Kinktober #7
‘This Will Hurt’
Today's prompt was simply Secondo. Which, I think we can all agree Papa Emeritus the Second is a kink all his own.
So, I wrapped up this Vampapa Secondo fic in an angsty, sexy, spicy bow for you.
Enjoy!
You stare at Secondo from across the ballroom.
Everyone sparkles and shines in their gowns and suits; dressed in their Satanic Sunday best. Everyone is happy and healthy and in high spirits - the thrill and the magic of the ritual still rippling through the abbey in hot, lusty waves. There’s nothing quite like watching your vampiric Papa suck and fuck the one, true, great love of his life on the altar in front of Satan and everybody. Hands wander, kisses are shared and below the din of a great party is an undercurrent of hushed sighs and whispers of delight - all of it a prelude to what’s to come. The music is loud. The food decadent.
The fires and bodies and lust jacking the temperature up to sweltering.
Frater Imperator sits on his throne, his ritual partner tucked into his lap - both of them happy as clams, lost to each other, the masquerade ball happening around them might as well be on another planet. His eyes are on her throat, the dark marks and puncture wounds from his fangs draw his gaze and he swallows, licking his lips. How he can still be hungry, you’ll never know. His fingers trace the rise and falls of her tits that are pushed gloriously skyward. Her own fingers are somewhere deep in Copia’s robes. They’re in the matching, heavy, velvet ritual robes - hanging off of them like greek sculptures - enamored, gazing into each other’s eyes; blissed out and completely, publicly, utterly in love. All around you, there is love and lust and joy and safety.
Your eyes fall on Secondo and all that warm and fuzzy goes straight to the shitter.
Secondo looks miserable. He is miserable.
And so are you.
And you cannot hide the hurt or the anger or the need or the emerald green jealousy that burns hot in your chest while you gaze at your despondent Papa from across the hall. You’re glad you’re tucked into the shadowy edges of the party, nursing a glass of wine that’s as dry and bitter as your heart is starting to feel.
It was supposed to be Secondo up on that throne, you in his lap.
But he refused to publicly acknowledge you as his partner. And he refused to feed from you. Satan, he barely let himself come in your presense. All of those things had been requirements of the sacred ritual and he had passed off the duties to Copia. Unlike his brothers and the ghouls, unlike every other vampire in the building, he refused to take from your vein. And he refused to love you anywhere but in the shadows. It had been going on for months now. What had started as a romantic quirk had turned into a speed bump - no - a speed wall. And your relationship, which had been hurtling towards greatness, a love for the ages, and come screeching to a halt. The hurt had finally boiled over and you’d fought the day before, early in the morning before he’d gone to rest. It had been loud and ugly and there had been more than a few low-blows. Your pride was bruised and battered and your heart was shadowed with anger and pain; from the scowl on Secondo’s face you assume the same goes for him. You wouldn't know though. You had not seen or spoken to him since. When you’d gone back in the afternoon to apologize, he’d been gone. When he should have been snoozing in his coffin, buried in blankets and not pouting; he’d gone to the shadows of the crypts and turned into a big, fiery ball of angry Italian, vampiric rage. The walls shook and rumbled - the autumnal storm that had been hanging over the abbey all day had been a convenient cover for his thunderous tantrum.
A part of you wishes that you’d gone down to him (the rest of you wants to tell him to go fuck himself). It’s clear now though, how gaunt he truly is. Underneath his paints lay shadows beneath his darkened, hungry eyes. He’s losing weight. He is unsteady - leaning on his crozier, taking his steps slowly and resting far more often than he is moving. You see his hands shake, his gate is uneven and it scares you. Tonight, especially. He is fading, right in front of you, he’s killing himself. But you’re mad. Big mad. Angrier than you’ve ever been before.
He’s starving.
He’s dying.
And it’s all his fault.
But - that’s when the tears come, again - he’s making it your fault. Whether he wants to or not, the blame is on you. He’d rather die that than feed on you; you’ve heard it a thousand times before. He’d rather wither away to nothing than claim you; he’d rather keep it all a secret and die. He’d rather tell you, nightly, how much he loves you, how he cannot live without you; you have his whole heart and soul and body. You have his mind, inhabiting it, possessing him, his thoughts of you are all encompassing. He’ll whisper that you’re his mate, his heart’s thread, his Prime Mover and a moment later, push you away and jerk off in his closet for fear of draining you dry, for fear of hurting you, for fear of telling anyone else he’s stooped so low from his goddamn high horse as to love someone. And it hurts so bad you just might let him keel over right here, right now. Maybe he should croak. Just go off and lay in the yard and die because this whole business is utter, complete, undead bullshit.
You can’t take it anymore. You won’t take it anymore. You’re not going to stand around and watch him wither away when you’re begging him to take from you, to feed from you. You’re not going to deal with an overprotective, jealous, territorial Papa when he won’t even claim you. You turn and make to leave, pushing your way through the crowd. A familiar heat slides down your spine, Secondo’s voice whispers in your ear, echoing in your mind. You are mine, you turn and find that he remains on the other side of the great hall, his mouth set in the same firm, grim line, Do not think any differently, my little dove. You are mine.
He penetrates your thoughts, you need not speak for him to hear you. You glare at him, ignoring his futile caresses - absent hand or body - along your jawline, the shell of your ear, down the column of your neck. You are mine, he repeats as if that will fix everything. It won’t. It used to, but now? Not anymore. You square your shoulders and stretch your neck, shaking off Secondo’s invisible advances. You are unaffected. Still, your body reacts with love and heat and want at his touch - every inch of you is traitorous to your mind. You can put your foot down all you want but, Secondo need not be naked or touching you or looking at you or even, really in the same room as you in order for you to be a needy, slick mess. To know that he is near? To know that he wants you? That’s enough to get your taint tickling and your boat floating. It’s nothing new to catch his scent and then have to run up to your room to change your soaked underwear. Nothing new for him to reach out with his mind, stretching across the abbey to caress your cheek only to have you fling yourself into a coat closet to rub one out; but that’s between you and Secondo and Satan. And that’s the hardest part of it all. To say you’re done is one thing.
To be done is entirely another.
You give him one more glare and despite every fiber of your being wishing for different, he is still just standing there. You growl and turn, your lust only feeds your rage, and you run right into Swiss, who is smirking - that wide, toothy grin unsettling as it is bright, “Darling, who are you fucking? Because they have their scent all over you,” your cheeks turn crimson and Swiss takes another long inhale through his nose, “A male. Big. Angry. Male,” one more inhale confirms it and you roll your eyes, “Literally raging. That’s a horny, angry fella you’ve got.”
“Spot on,” you arch your eyebrow and fold your arms over your chest, “The rest is none of your business.”
“You reek of him.”
“Plug your nose.”
Swiss narrows his prismatic eyes, “I can’t help it. That scent is far too strong,” he wiggles a bit, “Giving me a boner.”
“Gross.”
“It’s not gross. It’s perfectly natural. You’re just… fuck, that is strong. You’ve been claimed.”
You roll your eyes, “Strong enough to keep you from buying me a drink?” you ask the multi ghoul, who smirks, “I need something stiff.”
“Well, one,” he takes your hand and leads you to the bar, “We don’t really have to pay for drinks here. So of course,” he beams, “Drinks on me. Two, I am going to get that secret out of you if it kills me. And three,” he sighs dramatically, “Something-something, I’ll give you something stiff if that’s what you really want, baby.”
Secondo watches you link your arm with the ghoul and walk towards the bar. He sees spots and loses his balance for a moment - anger palpating in his chest, blurring his vision and… perhaps it is not the anger. Perhaps it is the fact that he has not fed in two moons and is quickly approaching a third. You had thrown a book at his head this morning and called him a hypoglycemic boneheaded cretin. He has not gone without, for this long, before. He had never gone without for a minute longer than he had to; his entire life had been one of indulgence and greed and gluttony.
Until he’d met you.
And he’d starved for you. The moment he took in your sweet scent he knew he’d never break your lovely skin, never taste that first, metallic bloom of your blood on his tongue. He would never be able to feed on you, knowing the pain and the fragility that would follow it? Never. He would never be able to forgive himself for the wounds and the bruising. He knew well that cry of pain, craved to hear the staccato breaths and hitched gasps every time he bit his prey anew come from you. And yet, he would have no other. Not one. He could never call you prey, never take from you which kept you alive.
And he craved you in more ways than that; his aching, pounding cock was testament to that. If allowed himself to indulge in your body, to claim you in that way would break him and he would - he feared - drain you dry.
And he would not share you. He wanted nothing more than to keep you to himself. Completely. How you begged him to make you his! Didn’t you realize that you already were? Why couldn’t you see he belonged to you. Completely. He hangs his head. How selfish and arrogant he was to think you would stay in the shadows forever, hiding. But you had stopped begging and started demanding. And that was what had started the fight. You had not spoken to him since.
And he was starting to panic.
The time had come, it seemed, to shit or get off the pot.
He was afraid he had already lost you, though. The fight you’d was the worst yet. The zenith, perhaps. Secondo had been cruel and cold and his attacks had been calculated. You had retaliated with such a rage, so much heat, that Secondo had to leave immediately. And not because he was angry. Despite your fury and tears and screaming, Secondo could not help the lust and the hunger that brewed in his belly for you, could not fight the hardening of his cock or the preternatural, needy thump of his heart. You would make a fine Prime Mover. You would make a glorious vampiress. The thought is a heady mix of desire and need and fear and pain.
He reaches out with his mind and finds that you are blocking him, doing your best to ignore the tentacles of shadow that creep up the soft curve of your calves and against the thick, slick heat between your thighs. Oh, Satan. He can taste you. He can smell you - that is what he craves. In the evenings, when he wakes and your scent is the first thing that greets him and he has, though he will never tell a single soul, wallowed in the blankets and pillows, rubbing them over himself, coating his body in even more of you. He will sucks his fingers into his mouth, begging for a few whispers of a taste of you that might be left. He wears that scent all night, craves it until the morning comes. And in the morning, he will take the few hours he can with you, holding you close while you sleep. Waiting patiently for you to wake, to roll over and smile at him.
Yes, he thinks, it is time. He cannot lose that.
And now, in the heat of the hall, the great mantles are bright with fire, incense hazes the air. Bodies and lust and food and drink all permeate every inch of the ancient room. And still, he can scent you. He can smell the desire, ignited by the ritual, that sits hot and slick on your thighs. His mouth waters. Satan, give him strength. And he can smell you - not your sex but you. Honeysuckle and lavender and vanilla. He can smell your shampoo and your soap. He can smell the day on you; coffee and fruit and bread and meat. Sweat. Linen. Silk. He can smell your anger.
He can smell the sickly decay of the sadness that is taking you from him.
He is losing you.
This time, you shake off the tendrils of dark, vampiric magic and focus on Swiss, “Tell me everything,” he says, sliding over a short, round glass of ice and dark, potent alcohol. You stare at Swiss for a moment too long before glancing at Secondo. Swiss follows your gaze and sucks in an excited breath, “How long?” he asks and stare at the ghoul, letting him put together everything from the pitiful, pathetic look you give him, “Oh, my god. I can’t believe you’ve… that long?” You nod and stare into your drink. Tears sting your eyes and Swiss’ hand is on your wrist, giving it a tight, reassuring squeeze, “I get it,” he says, “I get it. And I got you.”
You nod, staring into your glass, “You can’t… you can’t tell anyone.”
Swiss steps closer and you meet his gaze, “I told you,” he presses a finger under your chin, eyes narrowed, “I got you.”
Secondo’s voice echoes in your mind and it sends a chill down your spine and heats your core tenfold. Your body goes tight. Your heart pounds. No matter how mad you are, you’ll never stop wanting him. Despite the tears and frustration, you’re wet and ready for him. LIke you will always be.
You belong to me.
Do I?
Do not tease me.
Am I? If I only belong to you behind closed doors, if I can tell no one? Am I truly yours? This conversation is growing old, Secondo. You look to him, eyes shining with tears, aren’t you tired?
Secondo growls and you can feel his hands on you now, sliding up your thighs, his palm pressing flat and hard against your pussy; the pad of his hand grinding against your clit. You squeeze your thighs together and swallow, trying to focus. You wonder if his invisible touch can feel that you’re not wearing underwear or if he can sense how wet you are. His desperate, if resentful, moan that echoes in your mind confirms that suspicion.
Secondo can hear you and the ghoul, over the din of the party, and his heart pounds in his throat. You look to him and Swiss follows your gaze, eyes landing on Secondo and igniting in Secondo’s gut what the second Papa can only ascertain to be sheer panic.
He knows. The ghoul knows.
You turn away from Secondo and Swiss follows, “You can’t tell anyone, Swiss,” you say, your voice shaking with emotion, quaking with fear, “You can’t. It will kill him,” Swiss reaches up and swipes at an errant tear - Secondo’s blood boils the moment the ghoul’s finger slides down your cheek, “And then that will kill me.”
Swiss is, for the first time in his life, Secondo thinks, quiet. Solemn. He stares at you and that strange, new sensation of panic catches Secondo completely off guard. The ghoul cares for you, those damned rainbow eyes are luminous with emotion, “I won’t, darlin’. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Swiss’ fingers slide down your cheek, resting on your shoulder, on your wrist, against the curve of your waist. Secondo’s fury is nearly unchecked. Siblings stare at him, feeling the hatred radiating off of the tall, silent Papa. He cares not.
He’s going to break every finger on that ghouls beloved hands.
“I need to go,” you shoot down the rest of your drink - Secondo can smell the strong, sweet alcohol before it hits your lips and his stomach growls; it will make your blood all the more thicker, all the more syrupy. His pulls would have to be harder, his bite deeper. He groans, his cock throbs, his stomach grumbles, empty and aching. Those damned spots and stars dance in his vision once more. Secondo loses the sound of your voice, the noise of the hall coming back like a tidal wave. He is losing more than just strength; his powers wane, his body weakens, his mind is a fuzzy haze of confusion and hurt. When he finally blinks his sight back to normal, you are gone and Swiss is staring at Secondo with a sad, pitiful gaze that has Secondo shrinking back and looking away.
He truly is weakening.
You slip into one of the small kitchens and turn on a few low, warm overhead lights - lighting a path and the countertop, leaving the rest of the stainless steel and granite in shadow. You peer into the pantries and the massive, glass fronted wine stash. You pull out a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates; it’s a breakup meal if you’ve ever seen one. The thought makes your heart hurt all the more. For a few moments, you are alone with your thoughts. It’s jarring and scary and lonely. You’ve gotten quite used to having Secondo in your mind, up against you even at midday when he’s asleep in his coffin. Even his dreams, he had confessed, bring him to you.
Now, the hooks that Secondo tries to set in your mind are faint and each time he tries, his attempts become weaker and weaker with each push and prod and caress. Even tonight, when he was in the same room - it was clear he was not as strong as he used to be.
You feel him though now, his aura approaches - that much is undeniable. You catch him in the doorway and do your best to ignore him. You fail, immediately. Tears blur your vision, burning as they build, “I’m tired of hiding,” you whisper, the tears spill over - your emotions peaking and now, uncontrollable, “I’m tired of watching you suffer. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t let all this misery be because of me. You say it isn’t my fault. It is.”
Emotions stir and mix together in a heady, overwhelming mix - it takes over the room and replaces the oxygen. Your chest hurts. Secondo stares at you for what seems like an eternity. When he finally speaks, his voice shakes, “You will leave me, then?” You turn away from him. It’s impossible to look at him; to see him fading is one thing, to see his heart breaking is too much. A moment later, he is behind you, his hands on your hips, “Cara mia,” he begs, “Look at me.”
You turn around and throw your arms around his neck. You sob and cry and want to reassure him that you aren’t leaving. That you’ll wait around for him, that you’ll wait and figure it out and it will be okay. But it’s not the truth. You hold him tight but you can only muster a quiet, “I love you, Secondo,” you pull away, holding your vampire at arm’s length, “You need to feed,” Secondo shakes his head. Your shoulders sag in defeat. So it is this, then. You have to choose between loving him and watching him starve to death or leaving him and watching him live.
When Secondo looks at you, he can only feel shame.
Guilt and shame and anger and hatred for himself. That he keeps you, keeps your love in secret. That he kept something so beautiful and real, hidden from the world. That for once in his godforsaken, cold, villainous life he has been blessed with love and light and pure, unfiltered joy and he has decided to lock it up; even from himself. Anger and hatred that he has let himself get to this point - starving, dying probably. But he can’t feed on you. He refuses. He’d rather die - which is exactly what he’s doing - than hurt you or take from you or… he swipes at your tears as quickly as they fall, “You will leave, then,” he says and it isn’t a question this time. It’s what’s right. He is not worthy of your love and you deserve far better than this; than him - a cold, angry monster of a man.
“I don’t know what else to do. I can’t be the reason you’re starving to death.”
“You are not -,” he starts and you cut him off with a sharp look, “Tesoro, I,” he silences himself. His mind is singularly focused and it’s not about love or lust or shouting any of that from the rooftops. He can hear your heart pounding in your chest, smell the fear and need and the lust rolling off of you in wild, uncontrolled, pulsing waves. Satan help him, he wants to press his face into the soft skin of your chest and inhale the honey-sweet scent that has become his addiction. And then he wants to tear your throat open and drink you dry. You sink into him and it takes every cell of strength in him not to follow through with it. For a moment, you are still, head against his chest. He strokes your hair and kisses the top of your head; perhaps he is stronger than he thinks. He is not sure how, after all this time, he is deserving of a hug. That someone who is so angry, so disappointed in him can find it in them to hold him. You do, though. Your love continues, each day, to surprise him - how soft and careful you are with him.
You pull away, cupping Secondo’s jaw and gazing up at him, “I want to feed you, Secondo,” you say, quietly. He moves to speak, his sharp canines flashing before you press a finger to his painted lips, “And if I cannot, if you won’t let me,” you swallow and close your eyes, gathering your strength for the words that follow. When you meet Secondo’s eyes once more, they are brimming with tears, “Then take it from another. I am begging you.”
“I cannot. I will not.”
Your hand falls away and you experience the overwhelming burden of defeat, “Then I have to go. If you won’t do it because I’m here then I’ll remove myself from the equation.”
Your heart breaks and the vampire who would once offer comfort, you cannot get away from fast enough. You know if you stay, if you don’t run right now, you’ll never leave. And you’re not sure that Secondo is going to survive to breakfast. No, you need to go. You need to find Primo and tell him and then pack your bags and go. You try to turn, adrenaline surging in your veins, making you sick and sweaty and jumpy. Secondo catches you, pressing you against the fridge, “Do not leave,” he says, voice pitched, eyes wide with panic, “Do not leave me.”
“Then do not make me the reason you’re killing yourself!” you sob, pushing against his chest with your fists, “Don’t blame it on me. You are not a martyr, Secondo,” you growl, “You’re a fucking idiot and you’re putting it all on me and I hate you for it. I hate you!”
Secondo stumbles backwards - your words are like a stake to his heart. He clutches his chest and leans against the counter taking big, gulping breaths; finding it difficult to decipher if it was your words or the need to be at your vein that causes him more pain. He loses his footing and his ass slams against the floor and he has never felt smaller or more pitiful in his entire life. He gazes up at you in a puddle of misery and silk and you sink to your knees; your heart still pounds, like a mighty war drum. Your blood roars in your veins. He can smell the sadness that overpowers the love and lust and he lets out another pathetic sob.
“You are going to take this too far, Secondo,” you say, kneeling in front of him - maintaining a painfully platonic distance. He does not need to speak to agree; he cannot even stand up, “Let me find someone,” you voice hitches and you close your eyes, squaring your shoulders and lifting your chin before meeting his gaze once more, gathering your power and he has never loved you more, “Let me find someone strong,” Secondo shakes his head, “If you don’t feed, I will go to Primo. Or Terzo. Or Copia.”
“As if they cannot see me wasting,” Secondo snaps.
“Then die. Die here on the kitchen floor.”
You move to leave once more and Secondo reaches for your wrist, pulling you up against him. Even starving and dying and sobbing, he is massive and strong and he engulfs you with his arms, “I need a moment,” he says, closing his eyes, resting his head on the cupboard behind him, “A moment.”
You stare at him, confused and far too close to him to make good decisions. His jaw goes slack and you see his canines once more - they’ve grown - and Secondo runs his tongue over them, “A moment for what, Secondo?”
His eyes remain closed and his voice low, “I need to come to terms with what I am about to do.”
You stare at him for a moment longer and then sit up, straddling him carefully. His grip tightens and you kiss his cheek, pressing your lips up to his ear, “I’m not leaving.”
You curse the moment you decided to wear a ballgown, yanking up your skirts and ignoring the squeeze of the bodice while you situate yourself on Secondo’s lap, straddling him. Eyes still closed though his hands wander, his leather clad fingers settle on your bare thighs. Tears slide out of the corners of his eyes and you lean in, hands on that broad chest and kiss them away, “It will hurt,” he whispers.
“It already does,” you say and his eyes meet yours, “I know, Secondo.”
You take his silks and help him pull them over his head. He sighs in relief and you go to work on his dress shirt, focusing on the buttons. He watches you, hands on your thighs, “It will take so much from you,” he adds, “I need so much.”
“I know that, too,” you say. You push his shirt off of his shoulders and down his arms. You’re quiet as you take his hand and pull off his glove. You find the other and do the same before helping him out of his shirt. You lean in an nuzzle into the thick, dark hair that coats his chest. You inhale his scent and sigh.
When you come back up, he continues, “And if I take too much,” he starts and you silence him with a kiss. Finally his eyes open, those lovely, sad, mismatched irises meet yours.
“I know that, too, Secondo.”
“I do not deserve you.”
You try not to smile, giving him a smirk instead, “I know,” you take his hands and pull them around your back, guiding him to the ribbon that holds your dress tight to your torso, “Help me,” you whisper, leaning in and kissing him. He doesn’t fight you and you’re going to chalk it up to his surrender and not so much his starvation. You kiss the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw, sinking low and marking his neck. He works at the ribbon and soon you feel the dress loosening, sliding down a bit. When you sit back up, your chest is near bare. You ignore that Secondo’s eyes are on your throat, “I can smell fear on you,” he says.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want it,” your throat is tight and you try to sound as sure as you can, “I can be afraid and still do it,” you reassure him and yourself. You stand and he panics. You smile, “solo un memento, amore mio,” you give him your best Italian and he manages a proud grin. You shimmy out of your dress, pushing it over your hips and letting it fall down to your ankles. You step out of it and return to Secondo’s lap. You settle in and he watches. He leans his head against the cupboard, gazing at you. His breaths are shallow and his blinks are slow, “It’s time, Secondo.”
He shakes his head, “Everything will change,” his voice is low and unsteady, “After this, it will all change.”
“And will that be bad?”
“I do not like change.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
If Satan would have given him someone a bit less challenging and a bit more submissive, perhaps Secondo would not be sitting on the kitchen floor above to pass out with the love of his life in his lap, telling him to answer the question.
And yet, here he is.
You scratch your nails into the hair on his chest, distracting yourself. You lean down, again, pressing a kiss to his sternum, “I love you, Secondo.”
He knows he is putting off the inevitable. With each nervous breath you take, each feign of confidence, his own strength dissipates. Hunger pains and predatory, animalistic urges surge through his veins, “If I do not do it soon, if I wait longer, the consequences will be far worse.”
You smile and another round of tears spill over, stinging his cheeks, “I don’t what you’re not getting about this situation. The consequences are meaningless. I want to feed you. I want my body to feed you. I love you. I want you to feel ecstasy inside of me. I want you to have everything. There is nothing that will happen when you feed on me that I wouldn’t -,”
Secondo fangs break your skin and you feel the pain before you can comprehend what has happened. What is happening.
Finally.
The first wave of pain hits you like a freight train and it’s far worse than you suspected two canines to produce. You gasp, eyes squeezed shut and find purchase on his shoulders. Secondo’s arms are tight around you. His hand grips your hair; the pull of his fist presses the pins and curls against your scalp but it is nothing compared to the ache at his mouth. You expected a romance cover novel, bent over and wind blown, two small pokes. Secondo tears at you, biting over and over again, searching for the spot where your flesh is thinnest above your vein. He growls and snarls with each inhale and whines and whimpers with each exhale as he sucks and bites, digging into your flesh. He’s weak and you’re sure on a good day, he might be a little better at finding his quarry. You hope. You struggle to breathe - terrified and stunned by the pain - until a new wave of terror hits you like a ton of bricks.
Secondo finds his quarry and your body reacts as you’d expect any prey animal to: you cry out, the deepest bite and subsequent panic that jolts through you tells you he has hit that vital, tender spot and your body reacts like it should. You press against his shoulders and squirm, desperate to fight. And then, you are nearly knocked unconscious by the tidal wave of lust that crashes over you. Your spine tightens and your hips rolls. Despite the fear, you don’t want to get away. Despite the pain, you want to keep going. Your core tells you this is exactly where you want to be; your dripping, sloppy wet, thighs sliding slick against Secondo’s slacks, your center trembles and clenches on goddamn nothing. You curse yourself for not taking off his pants or your underwear. But your heart pounds with fear and your mind is clouded with emotion and the need to get away because you’re nothing but a dumb prey animal and something is eating you… but you want the thing that’s killing you to fuck you and breed you and fill you up so full he’ll taste himself in your blood. The whiplash of emotion has you sobbing, gasping for air and unable to move even an inch away from the vampire latched onto your vein. Secondo’s clawed hand comes up, cupping your chin, claws pricking at your cheek, droplets of fiery blood pooling and sliding down your equally hot skin. Groans of satisfaction rumble up from Secondo and it doesn’t serve to calm you - fear gives way, finally, need, panic turn into something far more primal, adrenaline into appetite.
Your body yields everything to him.
Your blood runs over his tongue and down his throat, thick and hot and the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. Not wine, not water - nothing shall ever compare and nothing shall ever satisfy him as you do. Your body, soft and sweltering and dripping wet, so ready for him he hurts - he does not know if he wants to be at your vein or your core, seated so deep inside of you there is not one point where you will end and he will begin.
He is Papa, after all. Why can he not have both?
You settle against him, arms around his neck and cheek against his head. The tang of fear in your blood is replaced with the thick, spiced taste of all-consuming desire. Secondo’s trembling hands wander, until he find the curve of your ass, his fingertips sliding down to your fiery center and you groan, your entire body shakes against his, your grip on his shoulders tightens, your back arches. You are hot and wet, silken as he slides two fingers into you. You’re coming. Instantly. Your body tenses around his fingers and he groans. You cry out and he pulls his mouth away with a roar, “I need to fuck you,” he chokes out, catching your blood as it dribbles out of his mouth. You kiss him and he lets out the most pathetic, needy sound he’s ever heard - from himself or anyone else. He blinks and you are working at his belt, hands shaking, mouth set in a firm, grim line. You’re flushed and sweating and gasping for air; your breath shaking. Blood runs down your neck and chest, “Stop,” he says, cupping your jaw, trying his best to ignore the claw marks and blood on your cheek, “Stop, tesoro, let me look at you.”
You take a massive, heaving breath. His hands come over yours, halting you. Your eyes snap up to his, still gripping his belt buckle, “I’m fine,” you whisper, “I’m fine. Keep going.”
“You sound very much not fine,” Secondo leans forward and runs his tongue up along the line of blood from your sternum up to the throbbing wounds at your neck. His head thunks against the cupboard once more and this time he smiles - his lips and face and chin a bloody mess. But his eyes are bright and shining and there’s color in his cheeks.
“You’re still hungry.”
“I am.”
“Then I’m fine.”
Which was a half lie - you were, in fact, very fine. You went back to work at his belt and freed his cock and he gives a satisfied groan, rolling his hips and fucking up into your fist. You lift yourself and for a moment, hover over his cock and he whines, “I need you,” he whispers, “Please.”
Secondo has never been one to beg.
He has, since he could remember, thought it beneath him. He has also never enjoyed admitting he was wrong and has, up until this moment, avoiding doing so at all times. But now, if you want him on his knees, sobbing like a child, begging and crying and gasping for air then he would do so. If you wanted him, upon each waking evening, to say how very wrong he was? Then he would do so, too. And happily.
You let out a satisfied groan as you take him, returning to his lap, full of him. You lean in and kiss him, smiling against his lips, “Keep going, my Papa.”
Secondo groans and leans forward, nuzzling into your chest, “here?” he asks and you hum an affirmative. He runs his lips up the curve of your breast, “There are many veins here,” he says against your skin, pushing your breast up to his mouth, your flesh curved and tight against his lips, “It is different than here,” he moves his mouth to your neck, licking at the drying blood. You let out a whimper and push his head back down. He smiles, “At your neck, it is bright and full of life. Here,” his fangs threaten your skin and goosebumps prickle up your spine, “Here it is dark and thick and sweet.”
“Take it.”
You need not tell him twice.
Your flesh breaks easily under his canines. There is no artery to find here, he needs simply to break your skin and let it flow. You jump and his free arm comes around you, holding you tight to him, holding you down. His cock throbs and you shake around him, tight and hot; your slick slides down his balls and your blood down his throat. He’s starting to get full.
“You’re a glutton,” you huff out, your cheek on the top of his head. He grunts and you smile. The hurt is an afterthought, Secondo’s fangs pull and tear on the top of your breast, his claws poke the side, where he grips it tight. It is nothing, you think, compared to the great, overwhelming swell of love. His cock kicks in you and you shiver around him. He groans and he tries to roll his hips though there’s no room for the friction he craves, “Just take,” you whisper, “Just take what you need first. There will be time for that,” his hand slides up and down your spine, gripping your ass and then sliding back up, “Take it what you need. Take it all. I’ll give it all to you. Take it all.”
Secondo comes then.
Hot cum fills you up and pours out of you, his cock throbs and kicks. When he finally parts from you, he finds your mouth. Your blood is on his tongue and so is our name. He whispers it, he sobs it, over and over again as your body milks his. You grind on him then, with what little energy you have left, you work yourself on his cock, his thumb coming down to circle your clit though you need no help. He is glorious beneath you - covered in your blood, sated and sleepy and smiling. His fangs shine in the low light, his eyes are bright and… you see spots and your pace falters, “I’m a bit tired,” you laugh, leaning your forehead against his.
“I took too much.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
You smile and Secondo pats your ass, “What do we do now? Have you had enough?” you ask.
Secondo gazes up at you and tucks your wild hair behind your ears, “To bed.”
“It’s practically noon for you,” you smirk, “Don’t you have work to do?”
He shakes his head and pats his belly, “I am so full. I want to sleep. With you.”
You arch an eyebrow, “In the bed?” Secondo shakes his head, again. And you take a deep, happy breath, “You mean it?” you ask and this time he nods, “In the coffin? Together?”
Though he groans dramatically when he stands, his strength has returned; he lifts you with him and you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around his neck. His cock is still hard and seated well in you, “I suppose,” he says, shaking his pants off of his ankles so that he’s standing there, you wrapped around him, in his socks and nothing else, “If I am to give into you completely, I shall… do so completely.”
He steps out into the hall and the world stops. The place is full - the ritual party ending and everyone heading back to their rooms. The whole place falls silent, “Secondo?” you whisper, eyeing him.
“Yes, dear?”
“You’re all right?” you ask, pressing your face against his cheek, hiding, “My ass is out… your balls… also out.”
“It is a trick question, I think,” he smirks, ignoring everyone as he makes his way through the halls. He takes you up the stairs to his room, to his coffin - one last thing that he refused to let you do - and your heart swells, you’re sure it’ll burst, “You cannot ask me how I’m feeling when I have a belly full of your blood and my cock in you.”