finally satisfied
avastarred ficmas 2025, day 18
pairing: vampire!miles miller x f!reader synopsis: after ignoring his urges, miles finally gives in and takes a bite. content: [18+ MDNI!!] mentions of blood, miles loves depriving himself, tit sucking, handjob?, biting, oral (f!receiving), miles cums sorta untouched? word count: 2.9k author's note: this is a final part to temporary fix and guardian angel sorta kinda but i think vampire!miles will definitely still be around... i like him <3 hope you guys like this :) likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated hehe
taglist: @iristheplanet16 @wankowan @dracoola98 @fandomxo
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The worst part of being a vampire, Miles thinks, is the incessant cravings.
“Hungry?” Elaine asks, blood smeared across her face as she watches Miles drink, ravenous.
“Yeah,” he just whispers, staring at the body before him, barely a husk once he’s through.
He doesn’t know how to tell her that this hunger he feels isn’t normal. That it feels like he could drain several bodies and he still wouldn’t be satisfied. He won’t tell her, because he knows that she’ll tell him what he doesn’t want to hear; that he won’t be satisfied until he drinks the blood he’s actually craving. That was the issue with wanting something and knowing you could get it: you were never truly satisfied until you got it.
Images of you flash through his brain; the bites on your body, your smile, the way he was hyperaware of your beating heart whenever he laid his head on your chest so he could tell you stories from his past.
“Be less hungry if you just took a bite of your little friend,” Royce shrugs as he adjusts his jacket.
Miles ignores him as they drag the bodies out of view. He knows Royce and Elaine are exchanging a meaningful look behind him, but he won’t allow himself to be dragged into a conversation he’s had a million times before.
“Well, Roycey,” Elaine starts, and Miles chuckles when he imagines Royce’s jaw tightening at the nickname, “you know Miles won’t do it because he doesn’t want to accidentally kill her.”
“You know drinking doesn’t have to be an all or nothing thing Miles. You can just have a little bit. Humans donate huge amounts of blood all the time and they don’t die. You just have to control yourself,” Royce says, as if Miles doesn’t already know this.
Miles knows that it’s just a matter of self control, and therein lies the problem: he’s not sure he has the self control necessary to pull himself off of you when the situation becomes dangerous.
“Anyways, if you won’t, I will. See what’s got you in such a tizzy,” Royce says, and Miles hisses before he can stop the impulse, turning around so he can bare his teeth at Royce.
“There he is,” Royce grins. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested,” he gives Miles a cool look “but you know I love giving you a hard time.” He ruffles Miles’ hair and Miles has to stop himself from immediately bringing his hands up to pat it down. As the first rays of light begin to break, the three of them move through the shadows. It’s easier this time of year. Most people have left the city, stores are closed and the foot traffic is minimal. It’s the closest they get to hunting as freely as they can.
“So,” Elaine asks as she climbs into her bed, “you seeing your little friend later?”
“Maybe,” Miles mumbles.
His visits to yours have been slightly less frequent since he’s found himself less capable of controlling himself. Sometimes when you tilt your head just right, he gets the urge to sink his teeth into the skin so badly that he has to press his nails into his thighs to stop himself from moving. If you’re aware of his struggles you don’t say. You still hold him as he speaks, drag your fingers across his scalp while he lays on your chest or in your lap. Sometimes while you’re doing this, Miles looks at the parts of your skin that remain unmarred by bites and imagines being the first to scar them.
It scares him how much he wants it.
He spends the day fending off thoughts of your blood staining his teeth, trying to think instead about what stories he’ll tell you. He’s almost exhausted the stories of his time at the El Royale and he’s moving on to his period with Royce and Elaine.
You’re always excited when he even mentions them in passing. Your heart picks up, your blood rushes faster.
Miles won’t be able to help himself tonight; he knows he won’t, but he shows up to yours anyway. He can hear you on the other side of the door, humming as you cook. He hears you turning the stove off and padding down the hall when he knocks, feels that flash of hunger when he smells you on the other side of the door. Iron and something sweet.
“You’re early today,” you smile at him as you welcome him in. The heat’s cranked up in your apartment and you’re in a tank top and shorts. Old scars shimmer under the light and Miles fights the urge to reach out and trace over them with his finger. When he looks closer he realises you aren’t wearing a bra and there’s a moment where he finds his brain going haywire.
“Something wrong?” you ask him when he stands at the doorway just staring at you. “You’re vacant,” you explain as you wave a hand in front of your face.
“Nothing. Nothing,” his eyes drift to the scars around your thighs; puckered and raised. And old. You’d had no new scars since he started coming around regularly, something he was happy about even if he wouldn’t bring it up.
“If you say so. Come in,” you say again, this time you turn away and he has to follow you in.
“Just finished dinner if you don’t mind watching me eat. Do you need–”
“No. Hunted earlier today, with Royce and Elaine,” he mumbles as he watches you pile some pasta on your plate.
“Nice. How are they? You think you’ll ever let me meet them?”
Miles thinks you’re joking, but even when he considers it the answer is a no. He remembers Royce’s joke from earlier and isn’t willing to see if he follows through. He listens as you tell him about your day between bites of your food.
“I love this time of year. Streets are practically empty. I can shop in-store,” you smile. “Must be worse for you though, less food options,” you add on.
He laughs. “Oh yeah, variety just out the window,” he says. “But it’s nice to have more outside time instead of being stuck in an apartment with blackout blinds listening to Royce and Elaine argue over Mario Kart all day.”
“Mario Kart?”
“Mario Kart. Royce hates losing but he’s an abysmal player,” Miles shrugs.
“You guys don’t even need to have jobs. You can sit inside and play video games all day and he’s still not good?”
“Oh he’d hate you for saying that,” Miles laughs again.
“Guess you just have to make sure he doesn’t find out,” you wink as you finish the last of your pasta. He immediately averts his eyes when you bend over to put your plate in dishwasher a hot ripple of shame pulsing through him when he catches sight of the bottom of your ass.
“You okay?” you ask when you catch him staring into nothing again.
“Yeah, perfect,” he breathes out.
“If you say so,” you sing-song, before you skip over to the couch. You pat the empty seat next to you, and when Miles buries himself into a faraway corner on the couch and refuses to sit any closer you move yourself next to him instead, the warm press of your thigh against his absolutely maddening.
“Okay, what is your problem. Do I smell bad or something?”
You raise your arm and sniff under your arm.
“No, that’s not it I’m just… struggling,” he says.
“Struggling with…?”
“Urges,” he mumbles.
He hears you sigh, and then nearly yelps in surprise when you climb into his lap and grab his face in your hands so you can look him in the eye.
“What urges Miles?”
You’re stern, and that firm edge to your voice is making it worse, he realises. His stomach is doing all kinds of tricks and his throat burns with want.
“Blood. I– I swear I’m not hungry it’s just lately whenever I’m around you, I feel this urge to bite. To drink. Like last time,” he finally mutters.
“Oh,” you laugh. You press your hand into his stomach, “this isn’t the problem. This is,” you say as you let your hand trail down to his crotch and press gently into him, Miles is ashamed at how easily he twitches into your hand, eyes closed as his chest burns.
“It’s not. I keep thinking about drinking–”
“Not all those urges are hunger. Pure hunger. Royce and Elaine didn’t tell you this?”
Miles just shakes his head.
You laugh again. Not mean, just amused.
“That’s why you’ve been weird,” you readjust in his lap, and he takes a shaky breath. “You really couldn’t tell?”
He shakes his head no.
“So sixty-odd years as a vampire and you were what? Abstinent?”
Miles would blush if he could.
“No. Just wasn’t sleeping with my meals is all. Royce said that gets messy,”he explains.
“That’s cute. It doesn’t always work the same when you’re a vampire. Sometimes the feeding and fucking urges feel the same, you kinda have to feel it out,” you say, hand coming back up to stroke his cheek.
“Don’t be so blunt about it,” he says. He does his best to keep his hands off of you, scared he might break you.
“So what do you wanna do?” you whisper.
“Get rid of them. I can’t focus on anything anymore,” he complains and then you smile before you lean in, and press a soft kiss to his lips.
“I can do that for you,” you say rocking your hips gently, “but you need to make sure you listen to me. Can’t have you killing me accidentally can I? You gonna listen Miles?”
“Yeah of course,” he whispers as you brush your thumb over his lips. You lean in again, press against him harder this time, tongue brushing up against his bottom lip as one of your hands takes hold of his and guides it to your ass.
“S’not fun for me if you don’t touch me too,” you say, “I’m not made of glass. I promise you I won’t break.”
Miles nods, but he does his best not to squeeze too hard. You’re all heat under his hands, heart beating strong in your chest while you kiss him. He bucks into you when you bite his lip, squeezing harshly until you let out a small whine into his mouth.
“There we go, more of that,” you say. Your lips are kiss swollen and your voice is breathy as you press kisses into Miles’ neck. You giggle when you bite him and he sighs, pressing your hips down into his. He can feel you pulsing with arousal above him and it spurs him on as he brings one of his hands up to your chest and squeezes, pinching at your nipples until they’re hard. When he pushes your shirt up he latches onto one of your nipples, careful not to bite too hard. When you squeeze your thighs around him, he has to take a moment.
“Why’d you stop?” you ask, pouting.
He looks up at you. “Slipping a little. Needed to calm down,” he says. He puts his mouth back over your nipple, sucking at it loudly. He groans into you when he feels you undo the button on his jeans, reaching in so you can press your hand against him. Miles is embarrassed by how hard he is
“You don’t have to,” he says, but you just shake your head.
“Miles it won’t kill you to let me make you feel good,” you say.
“Feel good like this,” he says as he pushes the other part of your top up so he can put your other breast in his mouth. His head spins when he feels you buck against him, your hands faltering as you reach for him.
“I’ll make you feel better,” you sigh as you pull his zipper down. You drag his jeans and underwear over his thighs in one smooth motion.
“So pretty for me,” you whisper, as you wrap a hand around him and tug gently. He sighs as he takes gentle nips at the flesh above your nipple.
“Faster,” he says, then adds, “please.”
You just laugh a little but you speed up, letting your thumb stay focused near his slit as he groans into you. He gropes at the boob that’s not in his mouth, squeezing harder as he begins to lose himself but still trying to make sure he can hear you. When he lets go, he traces his fingers over the scars on your torso, raised crescents, so old that they were barely visible anymore but still there. Your hand slows down.
“You want to?” you ask him, tilting his head up so you can look at him.
He hesitates, and you ask him again, this time with your thumb pushing at his top lip, pushing it back until you can see the sharp points of his fangs. You get off of him and lay back on the couch, resting on your forearms.
“Come here Miles,” you say, and he obeys, standing briefly so he can kick off his jeans. He doesn’t wait for you to tell him, just hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and underwear and drags them down your leg. The scent of your arousal hits him almost immediately and he immediately lowers his face between your thighs his fingers spreading you open as he presses his tongue flat against you for a taste.
You arch up into his mouth almost instantly and he has to push your hips back into the couch. He guides your hand into his hair.
“Pull. Hard as you can, you can’t hurt me,” he utters, voice hoarse with need as he drags his tongue along your slit before pulling your clit into his mouth. You tug hard, pressing his nose into your pubic bone and when he looks up your eyes are closed, mouth half open in please as he devours you, laps at you like a man starved. He’s aching everywhere — gums, throat, chest, cock — as he pushes his tongue into you and feels the warmth of your walls tightening around his tongue, pulsing as he keeps going. Involuntarily, his hips start moving against your couch, craving some sort of friction. He uses his hands to keep your thighs spread, his fingers digging into them so hard he knows it’ll bruise. He can’t wait to see them, leave his mark on you. That familiar want tugs at him in the pit of his stomach, hot and tight as he feels you getting closer and closer, your fingers curling impossibly tighter in his hair, your heart beating harder, the blood rushing in your veins as you turn your head into your couch cushions to muffle your cries. He wants to hear you, wants to tell you to be loud but the thought of prying himself off of you to do it when you’re so close is worse so he just pushes in harder, grinds his hips against your couch until you’re pulsing around his tongue. He only drags his mouth off of you to kiss softly at your thighs before pushing his teeth into the soft flesh there, just beneath an older scar. He hears your heart skip a beat but when he stops you encourage him.
“Keep going, please. Been so long,” you say, voice stretched thin.
It’s all he needs as he pushes in hard enough to break skin, hot iron flooding his mouth. It’s been so long that he’s not prepared for the way it makes his head spin, the feeling of euphoria so strong he feels himself twitch against your couch, hips jerking into it as he comes, hot and messy all over your cushions. The flow of blood is slower here, less messy than drinking from your wrists, or your neck so he drinks and drinks and drinks until you let out a low, weak moan from above him.
“Sorry,” he whispers when he finally comes up, but for the first time in weeks he finally feels satisfied. No longer has that dull ache that reminds him something is missing.
“It’s okay. You could’ve kept going,” you smile, eyes half-closed.
“Next time,” he says as he stands up. “Sorry about your couch,” he says, as his eyes fall over the very obvious wet patch. You lean up to look at it then giggle softly.
“C’mere,” you reach for him.
“Was gonna get you patched up,” he says.
“I know, but c’mere first,” you ask again. He does, and he’s surprised when you pull him down by his shirt, and press his lips to yours, your tongue dragging over his blood-stained lips.
“Now you can go,” you say when you finally let him go, smudges of blood around your lips.
When Miles comes back you’re half asleep and woozy and he has to coax you into getting up and having some food when he’s done cleaning you up. It’s a task, getting you to eat some food, but when he’s satisfied that you’re well fed and not at risk of any infections he tucks you into your bed and strokes your cheek as you fall asleep.
“Miles,” your voice startles him as he’s opening your window.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says.
“I know but,” you yawn, “next time you want something like that just ask me. I’ll give it to you.”
