed through the brush, breathing hard, heart screaming.
You saw the wrought-iron gate.
Branches tore at your arms. Mud clung to your feet. Your breath rasped out in gasps, sharp as broken glass. You touched the gate. It groaned under your weight. You pulled, heaved— opened it.
The woods beyond stretched wide and black, moonlight whispering between the trees.
You took one step. Then two.
“Where were you planning to go?”
Your stomach dropped, crashing through you like a stone through ice.
He stood just inside the gate. Leaning against it as if he’d been waiting all along.
The moonlight loved him. It silvered the edges of his face, caught the blood-red thread woven into the black of his coat. His expression was unreadable. But his eyes—those eyes—burned like oil fire.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” You whispered.
“I know,” He said softly.
The wind shifted. The woods behind you hissed. The house behind him pulsed.
“I thought—” You stopped. There was no dignity left. Just the thundering ache of your own betrayal. “I thought I could make it.”
Kyle stepped forward. One step. Just one.
And the world obeyed him.
“I know,” He said again. Not unkindly. But like someone correcting a child. Like someone who knew better.
You stepped back. “Please.”
“Do you even know what’s out there?” He asked, gesturing vaguely to the woods. “You think I’m the worst thing waiting for you in the dark?”
He stared at you for a moment.
Then he laughed. Quiet and sad.
“You do,” He said. “You care so much it’s eating you alive.”
You opened your mouth. To argue. To run. To scream.
But he was in front of you now—too close. His hand found your wrist, firm but not rough. His touch didn’t burn.
“I would’ve let you go,” He said.
His eyes glittered. “I would’ve. If you hadn’t looked back.”
And you remembered, then—you had.
In the garden. Just once. Before reaching the gate. You’d looked over your shoulder, back at the house. Just for a heartbeat.
“That’s all I needed to know,” He said.
And he smiled. Not cruel.
The wind died. The woods held their breath. And the gate—
It echoed in your spine like a verdict.
You didn’t feel Kyle’s hand on you—but his presence was a brand, seared into the back of your neck, a pressure so suffocating it felt like gravity had shifted to orbit him. Your body moved before your mind caught up, following him through the garden as though dragged by an invisible thread stitched deep into your ribs.
The flowers whispered as you passed—dark roses heavy with rain, bowed like mourners. Vines snaked around statues with empty eyes, and petals wilted beneath your steps like the house itself was offering you back to him.
When the manor swallowed you again, it did so with silence. Not peace—stillness. The kind that follows something dead into the earth.
Inside, the warmth returned, but it was wrong. Staged. The glow of dying hearths and perfumed oil, too thick, too sweet—a scent that clung like fingerprints on glass. The shadows had teeth again. The sconces flickered with a hungry light.
Kyle walked ahead of you, slow, assured, like a king returning home with his crown in hand.
He didn’t speak until the door to your bedroom closed with the soft, unmistakable thud of a tomb sealing.
The fire crackled behind him, gilding his figure in the golds of a dying sun. His back was straight, arms crossed, jaw tight beneath the flicker of flame. But his voice—when it came—was a blade sheathed in silk.
“You’re lucky it was me,” He said. “Out there, alone? The woods don’t ask what you’re running from. They just take.”
You turned your face away from the hearthlight, from the terrible steadiness in his voice. The tears in your throat threatened to rise like salt from the sea. “Maybe that would’ve been better.”
The silence that followed was heavy—pregnant with consequence.
You blinked, and Kyle had moved. Swift. Sudden. Not violent—but the kind of swift that demanded your body rearrange itself around him.
His hand struck the wall beside your head—not to harm, but to hold you in place with the force of choice removed. His body, caging yours, radiated warmth like a furnace sealed tight.
“Say that again.” His voice was low, poisonous velvet.
You stared into his eyes—those haunted, gold-lit things rimmed in shadow—and wished you hated him.
“I said,” You breathed, “maybe I’d rather be lost than found by you.”
Something in his face twisted. But not with rage.
“I’m not what found you,” He murmured, his breath cool against your cheek, “I’m what remains.”
Your hands shot up before your mind could stop them—pushing, clawing, shoving at his chest like your palms might burn him with defiance. But he was unmovable, a statue forged in something heavier than marble. You shoved stone.
“Why me?” You snapped, voice hoarse. “Why this? Why pretend it’s love when it’s just—control?”
His eyes softened. Not gently.
“I don’t love you the way soft men do,” He said, voice like embers in a cathedral, “I love you like the sea loves the shore.”
You felt your ribs crush inward.
“With waves that break it,” He whispered. “Again. And again. Until it belongs.”
The words lodged in your chest like splinters of glass. You didn’t want them. And yet—
Beneath the hatred and fear, some treacherous, ancient part of you curled toward it. Toward him. Toward the comfort of inevitability.
“Let me go,” You whispered.
But it was a ghost of a protest now, thin as breath on glass.
He touched you, then. Not forceful, not bruising.
His fingers came to your jaw—gentle, reverent, as though you were a relic he had stolen from a shrine and polished nightly.
“I could,” He said, thumb grazing your cheekbone. “But you’d just come back. Piece by piece. Dream by dream.”
Like a man who had waited centuries for a prophecy to bleed true.
When he pulled back, the room spun. You were no longer cold. But you weren’t warm either.
His thumb swept over your lower lip—tender, possessive.
“You don’t need a cage, sweetheart,” He whispered. “You need someone who sees the monster in you. . . and doesn’t flinch.”
Your body still. Your heartbeat—loud. Bruising.
He left without another word.
And you stood there alone.
The room watched you breathe, watched as you lay awake at night.
But in the pale stretch of dawn, there were two teacups on the bedside table.
One with steam curling up in a lazy halo.
Like it had been waiting.
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