Delicious | Aizawa Shouta X Reader (BNHA)
Warnings: 18+! Vampire!Aizawa, Virgin!Reader, Supernatural Au, Bloodplay (kinda), Soulmates, Biting, Voyerism.
Word Count: 5k
This is a (very, very, very) late Secret Santa gift for @10millionyearsdungeon! Britt, my love, you have the patience of a saint and I’m more than honoured to gift you this piece of writing! I hope you enjoy it ♡︎♡︎♡︎
The wedding is beautiful, no expenses spared. Which is to be expected, of course. Your father being the Lord High Treasurer, and your now husband being a well known count: wealthy, with a castle and an estate that rivals even the King himself.
When you found out he’d accepted your father’s offer, you’d been overjoyed. Aizawa Shouta was famous for rejecting all offers: daughters of noble birth, of monetary birth, and beauties alike; so it was only natural for your imagination to run rampant, for you to daydream your days and nights leading up to the wedding away, wondering… why you?
Why you?
Was there something spectacular he saw in you when he’d come to your home for dinner to hear your father’s offer? Was it your eyes? The ‘air’ about you? He himself was unconventionally handsome, with dark tired eyes, and inky black hair pulled into a low ponytail, dressed in the finest crimson and black ensemble you’d ever seen.
That crimson had reflected in his eyes when he kissed your hand in greeting, setting your heart ablaze and jolting your already rampant pulse.
It brings a smile to your face as you sit in his—your carriage, you suppose— travelling back to the Aizawa Estate, your new home.
He’s quiet, not much of a talker, and it makes you nervous. Despite the soft smile on his face as you approached at the altar, despite the way he couldn’t take his eyes off you as he listed off his vows; despite the tender way in which he kissed you when you were officially made man and woman mere hours ago. Despite all that, the ride to the castle is quiet, and you fiddle with the lace of your beautiful white dress nervously, anxiety swelling in your chest.
Is he regretting this?
Does he not want you any—
A hand, large and heavily ringed and cold, rests over both of yours, and you look up at him— your husband— see him watching you intently. Then he squeezes your hands in his, leans over to the window and parts the curtains.
“We’re close,” his voice is deep, raspy. “I apologise for the long ride, you must be exhausted.”
“N-no, it’s fine,” you stammer, feeling your face heat impossibly hot. “I’m excited to see your home, really.”
“Our home,” he corrects you, lifting one of your hands to his face, lips gently brushing your knuckles.
Nervous laughter slips from your lips, “yes… Our home.”
-
The Aizawa Estate is as huge as you’d imagined. Gardens sprawl on acres of land beyond the black wrought iron gate, and the cobblestone path the carriage takes you up is longer than any estate you’ve ever visited.
“The family’s always loved their privacy,” he’d mentioned when he noticed your perplexed stare out the carriage window.
All you could do was nod and smile.
The castle itself is nothing if not darkly gothic. It’s hard to really get a look at it in the vastly setting sun, but you’re sure you see gargoyles mounted on tower tops, and beautiful green vines growing over the dark stone exterior.
Then you’re whisked out of the carriage in what feels like a whirlwind; greeted by butlers and maids and cooks and cleaners and ranch hands— at least twenty people greeting you and listing off their names, huge smiles on their ecstatic faces.
“Goodness, you’re beautiful!” An older woman gushes, taking one of your hands in both of hers, surveying your nail beds and your palm, your wrist—
“Enough, Aoi,” Aizawa ticks his tongue, taking your hand from hers, pulling you closer to him. “My bride is tired; it’s been a long day of dancing and eating and getting to know people, hasn’t it, my love?” His eyes look down into yours, brows slightly raised, and you can tell he’s trying to whisk you away.
It should be him— if anyone— who would be tired. You’re used to life at court.
“Ah yes,” you agree, slightly ashamed by the lie. “And my feet in these shoes…” you add it for effect, but in hindsight you shouldn’t have, almost instantly evoking a response akin to panic amongst the maids.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Aizawa hushes them, raising his free hand, seemingly annoyed. “I’ll take her up and get her comfortable. Let me be her husband before you all start… this.” He grumbles, pointing at their concerned faces, as if he’s used to their fussing.
A plethora of “yes, Master,” rings about the foyer, and then he’s taking you up the stairs, hand securely around your own, quietly apologising for their behaviour.
“It’s sweet,” you smile when he glances back at you. “Shows how much they care for you, My Lord.”
He stops mid-step, turns to face you, free hand raising to toy with a lock of your hair. “Please, call me Shouta.”
You feel a heavy blush run up your neck, consume your ears and heat your face. “Of course, Shouta.” You squeeze his hand, surprised at your own composure considering the loud staccato of your heart.
He smirks then, a look you’d not seen on his face all day— if ever— and he squeezes your hand back, leans impossibly close to you and looks into your eyes. “Shall we, my wife?”
It’s the most suggestive he’s been all day, setting you imagination ablaze, churning the cogs in your brain and the butterflies in your stomach.
For perhaps the third time today, all you can do is nod, thighs pressing together under your many skirts to try and hide the fact that you’re excited. He chuckles and turns on his heel, leading you back up the staircase, then towards the east wing of the castle.
-
Sex isn’t quite as you’d imagined.
He wrings you out completely, pulls sounds you didn’t know you were capable of from your lips, leaves you trembling and weeping and dizzy with pleasure.
Then afterwards he bathes you in the tub, meticulously tending to your needs, before drying you off, dressing you and putting you to bed.
In a bit of what feels like a fever dream, you feel him leave, before falling into a deeper sleep, the best sleep you’ve had in a long, long time.
-
Days bleed into weeks, then months of blissful marriage. He takes you for dinner once a week at your father’s house, has your friends and family over each Sunday night for a roast. He takes you on twilight walks around the gardens of your estate when he’s not busy, but despite not entirely understanding his job—its just work, my love, nothing to bother you about—he works a lot.
Some days he’s holed up in his office for hours, sometimes he even misses supper.
Its worrisome, he seems forever tired, and though you appreciate the things he does for you… you get lonely.
Enter: Nemuri.
She’s one of Shouta’s oldest friends; a beautiful woman closer to his age, with long, dark hair and shining blue eyes. At first you were on edge with her around. She’s entirely seductive, in touch with her femininity and not scared to drape herself all over any man or woman she deems worth the effort. You worried that perhaps she was interested in your husband, but one conversation with her about it, had her in absolute stitches.
“Shouta is like a brother to me, little dove,” she’d smiled after she’d calmed her laughter, linking her arm through yours and leaning her head on your shoulder. “Besides, you’re much more to my tastes.”
You had laughed her off, and she’d raced you to the stables, then you’d both gone on a long trail ride out of the estate and through the mountains.
Still, while your friendship with Nemuri was blossoming, while your new husband was attentive and kind, and your new home full of kind, trustworthy people… there was something in the back of your brain that just wouldn’t let you completely settle.
A strange suspicion was growing, spurred on by the fact that every night—no matter what— when your husband thought you were sleeping, he’d slide out of bed and disappear; only to crawl back in beside you a couple of hours later, wrapping his cold arms around your body and nuzzling into your neck with a sigh.
-
It feels like you can’t ask.
You’ve let it go for so long, that each passing night brings you nothing but anxiety. No matter if you sleep early, or late, if you make love or not, he still leaves.
Where is he going?
You’ve explored the castle enough in your time here to know there are many, many locked doors. Nemuri promises they’re full of old furniture or paintings— just storage— but paranoia has you second guessing her.
Is she in on it, too?
You kiss your husband goodnight and roll onto your side, he snuggles in behind you with a yawn and falls asleep.
Only he’s not, and you’re not.
You wait. You breathe in and out, relax your body, feign it best you can.
It feels like hours later, when he moves. Rolls away slowly and slips from the sheets you share, sliding on his slippers, and leaving the room.
You count to twenty. Twice. With anxiety tight and thick in your chest, you slip out of bed and slide on your robe, your slippers. You get to the door and freeze; you’re scared, but your curiosity outweighs your worry, and then you’re grasping the old handle and slinking from the room.
You follow his candlelit form in the dark, listening to his footfalls in the otherwise silent castle. Down the stairs he goes, through the hallway leading to the kitchens, and down into the cellar. You hesitate when he slides past a tapestry, but it’s too dark not to follow; you’ve never been down here, and you’d surely get lost trying to find your way back to the room.
So you pull the fabric to the side and step into another hallway, one lit with gothic lanterns, the walls littered with portraits of people you’ve never seen nor met.
Perhaps he comes here to pray? These people look like your Shouta, but all were painted decades, and even centuries ago. Maybe this hallway leads to his ancestral tombs, and you’ve just stumbled onto them before he’s felt comfortable enough to share them with you.
How pathetic you’re going to seem if he catches you.
Still, you press on, compelled to, unable to turn back even if you wanted to—
A moan, long and needy and female sounds from a door deeper into the almost infinite hall and your heart leaps in your chest. You know that sound, it’s the sound you make, a sound that Shouta pulls from you when you make love—
Your heart skips and your slow walk turns into a jog, confusion and morbid curiosity pumping the blood faster in your veins, and you hear the sound again—the woman’s moans—and freeze, chest heaving, when you make it to the door. You can hear the low rumble of his voice. Shouta’s voice. It mingles with the keening moans of a woman writhing in pleasure, then:
“Be gentle with her, I haven’t broken her in yet.” Nemuri.
Fury takes hold, the idea of the two of them—your closest family, now—betraying your trust, so overwhelming that you’re gripping the doorknob and turning it, pushing the door open with tears in your eyes.
What you see shocks you.
A woman on the bed in the middle of the room, Nemuri between her legs, Shouta behind her. There’s blood everywhere, and you notice marks— bites— bleeding on the stranger’s skin.
Shouta looks up at you, eyes glowing red, mouth and chin glistening in it.
The blood.
Instinct says run, but you’re caught in his eyes, like a frightened rabbit staring down a wolf.
He wipes his chin on his sleeve and pushes the woman from his lap, eyes never leaving you, your name on his lips, “you should be sleeping.”
He rounds the bed and makes his way towards you, your heart pounding frantically in your chest, until he’s mere feet from you, clawed hands reaching out for your shoulders. Snapping out of whatever haze you’d been bathed in, you stumble backwards, only stopping when your back hits stone.
“Sh-Shouta,” you reach for his robe as he steps silently towards you, tears gathering in your eyes, head shaking side to side as you beg and plead for him, “p-please don’t hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” He still sounds human, but those clawed fingers are reaching for your face, angling it up so he can look you in the eyes. “Now, why would I do that?”
“Please,” you sob as his face nears, nose grazing the skin of your cheek, then lips resting at your ear.
“Don’t be frightened, my love; blood sours with it.” He whispers, your knees buckling. He catches you, presses a kiss to your cheek and trails down to your throat, breathing in the scent of your skin. “But even scared, you smell most tempting.” His breath shudders against your skin, and he pulls away from you, holds you at arms length. “You think I’d hurt you?”
“Th-the wo-woman—”
“She’s having the time of her life in there; can you not hear her moans?” He moves pointedly out of your way, allowing you to see back into the room where Nemuri has her fingers inside the woman’s cunt, where she’s sucking on a wound as she cries and shakes in ecstasy.
You draw in a shaky breath, unable to stop the clench in your core at the sight. “This is wh-what you do each night? You leave me to… play with other women?” Even in your head, you’re surprised that you’re overlooking the obvious— the drinking of the blood— but you’re flustered and angry and feeling... cheated.
He chuckles at it, though, amused. “To feed, my love.” He says smoothly, only making you angrier.
“You’re doing to her what you’re only to do with your wife!” You snip, glaring up at him, watching as a grin grows on his face.
“No, Nemuri provides the pleasure so the blood is ripe enough to be harvested. Nothing worse than an unwilling participant; I’d need to feed twice a day.” His hand— fingers back to normal— comes to your face, dusts hair from your vision. “I do this to protect you, my love, to protect my secret. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
Something ludicrous comes to mind, and you’re too worked up not to say it: “why not me, then?” His eyes flash like rubies in sunlight, and he snatches your wrist, dragging you further down the hall.
“You?” He asks darkly, your heart leaping in your chest, feet barely keeping up with his long, pointed strides. “You?” He turns to glare at you, but rather than feeling scared, a rush of adrenaline courses through your veins.
He looks forward again, raises his hand; in a gust of wind, the door at the end of the hall flings open, the room inside illuminated in a warm glow.
“You?” He seethes quietly to himself, practically flinging you into the room and slamming the door behind himself. He stands there for a while, hands pressed to the door, eyes on the floor, shoulders rising and falling with exertion.
“Shouta—”
“You think that’s not the only thing I’ve thought about since meeting you at your father’s estate?” His voice is quiet, breathing evened out. “I knew from the moment I touched you that I needed you here with me, that you were meant for me—made for me.” He turns then, those dark red eyes running your blood cold, your hands coming up to rub at your arms to suppress a shiver. He hangs his head again, sighs a sound that can only be described as painful.
“So, you’re just using her? To stay… alive?”
A deep chuckle, “in a way.”
Another bout of silence.
“So, were you going to ask me? If you could have mine?”
“Eventually.”
“Shouta, this is a lot—”
“I am well aware. Nemuri warned me we’d be found out; said you were smarter than your average court girl.”
“You sneak away every night—”
“I’d only need to feed on your blood once a week to sustain the standard of living I have now.” He pushes away from the door, turns to face you, neck cracking when he jerks it this way and that.
You take a quick breath, attempt to stand taller, feigning bravery. “Is this,” you glance around the room, full of lit candles, a plush king-sized bed pushed to the far wall, all golds and royal purple and dark shades of grey. “Entirely necessary?”
“This,” he steps towards you, shrugs his arms out of his inky robe, sends it falling to the stone floor. “Is a ceremonial room, used on special occasions. Don’t you prefer to drink your wine at parties, my love?” He steps closer still, and you raise your chin, trying to prove you’re not as scared as you should be.
“Will it hurt?” You whisper when his hands come to rest on your shoulders, running down your arms to free them of your hands still gripping the flesh there.
“A... good hurt.” His voice is quiet, eyes roaming the skin he’s exposing as he’s sliding off your own robe, the flowy white satin pooling at your feet. Goosebumps pepper your skin as his fingers drawing down your arms, until they’re linking with yours, drawing both of your hands to his lips. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Are you? Are you really prepared for this man, this… vampire, to sink his fangs into your skin and drink from you? What will happen? Will you die? Will you change?
“If you have questions, my love, ask away.” You look up into his eyes as he drops your hands and cups your face. “Your pulse is racing.”
“A-after,” you inwardly kick yourself for stammering again. “What happens after?”
His thumbs gently trace your cheeks, “you sleep, I sleep; we wake in the morning and eat breakfast.”
“Will I remember?”
“Yes.”
“Will the wound hurt?”
“During? No. In the morning? A little.”
Your voice lowers, “will I be different?”
He sighs, hands dropping to your neck, thumbs still rubbing your skin, your jaw, your ears, “that may come later.”
You reach for him then, hands on his nightshirt, fingers desperately clinging to the thin material as you rise onto your tiptoes and press your lips to his. The kiss deepens, your eyes slamming shut, lips hungry, tongue sliding against his, the faint coppery taste of the nameless woman in the other room sparking your jealousy, pushing you further faster, your hands gripping at Shouta’s shoulders, arms wrapping around his neck.
He lifts you with a growling rumble in his chest, and you wrap your legs around him, a thrill rising in your gut as he walks you backwards, his kisses trailing down your chin, tongue lavishing your jaw, your neck. Then you’re dropped onto the plush bed, and he’s crawling on top of you, slipping his hips between your thighs, lips back on yours, hungrier for you than you’ve ever seen him—than you’ve ever felt him.
Hands grope and pet at you as you lose your own in his hair, lost in the delicious ecstasy that is his lips on your throat, on your clavicle, the exposed skin of your shoulder. “Beautiful,” he mumbles, drawing the dainty strap of your nightgown down your arm. “Your blood is already begging me to taste it,” he whispers against your skin, nose drawing along it on a deep inhale.
“I love you,” is all you can say; breathlessly lost in his ministrations, mind focused on nothing except the growing pleasure your husband is bringing you.
“And I you, my love,” he whispers back, fingers on your hips, hiking up your skirt with a desperation he’s never shown before. He sits up on his knees and tears his shirt from his torso, showing you the toned chest and abs that you’ve never really seen in full light. Dark hair dusts his chest, and scars—so many scars—litter his skin, a gasp leaving your throat at the sight.
You sit up and marvel at him, touching his pale skin as if it were made of crystal, as if the scars were inscriptions for you to decipher. He just smiles, takes the opportunity to lift your dress from your form and toss it with his shirt, his breath leaving his lips at the sight of you fully naked in front of him.
“We must always make love in the candlelight,” he says, both hands finding your thighs, trailing up and over your hips, waist, lightly dragging up your breasts, thumbs fondling your nipples. “Too long I have kept you in the dark.”
A shiver wracks your form, “you can keep me anywhere, Shouta, as long as I can be with you.”
“Say that, and I just might have to keep you locked in this room, my love.” He threatens in jest, pushing you back into the plush mattress, lips ghosting over the skin of your chest, latching onto a nipple as fingers pull and twist playfully at the other.
Your moans only intensify the longer he toys with you, and the more vocal you are with your pleasure, the rougher he gets. Kissing turns to nipping, fingers find the dripping lips of your sex and stroke you gently, before one, then two digits slide into you, your back bowing off the bed, nipples rubbing against the course hair at his chest as his lips suck and nip at your throat.
Its too much, the most intense he’s ever been, the most wonderful you’ve ever felt. “More,” you find yourself saying, hips jerking as he languidly fingers you, your nails digging deep into the flesh at his back. “Shouta, please,” you beg, delirious with want, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
“I’ll be gentle,” he says, words betraying his gruff tone. Still his fingers fuck you, heel of his hand pressing at the bundle of nerves above your sex, teeth grazing your skin teasingly, his breath hot and heady and fast against your skin.
“N-no, Shouta, please, I need—I’m going to—”
“I’m going to bite you when you cum; is that okay?” he asks, lips at your ear, stopping the motions with his hand.
“Yes!” You gasp, desperate, tears streaking your cheeks, brows tenting up as you hump against his hand. “Yes, Shouta, yes; don’t stop—”
A primal growl leaves his lips and his free hand pushes your hips into the bed, other hand resuming those delicious motions, fingers moving faster, heel pressing harder. Your nails scratch his back as you cry, moans building to a crescendo as the coil deep in your belly tightens to much until it’s completely snapping, mouth open in a soundless cry as your orgasm shakes your bones—
And you feel it: molten pleasure like you’ve never felt before. It starts at your neck, then spreads like wildfire, igniting your veins and your nerves, sending you almost delirious, head practically spinning with the ecstasy of it all.
He pulls away from you and your eyes find his—glowing redder than you’ve ever seen—before you look to his lips and see them kiss-bruised, swollen and covered in blood. Your blood. You’re not sure what overcomes you, but you’re pulling him down to you, kissing at his mouth, tasting the fruit of your own veins and groaning at the feel of it all.
His fingers—now clawed and sharp—dig into the flesh of your waist as he devours your mouth, the rumble in his chest both validating and spurring you on. Needy fingers reach for his pants, pushing them down to pull out his thick cock, your hips wriggling as you do your best to line him up with your dripping hole, chest heaving with the effort of it all.
“Relax,” he hisses, pulling away from your mouth, taking his cock in a hand and rubbing his spongey head against your greedy cunt. Another primal groan, “you’re delicious; everything about you.”
“Shouta, f-fuck me,” you beg, the curse slipping from your lips in a wispy whine.
“As you wish,” he breathes, pushing in and bottoming out in one thrust, his lips finding yours, swallowing the surprised gasp he tears from your lungs. He’s still for a moment, pulling away from your lips to look down into your eyes, a hand coming up to your face, a knuckle wiping at the tear that rolls down your cheek. “I love you,” he admits, nose brushing yours,
“Me too,” you sigh, breathing shaky, hands coming up to touch gently at his face. The warm buzz is still ignited in your veins, adoration surging through you like wildfire, and as his eyes—now a shining crimson—survey your face, you think you see it in him as well.
Then he’s rocking into you, and you’re wrapping your legs around his waist, bringing his lips to yours in another kiss, his tongue snaking into your mouth, yours running along his teeth, a thrill shooting to your core at the feel of his elongated fangs against your soft muscle.
He’s so dangerous, yet… here you are with him, making love.
He speeds up when you pull at his hair and nip at his bottom lip, a grin growing on his face at your bold ministrations; then his tongue is at your throat, licking and mouthing at the wound he made moments ago, before he returns his lips to yours, covered again in your own blood.
You kiss him feverishly and he pulls away with a smile, “you’re far more devilish than I thought you’d be, dirty girl,” then his mouth is at the other side of your throat, fangs grazing the skin dangerously; you find yourself wanting it, craning your neck for him and giving him better access, hands dropping from his hair to fist the rich purple blanket beneath you.
His name leaves your lips in a sigh, then a moan as he ruts into you, brain unable to comprehend whether it should focus on the way he’s moving inside you and moving with you, or those fangs that are sinking into your skin—not enough to pierce the flesh, but just enough to tease at the prospect of it.
“More, more, more,” is the chant falling from your lips, eyes unable to really focus with the intoxicating lust surrounding you, enveloping you whole. You’ve had sex many, many times, but it’s never been anything like this. Not once.
Strong hands press at the backs of your knees, pushing them up by your ears, so he can better drive into you. He looms over you, a large, strong thing with glowing red eyes and sharp teeth and wild black hair: a predator; but all you can do is melt for him, his movements edging you closer and closer to your second orgasm, his cock driving so deep into you that you can feel him kissing at your cervix as his body blankets yours, lips at your ear.
You can feel it bubbling beneath the surface before he even says it, the anticipation of it all sending your skin ablaze, your mind buzzing, your cunt throbbing.
“Cum.”
As the pleasure envelops you for a second time, you feel him mouthing at the untouched side of your neck, that same thrilling poison entering your bloodstream as your cunt milks his cock, your belly warming with his cum as the rest of your body falls into that delirious haze, and you’re floating in that euphoric numbness that you feel you’ll never get used to.
-
Eyes flutter open but your body feels heavy.
When you register the fact that you’re in your bedroom, not the dungeon, you jerk up, a surprised gasp catching your attention as hands gently take your arm, your eyes falling on Nemuri where she sits in a chair next to your bed.
“Good morning, lovely.” She smiles knowingly, closing the novel on her lap and dropping it to the floor.
You feel your face heat, “N-Nemuri, good morning. Where’s Shouta?” You ask, feeling a little empty without him by your side, a bit awkward at the position you’d seen her in last night.
“Lay down,” she urges with airy laughter, “your husband is attending a meeting in town because he drank the blood of his soulmate last night and can effortlessly walk among the living.”
An angry heat creeps up your cheeks and your hands reach for your neck, where both marks have been tended to and patched up. “I’m sorry for barging in, Nemuri—”
“Nonsense!” She laughs, petting your hair. “I told that idiot you’d notice him missing. I’m just glad you didn’t scare off.”
Vivid flashbacks of the night before—the purple bedsheets, the candles, your blood on his lips as he kissed you—remind you it was real, and you find yourself smiling, bottom lip snug between your teeth.
“Ahh, I’m jealous,” she sighs, throwing her arms beside you on the bed and burying her face in them. “He actually found his soulmate before me; I was sure I’d beat him.”
You can only laugh, “we’ve been married for months, why are you sad now?”
“Now its real,” she pops her head up. “You’ll only need each other for all of eternity—I’ll be hiding my lovers in the basement.”
“I’ve been alive much longer than you, Nemu.” Your husband sighs, stealthily closing the door behind him.
“Shouta!” You gasp, sitting up, only for Nemuri to laugh and push you back down.
“Ah-ah,” he says, eyes adoring as they look at you. “Today you rest,” he sits at the edge of the bed and leans over to run a hand down your arm. “I went a little… overboard last night and you need to recuperate.
“But I feel fine, I promise.” You almost pout, caught a little between a rock and a hard place.
“Just today, my love, for my sanity.” He draws the backs of his fingers down your cheek, and you melt back into the pillow, suddenly tired again.
“Are you hungry?” Nemuri asks, petting your hair, sly smile on her face as her eyes dart between the two of you.
“Starving.” You mumble, before your eyes drift closed and you fall back into a dream-filled slumber.
