just a bite.
modern!au vampire!scaramouche x reader
summary: being roommates with a vampire who craves you carnally just as much as he does for sustenance? awk.
word count: 4.6k
tw/cw: 18+ only, afab reader, drinking, unintentional roommates with a vampire (he kind of just invites himself in. and never leaves), mutual masturbation, sex in exchange for blood, frottage, rutting, bodily fluids, bloodplay, blood drinking, scaramouche isn’t really so much bitter, angry scaramouche or calmer wanderer but more a blend of both? (he’s really just a stray cat who latches onto you), lots of banter, brief reference to suicidal behavior (scaramouche)
--author’s note: happy late bday scaramouche <3
“You’re leaving?”
While two months ago, you wouldn’t think twice about stepping out to grab drinks with a friend, now things are different. Two months ago, after all, you did not have a half-starved vampire passed out on your doorstep, after trying to deny himself of his one source of sustenance.
Two months ago, after all, you didn’t invite said vampire into your apartment unknowingly, only to find yourself pinned to your doormat, his crazed, crimson-tinged gaze focused intently on your neck.
Two months ago, after all, you did not have said vampire now lingering in your house as an unofficial guest after said unsuccessful attempt to drain you dry.
(“You were the only one stupid enough to let me in,” he said drily, kicking his feet up onto your coffee table the day after, when you had awoken after his frenzy. Surprised you’re still alive, he’d said nonchalantly. As if he was not a stranger in your house. As if he hadn’t tried to suck the life out of you like some kind of vertically-challenged tick. He ignored your attempts to swat his feet off, instead crossing his arms and tossing his head to the side.
A tick with an attitude, most definitely.
“Besides… why should I pass up the chance for a free meal and board?”)
That free meal, as it turns out, is you. Modern day vampires are few and far in between, but they have to resort to any means for survival. Even if that means latching onto their unwitting victims for shelter. And a constant supply of blood.
Just your luck.
“Yeah,” you respond absently. “A friend invited me out for drinks.”
“…Drinks?”
Two months ago, you also did not know the telltale signs of his displeasure. The hard edge to his voice, the slight huff of annoyance he denies making. I don’t breathe anymore, you idiot. Perhaps it’s a tic he retained from his human days.
Scaramouche crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe to your bedroom. Looking every bit like the helicopter roommate he is. “What time will you return?”
“Hmm, I’m not sure. Eleven, maybe? Later?”
You glance over at him to find his mouth curled into a thin line. He’s sulking. When he catches your stare, he turns away, waving a hand dismissively at you.
“Whatever. You’re gonna regret it. You and I both know you’re not a drinker.”
—
The annoying thing is, he’s right.
Two hours later, you stumble through the front door after fumbling with your keys, during which you wondered why your ever so thoughtful roommate, who could certainly hear you, couldn’t just let you in. Like you did for him back then.
Vampires apparently don’t believe in ‘an eye for an eye.’ Or, er, blood for blood.
“Told you so.” His smug voice rings out once you’ve made it in.
“Mm, shut it,” you say, kicking off your shoes by the entrance before trudging towards him. You rub at your temples irately, willing away the wave of dizziness that runs through you.
Damn, and you didn’t even have that many drinks. Just one or two. The fact that your new guest knows you better than yourself is humbling.
Mercifully, Scaramouche is quiet as he takes in your disheveled state. You’re expecting more reprimanding, but instead, he asks, “Are you alright?”
“The room is spinning.”
“You would’ve enjoyed a night in more.” He pats a spot on the couch.
“Don’t remind me,” you mutter despondently, plopping down next to him. Of course, he’s bundled himself up in all your good blankets. You’ve been wondering why they’re missing. Mr. Cold and Undead and Heh, Only Humans Would Struggle To Survive in the Winter reveals his true nature as the biggest blanket hoarder. Tugging at one of them earns you a shrewd glance, before he opens it up and drapes it across your shoulder.
Some mindless telenovela drones on the TV as you drift off. You’re not sure why, but he’s taken an interest in watching shows that portrayed the difficulties of human relationships. It’s because I find them utterly foolish, he said. Why can’t your kind just learn to voice what troubles them? While he claims it’s like watching ants struggle to survive, you’ve caught him more than once engrossed in the passionate declarations of love and ardor playing across the screen.
Before you know it, your eyes flutter shut. Darkness settles over you. You don’t know how long you’re asleep, but when you wake up, the show is long over. Groggily you lift your head up, realizing that you fell asleep on his shoulder. Again. You murmur out an apology which he brushes off. He’s staring at you expectantly, as if he was waiting for you.
“Hey. I’m hungry.”
You stretch your arms out, before letting them fall back against your lap.
“And?”
He looks at you as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.
“Give me a bite.”
“Mm…” You gauge yourself. Drowsiness clings to you like a second skin. “I’m tired. No.”
Scaramouche frowns. He removes himself from the blanket fort he’s built, facing you with an irate expression.
“You’ve offered it before,” he says blithely.
“Yeah.” You nod. “I did.” You still have the scar to prove it.
“Well,” he presses. “What’s the difference now?”
You sigh, falling against the blankets he left behind. Since Scaramouche doesn’t exude heat, they haven’t leeched any warmth from him. You nuzzle into them, hoping vainly to warm them up somewhat.
“That was after you fingered me.”
He scoffs. “So that’s what it takes to get some food around here? Pleasuring your body? How easy.”
“Hey, it’s my house–my rules. If you want access to the blood bank…” you say, gesturing towards yourself with one hand. The other tugs at the sleeve of your sweater, dragging it down to reveal the unblemished skin of your wrist. Territory he hasn’t marked yet. His gaze darts to it with a look of barely concealed hunger, no doubt able to smell the blood thrumming through your veins.
“You gotta pay up.”
He narrows his gaze. His voice is measured, as if he’s negotiating the terms of your agreement. “And this form of payment… is just your pleasure, right? You want nothing else?”
You shake your sleeve back into its original position. You don’t miss the flash of urgency on his face. He must really be hungry. Guilt registers briefly in you. Perhaps you shouldn’t tease him too much.
“I would prefer it came as a package deal. My pleasure and yours combined. But…” You shrug. “It’s up to you. It’s your choice.”
“Choice?” He lets out a derisive laugh. “You speak as if I have a choice. As if this existence gives me anything but the illusion of free will.”
He leans in, grasping your wrist. “You though? You’re always choosing to be a damn brat,” he mutters. He yanks your sleeve down, staring intently at your wrist. You’re sure he can feel your pulse spike. You trust him–mostly. Other than that first time when he appeared at your doorstep, he’s never forced his appetite onto you.
But… in moments like this, you’re still highly aware of your roles here. He’s the predator who’s simply decided to play house with his prey.
“I can’t choose my diet. But you can choose not to be my next meal. And yet…” That same amused chuckle. As if he’s mocking himself just as much as you. “You offer yourself up like this before me.”
He’s close. So close you can see his lashes flutter, can see the flecks of scarlet in his eyes. His bloodlust.
“I trust you.”
His gaze darkens. With his other hand, he grasps your sweater fabric at your chest, dragging you closer to him. “You really are a fool.”
Then he surges forward, his lips crashing against yours.
Scaramouche, you’ve learned, has two types of kisses: the first is mocking or teasing. Whenever you’ve done something that particularly annoys him (the list is quite long), he’ll deny you affection for as long as he can. Nipping your lips with his fangs, sometimes nicking you, brushing his lips against your forehead when you really want a proper kiss. But this–this is the second kind of kiss.
Raw hunger.
Like your very essence could breathe life back into him. Like he can’t get enough. Like he knows he’s damned to a life of eternal solitude but he intends to drag you down to hell on the way.
He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours. His hand on your chest slips underneath your sweater, tugging at the material. You know better than to keep him waiting. If he’s impatient enough, he’ll just rip it off.
Once your sweater and shirt are off, Scaramouche wastes no time, his lips finding yours once more. He circles your breast with his palm, marveling at its suppleness, before squeezing harshly. You moan into the kiss, pulling back, until he surges towards you again. Where do you think you’re going? His other hand brazenly undoes your pants before diving in.
Your breath hitches. This time you do pull away.
“H-Hold on, bud, have you ever heard of foreplay?”
He rolls his eyes. “You seem plenty wet down here,” he says, stroking over the damp spot in your panties. You squirm, more of your arousal pooling into the material. “Just a little kissing does this to you? Pathetic.”
“Y-You’re one to talk,” you say, eyeing the bulge in his shorts. At your words, he shifts his weight, attempting to hide the obvious signs of his arousal.
“It’s the thrill of knowing my next meal is so close,” he says offhandedly. Unconvincingly.
“You could just say you’re excited, you know. That I excite you.”
He glances at you curiously. Wide-eyed, in a false display of innocence (he’s anything but). “Now why would I say that?”
You’re about to retort when he cuts you off, his thin, dexterous fingers slipping into your panties, stroking the slick, wet seam of you. You let out a shaky moan, your thighs clamping down around his hand.
“Ah-ah-ah. Don’t hide from me now,” he reprimands. With a firm hand, he yanks your pants and panties down part ways, trapping the material taut between your thighs. You’re rendered immobile, splayed open for his greedy touch.
He brushes against your twitching clit, and your breath hitches. His finger slips inside you, the audible shlick of it parting your wet folds flustering you. Wriggling around inside you intently, he digs further and further until he nudges a walnut-shaped nub inside you. When he finds it, he thrusts into you with a relentless intensity, enough to have you lurching against him.
“You’re so predictable.” There’s a hint of pride in his words despite their harshness.
You pout at him but are interrupted as he slips another finger into you. Once he feels just how easily your walls take him, his fingers soon drenched by your slick walls, he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. You grasp at the sleeve of his sweater, squirming against him.
“M-More… please,” you whine.
Scaramouche’s fingers probe you, his thumb circling your clit with intensity. He’s relentless in his assault. When he wants something, after all–whether that’s blood, or your orgasm–he gets it. He knows just the strings to pluck to make things happen.
You’re close, rapidly approaching the precipice of your pleasure. You tremble around his fingers, your toes curling. Your eyes slip shut, a cry of his name on the tip of your tongue. But just before you’re about to crash over the edge, he stops. His fingers cease all movement inside you, before slipping out.
The loss is instantaneous.
You gasp, your eyes snapping open.
“Say it,” he demands.
“W-wha—why did you—“
“Say you’ll let me drink from you. Then and only then will I continue.”
Your jaw drops.
“I was—I was so close!”
He smirks cruelly. “I know. That’s why I stopped.”
You pout. You shift your thighs, nudging his fingers inside you.
“Should’ve known. I guess I’ll just grab my—“
His gaze narrows dangerously. “You’ll use none of those contraptions on yourself.” You know what he’s referring to–he’s well-acquainted with the second cabinet of your drawers, where you kept your collection of vibrators and dildos.
You sniffle contemptuously. “At least she’ll finish the job—”
His hand grasps your thigh, squeezing. He’s frowning hard enough to leave a furrow in his brows.
“When…” He pauses, as if struggling to voice the words himself. “Are you going to admit that I’m all you need?”
Your eyes widen in surprise.
“Other humans… Contraptions–”” He spits the word out as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “None of them can compare to what I can do. None of them can make you feel the way I do.”
“Scaramouche…”
“And you? You should be offering yourself to me,” he says, glaring. Seemingly over his oddly heartfelt confession. He looms over you, forcing you to lean back until he’s near straddling you against the bed. “A lowly human giving their life source to a demon of the night.”
The first thing that you think of is: Damn, this guy’s ego is something else. Offering yourself? Lowly human? He certainly thinks of himself as a god.
The second is, Did this all start because of a sex toy? Is he really jealous over Miss Satisfy-Her?
“Someone’s on their high horse--” You yelp once his fingers pinch your clit. You whine.
“Now,” he asks, locking eyes with you. Asking for permission. “Will you let me?”
His fingers toy with your clit, waiting patiently for your answer.
You nod, and he sighs in relief, muttering a thank you against your neck.
He leans in, his lips brushing your skin. His tongue peeks out, leaving wet trails against you. You shiver; it reminds you too much of another action, down there. It makes you think of what else his tongue could be doing.
He laps at the curve of your neck, before inhaling deeply. His fangs prod your neck, before they sink in, piercing your flesh. A soft sigh against you. His fingers resume their minute movements inside you, his other hand clutching your shoulder as he sucks harshly.
“S-Scaramouche.”
The sound of him gulping down your essence fills the air. His fingers resume their movement inside you, dragging against your walls slowly, stretching you out.
“A-ah–” you gasp.
He moans brokenly against your neck, clutching you further to him. He’s gulping down your blood by the mouthful. With great effort, he pulls away reluctantly.
“Your taste…” He sighs out. “There’s nothing like it.” His tongue laps up the blood seeping out of you, his venom to seal the wound. “Even with that human toxin inside you.”
His mouth is stained crimson, blood flecked acrossf face. He sees you staring and licks his lips slowly, a fang poking out. Heat pools in your gut.
“You know, it would feel even better if you tried me down there—yowch!” You jolts when he slaps your clit. The action has your overstimulated flesh throbbing.
“Filthy-minded human.” He rolls his eyes but the action is affectionate. His words have no bite to them.
He continues stroking you, and you reach out, your hand brushing the bulge in his shorts. You intend on making him feel pleasure too.
He stiffens at your touch, letting out a shudder. He’s always so sensitive after feeding.
“Ha. Looks like I’m not the only filthy mind here,” you observe.
“D-Damnit. If you’re going to do it, you better do it right.”
He ruts into your touch. The way he cants his hips up, his eyes fluttering shut, biting down on his lip–it’s as if he’s imagining fucking you, being inside you already. His fingers inside you turn crueler, thrusting with deadly precision against that spot that has stars dotting your vision. It’s clear that’s also on his mind.
“Y-You’re fucking my hand like it’s a-any empty hole.” Something about your crass tone has him bristling. His face aflame, he hisses at you:
“S-Shut it.”
You take it a step further, reaching inside his shorts. Once you grasp him fully, the whole throbbing, twitching length of him, he’s groaning, tipping his head back. The image of sheer debauchery. You’ve always thought Scaramouche was pretty–beautiful even–in a way that’s ethereal. He scoffed when you told him as much.
(“Fixating on appearances is foolish. I need to be able to attract my prey, right?” he said, hiding his face from you.
“Are you blushing?”
“Shut it! Vampires can’t blush.”)
But it’s more than that. You think that Scaramouche’s mannerisms, his temperament, his ego, are all delicate, like glasswork. But the way he’s fucking into your fist demands for you to treat him as anything but fragile.
You jolt when his hand reaches down to smack your clit. He smirks at the look you send him.
“Pay attention to me while I’m fucking you.”
“We’re hardly fucking—shit.” A moan tears out of you as he starts rubbing that spot inside you vigorously. You’re mewling out his name.
“Scaramouche~”
Then his fingers are leaving you entirely. While you want to whine at the loss, he’s discarding his shorts, his cock springing up, pointing towards you. A string of precum leaks from its reddened tip.
“I’m not going to soil my shorts,” he says defensively.
Scaramouche leans over you. You wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him closer. His cock slides between your bodies, his oozing precum easing the friction. He’s all shaky gasps and stifled groans.
In vain, you try to get him to put it inside you already, but he doesn’t. The most he does is move downward, angling it so the hard tip of his cock presses against the engorged flesh of your clit, makes you feel as if he’s fucking you.
“I’m… I’m close.”
That’s all he needs to hear to bring his fingers back into the mix. The combination of his cock stimulating your clit and his fingers thrusting into you like he would fuck you is enough to have your thighs trembling, your pussy spasming around his fingers. You cum with a shaky cry of his name.
“Oh god, oh god yes. P-please! Don’t s-stop.”
“Haa… more, more? Brat. Not once is enough to satisfy you, huh. Fuck. You’re so damn warm…”
His arms curl around you, his fangs sinking into your neck with a throaty moan as his seed spurts between your bodies. He continues humping you through it, making a sticky mess of your stomach and thighs. It goes on like this for several beats, Scaramouche’s thrusts against your sticky skin in tandem with his fangs sucking you dry.
Your vision dots at the edges. Scaramouche keeps sucking and rutting against you, as if you’re nothing more than his object to use.
He finally releases your neck, lapping it up with his tongue.
He sits up, glancing between your bodies. He smirks at the sight–his cum painting a messy collage over your skin, your blood streaked across your neck. His cock surprisingly still hard. Us vampires don’t have the same limitations you humans do, he once told you. He hums, his thumb traveling up to your neck, smearing the blood further.
He’s transfixed by the sight, his fingers trailing it down from your neck, circling your breasts, before making its way down to your clit, leaving a line down your abdomen. You shiver at the sensation, at the still hungry look in his glowing eyes.
Then he’s glancing back up at you.
“Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already. That was just round one.”
“I’m still hungry. And you? Heh. That twitching, drooling hole of yours is just begging for more attention.”
As if he hasn’t just cum, his cock stays hard. His stamina a thing of legends.
Scaramouche wraps your leg up around his waist. His cock slides through your slick, gathering your juices. A hand on his cock, he circles around your entrance, smirking once he hears you whine.
“Don’t tease—”
He thrusts into you fully, burrowing his cock into you deeply with not an ounce of mercy. It takes the breath out of you, has your hands scrambling for purchase around his neck.
The room is filled with the sounds of his hips smacking wetly against yours, interspersed by his grunts. Scaramouche pounds into you, his lips pulled back over his teeth, showing his fangs. His voice is strained through gritted teeth.
“Take it… fuck. You take it—you take me so well.”
His gaze is transfixed on the sight of the blood on you. He leans in to kiss your neck, willing it closed with his venom. But also to savor the taste of you. He groans like a man drunk on ambrosia.
You want to see the appeal. Scaramouche always looks so fucked out after he’s had some of your blood.
You reach up, your lips brushing against his neck. Your teeth graze his skin before you bite down. He grunts, stilling his thrusts. Your teeth aren’t sharp enough to draw blood, but you hope to at least leave some kind of bruise, to see violet blooming across his pale skin. When you pull back, you’re disappointed to see that you couldn’t even leave behind a mark.
You’re sulking. “No fair!”
“Heh. Ha—Hahaha.” He’s full on laughing now, his thrusts picking up in speed and force. His hips dig into your ass as he’s practically bouncing you with his cock at this point. “Were you trying to mark me?”
The idea seems to amuse him greatly.
“Foolish little human. Your teeth aren’t nearly strong enough to pierce my skin.”
You pout. “N-no kidding.”
At how upset you look, he seems to ponder something. His nails extend into claws, before digging into the side of his neck. Blood trickles down the smooth column of his neck, onto his fingers. Then he brings his fingers up to your lips, a strange look to his face.
Hungry, yearning.
“This is what you wanted, right?” Gaze half-lidded, he watches as your tongue slips out, tasting his blood. It doesn’t taste much different from yours—other than the fact that the taste is sharper somehow. The consistency of his blood thicker. It has the same iron, metallic tang. Scaramouche watches intently as you clean his fingers off, his cock throbbing insistently inside you.
As he pulls his hand away, you decide you want more. You lean forward, lightly nipping his neck where his blood pools out before it can heal. Lapping lightly, his blood coats your tongue. You scrunch up your face. The taste is not great, but Scaramouche moans helplessly against you, his hips sliding into you once more as he clutches you to him.
His pace is erratic, spurred on by the slick sensation of your tongue on his neck, at your teeth lightly biting down on him.
“Mmfp. F-fuck…fuck!“ he exclaims as you press a kiss against his neck. Scaramouche attempts to pull out of you, but he doesn’t make it before he’s shooting ropes against your pussy. Moaning helplessly, he brings his blood-tinged hand to the base of his cock, holding it as his still-cumming cock thrusts against you once, then twice, catching on your rim of your pussy. He makes sure to cover you with his spend.
Utterly spent, his form collapses onto yours. The two of you lie in silence, the room punctuated by your heavy breathing. His cum already cool on your skin, you fidget as his proximity makes an even bigger mess atop you. The realization of just what you did earlier hits you, the taste of his blood lingering on your tongue.
“So. That was… something.”
He props his head up on your chest, his gaze boring into you.
“You don’t… you don’t get the significance of that action, do you? Drinking my blood.”
You blink at him several times. The lack of comprehension clear on your face has him scoffing.
“Ha. Haha. You’re really something.” He props himself up on his hands, his state locked on your blood-stained lips.
“For my kind, sharing blood is an intimate act.” He pauses, voicing the next words carefully. “One reserved only for… lovers.”
His eyes meets yours, as if seeking your reaction to his statement. You can’t be sure but from the way he shifts uneasily…
It’s almost as if he’s afraid of your rejection.
“Oh,” you say finally. “Well, I thought that’s what we are?”
He’s silent. Your fingers brush your lips, before brushing the side of his neck that he jabbed. It’s all but healed, leaving behind a faint scar.
You grin at him. “Blood buddies.”
Something in his gaze sparks. He scoffs, turning away. “You really are an idiot… My idiot, though.”
There are a few things Scaramouche wants to tell you. Like the fact that vampires do not take mates easily, that the love of the undead is not something to take lightly. That sharing blood is not only an intimate act, but basically a binding one, absolved only by death. Not something as simple as being newfound “blood buddies.” But he sees your dopey, grinning face, and decides that those are things that can be saved for a later conversation.
For now, he will content himself with the fact that you’re in his arms, and there is nothing and no one that will get in the way of being here, where you belong.
His grip tightens around you.
He’ll make sure of it.
That is…
You make a face. “You know, your blood tastes kind of funky, Scaramouche.”
Unless the thing getting in the way of your eternal place by his side is you. Yourself.
He bristles at the comment. “What insolence. I’ll have you know my blood tastes just fine.”
“It’s just kinda… well, sharp. Thick. I hope I don’t have to drink more of it.”
“How dare you. I never should have given you my blood to begin with.”
“Sorry! Maybe it’s a vampire thing.” He softens his stance, but his scowl is still present. He’s not appeased by your excuse. “I’m sure my blood would taste funky to me too.”
“Well it doesn’t,” he says crossly. “It tastes like….”
Warmth. The sun. Life. Like being human again.
“...It tastes alright.”
“Hey!” You jab him in the shoulder. “That wasn’t what you said earlier.”
He gives you an unimpressed look. “And what was that?”
You scrunch your nose up, trying to recall. “Something something… ‘nothing tastes like you.’”
“Ha. That’s your misinterpretation. I meant no one tastes as annoying as you.”
You grumble, making a move as if to shake him off. He latches on tighter.
“Just admit that you need me already,” you say crossly.
A pause.
“I do. Just as you need me.” He catches your sideways glance at your room, and grasps your chin. “And not any kind of human contraption.”
“Sure.” He narrows his gaze, but settles back, seemingly appeased by your answer for now.
“I can wait for you to speak your truth on the matter. I’m in no rush,” he says easily enough. Suspiciously easy.
“And besides… you may find your drawers to be conspicuously empty tomorrow.”
You gasp. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Heh. You don’t know what exactly I’m capable of.”
