Happy spooky month! U posted a prompt list so I thought of choosing from there
Prompt 50 "Children shouldn't play with creepy things" but its Vanitas teasing reader for spending time with him (maybe vampire!Vanitas to spook it up + blood drinking....)
Petite Poupée Sur L'étagère
Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas
Pairing: Vanitas x GN!Reader
Theme + TW: Mild angst, Bitinggg, Blood-drinking; TW for blood?
Synopsis: You have bought a mysterious doll from a traveling crone, unaware it houses a vampire.
The wind came in sighs that night, soft, almost uncertain. It wound through the trees surrounding the little castle in Normandy, stirring the last of the maple leaves into a feverish dance before they fell, damp and scarlet, into the muddy earth.
Tonight, the air was heavy with mist; it pressed against your skin and hair as you trudged up the narrow path, arms full of kindling, the woods behind you whispering things you’d rather not translate.
You told yourself it was only the season. The nights always grew strange around All Hallows’. That was what your neighbors in the nearest village said, anyway, when they spoke of ghosts and spirits, and the things that came wandering from the sea.
By the time you reached your gate, twilight had soured into the kind of darkness that clings to the corners of your eyes even when you strike a match.
The iron hinges groaned, a low, unhappy sound, and the door resisted you, as though reluctant to let you in.
When you finally stepped inside, the smell of wax and rainwater welcomed you, and the echo of your own boots became the only sound in the corridor.
You shut the door to your bedroom with a sigh that nearly matched the wind outside, set the firewood down beside the hearth, and knelt to coax a flame back to life. Sparks leapt, orange and hungry. The shadows twisted and retreated up the walls.
And still, the quiet remained. The quiet that has surrounded you for so many years. The kind of quiet that listens back.
Your gaze drifted upward.
There, high above the bed where the moonlight reached, sat the doll. Its uneven, choppy hair glinted like ink in the silver shimmer, one long tail slung over its narrow shoulder. A silver hourglass earring, tarnished but delicate, hung from its left ear.
It was still, as always. Watching.
You remembered the old crone’s words when you’d bought it at the edge of a circus camp weeks ago:
“To cure loneliness,” she had said, with a grin that showed too many teeth. You’d laughed, you weren’t lonely, not then. Not ever.
Living alone does not automatically mean being lonely.
And yet...
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt truly alone since bringing it home.
The logs in the hearth cracked sharply, pulling your attention back. The room breathed. The candle on your table guttered, then steadied.
When you turned your head again, the doll’s head was tilted slightly to the side.
It hadn’t been, before. Did it pop a seam?
Outside, the wind rose again, wailing against the shutters. The hearth’s light danced higher, as though stoked by unseen hands. A faint smell, something sweet and metallic, laced the air.
Just for a heartbeat, you could have sworn you heard laughter. Just a soft, mocking chuckle, spilling from somewhere close, too close, to your ear.
You exhaled slowly, running a hand down your face. “Right,” you muttered under your breath, your own voice sounding oddly small in the cavernous quiet. “That’s the last time I go foraging for mushrooms after sunset. I’m starting to hallucinate.”
Your nerves buzzed beneath your skin, but you forced yourself to move. The logical thing, the sane thing, was to stop staring at the shelf like a frightened child.
The doll was just a doll. Buttons, stuffing, a bit of old hair tied with thread. You had work to do, supper to cook, and sleep to pretend you still got.
Your gaze flicked to the desk beside the hearth. There was parchment, dried herbs, and a worn silk handkerchief folded neatly atop an open book. You grabbed it and, without ceremony, tossed the soft square of fabric up toward the shelf.
It fluttered through the air like a pale moth and landed over the doll’s face, hiding those unblinking blue eyes from view.
“There,” you said to no one, dusting off your hands. “Problem solved.”
Buying it had been a mistake. You knew it even then.
The way the old crone’s smile had stretched too wide, the way the doll had seemed warm to the touch when she’d placed it in your hands. Since then, your nights had been restless, haunted by dreams that felt far too tangible.
Whispers that coiled like a fist around your skull, cold fingers brushing your throat, and, most recently—
Those hands.
Jet black, long fingers, their claws just grazing your chest as if reaching to pull you through the veil of sleep itself.
You shook your head hard enough to make your vision swim for a second.
“No more mushrooms,” you told yourself again, half-heartedly laughing. “No more—”
'CRACK!'
The crash of shattering porcelain.
You flinched violently, spinning toward the window just in time to see what remained of your vase, shards glinting like teeth across the stone floor. The curtains trembled as though something had just brushed past them.
You opened your mouth, but the breath you drew hitched in your chest.
Because when you turned back—
He was there.
Close enough that the tip of your nose nearly brushed his.
Blue eyes, and not the dull sheen of buttons, but living, gleaming, mischievous eyes, stared directly into yours. A grin, sharp and full of mockery, curved his lips. Black hair framed his face in careless strands, a long rattail falling over his shoulder exactly like the doll’s.
You gasped and stumbled back, boot catching on the rug. Your hand shot out, grabbing the bedpost just before you could fall. Your heart was hammering so hard it hurt.
The young man tilted his head, that grin softening into something almost amused. “My, my,” he murmured, laughter curling around his words like velvet. “You scare so easily. I thought my darling was made of sterner stuff.”
You could only stare, pulse roaring in your ears, half a dozen explanations tangling uselessly in your mind.
He chuckled again, low and silvery, before he crouched to your crumpled form and leaned just a fraction closer, close enough for the faintest whiff of night air and something sweetly metallic to reach you.
“Come now,” he said, eyes glinting beneath the firelight. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
No, your eyes dragged over him as if trying to make sense of the shape before you. The familiar black hair, the long tail over his shoulder, the delicate hourglass earring catching the flicker of firelight. Those glacial blue eyes. And that smile.
And then, your gaze dropped to his hands, resting lightly upon his thighs.
Gloved in black, tight as a second skin, and tipped with claws. Long, curved, and glinting faintly in the hearth’s glow.
Every muscle in your body went taut.
“What… what the hell?” you breathed. The words barely made it past your lips, half strangled by the cold in your throat. “Who even are you?”
The young man blinked, almost affronted. His grin faltered just enough to reveal something like disbelief, or insult, before smoothing back into mischief.
“Who am I?” he echoed sweetly, with a soft, incredulous laugh. “You wound me. Truly. After everything…” He leaned back slightly, resting an elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, as though the question itself were absurd. “You should know who I am, you dumb, little bunny. You brought me home, after all.”
Your stomach turned cold.
He tilted his head, blue eyes glimmering with a feline amusement. “And I’ve been ever so good,” he went on lightly, “watching over you while you sleep. Making certain no harm came to you.”
You stared at him, silent, disbelieving, and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath with you.
He sighed softly then, as though realizing your confusion ran deeper than his patience.
“Mortals can be so forgetful. Very well.” A hand lifted in mock flourish, claws glinting like onyx. “I go by various names. But you, my dear, may call me Vanitas.”
The name hit you like a spark in dry tinder.
Your disbelief cracked, replaced by a rush of anger, hot and anxious and trembling.
“You—” you began, voice rising steadily despite the shiver running through you. “You cursed my dreams! Those nightmares, and the hands... Those damned whispers— that was all you, wasn’t it?!”
You took a step back, then another, circling the bed like it was a barricade, keeping it between the two of you. He didn’t move, only watched you with that same faint curve of confusion tugging at his lips.
“I knew it,” you muttered to yourself, voice trembling as you skirted the bedpost. “I should have seen this coming. Buying a creepy doll from a creepy crone—” You huffed a humorless laugh, hands shaking as you gestured toward him. “Dumb, dumb, so dumb! And I’ll never see that money again!”
Vanitas only tilted his head, watching your retreat with something caught between curiosity and amusement, like a cat studying a particularly jumpy bird.
Your breath came uneven now, shallow and quick. Panic clawed up your throat until it choked you, your hands fisting in your own hair as if you could physically drag sense back into your skull.
“This— this isn’t happening,” you stammered under your breath, pacing a step, two steps, then spinning back toward him. “You need to— you have to leave!”
The last word cracked the air like a spell.
But he was gone before it even finished echoing.
You barely had time to gasp before you felt it, the weight of presence at your back, the faint brush of leather against your shoulders.
“Now, now,” came the whisper, velvet-smooth and far too close to your ear. “Why are we so frightened all of a sudden?”
You went rigid. His hands, those gloved, claw-tipped hands, rested lightly on your shoulders, not gripping, merely claiming their place there.
The warmth of them bled through your clothes, seeping into your skin, spreading a flutter through your chest you couldn’t quite smother.
He leaned closer, voice a dark purr. “You weren’t so scared the first night you brought me home.”
Your breath caught.
“I remember,” he went on softly, almost wistfully, as if recounting a fond memory. “You placed me right there—” one hand lifted, fingertip grazing the air beside your ear, “—on the pillow right next to you, cheek to cheek. Let me rest beneath the covers at your side. You even said goodnight.”
His chuckle was quiet, edged in delight at your silence.
“And then,” he continued, tone turning sly, “you made me a little coat, didn’t you? And scarf too, such a kind thing, to keep me warm through the winter. You never dressed me in it, though. I assumed…” He hummed, amused. “…you were simply shy.”
The room was too quiet. Even the fire dared not crackle.
You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. The panic still thrummed beneath your skin, but something else, something treacherous and shivering, tangled with it, winding tight in your chest.
“You weren't supposed to be alive,” you whispered, the words shaking like glass about to break.
He laughed softly, not cruelly, but with a kind of indulgent pity, as if you’d just said something adorably naive.
“Oh, so the crone was right, then. Why didn't you listen to her?” he murmured, his breath brushing your neck. “Children shouldn’t play with creepy things...”
His fingers flexed lightly against your shoulders, a phantom caress, a promise unspoken.
“But,” he added, voice dropping to something low and intimate, “as it happens… I’ve grown quite attached to you.”
You jolted as his touch shifted, one gloved hand leaving your shoulder, gliding up in a slow, deliberate motion. Before you could react, cool leather pressed beneath your chin, tilting your head back with gentle insistence.
“Ah—” The sound caught in your throat, half-breath, half-protest.
The movement was unhurried, almost reverent. You could feel his breath ghosting against your skin as he leaned close, close enough that you could see him from the corner of your eye, that pale face, framed in black, blue eyes gleaming like the edge of a blade.
You tried to move, to resist, but your body wouldn’t listen. The air itself felt heavy, saturated with something unseen, something that thrummed through your veins like a spell.
He smiled when he saw the realization dawning in your eyes.
“Ah,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, pleased, “has it clicked now?”
The faintest tremor rippled through you.
A vampire.
The word formed silently on your lips. It fit too perfectly, the sharp glint of his canines, when he spoke, and the way his eyes seemed to drink the light.
And then you remembered, the doll’s mouth. The tiny sculpted fangs, so small you’d thought them merely a detail of whimsy.
Oh, how wrong you’d been.
Vanitas’ expression softened into something almost yearning, as though the memory itself carried a weight only he could feel.
“I can only leave my prison when night falls,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. “That little body of cloth and thread… my cursed vessel. It keeps me chained until the stars return.”
His gaze flicked to the window, where the moon pressed its pale light through the fogged glass, before returning to you.
“Each night you slept beside me, I watched. You never stirred, never noticed me.” His smile curved faintly, bittersweet. “You were so peaceful. So warm—”
He leaned in slightly, eyes half-lidded now. “So I tried to reach you where you wandered most freely...”
You swallowed hard, your throat tight against his gloved fingers. The claws of his glove slowly pressed into your skin, as he had to restrain himself from not ending your meaningless, little life right there, before he loosened his grip slightly.
“I thought,” he continued softly, “if I could touch you there, perhaps you would feel me too. Perhaps you’d open your eyes, and I could finally…”
He trailed off, his gaze lowering to where his hand still rested beneath your chin. His voice grew quieter, a murmur laced with something both yearning and dangerous.
“…finally have you beneath my... hands.”
The room seemed to pulse with the weight of his words.
Then, his smile returned, faintly sharper this time, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling hunger.
“And now that I stand before you,” he whispered, his tone turning teasing again, “I find your scent… distractingly sweet. Such a cruel melody to resist.”
In the blink of an eye, and without any more preamble, Vanitas's fangs sank into the tender flesh of your neck, piercing your skin and drawing the first heady drops of your blood. The taste exploded across his tongue, rich and sweet and more intoxicating than anything he had ever experienced before. It was ambrosia, nectar, the very essence of life itself.
Vanitas groaned against your neck, the sound muffled and guttural as he drank deeply. Your blood was like nothing he had ever tasted before, so warm and sweet and seemed to ignite every nerve ending with its touch and set his very soul ablaze.
He could feel your pulse fluttering against his lips, could feel the way your body arched into his in a useless attempt at resistance, as he took what he wanted.
It took every ounce of his newfound control not to lose himself in the intoxicating rush, not to take more than he should. It was intoxicating, addictive, and he knew he would never get enough.
But he didn't want to hurt you exactly, didn't want to take too much too quickly. Slowly, carefully, he sealed the punctures on your neck with a flick of his tongue, savoring the lingering coppery sweetness of your blood.
The world swayed.
Your knees gave way beneath you, unsteady and trembling, and you sank to the floor, light-headed and dizzy. Every movement, every heartbeat, felt hollow and far away, as though your own body had betrayed you in an instant.
His hands were there before you even realized you were falling. Surprisingly strong, careful, sliding beneath your shoulders to keep you from crashing. Yet he didn’t lift you, didn’t try to set you upright.
Instead, he crouched behind you, toes bent against the stone floor, sitting on his knees. His presence pressed close, steadying the weak form of you trembling in his arms.
The warmth of him was uncanny, almost soothing, even as it reminded you of everything strange and dangerous you had willingly allowed into your life.
“Shh,” he murmured, his voice gentling, flowing in a slow, even cadence that mirrored the quiet pulse of the room.
The faintest brush of his fingers traced along your arms as he leaned close, almost whispering into your hair. “Thanks to what I’ve taken from you tonight,” he said softly, without an ounce of regret, “I am no longer trapped.”
A shiver ran through you, light-headed and blinding, yet the weight of his words carried something else, a strange, dizzying intimacy.
“You see,” he continued, voice low and a touch more teasing, “I owe you… everything. I fear from now on, I will always be in your debt.”
Even as the edges of your vision blurred, even as darkness threatened to claim you from the dizzying haze of blood loss, there was one last thing you felt.
A touch. Gentle. Light. A kiss pressed softly to the spot where your jaw met your ear.
The warmth lingered, delicate and impossible to ignore.
And then the world tilted, falling away into shadows.
A/N: I started writing this last night and continued writing on my phone while in the train, because this was so much fun to write. I've actually never written anything properly Halloween themed, so I loved the request <3
