Author's Note: My gift to @vampemoqueen as part of the VtM Secret Santa Writers 2024 event!
Another night, another accidental Embrace. Qadir had seen his share of poor, unfortunate souls like yourself in the thousands. But you were special. You would be his last miracle.
Content Warnings: Loss of agency, violence, implied/referenced abuse, obsession, death.
It was nothing short of a miracle how he got there before a certain Ms. Valerie Duval did, especially when it concerned you. You were fresh out of the bag, a youngling, new as they come. He had pulled your lips back to reveal your baby teeth, like a miniature doll. Fragile as porcelain, he could break you in two with his bare hands in an instant. But Valerie was a Scourge who desired to wipe out the Duskborn of New York City like the Second Coming. She had a flair for sniffing out the likes of you from miles away, and she was relentless.
Not tonight, however. Strange. Perhaps it was fate? he repeated this to the point of believing in it.
You were crouched over in the corner like a frightened animal while he gave the same boring speech prepared for every unsanctioned Embrace since the night he had stepped into the New World. Something about a mortal hobby he followed akin to the Penal Code. Baseball. The Mets. A three-strike system, honed to merciless perfection. He noticed how you listened, your eyes lost in his as you hung on his every word.
“Three strikes and you’re out, whelp,” he warned—or was it a murmur?—approaching you, eyes flashing, dangerous as they were seductive. He wedged you between his body and the plastered wall, palms pressed flat on either side of your head. “Do you understand?”
Tapping his foot impatiently, he saw your gaze drop to his lips and your breath quicken, matching the pace of his heartbeat if he had one. No, that wasn’t right. You were merely one of the many thousands he came across most nights in all his years of service, just a trifling and insignificant variation of the previous encounter. You weren’t—
“Yes, sir.”
A prey that submitted willingly. You didn’t even need to be told. His mouth lit up in a cruel smirk. “Very good, young one.”
He could have killed you on the spot, played God and passed swift judgment like any other fool parading around as the so-called Sheriff, but he did not. Prince Panhard always favored formalities, especially when there was a Thin-blood Primogen she could rub it in the face of. At least that was what he told himself as he ferried you back to the Art Hole.
On the way, you had asked for his name and he divulged it to you like a sworn secret through the rearview mirror. “Qadir,” he replied, his voice monotone. “That’s all you need to know.”
The rest of the ride took place in silence.
At your hearing, he observed you intently while you were met with disgust and disinterest by the other Kindred. It seemed as if you didn’t care what the Prince had to say as you stared back at him, hands twitching and biting your lip. He recognized the signs for what they were, after all, it wasn’t the first time a captive had taken a fancy to him. Regardless of his severity, he was as stereotypical as the Clan of the Rose brought forth. He plied himself with fashionable suits and expensive Swiss watches, groomed his locks and beard religiously each night, disguised like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
It was a sham. He was a sham. It mesmerized him how alive you felt, your blushing heat. If not for the tip-off, he believed he would never have known you were one of them—almost. When the verdict of “Final Death” was raised, something innate possessed him to fabricate the story he narrated before the Prince to delay your sentencing for just a bit longer. Was it the remaining scraps of what he so desperately tried to salvage as human?
Mercy.
The Prince raised an eyebrow.
Mercy.
Although he would never admit it, he could not bear to see you perish that night. You were a miracle. You were his miracle. His salvation and hope. You reminded him of Qadir al-Asmai of Lucknow, not Qadir the Sheriff of New York. He brought you to the cell where you would spend the night, and the next, and the next, as long as you didn’t outlive your usefulness. A usefulness which he had invented and even the Council had fallen for.
He remembered how you had cried upon hearing what he had done. Such is the wonder of human emotion, he thought. Soon, he will learn to cry too. The scene replayed itself like a continuous loop in his mind and he wished it would never end.
And so it began. When he checked on you the next evening, he found you on all fours, before lying prostrate on the dirt ground, as if praying to some unknown god.
“What is the meaning of this?” he questioned, more curious than irritated.
You glanced up at him with those pitiful, naive eyes, like a dog waiting for its owner and he felt something he had not felt for a very long time—a sense of joy. He provided you with fresh blood, which you lapped from his hands hungrily, and wiped the tears away from your grimy face.
“Thank you, sir.”
You were so polite, so precious; he promised to take care of you, on condition that you would do as you were told. Naturally, you agreed, eager as a pup to please. He pretended to coax information out of you on a recent case he was investigating in exchange for blood. It was all for show, a stunt to appease his superiors. Just the way the Camarilla liked it, and just the way his colonizers liked it back then too. But this thing you had with him… it was real, wasn’t it? You were teaching him to love again, beyond the blood-splattered tiles and mangled bones. He was falling for you just as you were falling for him.
Then, one night, you refused. He couldn’t fathom why, what caused the sudden change of heart. You stopped drinking the blood he offered, spat it in his face when he tried to feed you, starving yourself on purpose.
“Don’t test my patience, whelp,” he growled, holding the base of your neck between his hands as he stroked a pointed nail along its length. You shivered and went limp. He gave a ghastly smile. “Good girl.”
However, it was only a temporary respite. He knew what was best for you—why wouldn’t you listen? You left him no choice, but to do what he had to do next. He plunged his teeth into you, his bite lingering as he tasted the sickness of your saccharine blood. Your eyes shut placidly like a serene angel, arms folding around him as he led you in a slow dance around the derelict room. When you came to, he was sure that you would love him even more than you did before.
“Drink,” he ordered. “Or you will never receive my Kiss again.”
Despite your withdrawal, you staunchly held your ground. His jaw tensed. Had he not been kind and merciful to your plight? Wasn’t this how one should love? But love was a distant memory; he had forgotten whether he had ever felt it at all. There were still hours to go before the break of dawn, but he left in a hurry, as if something had finally unnerved him, and did not return until several nights after.
By then, you were nearly catatonic. A thin film of milky white cast over your eyes. As you lay in his arms, he asked you quietly, “Tell me, what is it you want?”
He wanted you to pick him. To stop time and make him human again. But that answer never came. Just two simple words uttered from your dry, cracked lips, “Final Death.”
In a moment of clarity, he saw through the lies he told to everyone and to himself. The tears in your eyes had never been about gratitude for prolonging your life, they were pleading with him to extinguish it. He had treated you like an enslaved animal, attempting to bind you to his blood and will. Instead of the soft caresses he imagined, he had wrung your neck and forced your hand unto obedience, into submission. There was no love, only suffering and pain.
The grip on his sword tightened. Perhaps he was condemned to live out the rest of his undead days in a state of limbo, waiting for the inevitable, spectacular end, where his humanity would be so whittled down that he becomes a mindless wight. To grant your wish and lose you would be to damn his soul, but perhaps this was his greatest act of mercy yet. And that was a miracle in itself.
With a single swift stroke, his sword was unsheathed—elegant, ruthless, and compassionate. Your head slid off your body onto the floor. He took it gently in his hands, kissed your still warm lips for the very last time, etching every sensation to memory. Then, he let go, leaving your decomposing corpse in his wake.
So I'm a slut for Qadir. There's literally just one fic for him out there and I can't deal. This was born in my head a s horny little oneshot, then a two-part and now I'm thinking of many chapters more. We shall see. I am begging you fro validation, like five other people care about him except for me, and I need support.
Summary: Reader loves Qadir. Qadir loves reader's blood and maybe something else, but you know angst and all that.
Chapter summary: horny.
Wordcount: 3292
Warning: 18+ only please, Blood play kinda, vampires, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (vampires don't need condoms, but you do)
You enter the flat with arms full of groceries, knocking the door closed with your foot.
“Meow.”
“Hey, lil man,” You say to the cat, trying to guess where he is in the dark so as not to tread on him.
You hop around the hallway and press the lightswitch with your knee. Grace impersonated.
The day was hard. Work, more work, annoying people on every form of public transportation, annoying colleagues.
You move into the kitchen, putting things out of your bags away as you go.
“You won’t believe the day I had,” you say to the cat.
He jumps onto the kitchen counter, listening intently.
You peel off your hoodie and throw it on the table.
“First, my dumbass boss decided that all the work I did last week wasn’t up to his standards, even though he okayed it all on Friday, so now I have to re-do the whole motherrfucking thing. Then, I spilled coffee on myself while running up from the cafe - my fault, but I'm still pissed. And then…”
You stop talking, one hand on a packet of milk. You feel a slight breeze coming from your room, running along your ankles.
You smile, shove the milk into the fridge and quietly make your way to the bedroom.
He’s sitting in the plush chair in the dark corner of the room.
His body is half covered by the shadow, only the bottoms of his elegant trousers and his shoes visible, illuminated by the light from the hallway . You can discern the slight glint of his pendant, hanging on his deliciously uncovered chest. He needs to start buttoning that shirt up all the way.
“Hi,” You say, trying to suppress a smile.
“Hello,” He says, not hiding his own. A charming, predatory, ever so slightly warm smile, “We need to work on your stealth skills.”
“Yours, too,” You say, “You left the window open.”
“Intentionally. You were stomping like a rhino on your way to the bedroom.”
“I practically hovered!” You counter, feigning offence.
He smiles wider.
“We’ll work on it, I promise, darling.”
The “darling” always gets you. The way he purrs it, like he truly, really means it. And he does, sort of, but it still hurts oh so sweetly. You try to push the philosophical debate burning in your brain down, and concentrate on the man before you.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“A few hours.” He stands up and slowly walks towards you, his stride elegant, full of power. His jacket is discarded on your bed, his sleeves rolled up neatly, those annoying three buttons unbuttoned, revealing dark, thick chest hair.
“Got bored?” You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re only covered by a lacy bra and jeans. Yes, the bra is thick and well made, none of that flimsy barely-there bullshit, but still. You hunch your shoulders instinctively.
“I read,” He says, getting closer, “Do you mind if I borrow The Secret History?”
“Not at all,” You smile, “It’s wonderful, we can talk about it when you finish it. I really like how it’s…”
He’s right in your space now, crowding you against the doorframe, and you have only a second to gather your thoughts as they’re racing through your head before he dips his head and kisses you hungrily.
You automatically wrap your arms around his neck and open your mouth, signing into him, relaxing into his embrace. His arms go around your waist and pull you into him. He is desperate, greedy - he hasn’t visited you in two weeks. It makes you ache to know he missed you too - he doesn’t have to say it. The way his cold skin warms up, heats up immediately as you kiss tells you everything. His breathing appears, then picks up and then he’s panting into you, pushing you harder against the door. Your panties were wet pretty much from the second you saw him, your pussy clenched as soon as he started walking towards you, but now you’re positively drowning. Drowning in him, in his smell, in his arms, in his needy kisses.
You pull away a fraction to ask him to make this horizontal, but he’s way ahead of you.
“Bed,” He says, panting and groaning softly. You can feel yourself get wetter, clenching desperately.
He picks you up - thank you, unnatural vampire strength, and carries you to the bed, nuzzling your hair. He puts you down and crawls over you, a black panther surveying its prey.
“Qadir,” You say, stretching your arms towards him. He leans down and gives you a deep, open mouthed kiss, and softly nudges your legs open, settling between them. He presses his pelvis to yours and you smile into the kiss. His pendant grazes your skin.
“I love the blush of life,” You murmur into him and lift your hips a bit, to rub against his erection.
“So do I, darling,” He whispers, his voice hoarse.
His silken hair falls in your face as he moves down, mouthing at your neck. You lean back, giving him access, bracing yourself for the initial pain of impact. But he just nuzzles your skin, licks a long, languid line from your collarbone to your chin, nips at your cheek, his breathing picking up.
“Don’t you want it?” You ask, chest heaving.
“I do,” He says, voice straining, “But later.”
“Tease.”
He chuckles in the darkness and nips at your shoulder. You look down at him, his dark eyes glistening in the dark.
“Open your mouth,” He says and you bite your lip in anticipation. He smiles and rolls his eyes, “No, not for that. Open it.”
You look at him, eyes wide, as he sits up between your knees. You lift yourself up on your elbows and open your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He shudders at the sight, his eyes half-closed.
“You are a horrible tease, my sweet one, “ He says, and before you can respond - he bites his wrist.
You gasp as a trickle of blood slithers down his arm.
“Drink,” Qadir says, lifting the cut to your lips. You spring up and grab his arm, press your mouth to the wound. You lap at it, the salty tang of blood coating your tongue and he moans. He moans like he does when he’s inside you, like he does when he’s pumping his fingers into you, like he does when you suck his cock, hungry for him. You drink, swallow the thick blood, and an unexplainable bliss hits you like a train. It fills your every sense, he fills your every sense. You can feel him inside your head, inside your veins, inside your stomach, you feel stronger, you feel beautiful and powerful, you feel so aroused you think you might burst. He pulls his wrist away with a groan and you let him, opening your mouth wide to pull in a few deep, ragged breaths. Your chin is smeared in red and you’re aching for him. He licks his wrist, closing the wound and pounces on you.
He falls you onto the bed and you wrap your legs around his waist. He starts to kiss you again, licking into your open, eager mouth. You moan unabashedly at his actions, at his roaming hands - on your thighs, squeezing, on your waist, pulling down your jeans and underwear, on your suddenly naked ass, up your stomach, pulling down your bra. He is ravenous, his skin hot now, his breathing panting, ragged, and you know he wants you so bad, so bad - just like you do him.
“I missed you,” You whisper into his hair - in these moments your cool and collected filter breaks down entirely and all you can do is pray the night never ends and he stays with you forever, makes you his slave.
He doesn’t respond - he never does when you say something affectionate. You know he won’t and it doesn’t hurt you anymore, even though you can feel a little pang of disappointment - but you squash it. Not now, not now, not now - you can brood on your unrequited love when he’s gone.
He says your name and you come back to reality, upset with yourself for drifting away.
“Yes?”
“Unbutton my shirt, baby,” He says, quietly. His voice is so tense, like his throat could snap from heat and pressure. You look at him, tracing his beautiful features with your eyes as your fingers go to the tiny buttons of his expensive shirt. You unbutton them, one by one, pacing yourself. You glance down. Oh, the chest hair - you just want to put your face into his chest and inhale, bite down lightly on his nipples, touch his soft skin.
You pull the fabric off his shoulders, taking in every movement of his - how his shoulder rolls to move out of the shirt, how he exhales in a rush to get back to your lips, how he presses his cock back towards you. You drag your nails down his chest, inching towards his belt.
“Qadir…” You moan, barely a whisper, and you feel him shudder softly and you smile to yourself. Any amount of power you have over this man brings you immense happiness.
“Unzip them,” He commands, just as you graze his fly with a tentative finger.
You don't lose any time in obeying and swiftly undoing his belt, the delicious sound of it’s clinking and the leather pulling against fabric not failing to arouse you. You unzip his trousers swiftly and push them down just enough to free his heavy cock from his underwear. You glance down, but your view is obstructed.
His left hand goes down and you feel a tug at your waistline. The jeans are finally pulled all the way down roughly, along with your underwear. He throws them aside and clamps a possessive hand onto your ass.
“Roll over,” You ask, and he smiles widely, looking at you. His eyes are dark, but almost glowing - he looks so beautiful like this, aroused, alive.
He doesn’t do as you ask, the tease, so you do it for him - the strength of his blood still egging you on - and straddle him, your hair tumbling out of your high bun. He immediately claws at it, latching his hand onto your scalp, pulling slightly - mine. Mine. Mine. You wish this is what he is thinking, and the song of his blood in you suggests it might be, but you’re never sure.
You lower your hips and rub your wet cunt on his cock and he jolts upwards, groaning, and grabs you tighter.
“You are so wet, my darling,” He whispers and pulls you down into his arms for more filthy kissing. His tongue is all over you, you can’t help it but moan and gasp into him and it heats your heart up that he squeezes you a bit harder with each sound you make.
You start to roll your hips slightly, dragging your aching clit along his hardness, and he meets your motions with gentle bucks of his own hips.
“Oh, my little one…” He says and pulls away, looking at your intently.
You freeze and stare at him, mouth open and bruised from his attacks. There’s something dark and swirling, hungry, unknown in his eyes and you will be damned if you don’t catch it.
“Come back here,” He says and pulls you back down, swiping his tongue along your lower lip.
You can’t wait anymore, so you rise slightly and angle him towards your entrance, teasing him with a few shallow pushes. He gasps and smiles, tries to push inside and you meet his motion, sinking onto him.
You moan, long and painful sounds, into each other. You feel full, you feel complete - you missed him so much. Two weeks of waiting, wanting, longing, worrying, two weeks of touching yourself at night, wishing your hands were his hands, your sighs were for his ears.
He’s finally here, here, here, inside you, enveloping you. His arms are tight vices around your body, pinning your arms to your sides, and you know you’ll be bruised and sore tomorrow and you revel in that knowledge.
You moan softly, unable to suppress the shallow breaths his rhythm punches out of you, and you can’t stop yourself from letting your mouth run.
“Oh, please, please…” You beg him, and he punctuates your pleas with kisses, one arm snaking down your back to grab at your hip.
“Yes, baby girl? What do you want?” He snaps his hips harder, “Tell me what you want, tell me, baby.”
He’s not sweating, he never does, but his skin is as hot as it can get, blushing, and his breathing as hard as it can go. His cock, hard and heavy and slick with your wetness slides easily into you and pushes all the right buttons. Your clit rubs against his pubic hair with every motion and you can feel yourself getting close.
“I want...I want…” you can’t articulate, how can you possibly wrap into mere words what you feel, what you need? you will go for the next best thing and just tell him, “you… I want… you, Qadir.”
You end his name on a filthy moan, your eyes rolling back into your head.
He growls softly into your ear and grazes your neck with his teeth. You can feel two protruding fangs and you push your neck further into his face, but he doesn’t bite. He just licks at your clavicle and pushes his hand between your bodies to rub at you. You immediately change your rhythm to get as much of his fingers and cock simultaneously, and he obliges.
“Darling,” He sighs, his hot breath fanning over your skin and it’s all you need to come, tensing up and pressing hard onto him.
You moan and stutter, your face falling into the crook of his neck, your body convulsing.
Hew keeps pumping slowly, his fingers tightly pressed against you, now unmoving.
“Can you hold on a bit more for me?” He asks.
“Yes, anything you want,” You slur, relaxing in his grip.
He laughs softly, thickly and quickens his pace a little, but it’s lazy, languid, he’s enjoying himself, enjoying you. He’s enjoying your post orgasm shuddering, your meowls and whimpers, how your body jerks when he moves his fingers.
He grips you and flips you easily, pressing you into the mattress. He fucks you deep and hard, every push and pull with a purpose.
“So soft and wet for me, baby girl,” He says, looking into your face. His eyes never stop on yours, they roam and kisses follow - to your lips, eyelids, forehead, cheeks, a deep wet kiss on the lips that just keeps going.
“Are you ready for me?” He asks, pressing his lips back to yours.
You hum in agreement and he moves quicker, rougher. You spread your legs wider, wrap them tightly around his waist and angle yourself towards him.
“Oh, darling, oh…” He moans.
His orgasms are powerful and all-encompassing, you always feel almost as if it’s more pleasurable than coming yourself - feeling him fall apart inside you. He’s not loud, he is growling and moaning softly right into your ear, groping you everywhere, pressing hard into you - and you can feel hot, thick liquid inside your cunt, trickling down your thighs and onto the sheets. You already know that you won’t wash them for as long as you can, just so you can sleep on top of his mess for a few days.
He’s panting and groaning quietly, holding you tight. You won’t want to let go - there’s no guessing if he’ll leave now and you’d rather not find out.
He stays on top of you for a full minute, allowing you to caress his back, stroke his hair. He nuzzles his face into yours like an animal and finally rolls off you.
He’s gorgeous. You can’t not look at him - whether he’s clothed or naked, his lean, strong body pulls you in. You can see every muscle, every scar, every dark little hair. He is slowly cooling down and you suddenly want to cry, but you’ll be damned if you allow yourself to cry in front of Qadir. You’ll be damned.
You look down. His cock is still hard, covered in thick, semi-transparent blood. It glistens on your inner thighs and his fingers and you feel aroused all over.
You want to talk to him, lean into him, pull the covers over the both of you and sleep with him, but you know it won’t happen. He might stay for a while and talk with you, drink from you, but he always leaves before sunset. You don’t know where he goes and when he’ll be back, but you will wait.
You put a tentative hand on his bicep. His skin is cool now, his breathing gone. His chest doesn’t rise or fall and you keep looking at it, trying to make yourself more used to the sight.
Qadir turns to you and smiles. A simple, open smile - just for you. You smile back and he stretches an arm to you, cups your face.
“My little darling,” He says and rubs his thumb on your skin.
“How are you?” You ask, “You’ve been gone a while.”
“Oh, you know,” He sighs, “Duties. Vampires to police, disputes to settle. Days to sleep away.”
You’d think he sounds sad if you didn’t know better. You want to ask him more, you want to know what’s eating at him. You want to keep him company and make his nights more pleasant.
Before you can find a way to do that, he turns and hovers over you. He moves the hair from your neck and sniffs at your skin.
“May I?” He asks and your heart clenches.
“Yes,” You say and incline your head to give him access.
The first second of it is always painful, but it’s a pain akin to a strike amidst ecstasy, just in the right place. And then - you float away. Then you can feel him drinking you, draining you. You know you might die and you welcome it. You are drugged and you are forgetting yourself by the second - the only thing you know is how good he makes you feel and how much you want to make him feel just as wonderful. You are willing to give him every last ounce of your precious blood, anything just so that he keeps his lips on you.
He pulls away and licks the punctures closed and your breathing is heavy and strained. Your eyes are glazed over and you want to straddle him once again and rub against him, but you have enough self control to restrain yourself.
You look at each other, both of you utterly happy and full of pleasures of flesh and blood.
“Stay,” You say, before you can stop yourself. This one silly word slips out between the tight gates of your restraint and you are terrified.
He seems to hesitate for half a second - but you convince yourself it’s your head playing tricks - then closes his eyes.
“No,,” Qadir says, “But I will put you to bed.”
You don’t know why he does this - it’s always his idea. He tucks you in and lies next to you, stroking your hair or talking to you gently about something you both find interesting until you can’t respond anymore and drift off. You suspect it’s his way of giving you something sentimental, something he doesn’t really have for you but feels he must provide if the blood games are to continue voluntarily.
And when you wake up, in the morning or in the night - he is always gone, and gone for days.
I made myself and Qadir Al-Asmai in the sims. like some kind of clown. The hair I gave him originally suited him best but didn't look like HIS actual hair.
But i think i found one that is very much his hair
also i think i'm gonna use these for a reference because i love them.
