You didn’t mean to catch her eye. But when Caitlyn Kiramman, a centuries-old vampire bored of eternity, walks into the brothel where you work, curiosity turns to hunger.
tags: 18+, explicit sexual content, f!reader, vampire!Caitlyn Kiramman, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), brothel worker!reader, predator/prey dynamics, blood, gun violence, murder, death, near-death experience, non-consensual touching (brief, from a secondary character, not Caitlyn).
[𝐋𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘]
Caitlyn Kiramman has never liked getting involved in human affairs.
Not because she despises them, but because she finds them noisy, fragile, and above all, predictable. She watches them with the same distance a predator observes a herd: with fleeting curiosity and inevitable boredom. She only approaches them when hunger overcomes her, when the craving for blood clouds her sight and thoughts. Then she chooses one, follows them for days, sometimes weeks. She studies the way they laugh, the rhythm of their breathing, how the light touches their neck. And only when she's sure she has understood every gesture, she hunts them.
Living a whole century has taught her many things, but none as cruel as the weight of time. Time, for her, doesn’t pass: it accumulates, piles up like dust on the closed curtains of her mansion, the oldest in Piltover, a silent house that smells of old wood and memories that no longer belong to anyone.
There she spends her days asleep, with the windows covered in black velvet and the echo of a city that never stops whispering. At night she walks alone, feeling no fear, no desire, sometimes not even hunger. Just a deep monotony, a void that not even blood can fill.
Lately, nothing entertains her. Humans are the same as always: ambitious, clumsy, easy. The streets have lost the mystery they once had, with each passing year, eternity feels more unbearable.
So tonight, she decides to leave Piltover. She puts on her long coat, one with a high collar and thick fabric, adjusts her gloves, and heads toward the suburban district, a place she had only heard rumors about. They say the rich mix with the desperate there, that the lights never go out, and sins sell as easily as cheap wine.
Caitlyn smiles at the idea. Chaos, at least, promised movement.
The sound of a detuned piano guides her to an alley where a red neon sign flickers above the door of a newly opened brothel. Ambrée, it says. From inside come laughter, footsteps, and the sweet smell of tobacco mixed with sweat and champagne. Caitlyn stops at the entrance, letting the music and murmur filter to her.
She had spent decades avoiding places like this. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, she feels a tiny spark of curiosity.
She steps inside.
The warm light inside wraps around her, blurring her features and accentuating the metallic shine of her eyes. Everything is smoke, skin, and movement. Women dance on stage with provocative elegance, wrapped in red and gold fabrics. The men, sitting at the edges, drink, laugh, and gamble among themselves.
And then, she sees you.
In the center of the stage, among all the women, one moves to the slow rhythm of the violin, with a smile that doesn’t seem fake and a glow that doesn’t belong in this place. Caitlyn doesn’t know if it was the way you turned your head or the sweetness of the sweat on your skin, but something inside her tensed.
It’s not hunger she feels at that moment. Not entirely. It’s something older, more unsettling.
“That one,” she thinks, resting an elbow on the table and ordering a glass of wine without taking her eyes off the stage. “That one will be next.”
You will be next.
You’ve never been good with first impressions. That’s why you chose to work in a brothel, nothing attracted you more than the economy of a well-worn mask.
It’s not even nine, yet you’ve felt three different hands on your waist, one on your ankle, and another, too eager, exploring the line between your back and ribs. You play at tolerance, always pushing to the edge of weariness because you knew boredom is the prelude to fun.
The music serves only as a backdrop for your true melody: the gazes. You dance with them, undressing them and giving them back untouched because, as the owner explained on your first day, art must never be soiled by reality.
Except tonight. Because tonight, among the usual crowd, you notice a new animal. You think you saw her before she saw you. You knew she was there before she gave you her attention. She sits in the shadows, far from the piano, drinking slowly from a glass that seems never to empty.
As you move onstage, you realize the real show is her. You don’t look directly at her, you don’t know her name, but you feel the weight of her presence with every step, as if someone pulled the strings of your joints with expert fingers. The other girls feel it too. One stumbles going down the stairs. Another refuses to dance and asks for a double drink.
For you, it’s just another challenge. Your routine flows without disruption. The regular clients, drunk, throw you bills enthusiastically. Some young newcomer tries to whistle but falls silent when catching the gaze of the mysterious woman in the back.
You finish your act on your knees, smiling and waving as you hear the applause. After steadying yourself, you approach the table where your most loyal clients sit — men from everywhere, of every race, mostly rich, with wives and children waiting at home while they squander their money for a girl half their age to teach them a thing or two about ass. You shake off the disgust racing through your body, and just as you’re about to say something, you feel a cold hand grab you with force.
“Want a drink?” The woman asks, her voice deep, marked by a foreign accent you can't quite place. You can’t help but be surprised, you try to step away, but her grip won’t let go, so you play along.
“Depends.” You respond, keeping a respectful distance. “Are you paying, or should I?”
She smiles faintly. “Please, sit down.” The woman invites gently and pats the chair next to her.
You don’t sit. Instead, you lean your hip against the table and cross your arms, a defensive pose that only worked with men. With her, it’s useless, and you realize it immediately.
“Got a name, mystery lady?” You ask, for a moment thinking she wouldn’t answer. She seems to weigh each word before giving it to you.
“Caitlyn.” She says, gently, like a silk rope. “And you, what’s your name, darling?”
“Depends on who’s asking.” Your answer brings a half-smile to Caitlyn’s face, a flicker of complicity in it.
“I’m asking.”
“Darling is enough. Here, no one has names, especially not us.”
The waitress interrupts the duel with two glasses, one for each. Caitlyn doesn’t blink upon receiving hers, she just raises it as if to toast the end of a war.
“To us, darling.” The hissing tone she uses sends shivers down your spine.
You clink glasses. The liquid is thick, ruby-colored, and at the first sip, you realize it’s not ordinary wine but something more expensive, imported.
The conversation flows easily. Caitlyn asks about your childhood, the color of your dreams, the cruelest thing you’ve done for money. You answer halfway, suspicious, but something in the way she listens, so attentive, so disarming, makes you confess more than you want to. When you reverse roles, Caitlyn gives professional evasions: “I travel a lot,” “Details are boring,” “I’d rather hear about you.”
After two hours, the conversation no longer fits in the room. Caitlyn suggests one last drink at her place, with the naturalness of someone giving orders and expecting obedience. You hesitate because stories always end badly when the client invites. But in the end, you can’t help but say yes.
The streets are deserted at that hour except for the distant shouts of a drunk. Caitlyn’s mansion appears without warning: a stone façade blackened with age, a wrought-iron gate, and two gargoyles with sunken eyes. You’re impressed that someone so young lives in such a dilapidated place. But you’re even more fascinated by the contrast between the ruinous house and the sleepless glow of its windows.
Caitlyn opens the door and lets you in. There are no servants. Only a huge foyer lit by bronze chandeliers, tapestries on the walls show scenes of hunts, orgies, and battles, all seeming to be versions of the same story.
“Does my house scare you?” Caitlyn asks, noticing how you glance sideways at every corner.
“Nothing scares me if there’s a good drink nearby,” you reply, and she laughs.
“That’s easy to fix.”
She leads you to a private room. A blue divan covered in silk cushions dominates the center. Caitlyn offers you a glass of cognac, you accept with a smile and drink. She sits beside you, crossing her legs.
“Can I ask a personal question?” she suddenly asks.
“What were the others then?” you retort.
Caitlyn smiles, lowering her voice: “Have you ever wanted to be someone else?”
You tilt your head at the question, a bit confused, but don’t dwell on it. “I’d like to be a rich woman. No husband, no children, spending my money on prostitutes at a brothel.” You answer sarcastically without breaking eye contact, her eyes are blue, clear, but with a slightly reddish flicker—or are you imagining it?
Caitlyn just laughs, knowing you’re teasing her, but it’s not as easy as you think. “No, dear, I mean something less... human.”
The use of that word tenses you but you don’t show it. “What are you? A muse, a beast, a ghost?”
“Which would you like me to be?”
“A beast,” you answer without hesitation. “Muses disappoint. Ghosts bore.”
“Then I’m a beast.”
From that moment, you drink in silence. The atmosphere thickens as if the air molecules were sticking to your skin, covering you with static electricity. Caitlyn leans close until her thigh brushes yours. You don’t pull away but you don’t move closer either. Her next move is hers alone.
“I like you,” she says, as if delivering a verdict.
“I like men,” you reply immediately, as defense, not diagnosis.
Caitlyn laughs again, with such sudden tenderness that it unsettles you. “That doesn’t surprise me. But you also like risks, don’t you?”
“Only when they’re worth it.”
She leans in, and for the first time, you see her control falter for just a second. She kisses you, gentle but with mathematical precision, as if she already knows every angle of your mouth. Her breath tastes of clove and burnt caramel. You respond without hesitation, grabbing her face firmly, trying to melt into her body, you didn’t know you could want someone this way.
You feel Caitlyn’s cold hand slip beneath your corset, circling your waist, squeezing your ribs until it hurts. The pain is pleasurable, an unmistakable sign that you’re alive.
The touches unleash a controlled urgency. Caitlyn pulls you down onto the divan without breaking eye contact. She undresses you with theatrical skill, letting each piece fall slowly, savoring your exposure and discomfort. You’re left in stockings and panties, more vulnerable than ever before, yet you don’t want to run away.
She strips herself, revealing marble-like skin that makes you want to keep looking, as if you have no control over your thoughts.
“Do you like to look?” Caitlyn asks, noticing your scrutinizing gaze.
“I like to understand.”
“Then look, but don’t judge.”
Caitlyn’s nudity is ancient, like the statues you once saw in a decrepit museum. Scars run from her neck down to her pelvis. She lies on top of you, mouth to mouth, nipple to nipple, thigh to thigh. She kisses your neck, first with lips, then with teeth. You feel the edge of her fangs—too long to be normal—but you don’t get scared. On the contrary, it excites you. Caitlyn notices and smiles, and at that moment you realize that your whole life was preparation for tonight.
Her hips search for yours desperately. For now, it’s all friction, her panties scratching against yours, her thigh between your legs like a tourniquet that leaves you no will to escape. Caitlyn wants you still and obedient, but you can’t stop moving, can’t stop seeking the point of most friction, you moan, whimpering for more, but she denies you.
“Shh,” she murmurs, her mouth barely brushing your earlobe, as if not wanting to waste a second on lips. “I thought you didn’t like women—why the desperation?” Caitlyn teases, reminding you of your words from a while ago. She grabs your hair at the roots and forces your head back, leaving your throat exposed.
Your nipples, already hard, become even more erect as Caitlyn’s fingers squeeze them without mercy. She plays with the skin’s tension, alternating pressure and caress until you can’t tell pain from pleasure. There are no words to describe how she leans down until she’s level with your waist.
Caitlyn owns all your reflexes. You feel her breath before her mouth, the deep heat of her breathing burning your bare skin. Then, her tongue. She doesn’t start on the clit, no, first she slowly glides down the groove of your belly button, making you tremble with rage. She grazes your mound, and only then, when you think you can’t bear the hunger anymore, she attacks fully, burying the tip between your swollen lips.
The world centers on that spot, so small and absolute. Caitlyn uses her tongue like a tool of torture and redemption: a slow circle, barely a touch, then a suction almost unbearable, then a firm onslaught. When she feels your thighs shake from the overload, she grabs your asscheeks with both hands and lifts you halfway, forcing you to grind against her face.
“Do you like this?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. The pressure of her fingers, the measured violence of her mouth, make it impossible to form even the slightest reply.
Nodding, you clutch her hair and pull hard. “Cait, fuck, don’t stop.” You manage to say, lifting your hips, smearing your dripping cunt on her face. Caitlyn doesn’t get angry, on the contrary, she seems to be having the time of her life. You feel her fingers play with your lips, gathering your juices to slide easily into your hole. A heartbreaking whimper escapes you in response to the unexpected movement, your legs try to close instinctively, but she stops you.
“No, no, no, darling, aren’t you going to let me make you feel good?” She whispers, starting to pump her fingers gently, giving you time to get used to the feeling. “Don’t move too much, I’ll take care of everything, okay?”
Caitlyn doesn’t let you answer, burying her face back between your legs, her teeth find your clitoris, gently biting, making you moan and tremble harder.
“Hey!” you complain, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and she only smiles, putting on an innocent face. “Sorry, darling,” she says before driving you crazy again with the combo of fingers and tongue, pounding and licking every sensitive nerve, every wall that contracts in response.
The orgasm hits suddenly, brutally, impossible to dodge. The internal pressure explodes outward, and your world shrinks to a blur of lights and moans, to the wetness shining on Caitlyn’s lips, to your nails drawing invisible wounds on her shoulders.
Gravity softens. Your legs don’t hold you, and together they collapse onto the rumpled sheets. Caitlyn wraps you in a strong arm, as if to stop the fleetingness of ecstasy from pulling you back to earth. Her breath scorches your cheek, her laughter is barely a whisper.
“Was that a magic trick?” you ask, exhausted.
“Didn’t you like it?”
“I loved it. But now I want the secret.”
“There’s no secret, doll. Just hunger,” she replies, wiping sweat from your forehead with her hands. “You taste divine, I can’t wait...” She stops, thinking. “To taste more of you.”
.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚.
You haven’t seen Caitlyn since that night, and though you don’t want to admit it, you haven’t been able to get her out of your head. When a client gets too close, when you wink with too much mischief, there she is. You think you’re going crazy, maybe it’s stress or lack of sleep messing with you. Then you hear her laughter, mocking you.
Tonight, Ambrée is packed, women of high and low class, men you know and new faces. Onstage, your moves are automatic, you look for Caitlyn in the crowd, hoping to see her again, but no sign of her, and somehow, her absence unsettles you more than her presence.
You finish your act and rush down the stairs two at a time, fleeing an animal feeling. Behind the curtain, a rough hand grabs your wrist. The owner, trembling, says:
“There’s a gentleman insisting on seeing you. Says it’s urgent.”
“Tell him to wait,” you reply, but you already know it’s pointless.
The hallway leading to the private room smells of stale tobacco. At the door, a tough man with a thin mustache gestures sharply: inside. You enter.
The client sits in a corner, legs apart, fingers tapping on the table. He wears a white linen suit, an open shirt, and gold rings on every knuckle. His accent is foreign, but not like Caitlyn’s, his sounds like a threat.
“So you’re the pearl of the place,” he says, not really looking at you. “I’ve heard you’re special.”
“Not really,” you lie, calculating the distance to the door.
“Sit down.”
You obey, just to buy time. He offers you a cigarette, you refuse, and then he smiles, showing a line of gold teeth.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No,” you lie.
“I’m the one who decides who stays and who doesn’t on these streets.”
The threat is so crude it makes you laugh, but you don’t show it. He talks business, debts, favors. The monologue is long and monotonous until suddenly he leans toward you and lowers his voice:
“I want something different tonight.”
Your skin crawls. You’re experienced at recognizing danger, and this is big. “What do you have in mind?”
“Something to quench my thirst,” he replies, his gaze drilling into your throat.
The thug comes back in. In a blink, they pull you by the chair and drag you backstage. You scream, but in the brothel’s noise, no one hears, or no one wants to listen. The alley behind Ambrée smells of garbage and piss.
The man in white shoves you against the wall, grabs your jaw. The thug holds you still. The man licks your neck, and at that moment, you remember Caitlyn’s teeth, her sweet lips, the warmth she left you last time. But this is different: it’s repulsion, disgust, the certainty your body will be just another trophy.
Then the shot sounds. It’s not the first thing you hear, first, you hear air, a dull thud, then you feel the burn. For a moment, you don’t know what happened. You only feel an intense heat in your abdomen, pressure that folds you, cuts your breath, leaving you staggering. Your brain doesn’t understand yet—but your body does.
The alley’s stench mixes with the iron flooding your mouth. Instinctively, you bring a hand to your belly and pull it away red. The pain comes later like a tide roaring in, a liquid fire spreading from the impact point, stealing your strength, your legs, your balance. You blink. Everything turns to noise: the man’s breath in front of you, the trembling still-smoking gun, the faint echo of the brothel’s music.
Then you see it: the gun, the clumsy expression of the man backing away, satisfied with what he just did. You want to scream at him, curse him, run, but you can’t. Your legs don’t respond. Alone except for the two people who ended your life, you collapse before him, dying, going to die alone, never loved, never valued. Well, at least you won’t leave a virgin, you think, and that, despite everything, makes you smile.
You don’t know if it’s because you’re almost unconscious or if it’s really happening, but the last person you imagined seeing appears out of nowhere: Caitlyn. Her eyes are full of rage and a fury you’ve never seen in her.
The man in white barely has time to turn when she tears through him with feral violence, with him on the floor, Caitlyn bites his throat, shaking him like a rabid dog. The thug tries to run, but with just a look from Caitlyn, he freezes completely. She growls and goes back to the man beneath her, squeezing his face so hard you think his eyes will pop out. You turn your head, sparing yourself the scene. You hear screams, pleas, then silence.
You crawl across the floor, your dress in tatters, skin scraped, chest rising and falling fast, and you find yourself begging now. “Please, don’t hurt me, I’m already dying, they shot me, Caitlyn please,” you cry, tears wetting your cheeks, using the last of your strength to crawl away, which is hard with Caitlyn striding toward you.
“Are you stupid?” she asks, kneeling in front of you. You brace for the worst but all you feel is her hand squeezing your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. You notice a struggle inside her, like she’s holding herself back with all her might. She licks her lips and looks away.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I got here too late.”
“It doesn’t matter,” you reply, your eyes trying to close but you fight to keep them open. “There’s nothing to be done anyway.”
“I can save you,” Caitlyn says without hesitation, “but only if you let me.”
You don’t understand, pain makes you lose words, sense. Caitlyn repeats the same, and in her eyes, you see something you’ve never seen before: fear.
“Will you let me save you?”
You want to say no, to keep your dignity, but you just nod. She lays you down, and without warning, bites you.
The bite feels like something sent by the devil himself. It’s pain but also relief, like the fever ripping off your skin to reveal your true body beneath. You feel your temples throb, your pulse quicken, blood fleeing your body. Caitlyn sucks fiercely and elegantly, her mouth sealed on your neck, and you see green, violet, black lights. You hear the brothel, the clients’ screams, but they sound distant, unreal. You feel the cold night breeze, the metallic, sweet scent of blood.
Then suddenly, she stops. Caitlyn pulls away, her mouth a mess, and cuts her arm with her fangs. She brings the wound to your lips.
“Drink,” she orders.
You have no strength to refuse. Caitlyn’s blood is different: it burns, it’s sweet and old. You drink and feel your throat burn like you’re swallowing liquid fire. The effect is immediate: you dizzy, vision doubles, then triples, then goes black.
You think you’re dead. Really.
But when you open your eyes, you see the sky above the alley. Stars twinkle and dance, each with a colorful trail. Your body feels light, but your senses are sharper than ever: you hear the rats’ footsteps, smell the sour wine from a tavern two blocks away, taste the fear in the breeze.
Caitlyn holds your head. She has wiped the blood from her mouth, and her gaze is now someone’s who fears losing.
“It hurts, I know. But soon it will pass.”
You don’t believe her. The pain is infinite, every cell twists and changes. You cry without tears, gasp without air. Caitlyn wraps you in her black coat, carries you in her arms, you didn’t expect her to be so strong.
“We’re going to my house, okay? You’re mine now, darling. Forever.”
It’s the last thing you hear before your eyes close again.
´ཀ` TAGLIST: leave a comment if you want me to add you!!
Warnings: 18+ content below. vampire!cait, reader is on her period, pussy eating, biting, hair pulling, tit slapping, orgasm denial, tit sucking, did all that with the cloak still on so if you're into that, its a win, BARELY proofread
A/N: Happy late valentines day! i was busy chat💔 love you all though tysm for the likes on my last post🥳
you lay in bed, your room desolate and dark with the blinds shut as you pressed a hand onto your abdomen. its valentines day. you should be spending time with your girlfriend, not cooped up in your room like this! but can you really blame urself? your stomache feels like its been stomped on and- your thoughts were cut short as soon as you heard your door click, a slight creak following as it opened.
you turned slightly, and there she was. your girlfriend stood at the door of your bedroom, her cloak draped over her shoulders as the high collar over exaggerates her figure, bouquet at hand and chocolates at another. "may i?" she questioned with a slight tilt to her head. you nodded before cait extended a foot in.
she walked in before taking a seat on the side of your bed and carefully putting down her gifts on your nightstand before placing a soothing hand on your shoulder as she uttered out gently "how are you feeling, sweetheart?" all cait got was a whine from your lips. she took the initiative and spooned you from behind, pressing a soft kiss to the column of your neck.
"shh.. its okay, honey. you dont have to respond. just let me take care of you, okay?" caitlyn didnt wait for an answer as she worked her hand all the way down to your abdomen, massaging in a pattern in order to soothe your ache.
a small whine escaped her throat as she murmured "feels good.." cait's mouth twitched up to a small smile as she whispered gently "look at me. dont turn away from me." you turned your head to the side as your gaze meets cait's. her smile seemed to widen before leaning in for a kiss.
she deepened the kiss, her hand snaking behind your head to pull you in as she closed her eyes, nipping at your bottom lip for access you instinctively let her in, her tongue plunging into your mouth in a passionate kiss.
caitlyn adjusted her position so she was hovering ontop of you, she reluctantly pulled away from the kiss. "heard that an orgasm can actually relieve cramps." she mumbled agaisnt your lips. "you wanna give me one then?" you teased back with a small grin.
caitlyn trailed kisses down to your collarbones as her hands worked to unbutton your shirt, she stilled her movements to whisper softly "why do you think im trying to undress you right now?" before resuming. her hands succesfully let your top get undone, cait eyed at your tits before taking one of your hardened buds into her warm mouth.
you let out a satisfied sigh, placing a hand onto caitlyn's head as you caressed it softly, caitlyn looked up with you with an almost predatory gaze. she took her time switching from one nipple to the other as she sucked, producing a lewd slurping sound that went straight to your core before she let go of your nipple with a wet, obscene pop.
"where do you think i should touch next?" she poked fun at you with a smirk, knowing how you've been rubbing your thighs together for the slightest bit of friction to relieve the throb in between them. "cait.." you whined, elongating her name on your tongue.
you cup her cheeks as you run a thumb on her bottom lip, dragging it down slightly to reveal her sharp fangs. "just admit you're hungry." cait bit on your thumb slightly, hard enough to draw blood as it trickled into her mouth. you winced in pain.
"cait.. ouch." you withdrew your hands "im sorry. i didnt mean to bite that hard, i was being incautious." she spoke with remorse before she grabbed your wrist gently and placed an apologetic kiss onto the open cut. "may i countinue, darling?" You nodded with a small, reassuring smile.
caitlyn's focus trailed down to the waistband of your panties, hooking a finger onto them. her eyes looked into yours, searching for a twinge of hesitation in them. you nodded and caitlyn immediately jumped into action at the green light.
she slid down your panties at a leisurely pace before throwing them aside, revealing your glistening red cunt to her hungry gaze. it took every part of her being to not pounce onto you immediately. she gently coaxed your legs to open wider with a hand on both thighs.
your body cant help but surrender to her and let her handle every movement. she lifted a leg on each side of her shoulders before placing a small kiss on your twitching clit.
"remember your safeword, darling?" her hands rested on the underside of your thighs. "blue." you responded albeit impatiently. "good girl." she promptly resumed to the task at hand, diving into your crimson red coated folds. as she looked up attentively at every slight change in your features.
"cait.." you cried out as your face contorted into pleasure. small moans exited your throat as her tongue delved deeper into your sopping cunt, feeding her appetite with the tangy, coppery taste of blood.
her nose nudged on your clit as she drank in every fluid. her desperation producing wet, sloppy sounds before her hand traveled up to cup one of your breasts, taking your nipple inbetween her index finger and thumb. rolling it slowly, pinching it up.
your back arched instictively at the action. each motion of caitlyn's tongue in your tight chanel sparking stars in your vision, head rolling back as your hands fists the sheets underneath. you murmur breathlessly inbetween a string of wanton moans "cait.. im gonna cum.. let me cum, please."
a sharp slap landed on your breast as she looked up at you, an unspoken threat laid behind her eyes. "cait.. please." you pleaded as tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, the sting of your incoming orgasm stimulating your body further.
cait proceeds with pleasuring you, her hand resuming it's place on your boob. her own whimpers were muffled, vibrating against your pussy. your hand snaked to make a makeshift ponytail as your gripped onto caitlyn's hair, forcing caitlyn's ministrations deeper into your folds.
caitlyn hummed contently, but you? you were anything but content. the burn of your prolonged orgasm made your back arch as you pleaded "cait, please.. i cant hold it back anymore." your whimpers only getting more distressed.
caitlyn's tongue only got harsher on their relentless assault to your weeping pussy. your hips stuttered as they arched up, unable to restrain yourself anymore, you go against caitlyn's order as you finally let go of the coil tightening in your abdomen.
a lengthy moan of caitlyn's name left your throat as the small bud twitched as you gushed onto caitlyn's face. she quickly latched her mouth onto your aching clit to catch any stray drops into her mouth.
your orgasm eventually subsides as caitlyn's movements stagnated, pressing a farewell kiss to your wet slit as she lifted her face up.
"cait- im so sorry about your face, and i-" your panicked inquiry was interrupted by her chuckling, her pearly whites poking out as they were stained with blood.
"save your apologies after your punishment, darling." she uttered softly against your neck before sinking in her canines into the smooth skin of your neck.
this is going to be a long night.
A/N: can you tell this is rushed? this sucks so hard tbh. im gonna be releasing some vi hcs later today if i have the time LMAO cause i barely had any for this 1. love you all💗
