His religion {You’re the only one he prays to}
“You loved all of your devotees, your perfectly gorgeous hand picked concubines. But he was your favourite, pitiful in the most beautiful of ways just for you.”
vampire!Choso x vampire!Reader; Late 18th century
MDNI (18+); mention of blood, biting, light smut, slow burn smut, religious references, maker and makee bound, sub dom dynamic, foot play, choso worships you, light degradation, pet names, praising, hair pulling, handjob, over clothes, blood high, heavy teasing, lots of foreplay, clothed restraints, light smell kink, aftercare, sub choso++, self pleasure, goth romance aesthetic.
The silk sheets whispered against your skin as you shifted, adjusting the book in your hands. Your bed—vast as a cathedral altar, draped in burgundy so deep it might have been spun from the wine of centuries, cradled you in its embrace of pillows, each one a small monument to comfort. The satin gown you wore was the color of champagne caught in moonlight, liquid and gossamer, draping across your immortal form with such carelessness that the hem had ridden up to expose the pale expanse of your thighs.
Between those thighs lay Choso.
Your favourite. Your most exquisite torment.
His head rested against your inner thigh like a penitent at prayer, dark hair splayed across your skin like ink on parchment. The pale expanse of his shoulder was marked with silvery scars—old wounds from before you turned him. You loved them, loved the way they caught the lamplight, loved knowing they were proof that he had lived before belonging to you. His fingers traced idle patterns along your calf, ascending to your knee before descending once more in an endless pilgrimage, each touch feather-light and worshipful, as though he sought to commit every curve and plane of your body to an eternal memory through his fingertips alone.
Your free hand was buried in the silk of his hair, fingers threading through strands that caught the lamplight like spilled ink, while your eyes remained fixed upon the pages of your book. You could feel the unnecessary rise and fall of his chest against your leg—that vestigial habit of breathing, that phantom echo of mortality—could sense the way his body had melted into this position as though it were the only sanctuary in all the world where he belonged.
You had turned him years ago, along with several others. Your concubines. Your devotees. Beautiful creatures who existed solely to worship at the altar of your presence, to attend to your every whim, to provide you with the attention and adoration that was your divine right. You had cultivated this collection carefully, choosing only those who would be most pleasing, most utterly consumed by their need for you.
But Choso... Choso was special.
He was pathetic in the most exquisite way imaginable. Where the others were eager and attentive, Choso was obsessed—utterly, completely, rapturously obsessed. Where they worshipped you, he was consumed fully by you. Every glance from your eyes, every touch of your hand, every word that fell from your lips was gospel to him, holy writ inscribed upon his immortal soul. He yearned for you with a quiet intensity that made your blood sing its ancient song, begged for you with a composed desperation that never failed to send heat pooling low in your core like molten gold.
You felt the first soft press of his lips against your inner thigh and smiled without gracing him with your gaze, your eyes still fixed upon the printed words before you.
Another kiss, higher this time. Then another, each one a verse offered up to your flesh.
His fingers stilled their wandering, instead gripping your calf with gentle firmness as he shifted, angling his head to press his mouth more fully against your skin. You could feel the careful scrape of his fangs—not breaking the skin, not yet, just grazing with the promise of exquisite pain, a question, a plea.
"Love," you said softly, still not deigning to look down at him. "Use your words."
He went still for a moment, and you felt the shudder that ran through him at the pet name—that small endearment that held more power than any command. When he spoke, his voice was low, but you could hear the yearning beneath it.
You hummed thoughtfully, a sound that might have been amusement or contemplation, turning a page with deliberate slowness. "Do you?"
"Yes." His lips moved against your skin as he spoke, and you felt another careful graze of fangs, sharper. "Please. I need... I need to taste you. It's been three days since you've let me drink from you—" He paused, and you felt him press his forehead against your thigh, breathing you in as though you were incense, as though you were the very air he no longer needed but craved nonetheless. "Please. Let me have you."
"Let you have me?" You finally looked down at him, one eyebrow raised in an expression amusement. "That's quite a request darling."
His crimson eyes, that beautiful, luminous red that marked him as one of the undead met yours, and the intensity in them made your breath catch. There was a harsh line that ran across the bridge of his nose, a scar he’d unwillingly earned from his mortal days that you found completed him. There was hunger in those eyes, yes, but also devotion so absolute it bordered on religious fervor, on the kind of worship that had built cathedrals and inspired martyrs. His hand slid up your calf to your thigh, fingers pressing into your soft flesh.
"I know I don't deserve it," he said, voice still carefully controlled despite the need you could feel radiating from him like heat from a flame. "But I'm begging my love, please let me taste you. Let me worship you the way you deserve."
You set your book aside on the nightstand, giving him your full attention now, a gift more precious than gold to him, more intoxicating than any vintage. "You know the rules, baby. If I let you have me, I'd have to be fair to everyone. I'd have to let all of them have me too."
Something flickered in his eyes, not quite jealousy, but close. Possessiveness, perhaps. The desire that lingered in him to be the only one, even though he knew that was impossible, knew that you belonged to no one, that you were a goddess who could not be claimed, but only admired with your approval.
"Then let me earn it," he said quietly, his voice dropping to a whisper, intimate as confession. "Let me prove I'm worthy of your attention, alone, please."
You studied him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch between you like a taut string, letting it build until it was almost unbearable. His hand never stopped its gentle caress of your thigh, and you could see the way his jaw clenched as he waited for your answer, could see the way his entire body trembled with the effort of restraint.
"Show me," you said finally, the words falling from your lips like a benediction. "Show me how much you want it."
He moved immediately, a creature of pure adoration made manifest, shifting to press kisses up your inner thigh, slow, tedious, each one a small sacrament accompanied by the careful scrape of fangs that made your skin prickle with delicious anticipation. His hands slid higher with the delicate sway of a supplicant approaching an altar, pushing the hem of your gown up further, exposing more of you to his hungry, worshipful gaze.
"Beautiful," he murmured against your skin, the word a prayer breathed into your very essence. "You're beautiful. So perfect. I don't—" His voice caught slightly, the first exquisite crack in his carefully maintained composure. "I don't know what I did to deserve being yours, but I thank whatever gods are listening every day for this gift."
"Such pretty words," you said, threading your fingers more firmly through his hair.
He looked up at you, half lidded eyes and brows knitted together in an expression of such desperate longing it might have moved a heart less accustomed to adoration than yours. You smiled as a predator finding its prey, and guided his head to the inside of your thigh, right where your femoral artery pulsed beneath the skin.
"Here," you said, your voice dropping to something delicate and honeyed. "Show me how much you need it."
His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and you felt him tremble. He pressed his lips to your skin once more, mumbling a low 'thank you' that sounded like a hymn, offered up to the only deity he would ever worship, before his fangs sank in with beautiful precision.
The pain was sharp and stinging, a bright lance of sensation that bloomed like a flower, but it immediately followed by the rush of pleasure that came with the feeding bond—that dark communion between maker and made. You gasped, your grip tightening in his hair until you knew it must hurt, and he made a low sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction as your blood flooded his mouth.
You liked seeing the marks, liked the evidence of his craving for you written across your skin like love letters penned in scarlet. You allowed him to drink, let him take what he needed for now, and watched as he lost himself completely in the taste of you, moaning as he indulged, as he drowned in the intoxicating nectar of your veins.
His hand gripped your thigh with an almost bruising intensity, his other hand sliding up to your hip, holding you in place as though you might escape, as though you might deny him this exquisite communion at anytime. You could feel the pleasure rolling off him in waves, could sense the way his entire body responded to the taste of your blood, the way it sang through him, the way it made him whole in a way nothing else ever could.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were stained the deep crimson of your blood, and his eyes—those beautiful crimson eyes that matched the hue of your lifeblood—were glazed with pure, rapturous satisfaction. The little line across his nose seemed to deepen with his blissful expression. Blood trickled down your thigh from the wound in a thin rivulet, he watched it with rapt attention, as though it were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Thank you," he breathed, voice rough and broken with emotion. "So sweet." You could barely hear him, the praises rolling out of him with no end, a litany of praises that might have gone on forever if you'd let it.
"Clean it up," you commanded, turning his head back to the wound with your index on his chin.
He leaned down immediately, his tongue tracing the path of blood back up to the wound with the dedication of a pilgrim following a sacred trail. He lapped at it gently, savoring the dark liquid with closed eyes and an expression of such bliss it bordered on the obscene, making sure to leave the bite visible against your skin—his little reward, his mark of devotion, the evidence that you had allowed him this intimacy.
"Perfect," you hummed, stroking his hair with the tenderness one might show a beloved pet. "You're so good for me, aren't you, sweetheart?"
He made a soft sound, almost a whimper, and pressed his face against your thigh. "I want to be good for you."
"You're my favourite," you admitted, and felt the way he shuddered at the words. "You know you are. The others are beautiful, lovely, but you... you're so beautifully obsessed."
He looked up at you with those beautiful dark eyes—puppy eyes, you'd called them once, though they held depths no mortal creature could ever possess, you saw the naked emotions there: love, obsession, adoration, all tangled together in a way that should have been frightening but instead was completely intoxicating to you, like the finest wine, like the sweetest poison.
"I need more," he said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. "Please. I need—I need more of you."
He sounded like a complete addict, always yearning for more of his desired substance, and you considered for a moment, weighing desire against propriety. You made sure to keep a certain amount of "professionalism" if you could call it that—you had boundaries with all of them to make the sharing somewhat fair, and they knew of it, accepted it as the price of your affection. But Choso, the way he looked at you, anyone would give in to those pleading, hurt-filled eyes.
You shifted, pulling your leg away from him. He made a soft sound of protest, a small wounded noise that tugged at something in your chest, but quieted when you extended your foot back toward him, offering a different kind of worship.
"Start here," you said, foot pointed at his chest like an accusation. "Do what you do best, love."
His eyes darkened with understanding, with hunger, and he took your foot in both hands without hesitation, the gesture making heat curl in your stomach. He pressed a kiss to your ankle, then another to the arch of your foot, his lips soft and warm with that hint of urgency behind every kiss, that desperate need to please.
"You're perfect," he murmured between kisses, each word a small offering laid at your altar. "Every part of you. From your feet to your—" He pressed another kiss, this one to the top of your foot, lingering there as though he could taste divinity in your skin. "—to the crown of your head. Perfect."
He worked his way across your foot with agonizing slowness, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he could reach, mapping your immortal flesh with his lips as though committing it to eternal memory. When he took one of your toes into his mouth, sucking gently, you felt a jolt of unexpected pleasure shoot straight through you like lightning, like fire racing through your veins.
"Good boy," you breathed, and he moaned at the praise, the sound vibrating against your skin in the most delicious way.
He continued his worship, moving to your other foot, giving it the same pleasuring attention, the same careful care. His hands massaged your calves as he worked, strong fingers kneading the muscle, and you let your head fall back against the pillows with a soft sigh of contentment.
This is what you 'lived' for—being treated as if you were the only thing making it possible for them to keep going, as if you were the sun and they were planets caught in your gravitational pull, unable to escape, unwilling to try.
After a few minutes, he began to shift, his kisses trailing upward, from your foot to your ankle, then your calf, each press of his lips a small prayer offered to your flesh. His hands slid higher, the cold kiss of his rings flowing across your skin like ice and silver, gripping your thighs as he began to crawl up your body with the fluid grace of a predator. As he drew closer, you could see the network of scars that mapped his torso—battle wounds from a his prior life, lines of silver that spoke of suffering and survival. Seeking more of you, his gaze half-lidded and dark with a hunger that bordered on the ravenous, that beautiful crimson gaze drinking you in.
You placed back your foot firmly against his chest, stopping him in his tracks with the authority of a goddess denying a supplicant.
He made a soft sound—half protest, half acceptance—his body going still beneath your touch with obedience. His hands remained on your calves, but he didn't try to push forward, didn't dare protest against your command. He simply looked up at you with those questioning eyes, dark as midnight and just as fathomless, as if he'd committed some terrible transgression and awaited your judgment.
"Not yet," you said softly, applying just enough pressure with your foot to sit him back down on his heels in front of you. "I’m going to need a lot more than this, sweetheart."
You slid your foot down from his chest with antagonising slowness, trailing it over his stomach, watching with fascination the way his muscles tensed and rippled beneath your touch. When you reached the waistband of his pants, you pressed down just enough, feeling the hard line of his erection straining against the fabric.
He gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily in a movement he couldn't control, his grip on your calves tightened until you knew it would have bruised mortal flesh. "Please," he breathed, voice carefully maintained despite the clear need you could see burning in his eyes.
"What do you need, love?" you asked, rubbing your foot along his length through his pants with agonizing slowness, going painfully slow so he could feel every inch of himself strained against the confines of his own clothing. "Tell me."
"You," he whimpered, the sound breaking slightly like glass fracturing. "I need you, to touch you, taste you, please." He breathed out your name, a benediction, never pulling his eyes away from yours, never breaking that connection that bound him to you more surely than any chain.
You increased the pressure, pressing your foot more firmly against him, and he moaned—a sound of such pure, unadulterated need it made something dark and possessive curl in your chest. His head fell back, exposing the pale column of his throat, and his hips shifted, seeking more relief from your touch. You could see the way his composure was starting to crack like porcelain under pressure, jaw slack with sweet, sweet whines and moans spilling out of him like wine from a broken vessel.
"Pitiful," you hummed, continuing your light kneading on his length. "So needy. Can you feel how hard you are, love? Does it hurt?"
"Yes," he gasped, the word torn from him. "Yes, I'm—Please, let me—I'll be good. I'll be so good for you." Your name rolled out of him with so much want it made you almost weak, almost willing to surrender your control to his desperate pleas.
You watched him for a long moment, taking in the sight of him—flushed despite his immortal pallor, trembling, mouth agape while small whimpers and pleas flowed out of him like a river of devotion. You slowly withdrew your foot, and his eyes snapped open, looking at you with such hope, such desperate yearning, it made your breath catch in your throat.
"Come here," you said finally, and he moved immediately, crawling up your body with fluid grace, like a great cat approaching its master.
He hovered over you, careful not to put his full weight on you without your permission—ever the obedient creature—and you could see the raw hunger and need burning in his eyes. Not just for your blood, you'd figured, but for you. For your touch, your attention, your approval. For the very essence of your being.
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands with a tenderness that belied the power you held over him, and pulled him down, brushing your lips softly against his own, his breathing getting shallow and ragged as you kept tickling his lower lip with your own, teasing him with the promise of more, finally granting him release in the end.
He melted into it with a soft moan, his lips moving against yours with controlled excitement, with barely restrained passion. You could taste your own blood on his tongue from earlier, could feel the way he trembled as you deepened the kiss, as you claimed his mouth with the authority of one who owned him body and soul. His hands came up to frame your face, mirroring your position, and he kissed you like you were his only means of survival (which you absolutely were).
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard—unnecessary as the act was, the habit of it still served to the intimacy of the moment. His pupils were blown wide, his lips swollen and red, and he looked absolutely wrecked, utterly undone already. "I love you," he breathed, the words falling from his lips like a confession, like a vow.
You didn't respond with words. Instead, you tilted his face up and kissed him deeply once more, pouring everything you couldn't say into the kisse —all the dark affection, the possessive tenderness, the dangerous devotion you felt for this beautiful, pathetic creature who had given himself so completely to you, the intimacy of it making your head spin.
When you pulled back, his eyes were dark with renewed hunger, his pupils blown wide. He looked at you with such need it made your breath catch, made something primal stir in your chest.
"More," he breathed, voice rough. "Please, I need more of you. Need your blood. I'm—I'm still so hungry for you. Please."
You cupped his face, studying him. His lips were still stained red, his fangs visible as he panted softly, he looked pathetic and beautiful all at once, completely undone by his need for you.
"You're insatiable," you murmured, but there was no real reproach in your voice, only amusement and something that might have been affection. "So greedy for me, aren't you, baby?"
"Yes," he whimpered, the word breaking like a wave against rocks. "Yes, I'm greedy. I'm pathetic. I can't—I can't get enough of you. Please. Please let me have more."
You had a soft spot for him—softer than you'd ever admit, softer than was wise for a creature such as yourself. You would have denied any of your other concubines for being completely out of place, would have made them wait, made them beg until they wept with frustration. But you found yourself giving in to him, surrendering to those beautiful pleading eyes.
"Go on," you said softly. "I’ll allow it this once darling, but you're going to be good for me while you do it."
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, anything. I'll be so good, I promise."
You tilted your head, exposing the pale column of your neck to him, and he made that desperate whining sound that sent heat pooling low in your stomach like molten gold. His fangs grazed your skin with exquisite care, you felt him trembling from the effort it took to hold back, to wait for your permission.
"Go on," you encouraged, threading your fingers through his hair. "Show me how much you need me, beautiful."
He sank his fangs into your neck with a groan that sounded like rapture, like ecstasy, and you gasped at the sharp pleasure-pain of it. He drank from you as if this were the last time he would ever taste you, one hand cradling the back of your head with surprising tenderness, the other gripping your hip with bruising intensity.
"Such a good boy," you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair. "So perfect for me. Taking what you need like the needy little thing you are."
He moaned against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine, and drank deeper, his throat working as he swallowed your blood like it was the finest wine, the sweetest nectar. You could feel his strained erection pressing against your thigh through his pants, hard and insistent, and the realization made you smile with satisfaction.
"So weak," you continued, your voice dropping to something darker. "So desperate for me you can't even control yourself."
He whimpered, the sound muffled against your neck, and you felt his hips shift involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking relief from the ache that consumed him.
"Love," you commanded softly, your voice cutting through the haze of his pleasure. "Touch yourself. I'll allow it."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glazed with pleasure and gratitude. "Thank you," he gasped, his voice broken and raw. "Thank you."
His hands fumbled with the button of his pants with desperate urgency, nearly tearing the fabric in his haste. He pushed them down just enough to free his painfully hardened member, and aching, flushed dark with need—and wrapped his hand around himself with a groan of relief as he bit down on your neck again, his fangs sinking deep, and began stroking himself with slow, torturous movements as he drank from you, as he consumed you.
You could feel the pleasure rolling off him, could sense how close he already was to the edge from just this.
"That's it," you praised. "Such a good boy. Drinking from me while you pleasure yourself. So beautiful like this, so perfect."
"Y-yes," he moaned against your skin, the word vibrating through you like a tuning fork struck against crystal.
After a few moments, he pulled back from your neck, and looked down at your body with hungry eyes that had taken on a predatory gleam—the blood high beginning to take hold, bringing out something more primal, more dangerous.
Without asking—without seeking permission as he usually would, he began kissing his way down your body with newfound urgency: your collarbone, your chest, your stomach, his fangs grazing your skin through the thin satin of your gown with each kiss, each touch leaving trails of sensation in their wake like fire across silk.
"I want to taste you everywhere," he growled, his voice taking on a rougher edge, something so much more possessive. "Want to mark you. Want everyone to see my marks on you."
You watched him with intrigue, fascinated by the shift in his demeanor, that new found confidence. The blood was affecting him, bringing out something more primal, more instinctual—which was common when reaching that blood high, when the intoxication of another's essence flooded through you. There was an edge to him now that made your whole body respond under him.
He pushed your gown up with impatient hands, exposing your thighs more fully to his ravenous gaze, and bit down on the soft flesh of your inner thigh with a possessiveness that bordered on violence. You gasped, your hand flying to his hair, gripping tight as he drank from you with a new depth, a new intensity that made your head spin.
"Choso, baby," you breathed, throwing your head back against the pillows as pleasure washed over you in waves. "That's it, baby, take what you need. Mark me."
He moved to your other thigh, biting down hard enough to make you cry out—a sound of pleasure and pain so intertwined they were indistinguishable. Then he kissed his way up to your hip, sinking his fangs into the soft skin there with a groan that sounded almost feral. Each bite sent pleasure spasming through you like lightning, like electricity racing through your veins, you could feel yourself getting close only from the way he worshipped your body, just from the intensity of his need.
He bit your stomach next, just below your navel, you felt the ghost of his breath over your clothed heat—so close it made you shiver. The proximity made your hips rock up involuntarily, seeking more contact, more friction, more of whatever dark pleasure he could give you.
"Be a good boy," you heard yourself say, your voice strained with the effort of maintaining control, and his eyes flicked up to meet yours, his brows knitted together, eyes still dewy and half-lidded, glazed with the intoxication of your blood.
He pressed his mouth against your covered heat, breathing you in with a sound that was almost a growl and a moan together, something completely primal. His teeth grazed your thin laced panties, and you felt the warmth of his breath seeping through the delicate fabric. His hand was still working his cock, stroking faster now with increasingly erratic movements, and you could see the way his control was slipping like sand through fingers, like water through a broken dam.
"You smell so good," he murmured into you, his voice rough as gravel, thick with desire. "I want—"
"Just your mouth and hands, love," you reminded him, your voice seeking control even as your body betrayed you with its responses, even as you felt yourself growing wet beneath his attention.
He hummed—a sound of acknowledgment and frustration mixed together, and didn't hesitate to bite down on your inner thigh again, so close to your core you could feel the heat of him, the dangerous proximity of his fangs to your most sensitive flesh. You moaned, the sound escaping you unbidden, and his free hand slid up your body, snaking under your gown to cup your breast. His touch was demanding, almost rough—so different from his usual careful pecks—his thumb circling your hardened nipple through the fabric with the lightest pressure.
"Mine," he growled against your skin, the word vibrating through you like a claim, like a brand. "Mine. You made me, my everything, my reason for existing."
"I can’t be solely yours, w-wouldn't be fair to the others now, would it, love?" you managed to say, though your voice was breathless, strained with pleasure from his touch.
He looked at you for a split second, and you swear he rolled his eyes at you—a flash of defiance, of possessive jealousy that made something delicious curl in your chest.
You could feel the blood high taking over him more, his touch getting rougher and more hurried.
"Come here," you commanded, pulling him up by his hair with firm authority. "Calm down." You made sure to find his gaze, to hold it, grounding him back down from the edge of that primal hunger. "Now kiss me."
He moved immediately, his lips crashing against yours with bruising intensity, with a hunger that bordered on violence, He weaved through your mouth, claiming it, possessing it, and the taste was intoxicating—euphoric. His hand left his cock to grip your hip, pulling you closer with bruising strength, and you could feel his erection pressing against you through your gown.
"So good," you murmured against his lips, your voice thick with satisfaction. "You taste so good with my blood on your tongue. So perfect like this, so beautifully undone."
You felt him smile as he moaned into the kiss—a trembling, desperate sound that vibrated through you like the tolling of cathedral bells. With your regenerated authority, you pushed him firmly onto his back, breaking the kiss as you straddled his hips in one fluid movement. He gasped at the sudden shift in power, his eyes widening like a man witnessing something divine and terrible all at once as you settled your weight atop him, pinning him beneath you with the inevitability of fate itself.
You planted your hands firmly upon his chest, feeling the forced rhythm of his heart racing beneath your palms—that phantom echo of mortality, that vestigial drumbeat that served no purpose save to remind him of what he once was, what he could never be again. His muscles tensed and rippled beneath your touch like water disturbed by wind, his entire body taut as a bowstring drawn back to its limit.
"Stay still," you commanded, something that brooked no disobedience. He nodded frantically, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his abdomen tightening under you as you slowly slid your hand down, scratching at his skin with care, between your bodies with the languid grace of honey pouring from a spoon.
When you wrapped your hand around his freed cock, flushed and completely abused by the lack of touch—he let out a strangles moan, like a prayer torn from the depths of his immortal soul. His hips instinctively tried to thrust upward into your grip, seeking more of that exquisite friction, more of that granted divine pleasure.
"I said stay still, baby," you reminded him, pressing your weight down harder against him, using your body to keep him pinned as surely as if you'd bound him with chains of silk. He obeyed immediately, his hands flying to grip the pillows behind him, his knuckles going white with the force of it as you began to stroke him with slow, tight fisted languid movements—each soft brush of your thumb against his glistening tip designed to drive him to the very edge of madness.
He was completely at your mercy, trapped beneath you, unable to do anything but gasp and moan your name as though it were the only word left in his vocabulary, the only prayer he knew how to speak. God, he sounded heavenly, completely flushed and broken under you, his voice rough and high, cracking with the intensity of his need. His pale skin had taken on a luminous quality in the lamplight, as though he were carved from moonstone and alabaster, as though he were some beautiful statue brought to life by your touch alone.
His short whines became erratic, fractured things—your name and other incoherent words spilling from his lips like wine from a broken vessel, like prayers from a penitent who had forgotten the proper liturgy and could only speak in tongues of devotion and desperation. His body trembled beneath you, like a man standing at the precipice of something vast and terrible and beautiful all at once.
Then he came with a broken, desperate cry that echoed through the room like a hymn, his entire body convulsing as his orgasm crashed over him. His brows drew tight together in an expression of such exquisite agony, his mouth falling completely open as he clenched around the pillows harder, as though they were the only things anchoring him to this world. His hips thrust upward into your hand in frantic, uncontrolled movements, his muscles trembling violently as pleasure tore through him.
Just as his pleasure peaked, just as he reached that pinnacle of his need, you tugged his head back by the hair behind hus head, sinking your fangs into the curve where his neck met his shoulder—that tender junction of flesh and sinew—drinking from him as he climaxed.
The sensation broke him completely. His back arched off the bed as though pulled by invisible strings, his hands flew from the pillows to claw at your back with desperate intensity, his nails raking across your skin as he gasped your name over and over, his voice rough and broken with emotion. His cock pulsed in your grip, each spasm sending another wave of pleasure crashing through him, his entire body convulsing as the dual sensation of your bite and your touch sent him spiraling into some new realm of submission, some deeper level of surrender he hadn't known existed.
Tears streamed down his face in crystalline rivulets, catching the lamplight like diamonds, like liquid starlight—tears of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, tears of devotion so absolute it transcended mere worship. He fell apart beneath you, utterly broken and remade in the same breath, gasping incoherently as you drank from him through his release.
"Yes—j-just like that—" he sobbed, his hips jerking erratically, completely lost to the overwhelming intensity of it all. You felt the rush of his pleasure through your bond, that tied him to you more surely than any chain—and you maintained complete control of it all as he released entirely in your hands, trembling and gasping until his orgasm finally subsided, leaving him a limp, trembling mess beneath you, as fragile and beautiful as spun glass.
"I love you," he whispered after a few seconds of silence broken only by his ragged breathing, his voice breaking like a boy's, like something young and vulnerable and infinitely precious. "You're everything. Everything."
You looked down at him with adoration—your beautiful devotee in complete euphoria beneath you, his face luminous with tears and pleasure, his dark eyes glazed and distant as though he'd glimpsed at something divine. He was shaking, his blood high coming down like a fever breaking. You slid off of him with fluid grace, gathering him against your chest. He was overwhelmed by the intensity of what you'd just allowed him shared with you—you could feel it.
"You did so well," you whispered into his hair, stroking his dark locks with gentle fingers to calm him down, to bring him back to himself. "So good for me, baby. Such a good boy. So perfect, so beautiful."
He made a soft sound—something between a whimper and a sigh—and buried his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you tightly as though you were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. You could feel the dampness of his tears on your skin, could sense the overwhelming emotion radiating from him in waves, love and devotion and gratitude all tangled together in a way that should have been frightening but instead was utterly intoxicating.
"Shh," you soothed. "I've got you, love. Release it all, I’ll hold you though it, I'm here."
"Yours," he whispered against your skin, the word muffled. "Always yours. Forever yours. In this life and whatever comes after."
You held him close, feeling the weight of him against you, the coolness of his skin, the unnecessary rhythm of his breathing that he maintained out of habit, out of some vestigial need for the comfort of mortal patterns. Your gown was pushed up around your waist in disarray, your thighs marked with his bites, blood drying on your skin. The silk sheets beneath you were stained with blood and likely ruined beyond repair, but you didn't care—such things were replaceable, ephemeral, meaningless.
"You'll stay in my bed tonight," you said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the scent of him. "I want you close, I want to hold you tonight darling."
He pulled back slightly to look at you, his crimson eyes—those beautiful dark eyes that luminous red that burned like eternal flames, shining with unshed tears and something that looked like wonder, like a man witnessing a miracle. You brushes your thumb over the scar on the bridge of his nose awaiting an answer. "Really?" he asked, his voice small and hopeful.
"Mhm," you confirmed, cupping his face in your hands with infinite tenderness, your thumbs brushing away the tears that still clung to his lashes like morning dew. "But don't tell the others—they'll get jealous." You scanned his tired features. "You're my favorite, love. You know that, don't you?"
He made a choked sound, something between a laugh and a sob and nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "I know," he whispered.
You pulled him back down, settling him against your chest where he belonged, and he melted into you with a soft sigh of contentment, his body going pliant and relaxed as though all the tension had drained from him like water l. You stroked his hair with gentle fingers, your other hand tracing patterns on his back, circles and spirals and ancient symbols that meant nothing and everything all at once—soothing him, grounding him, bringing him back from all of those overwhelming sensation.
You held him close, feeling the way his body gradually relaxed against yours, the way his forced breathing evened out. Your other concubines would wonder where you were, would perhaps feel the sharp sting of jealousy that you'd chosen to spend the night with Choso instead of rotating through them as you usually did.
But you didn't care. You owned them, after all—body and soul, heart and blood—and they couldn't do anything to go against you, couldn't protest your choices no matter how much they might wish to.
He was your most beloved, your most exquisite torment and your greatest treasure.
"I adore you," you whispered, so quietly you weren't sure he heard.
But the way he tightened his arms around you, the soft sound of contentment he made as he nuzzled closer, told you that he had heard, that he understood, that he would carry those words with him into whatever dreams immortals dreamed when they closed their eyes against the eternal night.
an; gosh i'm so proud of this oneee, I tried a different approache with my writing and I think it really brings out the dark dom ownership romance- kinda wanna make another one for this... follow up, more of the same vibe, or angst... decisions decisions
©sukuhands for the scenario, art isn't mine!
