𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫
vampire!dick grayson x reader
── .✦ summary: in which the infamous nightwing saves you from a mugging and gets injured in the process. as you insist on nursing him back to health, he starts to wonder just how far you are willing to go to properly thank your favourite vigilante... especially when he is craving more than just gratitude.
tags: reader is called princess, very mild violence, description of an injury, not medically accurate descriptions of patching up a wound, blood drinking, definitely ooc dick :(, fingering, unprotected piv sex teehee - which is also badly written.
wc: 7,947
"hand over the fucking bag,"
the gun pressed into the back of your head, cold and biting. the rounded tip of the barrel practically sliced into your scalp. you should have known better, you should have. this was on you. bludhaven was dangerous — at all times of the day, not just night. though, the city was corrupted in ways that went beyond the lowlifes that lingered in the shadows of the alleyways. yet, you still should have known better. walking in the middle of a main street meant nothing if you passed by a dark alleyway. the gaping shadow that left you exposed and vulnerable to the monsters hiding in the dark
you had tensed immediately, hadn't even noticed a body step out of the alley behind you with a weapon drawn, a plan already formulated in their mind. you were prey, is what you were — the way your head remained still, rigid, facing straight. if you stayed still enough, he wouldn't perceive you, he would go away. your eyes flickered down to your purse pressed to your chest. it was a shield, an attempt to keep yourself protected. a silly attempt, at that.
this purse wasn't special, it wasn't worth the fight, nothing was worth more than your life, but that wasn't the point. the point was that there was a gun pressed to the back of your fucking head, and no one had batted an eye. the streets of bludhaven were littered with bodies. friends laughing, groups shoving one another through cackling words, quiet couples walking home after dinner. none of them cared that you were three seconds away from being a headline on the news.
the tip of the gun dug further into your scalp, "did you not fuckin' hear me, princess? give me your fucking bag."
giant spit globs few out of his mouth and around the syllables. gross.
time was not on your side, you couldn't weigh your options, talk your way to safety. there was a large chance that you wouldn't make it out of this even if you did hand your bag over. you really were fucked.
your breath caught in your throat, shaky hands reaching to hold your purse out — tattered, black, faux leather, large enough to hold your entire life without feeling bulky. okay, so maybe you were attached. it was the perfect bag.
"can i just give you what's inside?" you tried, a hesitant laugh releasing as a puff of air from your mouth.
"you think this is a fuckin' joke?" the mugger muttered. another drop of spit flying onto the back of your neck. you could hear the disbelief in his tone as you repressed a shudder of disgust.
"well, no, i just like this bag," you grumbled back, letting out a huff. your arm remained extended for the mugger to take the bag from you. bye bag.
his fingers — caked in dirt, cracked, bloodied — curled around the strap, a forceful yank pulling it from your own grip. you winced as his gun shoved your head forward, sending you off balance. the unbalanced weight of your tilted upper body caused you to hit the ground harder than you would have preferred. palmy flesh tore open on impact against the sharp and scattered concrete pebbles, knees scraping against the ripped fabric of your pants.
"now get on the ground, and-"
"wow, i also like this bag!" a third, cheery voice stated after a soft thud was heard from behind you. the words barely registered in your brain due to the force of the gun pushing your head towards the ground. your body was folding in half to accommodate the force.
"the fuck—?" you heard the mugger growl from behind you before the weight of the gun was suddenly gone from your head. you froze again, though in confusion this time, rather than fear. there was a breeze behind you, cold, clear, rather than the suffocating heat of the mugger's large form. you slowly lifted your head up, wearily, before quickly crawling back from the scene in front of you.
the gun, the muggers gun, no longer pointed at you but at someone else. at nightwing. and he didn't even look phased. he stood there — situated where you had finally been able to get a good look at him — in front of the mugger, large arms deliciously crossed with a dazzling smirk framing his white teeth.
he was stunning. indescribable. there was drool practically spilling down the corner of your mouth. blue kevlar pulled tight over taut muscles, fabric straining over the curve of his ass. holy shit, he had cake—
"my eyes are up here, sweetheart," nightwing cooed, his eyes flickered to yours with a teasing sparkle and a wink before settling back on the mugger. butterflies thumped against your stomach, your eyes flickering back to the mugger as well. how was he so calm — there was a gun point at his chest.
dick tilted his head at the mugger, regarding his face for a moment, committing it to memory, letting bruce's surveillance tech filter all the necessary information into his contact lens. he kept your body position in mind as he calculated how to keep the fight away from you. he slowly began to shift his body, pulling the gun barrel away from you, and keeping it pointed at himself. keeping the mugger off his axis was dick's main goal right now, just until he could strike. he rotated in a circle, with the mugger's back now facing you instead. perfect.
you remained silent, nerves ablaze and consuming, letting nightwing handle the situation that you were unequipped to do so.
"stealing is not nice, you know," dick pouted at the mugger — who bared his decaying teeth at nightwing. yellowed, chipped, gapped — a stark contrast to the perfection that was nightwing. "give the pretty lady her bag back, yeah?"
the mugger clicked off the safety of the gun, keeping it steady in his hand. the barrel was aimed directly at dick's chest, at his heart, a fatal shot that dick knew would kill him if he was human. but he wasn't. the bullet would hit his chest without making a dent, falling flattened onto the floor. he knew that. but you and the mugger didn't.
"i'll fucking kill you," the mugger growled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"and you kiss your mother with that mouth? so vulgar!" you watched nightwing continue to antagonize the mugger, your own body subconsciously shifted backwards towards the wall of the building behind you. away. away from the scene in front of you.
"how about this, give me back the bag and i'll let you scurry back in the alley safe and sound. no injuries. promise! scout's honour!" nightwing held his hand over his heart while he held up crossed fingers with the other. his dimple carved into his cheek, denting the unblemished skin with his amusement.
"really?" the mugger grumbled wearily, his brow furrowing. his grip on the gun faltered momentarily. you could see nightwing's words working through the cogs of the mugger's mind. he held the bag high in the air, flailing it around through his anger, "you think i'm fucking stupid—"
"yup," popped between the masked vigilante's lips, launching himself into the air with a practiced ease. a grace only he could possess. his fingers deftly grabbed your bag from the muggers grip as he flipped over the mugger's head. his feet landed with soft thud on the other side of the attacker.
your bag was thrown at you before you could even process it, and a shot rang out that sliced your ear drums. nightwing's hand was on the gun, overpowering the attacker's grip and keeping it pointed to the side. gone was the playful charm that nightwing had been previously exuding — the way you had always seen him before. there was danger in his eyes, a volcanic eruption that pooled out of his eyes and down his mask.
he didn't waste another second, ripping the gun from the mugger's grip and slamming it into his face. the handle connected with his nose, a sickening crack filling the air. nightwing clicked the safety back on before it clattered across the sidewalk and away from you, away from the mugger, away from the fight. his hand gripped the front of the mugger's coat, his other arm swinging back and curling aorund an escrima stick. the stick swung through the air, it struck the mugger's jaw, sending his face flying back. splats of blood seeped into the cracks of the pavement and ran down into the alleyway. nightwing prodded the tip of his escrima stick into the mugger's chest, effectively tasering him into unconsciousness. the mugger's body fell back, heavy against the concrete.
the brick wall bit into your back and kept you alarmingly aware of the scene in front of you. it was paralyzing to view violence like this up close — to be at the front of someone's anger. watching nightwing in action was just as terrifying. the perfection in his movements, the unparalleled grace, the swiftness in the fluidity of his muscles that moved in harmony with his mind. and especially the casual violence. he was calculated in the way his fist connected with his opponents body. you were completely unnerved.
you watched nightwing tie up the mugger, intricate knots that immobilized his arms and legs to keep him in place until the bludhaven police department could come and deal with him.
nightwing straightened up, making his way over to you with a stiffened posture. his steps remained light despite how tense his muscles were. he kneeled down in front of you, flashing you another comforting smile that didn't bring the previous light back into his eyes. your bag, forgotten from your thoughts in the jumble of the chaos, was held out in front of you, dangling from the tip of his finger.
"pretty bag for a pretty lady, worth the fight by the way," his words were light, a mask of breathy, restrained pain.
you were speechless, swallowing down a thick glob of spit that pooled in your cheeks. you took your bag back, holding it to your chest. his eyes, mostly covered by the mask, sparkled again under the dimly lit street light; the fluorescent creating an unmistakable sheen over his blue irises.
he took a minute to inspect you, look for any injuries that he may have missed, that he wasn't quick enough to stop. he had seen you before, never up close, never needed to know you up close.
the first time he had seen you, he was on patrol. halloween night. he was on a rooftop ledge scanning the street below, scanning the alleyways, watching in anticipation for danger. but then there you were, the one thing he hadn't been able to anticipate. you were wearing a nightwing costume, as many other people were. the one piece suit, a makeshift escrima stick across your back, the domino mask covering the upper part of your face. he was entranced. it was the sound of your heart beat that had captivated him. louder than the rest, erratic but still rhythmic, yours. he had been able to isolate it from the rest easily, focus on it, memorize the pattern that was distinctly yours.
now, halloween had long since passed, and he had yet to forget the sound of your heart thumping against your ribs. he had seen you a couple of times in passing since, but the first time haunted him. the way your heartbeat always rang out louder than the rest even through the crowds of people, even with the distance that had been put between the two of you.
hearing it again — hearing you again was just as paralyzing as the first. only this time, he had you in front of him, tangible and mortal.
there was your heart, the palpitations faster than ever, and the metallic tang of blood clinging to the back of his throat. his eyes flickered lower, noting the bright red staining your palms and soaking through your pants.
"how are we feeling? better now that i've tied him up?," he asked, his eyes zeroed into your scraped palms. the skin was jagged, tore into by sharp concrete, brutal, and rough. he could see the drops of your blood raising from beneath the surface and spilling over the open flesh, staining your intact skin in the process. he could smell it. the aroma of the under notes that made up your blood. it was so distinctly you, sweet, almost too sweet. he could practically taste it, he would do anything to do so.
a wicked smirk appeared on his face, "or i could tie you up next, your call,"
"the only person being tied up is you, nightwing," you rolled your eyes with a slight scoff. right, yeah. being tied up by nightwing? that was the object of all of your fantasies, but were you going to let him him know that? absolutely not. your heart was still racing, panic still flooding your arteries. your words felt foreign on your tongue.
he leaned forward, breath faltering as his palm slapped against the ground to steady his upper body. his free hand pressed into his side, shifting up and down to accommodate the weight of his breaths. he had been shot, you had concluded. the mugger had managed to shoot him. nightwing fucking got shot because of you. god, you were embarrassed. guilt and panic bloomed steadily in your chest at the thought.
dick, however, was confused. he didn't feel good, there was a burning in his side that felt like pins prickling through his nerves — the nerves that no longer had blood flowing through them, but felt like they were being sliced apart vessel by vessel.
he had been cocky, he would admit. the bullets must have been pure silver, or something. something that would hurt him, something that was intended to hurt him.
and now, now dick was feeling lightheaded in a way he hadn't since he was alive. his vision was blurring and he knew it wasn't because he was in your proximity and breathing in your scent. he was dying. he was going to die before he even got to get to know you. fuck.
you, on the other hand, you were still panicking. nightwing was laid out in front of you. his breathing — or lack thereof — was alarmingly quiet, his chest barely rose a fraction of an inch and definitely not enough to fill the average human's lungs.
"stop looking so scared, i'm fine," nightwing's voice, strained, weak, masked by the cadence of a man who was never allowed to show pain.
"doesn't look like you're fine," you mumbled back, his hand was covering the gunshot wound from your view, deliberately keeping his large hand pressed to his side.
"wanna kiss it better for me, sweetheart? think that'd fix me right up," he mused with a smirk that refused to shine as bright as it normally did. "think i bruised my lip too, wouldn't hurt if you checked that for me too,"
your hand cupped his cheek, leaning in to inspect his face with a mocking pout. his flirting in this moment was unnecessary, but that didn't stop you from playing along.
your thumb brushed across his cheek, the smooth expanse of skin was cold to the touch, yet his skin was golden, kissed from the sun itself.
you leaned in, your lips pressing pressing into the dip beside his lip, the curve of skin that held proof of his emotions, the dimple that was revealed everytime he smiled. "better?"
a soft, breathy whine escaped his lips, so soft that you would have missed it if it wasn't directly in your ear. "not quite, think you missed the spot that actually hurts,"
you leaned back, gazing up at his features. he was wrecked. his hair was still infuriatingly perfect, not a strand out of place; but his lips were parted, the ghost of a begging whisper on his tongue.
"i should get you to a hospital? or can i-"
"no!" his protest was immediate. loud. he shook his head instantly, leaning slightly closer into your space, his eyes drooping behind the mask. "i'm fine. no ambulance."
"fine, then let me-"
before you could finish responding, the tiniest exhale of a breath escaped his lips and he slumped on the ground, limp, still holding his side. his fingers flexing on the wound like his body refused to relax even in its unconscious state. you were stuck with an unconscious nightwing at your feet, and a tied up mugger 10 metres from where you were. you needed to be gone from the street, home, back in the safe space of your apartment.
┈┈· ✦ ·┈┈
how you had managed to get him to your apartment was a miracle.
but he was there, unconscious on your couch, and… no blood? just a hole in his side that was a blackened void, taunting, confusing.
you knew a little bit of first aid, enough to patch up minor wounds, maybe perform adequately done stitches. you weren't qualified, however, to treat a bullet wound — to dig out a bullet from the flesh of a man who the citizens of bludhaven counted on, relied on like a saviour.
you got your first aid kit, your long tooth tweezers and settled on your knees beside him. your hands were too shaky to be considered confident in your abilities, and your thoughts were louder than you had liked to admit — solidifying insecurity in the weight of your hand.
getting the bullet out was even harder.
your hand was too heavy. too much to the left. not enough to be performing some underground operation on nightwing of all people. but he needed you.
the tapered head of the bullet was glaring at you from where it lay on the table on a napkin. clean. smooth. shiny. giving no indication that it had been inside the body of a man. and nightwing? he hadn't bled. he hadn't bled when your tweezers breached the bullet hole in his side, when you fished out the object with a roughness that was sure to scar him from the inside — where you should have torn flesh with the unsterile, blunt edge of the steel between your fingers. the extraction was surprisingly smooth despite the difficulty of the task.
nightwing having a lack of bodily fluids stunned you like no other. it was jarring to see a body fully functioning without blood. though, it made cleaning him up afterwards easier.
you had peeled the front part of his suit down in order to attempt to operate on him. his smooth skin was revealed to you, inch by perfect inch, a canvas that resembled the rich beauty of desert sands. his back was flat on the couch, but his head was turned into the cushions. you could see his mask digging into his cheeks, pressing uncomfortable lines into the skin under his eye.
after a few moments of pondering, you decided you would take the mask off — just to make sure he was able to rest properly, that's all. not because you wanted to see his identity.
with shaky fingers, your fingers slowly curled under the mask and lifted it off his eyes. you set it down beside the bullet, a wrench that had cut into the peace you had envisioned for yourself for the rest of the evening.
when your eyes settled back on nightwing — or, wow—
dick grayson.
nightwing was dick grayson.
you shuffled back from him, busying yourself with sterilzing his bullet wound once again, though the only sign of pain was the dark cracks in the skin around the sutured wound. cratered into the skin, dry and dark, solid, like a crack in a marble statue.
you knew who dick grayson was, everyone did. he was a detective for the bludhaven police department. his face was a constant presence on the bludhaven news. always behind the commissioner's podium, relaying case updates with a strong and steady voice. everyone was aware of his familial relations. he was often seen in public with his father, bruce wayne. you would have never guessed that dick grayson was the beloved nightwing. you wondered what other secrets that family had harboured.
15 hours and 43 minutes and counting had passed.
15 hours, nightwing — or dick grayson — had been unconscious on your couch. a lump that didn't move a singular muscle. you kept the blinds closed, kept the space quiet, periodically cleaned and changed the bandages of his wound. you had made food, cleaned your house, cleaned yourself up and changed into your home clothes. you did everything you could to pass time, anything to keep your mind occupied and away from the body laying on your couch.
the only indication of life was the slight rise and fall of his chest, keeping you from calling the ambulance and giving him the proper care he needed.
halfway through the 16th hour, his body jolted. a violent twitch of his muscle that shocked him from head to two. a gravelly cough ripped from his throat, followed by another, then another, as if he was expelling something lodged in his throat. his body leaned to the side, writhing on the couch, fighting a battle you couldn't see.
a grimace spread across his features, nose scrunching, eyes crinkling, lips curling back in pain, and—
a fang — sharp and deadly.
they weren't there before, you knew they weren't. you had to be dreaming right now, hallucinating from the lack of sleep, or something.
another vicious cough exploded from his chest as he leaned over the side of your couch, black liquid expelling from his lungs and all over your carpet. disgust spread over your features. your lips quirked down, brows furrowing and creasing at the sight. in an instant, your carpet was ruined. the liquid seeped into the carpet, steadily solidifying into each fibre like concrete.
you watched him sigh a breath of relief and slump back against the couch. no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't forget what you had seen, the curve of the fang that smoothed into a sharp point, just barely brushing the skin of his plump bottom lip.
he wasn't conscious yet. wasn't aware of your presence, of the implications of his predicament. in his mind, dick was dreaming. he was a child again, backstage during a flying grayson's act with a bag of popcorn that was too sweet, too sugary to be eating at that hour. but he was happy. human. there was blood coursing through his veins, warm, alive, mortal. without that heavy guilt that squeezed his lungs in a fist made of iron.
but he was becoming conscious, slipping back out of his perfect daydream. each sense coming back to life like a flame. spreading quickly and painfully like an uncontrollable fire. but through it all, he could smell peace. like the tree behind wayne manor that dick liked to swing from. the hours he would spend sitting on the trunk, trusting it to support him and in turn letting the tree trust that he would not bring it harm. it was calm, serene, a balm to the pain that had followed him.
your scent etched into every molecule of this room, the feel of something solid under his back, it was all you. you were a balm.
his eyes were the last to open, blurry and disoriented from the events of the night. but when he was finally there, he panicked. he sat up quickly, his eyes landing on the bullet on the table, his mask placed neatly next to it. his mask. his fingers shot up to his eyes as they landed on you. you, who quickly averted your eyes, your head suddenly interested in the cushion that was in your direct eye view from where you were sitting on the floor. his hands trailed lower, smoothing over his bare chest and down to the ugly brown sutures that poorly held his skin together.
"i was just changing the bandages," you stated after a few beats of silence, holding the replacement gauze between your fingers.
he blinked down at you, noting the way your eyes continued to avoid his face.
"you took my mask off," his tone was concluding, though not accusatory. simply, an observation.
"i did," you didn't offer more, but you were brave enough to meet his eyes.
he took a moment to observe you up close, the evidence of your care surrounding the both of you. his fangs were poking into the pockets behind his lips. they ached with the desire to feed. his gums throbbed with the idea of blood. he knew they had been showing, been visible to your gaze. he knew that you noticed the lack of a certain red liquid in his body, and there was definitely no mistaking whatever he had just thrown up all over your creme coloured carpet — a thought he had internally winced at. with the bullet being silver, he was surprised he hadn't died. it must not have been completely pure. he sat up further, his feet planting on the floor, boots still covered by tactical rubber and inches away from the crusted carpet.
"wait-" you blurted out quickly, your hands coming up in a panic as he shifted. "don't move, you'll rip your stitches,"
he didn't respond, looking down at them in his body. he didn't need them. if anything, they would get in the way of his body's supernatural healing process; a healing process that had already begun when he projectile vomited obsidian goo. your space was now implicated by his dna. just like you were.
his fingers reached down and gripped a single (poorly done) stitch and ripped them out of his body. they slid out of his skin easily, no tear, no fragile skin to take with it. you gaped at the sight in shock, then your face contorted into anger.
"what the fuck is your problem," you spat out, genuine annoyance on your features. "now, i'm gonna have to redo them."
"well, actually, no,"
you paused, gazing up at him. your eyes narrowed.
you didn't like his fucking tone.
"you fucking pass out on me in the middle of the street, i extract a bullet from you, you vomit out the black thing from alien onto my carpet, and then pull this shit on me? absolutely not, dick grayson," you gritted out. you saw him wince at the use of his name, his real identity, no longer hidden behind the mask.
"and i'm not even gonna mention your teeth," you didn't have to say it, he already knew what you were referring to. they were still poking into the skin under his bottom lip. venom was already dripping into his mouth from your scent. not even the scent coming from your body, it was everywhere. on the pillow his head was laying down, the couch, deeply imbedded. the curve of your neck was on display, right fucking there, but it was what was underneath that would cure him. only a drop of your blood would be enough to reseal his skin, bring back the perfect canvas on his toned stomach. one drop would have it like there had never been a bullet there, a deception too perfect for a creature such as him.
but he wanted more than a drop. he wanted to feed. he wanted to drink until he couldn't anymore, to feel your body against his, submitting to the feeling; to watch the colour drain from your skin and then slowly come back as your body replenishes itself for him. so that he could do it again. taste you again. and again. and repeat that cycle forever. keep you with him forever.
the first night he saw you flashed in his mind again, the same curve of your neck, the dip into your shoulder, the tips of your fingers. he was just as entranced as the first time he saw you. but you hadn't seen him that night exactly, despite being dressed up as nightwing yourself.
but fuck, he was so hungry. it hurt.
how easy it would be for him to lean forward and steal a drop from you. he could. but he didn't want to, not yet, not without your permission, despite the hunger pains that scratched up his throat.
"you are going to lay back down and rest since you refuse a hospital, and i'm going to redo these stitches," your attempt at being firm fell flat, though it didn't stop you from continuing to try. you stood up, your hand coming to his shoulder to push him back down.
his own hand curled around your wrist, tugging you forward and into his lap. the feeling of your steady weight on top of his thighs was enough to provide him a slight reprieve from the desperation that had been clouding his mind. his arm snaked around your waist and held you there, firm.
and you, your eyes were wide, shocked. you were still.
"know you wanna nurse me back to health, sweetheart, but stitches and a plate of food isn't gonna cut it," his voice was a breathy whisper in your ear. the puffs tickling the shell of your skin and sliding down the back of your neck.
your hands hovered over his shoulders, your body forgetting how to breath, how to sit, not enough of an inhale, no that's too much, where do you put your hands?
and he smelled clean. an invigorating warmth that could spark addiction. it clouded your senses, made you lose coherency in your consciousness. he was all around you now, caging you in against him, and you couldn't bring yourself to care. you didn't want to move away, didn't want to be away from him. everyone loved nightwing, everyone loved dick grayson, and you were absolutely one of those people.
his nose nudged against your cheek, his breath fanning across your skin with a heavy exhale. "you saw my teeth,"
you remained silent at his statement, waiting for him to continue.
"you know what i am, what i need," he whispered again, softly, gently, like the implications of his words didn't involve pain at your expense. and you couldn't ignore the desire to give into his words, to please him, to help him in anway he could.
you could only nod in acknowledgment, your tongue heavy in your mouth. cotton puffing your cheeks and drying your glands.
"say it for me, sweetheart, out loud," his tone was challenging. darker. rougher.
"vampire," you whispered. barely there. your eyes half-lidded and glazed under his attention.
"mhmm, good, and? what do i need?" he coaxed softly, his lips spreading into a pleased smirk. he displayed his fangs, violent and inviting.
"my blood?" you whispered, shifting on his lap, moving closer.
he hummed in approval. "gonna let me have a taste, darling? gonna make me feel better?" you could barely focus on his words with the glint of his fangs catching on your overhead light. the way they moved and caught on his lip, yet never pierced his own skin.
yes, absolutely, yes.
you nodded again, your own saliva pooling in your throat and threatening to slide down your chin.
"use your words for me. gonna let me sink my teeth into your pretty neck? let me feed until i'm better?" he whispered again.
"yes, dick," you whispered, leaning closer as well, your chest brushing against his.
his nose trailed down to your neck, inhaling the scent of your blood up close. fresh. warm. rushing under his tongue as he pressed his lips to your neck and flicked the muscle covering your carotid.
"ready?" he murmured against your skin, pressing a soft venomous kiss, disguised as comfort against your skin.
"yes. please. wanna help-"you barely finished your sentence before the sharp stinging of his fangs entering your neck, paralyzing your body. it fucking burned. the pain spread from your neck, burning through your veins, shrivelling them up until they were a black string and infiltrating each crevice of your body. it was debilitating.
your scream was silent in your throat, fighting to release but crushing under the weight of the pain. it erupted through your ears, exploding your ear drums in a deafening explosion. you couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe. but you could feel each fang in your neck, sharp, stinging, intrusive in a place they shouldn't be.
you were silent, until you weren't.
your scream was shrill, shuddering like nails on a chalkboard.
dick only whined at the feeling. he was euphoric. his lips attached around your skin and held you as close as he could. one hand slid up the back of your neck, cradling it gently to angle you to his liking. the other curled around your hips to keep you seated on his lap. you had paralyzed him in a different way, his mind was foggy with hunger, devotion, the feeling of your blood sliding down his throat.
your fingers clawed into his shoulders, your body squirming away. closer? definitely, closer. the pain was so dizzying it was beginning to feel good. warm. your eyes were rolling back as you began to slump against him.
he whined into your neck at the feeling, at your submission into his arms. this was what he had wanted. his fangs retracted from your neck as he puffed heavy breaths against the expanse of skin.
"fuck," he mumbled against your skin, soothing the tender area with soft presses of his lips. his tongue poked out and licked up the trickle of blood that trailed out of the wound. another soft moan rumbled in the back of his throat as he pulled your hips down to settle further on top of his. "did so good for me, sweetheart, tasted so good. wanna see how you healed me? how you made it allll better?"
he was hard. solid. large underneath you. you could feel his length throbbing under his suit, begging for a form of release at your hands.
your lips fell open, gaze unfocused, still half-lidded, boring into his. his own eyes were equally as clouded with lust.
your eyes drifted down to where his wound was — isn't anymore — with the guidance of his hand on your chin. the patch of skin — once cracked and filled with mud —was smooth. his body slowly retracted against the cushions. they welcomed him, the fabric shifting under his weight with open arms. he kept you in place on his thighs, his thumb rubbing smooth circles, soothing circles, on the skin of your stomach that was hidden by your sweater.
a lazy smirk spread across his blood stained lips. marked with your blood. in the little cracks in his bottom lip and down the corner of his mouth. his tongue slowly dragged across the flesh, gathering every drop and pulling it back into his mouth with a savouring moan at the taste. his eyes shut again as his head fell back against the cushion.
your finger gently traced over the skin on the bottom of his stomach, watching the muscles jump under your touch.
"more," you whispered. your voice was hoarse from your previous scream, raw from the vibrations of your vocal chords. "more, dick, again,"
"again?" he sat up, cradling your cheek softly. his lips pursed in a gentle coo. "you want me to bite you again, darling? sink my teeth into that pretty neck?"
you nodded eagerly, craving the pain. craving the hurt that it brought you. it was addictive. as addictive as your taste was to him.
"you trust me?" he whispered against your neck, lips brushing against the skin tenderly. his teeth broke through your skin again, the pain bubbling into your bones and sizzling your marrow. your own teeth bit through your bottom lip to stifle the ache in your neck.
his fangs exited your neck as quickly as they entered after a few sips of your blood, and his lips found yours before you could process. soft lips and a hard kiss left you spinning, barely able to keep yourself upright. your blood was stuck to his tongue, thick, left there like he refused to swallow the last little bit of it down. he pushed it into your own mouth as he licked behind your teeth. a soft, choked moan settled low in your throat at the taste, at the repulsiveness of the action, at how much you loved it.
his tendrils were soft between your fingers, wisps that moved and kissed your skin as your digits threaded through. you pulled on them, a soft experimental tug to convey the desperation you were feeling.
removing your lips from his was nearly impossible. not being able to feel his skin against yours was even more unbearable. you needed to taste his tongue in your mouth, feel his lips enveloping yours. it was maddening. the thought left you heaving from the lack of air, from the weight of desperation that was consuming you.
his hand forced your mouth back, long fingers wrapping around your chin and extending your neck taut, straight. to his mercy. his thumb caressed your chin gently, a contrast to the tight grip he had on your jaw, and he forced your mouth open.
your blood, the glob he had spit into your mouth seconds prior remained thick and heavy on your tongue, pooled into the crevices of your cheeks.
"fuckin' swallow it," he said through wrecked pants. the hand cupping your chin slid down around your throat, the tips of his fingers resting over the fang-shaped indents in your neck. a claim.
embarrassment flashed red in your mind. bright signs that rang momentary alarm bells. there was shame in the action, in the heinousness of it.
but you were choking on the coagulum, your throat tightening and threatening to swallow, regardless of his words.
you were burning again — though not from the bite. this was a different kind of fire. the kind that was suffocating. the kind that was incandescently blue and black, rather than a blazing red. it was heat clawing up your spine, ripping through your vertebrae and the curve of your head. pure, desperate hunger.
your throat closed and then opened with a swallow, the glob of blood sliding down your throat through a visible lump. you could feel the weight hit every ridge in your oesophagus, leaving a lingering slick that stuck to your epithelial tissue. another branding. another claim. it was your blood, but it didn't feel like yours. it was him. tainted with him.
your chin dropped, showing him your empty mouth, showing him the tint of red that stained the backs of your molars. a loud groan ripped from his throat, rough, coarse from the syllables of your name branding the roof of his mouth.
there were a few silent moments charged with anticipation. his eyes remained locked on the inside of your mouth, his fingers tightening fractionally around your throat.
"dick-" your eyes fluttered through a whispered gravel. his senses were attuned to every reaction your body was having. the way your heartbeat continued to jackhammer against your ribs, the muscles in your thighs that twitched around his hips — slowly tightening like they wanted to close, before relaxing again, and the smell. he could smell you. the damp slick that was sticking to the cotton of your underwear. he wondered what one small taste of that would—
he didn't waste another second. his lips were back on yours, devouring you ravenously. your own hands dug back into the back of his neck to tether you on top of his lap. your hips began slowly moving against his, grinding down against the rough material of the kevlar suit.
his fingers left your neck, trailing down the front of your chest and down to your thigh. his thumb lingered into the crease of your inner thigh, swiping the skin dangerously close to your underwear under your sleep shorts. it slowly slid up, leaving a trail of fire in it's path, before settling on the damp material, the pressure steady and insistent.
his head drooped slightly, forehead pressing into yours, "fuckin' soaked for me, huh, sweetheart? cause i bit your neck?"
you whined softly in response, your hips jumping, begging for any form of stimulation. "can you please just-"
"okay, okay, yeah, baby, i know," he cooed softly, trying to sound composed despite his spinning mind. he was lacking composure. his hair was unruly, strands sticking straight up from your torment, pupils blown out wide and black with desire. his fingers dipped under the band of your underwear, trailing over your slit and gathering the slick onto the pads of his fingers. he spread the wetness gently over your clit, barely brushing over the hooded muscle to feel your thighs twitch again, to watch the corner of your lip quirk in irritation. he loved it. watching, memorizing each of your reactions. he wanted to take you apart and put you back together to understand how you worked, to understand every little thing about you.
he watched the corner of your lip slowly flick downwards, an adorable pout that creased the side of your cheek. dick leaned in and pressed his lips into that crease, an attempt to erase the mark.
his thumb slowly began to circle your clit, and he watched the way your mouth dropped and your eyes squeezed shut.
"yeaaaah, there we go, you like that?" his cheek pressed into yours, supporting your weight against him. his ministrations were soft, enough pressure to continue thickening the fog in your mind.
"yes, yes, yes, dick, more—" you panted through a whine. your hips were gyrating, shifting closer to catch more pressure, more of his fingers, more anything. he was purposely keeping you on the edge, purposely leaving you needing more. needing him.
"more? you want more, sweetheart?," he questioned innocently, his fingers slowly dipping down towards your entrance. his finger tips teased the seam of your opening before slowly sliding in.
a punch landed to your sternum, knocking all the air out of your body. his fingers, long, thick, curled just right inside of you again, again, again, and again.
your own fingers curled around his wrist and pushed his arm away. all you could see was white. clouded by blinding desire, corrupted by the venom coursing through your veins.
he was just as desperate as you were — aiding your movements in pushing his suit halfway down his legs.
his large hand disappeared under you and around himself, slowly stroking as he held your eye contact. his tip slowly slid against your folds, catching against your clit, until he finally filled you inch by agonizing inch. it was impossible to breathe. he was everywhere. you were subconsciously squirming on his lap, grinding your hips in small circles as you adjusted to his size. you were full of him, completely consumed in every possible way.
an equally wrecked groan ripped out of him, his own nails digging crescents into the skin of your hips — another mark of proof that you had now belonged to him. he dragged you up easily before pulling you back down with an equal amount of force. his head fell forward, pressing wet kisses along the expanse of your shoulder and down your arm.
"taking it so well for me, thaaat's right," he grunted breathlessly before his lips collided back against yours. wet, demanding, his tongue immediately sliding into your mouth. his hands were an anchor, moving your body to his own accord — up, down, up, down, slowly grinding, pushing you down against him as far as you could go.
"who's making you feel this fuckin' good?" he continued his relentless rhythm, his words dripping in condescension. he forced your chin back to face him, your glossy eyes wet at the lash line.
"y-you," you could barely squeak out, dizzy from every slap of your hips against his pelvis. he was mesmerized by you. by the wet sounds you made for him — sloppy, sticky, squelching with every thrust.
he was neevverrr letting you go, he had decided. watching you struggle to keep your eyes open, your lips bitten through with the indents of your teeth to show for it, and two small fang-shaped holes on both sides of your pretty neck. his thumb reverently caressed the dew coating your cheeks, brushing away strands of hair that was sticking down beside your ear.
hot, wet, heaving breaths were shared by the both of you. loud squeaks from the couch filled your ears, wood pushing against wood. it blended with your shared breaths, your soft moans, and his rough grunts.
his fingers circled your wrist and pulled your hand up to his lips — the hand that had tiny, jagged cuts across your palm from being pushed onto the concrete. he brought your palm flat across his tongue, dipping into every crevice of opened flesh.
the action brought tingles to your hand, beginning in your fingertips and spreading down your wrist. your palm was numbingly tender, sizzling from the penetration of his saliva. it felt good.
your abrasions shifted, scabbing over in midst of the tingling. the sight erupted a loud whine out of you.
"wait, dick, i'm—" you breathed out, your eyes squeezing shut. you were clenching around him tightly, your walls sucking him in deeper, harder, more. your upper body fell forward into him, your body giving out from the overwhelming stimulation and blood loss.
"yeahhh, yeah, let go for me, sweetheart, juussst like that," he cooed into your ear, his lips pressing to the shell, trailing down behind your lobe and down your neck. his thumb trailed down and circled your clit again, fast, tight circles that immediately had you jolting.
your own teeth sunk into dick's shoulder, claiming him in return with your own indents. you wished that you could mark him like he did to you, sink teeth of your own into his flesh and feel his own blood fill your mouth.
your body tensed up, clenching around him in a suffocating grip. your thighs shook around his hips, his own legs trembling under your weight from the force of his own release. thick, white spurts coated your insides like another burning brand. another claim.
he kept you pressed against him, his own sweat-slicked cheek pressed against yours. your chests moved in tandem, air filling you and releasing into him. your heart was raging, threatening to beat out of your chest.
his hand gently rubbed up and down the expanse of your back, soothing trails from the tops of your shoulders to the bottom of your back. he could hear your heartbeat again. that familiar skip every several beats, though this time it had changed. it was softer, warmer. it lulled him back into a state of placidity. for a moment, he forgot about his immortality.
it was times like this that he wished he could be human. that he wished he could be normal. your weight was settled on him, every inch of your body pressed against his. his eyes drifted over your form. your eyes were closed, lips slightly parted with soft puffs of breath that fanned across his collarbones.
god, he was obsessed.
your hand slid from his neck and down to his chest, gently caressing the marble skin of his stomach.
"you owe me a new carpet, grayson"
"and you owe me another kiss, sweetheart. you know, to make sure my lips aren't injured still,"
an: ugh, I need him so bad its not even funny anymore. here is another instalment in the love bites anthology!! this one put me through the wringer but I am proud. enjoy!! likes, comments, reblogs, thoughts, everything is encouraged!! <3
& @mrbusinessman THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING HIM! you are the reason for the love bites anthology being made
taglist: taglist: @mollymal , @redhooduwu , @girlmeetsolivia , @athenxt , @nightlights-and-twiklingstars , @silverjaysz , @l0singctrl , @drea1881 , @calicocat-ina-tuxedo , @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
