Im actually going crazy at the suggestion of vampire!mike after how dorky and cute he was in the epilogue, but i need him so badly eating r out while she’s on her period, with him not caring at all about the blood. like, either him vampire or not, but that man would still be HUNGRY 🤭🤭 especially if it helps her feel better UGHHH
starved | vampire!mike wheeler x reader
summary: Mike is starving. Luckily, you make for a pretty good meal.
word count: 3.4k
warnings: cursing, smut, oral (f!receiving), mentions and graphic descriptions of blood, descriptions of menstrual blood, menstrual cramps, vampirism, biting, consumption of blood, period head, dark-ish themes, slight ooc!mike, mike's a simp (i cant write him as anything else he JUST IS), no use of y/n, & please let me know if i missed anything!
a/n: all characters engaging in sexual acts are 18+! guys this shit is nasty. i have serious issues and it clearly showed here- beware okay, dont say i didn't warn you. ik i'm supposed to be working on tmo p.2 but this came across my desk and i simply couldn't contain myself. thank you anon- ur mind is a gorgeous place. i took some inspo from brimstone for some of the parts below (iykyk), ty callie hart! this is just porn btw, there ain't a plot in sight!
this was not beta read, so please ignore any grammatical or structural typos!
[divider credit @soukuna]
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Mike was hungry. The kind of hunger which emphasized the emptiness inside his stomach, how it clawed in at itself, hollow and aching. Starved. It had begun to consume him, seeing as it'd been more than a week since last he'd fed.
He didn't need to feed much to survive, always making sure to only drink the bare minimum required to satiate his hunger. Usually, hunger wouldn't deter him. He'd ignore the pull in his stomach, placing it in the back of his mind as he focused on other tasks.
The longer he went between feeds, however, the worse he felt. Understandably, just as humans required sustenance to survive, Mike could only prolong his feeds as much as his body would allow.
It had been long enough now, long enough for the pang in his stomach to pair with an undeniable thirst in his throat. It felt like he was swallowing sand paper, his throat dry and scratchy, a tell-tale sign that his next feed was rapidly approaching.
There were other signs, too, of his present hunger. His eyes, usually a deep chocolate brown, began to shift red. Not much at first, but more clearly the longer he waited. Perhaps the largest sign, the most pressing and unavoidable, was his primal urge, this deep-rooted need, to sink his teeth into something soft, something warm, and fill his mouth with saccharine sweet blood. Your blood.
Thankfully, you'd let him drink from you, so long as you received something from him in return. Preferably in the form of an orgasm or two.
Your routine with Mike was relatively simple- you were horny and he was hungry. While the feed was pleasurable for Mike too, his main call to action was the never-ending toll of hunger, which he had to satiate before he could feel any real pleasure.
So that's why, lately, around once a week or so, Mike found himself in his basement, or the back seat of his car, or in your bedroom, generously working you open with his fingers while his mouth sucked greedily on your neck, filling himself with the dark red nectar.
Most recently, Mike found himself in his bedroom, lying over you as he kissed you lazily, right knee pressed up against your aching core. Mike preferred not to rush his feedings, believing that working you up allowed him to taste the adrenaline in your blood, which added a hint of tartness to it that made you taste absolutely divine.
It was certainly not like that at the beginning, when Mike came to you practically on his knees, begging for just a small taste, not knowing who else to trust. Hell, he didn’t even fully trust himself. Regardless, you trusted him enough to know he would never intentionally hurt you. It was hard to grasp, at the beginning, but everything became easier once you felt what he could do to you.
You were moaning sweetly into his mouth, hands tangled in his hair as you ran your fingers through his dark locks. Mike could smell how ready and willing you were for him right through your panties, and the sweetness of you only made him hungrier.
As impatient as you always were during these sessions, you bucked against his knee restlessly, hoping for him to speed things along. You were so pent up from just a couple of kisses, knowing very well what was coming for you.
Mike ignored your petulant request, choosing instead to kiss softly down the side of your neck, his lips brushing delicately over your carotid artery. He liked to tease you, to make you wait for what was coming, but he sometimes ended up teasing himself, the sweet smell of your blood clouding his senses as it thumped lowly through your pulse point.
He grazed his teeth against it, pulling a low whine from your lips.
"Mike, c'mon, please? Don't be a tease," you pouted.
He huffed a laugh into your neck, finding it humorous that you thought you were the only one getting teased. His lips returned to yours, melting you against him, pliant and satiated for the time being.
While the kiss progressed, you suddenly pulled away, wincing and shutting your eyes in pain. You turned your head to the side, face scrunched and your hand gripping his hair tightly on accident.
Mike abruptly pulled away to get a better look at you, face full of worry and desperate to find out what was wrong.
"You okay?" he mumbled, searching your face for any inclination of what had happened.
You nodded curtly, "yeah, sorry, jus' cramps. Got my period yesterday." The dull ache in your abdomen was about to finish it's wave, the pain slowly ebbing and weakening. However, you knew another round would start sooner than you'd like.
Now that piqued his interest.
You loved when Mike fed from you on your period. Your cramps were shit and nothing alleviated the pain like a vampire-induced orgasm. He made you feel invincible with the way he practically melted over a chance to play between your blood-soaked folds, licking your juices off his fingers or his lips at whatever chance he got.
While he couldn't feed off your juicy cunt, he surely acted like he could. He could stay between your legs for hours, lapping against you with his skilled tongue, alternating from light flicks on your clit to broad licks from the bottom of your pussy to the top, smearing your blood against you like his own personal painting. The sweetness of your blood surrounded him, as he quite literally savored your taste without ever getting full. It was a win-win for you both.
Mike kissed your temple softly, before making his way back to your lips, capturing your mouth in another soft, slow kiss.
"You want," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, "help with that?"
Never one to deny Mike's advances, you nodded slightly against his mouth, rolling your hips once again against his knee.
He released your mouth with a pop, adjusting his weight and reaching down to grab both your clothed tits in his hands, kneading and squeezing them together through your bra while he slowly kissed his way down your neck and chest, nipping lightly in his wake.
The knowledge of your bleedings made him needier, desperate to get between your thighs to take your pain away, to taste you. In his haste, he didn't bother removing your top nor your bra, choosing instead to kiss and bite your pillowy breasts through the fabric, leaving small wet patches where he bit, canines poking tiny holes through your shirt.
Once his lips reached your shorts, he slowed. You stared down at him while resting up on your elbows, red eyes watching you as he placed one long, sinful kiss to your core. You couldn't help but whimper at the sight, Mike's hands ready at your waist, waiting for his most primal urge to overtake him so he could rip them off you.
But he didn't. He was calm again, eyes a touch darker. He had so much to be grateful for when it came to you- your trust, your silence, your willingness, and he had no other way to repay you than during these moments. While he fed out of necessity, he would never let you know that, although you'd probably already figured it out. During his feeds, Mike showed you how grateful he was by taking care of you, putting your pleasure before his most urgent biological calling. Without you, he was nothing- a monster. You made him human.
As such, Mike continued to work you up, slowly pulling down the waistband of your cotton shorts, leaving you in nothing but your cotton panties, which were marred by a little spot of dark red.
Mike's mouth began to water, gripping your thighs apart once your shorts had been discarded. From there, he could get the perfect view of your wet cunt, the slick of your arousal mixing with the blood to create this mouth-watering, enticing scent that was completely and utterly you.
To prolong his cruel game, Mike moved close enough to your core for you to feel his breath on you, then turned his head at the last minute to place wet, sharp kisses along the inside of your thigh. His canines were out, as they usually were this close to a feed. They grazed sharply along your legs, not hard enough to cause you harm, but enough to provide a hiss of pain alongside your pleasure.
"Mike, fuck, please, just-ngh," you half-begged. Halfway through you'd given up, realizing that just like all the times before, Mike wouldn't listen. It was worth it in the end.
"Relax," he mumbled against your thighs, dark hair covering his eyes. He ran his tongue lightly across your femoral artery, leaving a cool sensation in his wake. Mike could feel the blood rushing through it, he could hear the way your heart sped up at the thought of his incoming bite. Unfortunately for you, Mike was nowhere near that point yet. He was more of an appetizer before dinner kinda guy.
You could feel another round of cramps approaching. Preparing for a shift in mood, you grabbed Mike by the hair, forcing him to meet your eyes a bit more roughly than you would've liked.
"Michael Wheeler, if you don't cut the shit right no-ow," you hissed in pain mid-insult. Effective.
He took pity on you immediately, realizing that maybe now wasn't the best time to put on a show. "Sorry," he mumbled, pressing one last kiss to your abdomen, "just try to relax."
He was so fucking stupid sometimes. Not only was he a man, but he was a vampire-man. Men didn't understand the severity of menstrual cramps on a regular day, and vampires don't feel pain regardless. Imagine that combination of a creature, one blessed with double the ignorance, telling you to relax.
You rolled your eyes, "I'll fucking relax once you get your mouth on my-oh, fuck."
Mike shut you up quick with one long lick against the front of your panties. His mouth was surprisingly warm, something that you've had a hard time coming to terms with given that he should technically be dead, but a nice perk, nonetheless.
The groan Mike let out at the taste of you was downright sinful. He chastised himself for not feeding earlier than then, for he was getting exceedingly close to his breaking point and he'd barely even started.
"Fuck," he huffed, dragging your panties down your legs as you lifted your hips for him, "you always taste this good?"
"I don't know," you responded innocently, "you're the one who keeps coming back."
Your smile said a thousand words. You both knew he wasn't just coming back for the flavor. You were connected, bonded now. It was this reciprocal give-and-take that had solidified itself into your daily routines. It was so simple an arrangement, yet it was everything. Mike couldn't even fathom doing this with anyone else, not when all he needed was you.
Mike nearly keeled at the sight of your glistening cunt, mouth open, offering space for his canines to peek out slightly from beneath his top lip.
He licked his lips slightly before ducking his head into you, his warm tongue making contact just where you needed him most. His eyes fluttered closed as he took his first unobstructed taste.
You hummed in relief, lying back against his bed, hand still entangled in his hair.
The pain in Mike's stomach was growing stronger as the taste of you overwhelmed his senses and set him into overdrive. He was rabid, desperate to sink his teeth into you, but nothing could pry him from between your legs.
"S'pretty, so good," he mumbled against you between short sucks on your clit.
The feeling on your clit was white-hot. It felt like he just didn't miss, either flicking against it with his tongue or nudging it with his nose as he buried his tongue inside you, thirsty for more. Either way, he had to know that his actions were turning you into a mindless, spineless mess atop his bed.
Mike was in a blissful trance. Your soft mewls were music to his ears. He became consumed by your taste, his hips rutting gently into the mattress. His face was covered in blood and your slick, eyes red and canines out. He looked feral, and he was so fucking hot.
It was so sinful, so raw. The sounds of his mouth on your wet cunt filled the room and buzzing in your head. It was getting hard to sit still, the evidence of that being how your legs inadvertently twitching around his head. You moved senselessly, unable to stop yourself from rolling your hips into his mouth. His head probably hurt from how hard you were gripping onto his hair, but if anything, it only made him hungrier.
“Fu-, Mike so-God, don’t s-fuckfuckfuck, please,” you couldn’t process anything but the cord tightening in your cord, let alone words coming out of your mouth. It was a mess of curse words and moans at this point, your head piecing together incomprehensible sentences in an attempt to voice how you felt.
Mike needed you to come. All that bullshit about dragging it out felt like a disservice to both of you, as he could smell how badly you wanted it, how hard you were fighting to get his mouth in just the right spot. Truthfully, he needed you to come for purely selfish reasons. Mike was on the brink of snapping- the sound of your beating heart and the warm, fresh blood pumping through your delicate skin was tempting him severely. Better men than him would’ve succumbed much faster.
He focused his efforts directly on your clit. No longer was he toying with you, exploring and tasting. He needed you to break for him. You already tasted like the closest to heaven he’d ever get to, but he knew you’d taste better broken.
"Mike, pleasedontstop, 'm so close," you were gripping the sheets now, hips bucking up into Mike's mouth as he swirled his tongue around your swollen nub.
Mike could sense that your orgasm was forthcoming by the way your heartbeat quickened and your breathing became shallow. You were twitching against him, your body seconds away from hurling into an abyss of pleasure.
Mike sucked lightly on your nub, and the tight cord in your core finally snapped, throwing your head back and scrunching your eyes closed. Your mouth was frozen open in a silent moan, the waves of static starting down at your toes and shocking every limb as they traveled across your body.
Mike quickly replaced his mouth with his middle and pointer fingers, rubbing your sweet clit in stiff circles through the start. Your legs had tightened against him in the chaos, and he pushed them aside to finally sink his teeth into the soft skin of your inner thigh.
The pain cut through your orgasm briefly, the sharp, needle-like sting of his bite pairing deliciously with how hard you were coming. It only lasted a few seconds- just long enough for the venom from his bite to infiltrate your veins and give you exactly what you were craving.
It was stronger than an orgasm. You felt as if you were floating, your body lifting from Mike's bed and soaring high above the clouds. You'd thought you'd be used to it by now, given the amount of times he'd bitten you, but it was always different when he bit you during an orgasm- so much more intense, so vibrant.
There were colors swirling behind your shut eyes, spirals of reds and blues that you could somehow feel all over your body. You felt as though you had no choice but to take it all, as your legs shook and your head turned from side to side. Everything was involuntary. You had no control of your senses. You could barely open your eyes, and when you managed to peek, the view of Mike feeding off your thigh sent you right back into a spiral.
It felt like your orgasm would never end. You were stuck in an endless loop where time was meaningless. Seconds blurred to hours which blurred to minutes, leaving you with no way to grasp how long you'd been coming for.
The pleasure was strong enough to knock you out. You'd found that out the hard way the first couple times, but you didn't care. It was so addictive. You'd crave this forever, and while the physical aspects of the bite were mind blowing, the intimacy of the whole situation, how Mike needed you in order to feed, to survive, intensified your experience tenfold.
Mike groaned into your thigh as he drank, your warm blood filling his greedy mouth and quenching his thirst. His fingers never let up, working you through your orgasm and fueling your high the longer he drank from you. He knew you were in complete bliss, and it would only take a bit longer for him to drink his fill.
You tasted so fucking sweet, and he swore he'd never tasted anything better- and he never would.
He had to be careful not to drink too much at once, for the combination of the blood loss, the venom, and your prolonged orgasm would inevitably cause you to lose consciousness. It took everything in him to pry himself off your thigh, licking the small pearls of blood that trickled from his lips and down his chin.
He released his fingers from your core and licked one last time over the two punctures on your thigh, his spit clotting the incisions and hastening the healing process.
Once he'd licked off the last of his meal, he glanced over at your fucked-out state, eyes closed and chest moving with relaxed, long breaths.
He slowly made his way up to you, careful not to disturb your position.
"You okay?" He mumbled, moving your head softly onto his lap.
There was a stupid smile on your face as you nodded your head in agreement. You usually didn't talk much after, not until you'd had some time to regulate your feelings and come back down to earth.
“And the cramps?”
You have him a half-hearted thumbs up, still too blissful to make any real conveyance.
Mike couldn’t ignore his worry. He feared this every time. He was afraid that one day, he’ll go too far, drink too much. Humans were fragile, as he once remembered himself being, and no matter how well you took it, or how strong you were for him, there was always a risk. He was putting you at risk.
“Y-you’d tell me right, yeah? If it was too much?”
The anxiety in his voice brought you back down, eyes fluttering open to meet Mike’s face above you. Slowly you sat up, cupping his face, moving him closer towards you.
“Mike, like I’ve told you. I’m okay. I trust you, right? You don’t need to worry about me.” You offered him a small smile as you thumbed his cheek.
Mike always gets reflective after he feeds. The severity of it all usually becomes a lot clearer once he no longer needs to concentrate on the pain of hunger. He dotes after you every time, and every time you remind him that you’re okay.
“It’s not you I’m worried about. I’m…not thinking clearly, during this-”
“I know.”
“And what if one day, I- I snap, and I take too much an-”
“You won’t,” you cut him off sternly, “stay out of your head, Mike. I am not doing anything I don’t want to, and I was very much aware of the risks before I said ‘yes’ to you- to any of this. So please, don’t beat yourself up.”
He looked at you with sad eyes, but didn’t say anything. A small nod in acknowledgement was all he was willing to give you, still unnerved about what could’ve been.
“Besides, your lack of restraint compliments me. It means I’m just too irresistible,” you joked, whispering in his hear with a faux seduction. You'd always understood him, adept in knowing just what he needed, whether it be a quick joke or a soft touch.
He would be forever grateful to you.
He huffed out a laugh beside you, wrapping his lean arms around you and pulling you close to him. He leaned you both against his pillows, laying your head on his chest before continuing,
“Good enough to eat.”
i feel like i always reuse the same ending style but whatever, lmk what you think! <3
you were sure your formula 1 romance would be the next booktok hit. you had everything: exclusive paddock access, a one-on-one interview with a driver (you were very specific about which one), and more than enough inspiration. what you didn’t plan for was not getting your first choice, developing a questionable emotional attachment, and the growing suspicion that he isn’t exactly… alive.
warnings: vampire, one suspiciously calm driver, blood & drinking blood references, falling for the worst possible option, references to death and immortality, this is just research (it isn’t), questionable survival instincts.
and i whisper in your ear, "i want to fucking tear you apart."
dark vampire! stanford art donaldson x reader
warnings: blood, smut, kinda vaguely dubcon themes (he drinks her blood), violence, general vampirism idk, this is so freaked out, dacryphilia, voyeurism, stalking mention, art is a little freak, lowkey dom/sub dynamics but it's really just bc of the power imbalance, kinda not much plot, lowkey stockholm syndrome, soooo many pet names, mentions of murder (not reader) lmk if i missed anything!
wc: 1.2k
notes: this came to me in a vision (the fall menu at sbucks and the temp dropping to 70) twilight and challengers will never die
art didn’t mean to fall in love with you, really, honestly. you were just so sweet, so naive! you didn’t even notice, didn’t bat an eye, when he followed you between classes, or when he slipped between shadows on your walk home from the bars at night, your friends left behind. you slept too soundly to know when he perched at your window, eyes dark, mouth practically watering at the sight of your chest rising and falling, pulse thrumming in your neck as you dreamt. he didn’t want to hurt you. really, he’d never let anyone hurt you, wouldn’t even let them think of it. your ex, for example. he’d gotten a little too bold, a little comfortable dragging your name through the dirt. when he'd disappeared, turning up mauled by an animal (so insane for stanford!), you'd sobbed, all alone in your bedroom. the next day, though, it was as if nothing had happened. art wondered what that meant, if maybe you were over him, or maybe if you were over him you'd never have cried at all. he didn't know, really, but he knew you were at least moved on enough not to be hung up on it, and that was good enough for him.
soon enough, you were his girl, his love, his sweet, bright eyed angel, his salvation. he’d lured you in with a sharp tongue and cloying words, and you’d fallen for it, just like he knew you would. he knew everything he needed to, really; how you liked your coffee, how you cried when you thought no one was around to see it, how your good girl act fell apart when you were all alone at night, hands beneath your blankets. he knew the exact right thing to say and do, to get you to melt for him, to be his and his only. it was easy, like he knew it would be, and he couldn’t be happier. especially on nights like tonight, when you knew his appetite had been building, and his sweet girl would do anything to make him feel better. that’s how he got you in his favorite position, writhing around beneath him, pink cheeked and red lipped, alive, full of fresh, beating blood.
“just need a little bit, sweet girl,” he murmured, dragging his lips along your thrumming vein, “look so pretty for me. you’re close, aren’t you?” he had been plying you, getting you all worked up and vulnerable. your blood tasted so much sweeter when he’d gotten you excited and desperate, his fingers thrusting in and out of you, making a mess of his sheets. “ngh- yes, close,” you practically mewled, eyes rolled back, “can take what you need, ‘s okay,” “aw, baby,” his canines grazed your skin, “i know i can. just want my pretty thing to ask me, that’s all,” “please,” you managed, nearly falling apart, “want you to drink me, art, please,” “good girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse as his restraint finally snapped, his fangs piercing your neck. “oh!” you gasped, nails digging into his pale arms as you came, the pain from the bite only swirling with the pleasure, melting you into a delirious mess. he held you as he drank, only pulling himself away when he could hear your whimpers, tears staining your cheeks.
“was that too much, angel?” he cooed, pulling away, your blood painting the scene. it dripped from his lips, down his chin, covered his sheets and soaked into your neatly curled hair. “i’m okay,” you insisted, though you sniffled slightly. “so beautiful when you cry, my darling girl,” he murmured, lips trailing over your bare chest, biting just enough to draw tiny beads of blood to the surface. he leaned between your parted thighs, fingers dragging through the mess he made, bringing them to your lips, “have a taste, sweet girl,” you parted your lips, swirling your tongue around the crimson liquid, distracted as he pushed inside of you. you bit down on his finger in surprise, only slightly, but enough to make him scold you, even as his voice shook with pleasure. “so good,” your tears beaded up again, threatening to spill over, “love your cock so much, artie, you take such good care of me,”
“i know it, sweetheart,” he hummed, watching as you trembled, your blood drying slightly, “take it so good f’me. perfect, like you were made for it,” he knelt closer, thrusting slowly, hands trailing all over the planes of your skin. “can you give me some more, my love? be a good girl for me?” “yes,” you nodded, quick and frantic, “of course,” “that’s my girl,” he smiled, teasing and demeaning, light catching on his fangs. he buried his face in your neck, going straight back to the two pin prick bites he’d already left, moaning against you as he drank. you went weaker in his arms, gasping and whining, spasming around his cock as he drew another orgasm from you. “fuck,” he groaned into your skin, lapping at you, getting any last trace of blood he’d missed, “oh, baby. you have the sweetest pussy, y’know that? i should- fuck, i should turn you right now, keep you forever n ever,”
he pounded into you, his grip undoubtedly forming bruises on your hips, his name falling languidly from your lips as you clung to him. “you want that, hm? want me to make you like me?” he panted, watching as you nodded lazily, eyes meeting his, pupils swallowing your irises whole. “so close,” he groaned, eyes trained on your spit slick lips, “here, angel, here,” he brought his own wrist to his mouth, biting down hard, wincing just slightly as blood, mostly your own, flowed from the wound, “come on, sweet girl, quick. gotta drink f’me,” he moaned, hoarse and rough, as he felt you suck from the wound, greedy and desperate. “good girl,” he managed, teeth grit as he neared the edge, “oh- yeah, that’s it, take it,” he came with a strangled groan, fucking you full, your mouth still latched to him. “enough, angel,” he said after a moment, tapping your cheek with his free hand, “can’t give you too much, now,”
he pulled out, gentle and slow, collapsing beside you, chest heaving, “you feel good, my love? you feel my blood running through here?” he traced your vein down to your heart, tapping lightly, “so pretty, so good for me. gonna look even more beautiful after you change,” he kept such good watch over you as you turned, never leaving your side, never abandoning you. you were sick for a brief period, but he knew it would all be worth it eventually. you’d be strong, just like him. you’d live forever, side by side, just like he always wanted. he never strayed, never worried if it was worth it, never second guessed himself or the love the two of you shared. the fifth night, you woke with a start, lips parted and dry, and he was at your side in an instant. you grabbed for him, eyes shooting open, and he saw it then; red irises, still pulse. his pretty, perfect, undying girl.
Groaning loud, you moved your hand up. Stretching it over the man’s face, feeling his puckered up lips against your palm. Sighing loud, you settled your fingers deep into his face. Hearing him grunt in protest. Picking up your drink, you let the content swirl around.
Taking a good sip from it. Eyebrow quirking up when a message popped up. Setting your drink down, you picked up your phone. Still feeling the man squirm against your palm. Unable to pull away from your strength. You clicked your tongue at him, letting him know to wait his turn.
Unlocking your phone, you curled up a smile from your texter. An invitation at his house. A simple blood emoji sending a rush over you. – “I have better places to be.” – you spoke, shoving the man’s face back. The man got flung back, falling over barstools and ending up against the wall.
The man hazily lifted his head up, mangled up with chairs. You blew him a kiss before getting up. Laying a good tip for the barman to squeeze an eye shut. The barman came from around the counter with a sigh. Approaching the man. Helping him up. – “You shouldn’t have tried to kiss her.” – the barman said with your departure.
Smirking, you went to your car. Stepping up on the gas for you had an eager appointment. Salvatore residence to be precise. In a matter of minutes, you drove up their lane. Stepping up on the steps. Checking yourself a final time before knocking. Door opening by Damon Salvatore.
Smiling teasingly as he came leaning against the doorframe. – “You came early.” – he spoke, crossing his arms. – “Your brother still in?” – you questioned, pushing him aside to enter. Damon let himself fall back, catching himself with his step before closing the door.
“Good old Stefan is out.” – he spoke following your trail. Turning around, you gave Damon a flirtatious glance. Hearing him chuckle deep, he came from behind you. Settling his hands on your hip. Face over your neck, nose nuzzling your jaw.
“I thought we could start the fun.” – he breathed out, squeezing your hips tight. Moving your hand behind you, you moved it around his head. – “A girl needs to be flattered Damon.” – you reminded him. Releasing his grip off you in a matter of seconds.
“Where’s the blood you promised?” – going up to him, you pouted your lips. Finger trailing up his chest. – “You wouldn’t give me empty promises, right?” – grabbing his shirt firm, forcing him to look in your eyes. – “You? Never Y/n.” – came his response taking your hand off his shirt. Moving your hand up to give your knuckles a sweet kiss, eyes locked onto you.
You gave him a playful shove. Damon tapped his lips with his finger. Gazing with doe eyes at you. Wanting some satisfactory from you. Tilting your head, you tapped your cheek. Damon groaning loud for that was all he was getting from you.
Damon walked over to the kitchen as you followed him. – “So you are only here for the blood? Pains my heart a bit Y/n.” – he spoke. Resting your hands on the counter, you smiled mischievous back at him. – “I’ve been told you have none.” – responding with that extra taunt. Damon gasped dramatically, grasping for his chest. Groaning soft with a pull. – “You pain me again Y/n.” – acting it out. Hearing your laugh made him quirk up a smile as well.
From the fridge, he took out two blood bags. Emptying them in a glass, even adding a little umbrella with it for a fancy touch. When he presented it to you, you laughed. – “Almost like I’m on vacation.” – you outed accepting the glass from him.
Damon held his finger up to pause you. Opening some drawers to drop a straw in the glass before you could take a sip. Putting the straw between your lips, you sucked the blood through it. Humming satisfied at the taste. Damon was drinking too, watching you closely. You left the kitchen, Damon following you around.
Moving past him, you tapped his shoulder. Making him turn his head over his shoulder. Walking backwards, still sipping the blood, you lured him closer. Wanting him to follow you. Damon smirked. Letting himself fall a bit backwards before catching his step, following you, knowing of your intentions. You went up the stairs, laughing loud when Damon came running after you.
Speeding up to the upper level, you rushed to his bedroom. Damon shutting the door behind him. – “Caught you.” – he outed with a devilish grin. You placed the glass aside, sitting on his bed. Inviting him over. Damon happily obliged, coming to crawl on the bed with you. Making you move backwards up to the frame.
Snuggling between his pillows. Damon was over you, picking up your arm. Letting his mouth suck on your wrist. Leaning your head back in bliss. Moving your arm over his shoulder, you pulled yourself closer to him. Kissing his neck. Damon kissed your wrist a few times.
Gasping loud when he pinched his teeth into your wrist. Tensing your grip on him, you punctured his neck with your teeth. Sucking his blood. Tasting it with an epiphany. Eyes rolling back with pleasure till you pulled back. Lips stained with his blood. Damon gasped when he removed his mouth from your wrist. Stained with blood.
His eyes falling on your blood stained lips. Sucking in a breath, he moved closer to you. Settling his hands at your side. Licking your lips before kissing them forcefully. Getting more aggressive with each touch. Biting at your under lip till he tasted blood.
Damon retrieved his lips from you, gaze going down. Moving lower, he kissed your thigh. Leaving a bitemark there. He moved his hand up to you. You licked his palm before biting his wrist. Taking in the blood as he kept sucking blood from you thigh. Overstimulated with bliss and euphoria.
His hand gliding up your thigh to your hip. Inhaling deep, he moved higher once more to kiss you again. Tasting yours and his blood on each lips. Clenching your legs around him, you switched positions. Damon chuckling at you taking control. You took his shirt off. Brushing your hands down his chest.
He took your hand, kissing the inside of your palm. Lowering your head, you kissed his chest, before taking a bite. Damon humming satisfied, moving his hip up to you. Getting aroused by the touch. You kept teasing him with kisses and bites.
Till he no longer could take it. Switching positions again, sitting firmly on top of you. Tearing your shirt in two from the centre. Leaning down to kiss you forcefully. Hand going up your thigh, sliding to the middle.
Pulling the covers over him. Going to devour you with pleasure. Satisfying his pleasures and fantasies. Taking full control for he wasn’t going to let go until both were satisfied and breathless.
FIRST OF ALL. YEAH. NO YEEEEEAAAAAA. #needdatexpeditiously
headcanons for this. and i shall perhaps expand at a later date??
here’s a cig for you anon 🚬
muah muah muah
-mads xx
Vampire Gerard Headcanons
warning: blood, slightly nsfw
pairing: vampire!gerard x reader
Gerard is old. Not ancient to the point of being numb, but old enough to move with slow, deliberate confidence that comes from having nothing to fear.
His voice drops when he is hungry. It goes deeper and raspier, like he is speaking straight into your bloodstream.
He can smell you. Not just your scent, but changes in your pulse, your mood, and exactly when desire starts building in you. He knows without asking.
He is quietly possessive. He stands close behind you with one hand resting at your waist, a silent reminder to anyone watching that you belong to him.
He prefers your throat for everything. Feeding, kissing, breathing you in. His mouth lingers there, teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothes the skin.
Feeding on you is intimate for him. Slow, careful, almost worshipful. He holds your jaw gently and says your name right before his fangs touch your skin. No one else gets to feed on you. You’re his own personal tap.
He gets drunk on you. His pupils go wide, his lips stain, and his breathing becomes unsteady even though he should not need to breathe at all.
He loves how small you feel next to him when he is starving. His grip grows stronger and his movements become more urgent, but he still waits for your permission before losing control.
He leaves marks that are not bites. Bruises on your hips, shoulders, and thighs. Signs that even a creature built for restraint can fall apart for you.
He whispers in foreign languages when he is deep in pleasure. More specifically, Latin. You cannot understand the words, but you can feel them vibrating through your ribs.
He hears your heart racing during sex. It drives him wild. Sometimes he presses his ear to your chest while he moves inside you, listening like it is the sweetest sound he has ever heard.
He is needy. He craves touch, warmth, and closeness. When he sleeps he pulls you into him, cold body wrapped around your heat as if he is afraid you might disappear
He would destroy the world for you. He would do it without hesitation, blood on his mouth, fangs still showing, smiling softly when he turns back to look at you.
summary: You grew up hearing tales of the creatures of the night— monsters said to be immortal, lurking in the dark and feeding on human blood. No one in your town dared to walk after sunset. You never believed the stories. At least not until the night you saw red eyes watching you from the trees.
Words: 2.8k
A/N: i love vampires. i love Aemond Targaryen. So it was only a matter of time until I combined the two <3 this obviously doesn't follow HOTD so do with that what you will! I am a sucker for writing au's so yeah!
warnings: brief mention of a drunken man trying to assault the reader (but nothing happens other than the reader being grabbed) & mentions of drinking blood which results in death :) y'know, just fun stuff!
You’d heard the stories almost as often as your mother’s prayers: the tales of the creatures of the night.
Tales your father and uncle would whisper as you and your siblings huddled around the hearth, the fire crackling beside you as you watched them speak. Moonlight cast long shadows along the walls, and you sat wide-eyed and terrified as they recounted the legends.
Pale, red-eyed monsters who lurked amongst the trees, waiting—willing—you to wander too far from the safety of the light. Their hunger was said to be endless, their desire singular: to drain any living man, woman, or child of their blood.
It frightened you, of course.
And yet, you could not help but wonder if these stories were simply that— tales meant to frighten children into obedience and faith.
As you grew older, transitioning from a small child to nearly a woman grown, your curiosity only deepened. The stories never truly changed, but they twisted when they needed to, reshaping themselves to explain anything unexplainable that befell your small town.
When livestock began to vanish, whispers spread quickly that it must be them. The creatures who roamed at night were said to have grown so desperate for warm blood that even beasts were no longer spared.
And when neighbors fell ill, the explanation was simple: the creatures must have gotten hold of them, infecting them with their sickness.
Fear took root. The townsfolk grew wary of the dark, reluctant to leave their homes unless the sun stood high in the sky. By dusk, doors were barred and shutters drawn tight, families huddled inside as they waited desperately for morning light.
You never fell for the hysteria the way everyone around you did. You were afraid, yes, how could you not be when you'd been fed the stories your entire life? But you had yet to see any real proof that creatures of the night truly existed at all.
By the time your mother fell ill and died during the harshest winter you could remember, you no longer paid much mind to the stories. Real life, you learned, was far crueler than any tale of pale men with red eyes.
Were there truly men who never died?
It was later than you'd intended, the sun quickly setting behind you as you walked along the familiar path you'd come to love. The night air was cold around you, and you pulled the fur around you tighter in an attempt to shield yourself from the howling wind. The sun was barely visible now, the only light coming from the full moon which was rising opposite to its bright counterpart, casting pale moonlight along the path in a way that was eerily calming.
The basket in your hand was heavy now, you'd carried it for quite some time and you could feel it weighing down your arms. It was filled with fresh breads, jars of jam and other things you had managed to purchase in a neighboring town. The town had the best freshly baked bread and it was nearing your youngest sibling's sixteenth name day. You wanted to surprise them with something nice this year.
You’d lingered longer than you meant to.
Now, you would finish the walk home after dark.
You knew it would be a while before you arrived home, but you enjoyed walking— though you normally did so during the day. You weren't exactly scared, the night was quiet and you knew there would be no one else around to bother you.
But with the quiet came the sounds of the night. The wind whistled around you, stirring the leaves of the surrounding trees, and somewhere nearby came the faint rustle of animals rummaging around.
A sudden noise came from the left, and your body tensed. Louder than the sounds from before. Taking a slow breath in, you looked towards the cluster of trees where the sound had erupted just seconds ago. It was too dark to make out anything but the shadows of the trees themselves.
It must be a raccoon or something, you thought to yourself, trying your best to steady the rapid beating of your heart as panic began to sink in. Don't start overthinking.
Sighing, you adjusted your basket and willed yourself to step forward. It took more strength than you liked to force your eyes back onto the path in front of you instead of the treeline looming on both sides.
The quiet from before settled back around you, yet you couldn't help the goosebumps littering your skin as you walked on. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched, and the thought alone had you moving faster than before.
Continuing to glance over at the trees, your eyes scanned the forest around you for anything out of place, yet you found nothing out of the ordinary. You couldn't tell if that made you feel better… or worse.
Refusing to stop, you quickened your pace and focused on the fact that your siblings were waiting at home for you and you had no choice but to return to them. You were alone and there was nothing more than animals within the forest around you.
Your mind wandered back to the stories and your father's voice echoed around you.
Cold blooded creatures of the night, always watching, waiting in the shadows for their next victim. They're fast, faster than any man on horseback. Some say they're so quick that you can't see them move at all. One minute you're breathing and the next they're sinking their teeth into your neck, drinking every ounce of blood from your body until you're nothing more than a corpse.
You shivered at the memory of your father's tales. It was just a story, nothing more. No one lived forever, and it was ridiculous to believe in such barbaric tales meant to scare children. You were a woman now, and in no world did men with inhuman speed and an insatiable taste for human blood exist.
Right?
Relief washed over you as your eyes settled on the familiar sight of your house. You were nearly home now, just minutes away from the comfort of your warm home surrounded by your family, and most importantly behind a locked door.
You turned once more, desperate for one last look amongst the trees just to satisfy the curiosity and fear blooming in your chest. A gasp fell from your lips as your eyes fell upon what looked like two glowing red orbs in the distance. Heart pounding, you nearly tripped over your own feet in disbelief, but before you could register whether it was truly there or not, they disappeared into the dark night as if they'd never even been there at all.
Red eyes just like the devil. Always watching… waiting to drain you until you're nothing more than a corpse. Once a creature of the night has set their eyes on you, you're already dead.
He hadn’t meant for her to see him.
He was careful, ensuring he remained quiet enough to blend into the night and watch from afar. It was unusual for anyone to be out after dark, save for the occasional drunken man he had the pleasure of stumbling upon from time to time. The townsfolk were cautious, too afraid to wander beyond their doors the moment the sun vanished beneath the horizon.
He had been hunting when it hit him— the scent of warm, human blood.
So alive. So innocent.
The sweetness of it was nearly enough to bring him to his knees. The brief falter that followed cost him his prey, the deer escaping into the trees while his attention remained fixed on her.
His body moved on its own. The scent and sound of her blood rushing through her body like a magnet drawing him in without thought. Before he realized what he was doing he found himself nearing where the forest opened and met the cleared path which she walked along.
Aemond braced himself against a tree, his hand pressing hard enough against it to chip away part of the wood there. His fingers curled into the bark, nails digging into it as he struggled to fight the hunger that threatened to override his thoughts.
He took a sudden step forward and froze as her head turned towards him, her eyes widening as he felt her gaze linger on his hungry one.
No, he thought as he backed away quickly, disappearing from view in hopes she hadn't truly noticed him.
You'd never been so relieved to see the inside of your home as you were tonight. Your thoughts raced as you replayed what you believe you'd seen moments ago.
As soon as you stepped inside you turned, slamming the door closed and latching the locks so quick that your hands shook. Your chest rose quickly as fear washed over you, cold and undeniable.
Something had been glowing between the trees. No, not something, eyes. You were sure of it even if you couldn't explain it.
“Thank God you're home,” came the voice of your sister as she grabbed your arm, turning you around so she could look at you. Her eyes were furrowed with worry as she took in your shaken appearance.
“We were worried sick over you. It's not safe to be out after dark!”
You tried to smile, not wanting to upset her further by sharing what had just happened. Your sister was always afraid, and to tell her something you weren't even sure was real would do more harm than good.
“What's wrong?”
Shaking your head, you moved past her to set the basket down on the table nearby. You could still hear your heart pounding in your ears but you tried your best to ignore it.
“Nothing, everything is fine. Just a bit cold out tonight.”
She watched you still, and you could tell she wanted to press further but decided against it as curiosity of what you held in the basket overtook her worries.
“Oh,” she glanced down, “what did you get?”
A smile—a real one—tugged at your lips now. You shielded the basket from her view, pulling the cloth down over the items inside so she couldn't peak.
“Oh nothing. And you mustn't look, either. It's a surprise and I will be furious if you don't do as I say.”
She pouted but nodded. “Fine, I swear I won't look.”
Satisfied, you continued to move around the room. You found yourself looking towards the window, expecting to see the same red eyes looking in on you now but of course there was nothing there.
Maybe you truly had imagined it? The memory of your father's tales worming its way back in was enough to root panic back into you, causing you to see something that wasn't really there. That was the only explanation for it.
According to your father's stories, if the eyes had been real, if a creature of the night had truly been watching you… then you would have already been dead.
Days had passed since the eerie encounter on your walk back from town and nothing strange followed. You were grateful of course, yet you found the fear that had resided from that night slowly turned into curiosity and you no longer felt afraid. If anything you wanted more proof, whether it be to satisfy the not knowing or to prove you weren't losing your mind.
So when time came for you to head back to town, you felt excited at the idea instead of dreadful. Your sister made you promise to return before nightfall but little did she know you intended to do the opposite.
You wanted to walk the path again tonight. You needed to know if it would happen again.
You lingered around town until the sun fell further beneath the horizon, only heading back when you knew darkness would fall soon. Your sister would be worried but you were willing to take the fuss from her once you made it back home.
The path was darker than the last time you walked it, the moon no longer at its fullest. It was harder to see in front of you this time, but you could manage. The path was familiar enough by now that muscle memory kicked in as you bound forward.
Your eyes immediately found the treeline, watching with purpose as you walked on, your heart already racing with anticipation.
But so far, nothing.
The trees disappeared in the darkness, making it harder to really see anything. The longer you looked, the more the trees faded into the night. You blinked, trying to readjust your eyes so they weren't as adapted, hoping to see anything out of the ordinary.
You were so focused on watching that you failed to notice movement ahead of you— movement on the path you were currently walking on.
Finally, the mumbling ahead reached you and you jerked your head forward, eyes widening as you made out the figure of a man walking towards you. As he neared, the sight of him became clearer and you quickly noticed the glass bottle hanging loosely from his hands as he staggered on, his eyes still glued to the ground in front of him.
Your breath hitched as fear spiked.
He was clearly drunk, his swaying and incoherent mumbling confirmed it. He nearly tripped, dropping the glass bottle onto the stone path causing the glass to shatter loudly against the quiet surrounding you.
He looked up, anger already settling on his face as he realized what had happened.
“—fuck, Jesus Christ,” he muttered, freezing where he stood the moment his eyes found you. “Oh, ‘ello.”
His voice slurred and your stomach twisted. He smiled at you now, and your body trembled slightly under his drunken gaze.
“What's a fine little lady like you doin’ out here so late, hm? Your father never warn you ‘bout the dangers of the night?”
He stalked towards you, his eyes never leaving your own wide ones.
“Y-yes,” you breathed, voice lower than you meant for it to be. You tried your best to stand taller, showing you weren't afraid. “I'm just headed home after running some errands. It is getting late so I must be on my way.”
You stepped forward, planning to go around him and be on your way. Your heart pounded, ears ringing with fear as you prayed he would simply let you pass.
Please. I just want to get home. You thought to yourself.
As you moved to step around him he reached out, grabbing at your wrist in a way that immediately took your breath from your lungs. You jerked back on instinct, but he was a man even if he was a drunken one, and men were always stronger.
His grip only tightened around your wrist and he chuckled at your struggle.
“C’mon, sweetheart, it's not safe out here for a young lady like you. Let me walk you home.”
You shook your head, ready to protest. Ready to beg for him to please let you go.
But before you managed a single sound the hand that was gripping your wrist was suddenly gone. You blinked, gasping as your eyes fell upon the scene inches in front of you.
The man who had been holding you screamed as he watched you now, his eyes wide as they stared at you from where his neck was twisted in a way that seemed unbearably painful. Someone was holding him there as he wiggled around, unable to get away.
The person holding him towered over him and you watched as he stood there, bent over the drunken man with his face buried deep in his neck. The sounds coming from him were animalistic, reminding you of a wolf tearing into the flesh of its prey.
…creatures of the night… waiting to drain you of your blood…
You couldn't move. You were frozen there, forced to watch as the man's screams slowly died, the light from his eyes finally fading as his body went slack in the arms of whoever had just attacked him.
His body dropped to the ground with a thud, and you flinched as it hit. You could feel your lungs ache as you gasped for air, panic rising quicker than it ever had before.
Slowly, the silver haired man turned towards you. His movements weren't normal, too stiff and inhuman as he moved to face you. You couldn't look away even though every instinct in your body screamed at you to run. You knew you wouldn't be able to outrun him, but self preservation didn't care about logic when you were faced with death.
His skin was pale, even more so in the dull moonlight. The blood dripping from his mouth was thick as it moved down his chin and onto his dark clothing.
And his eyes, they were the same red orbs you had convinced yourself you hadn't seen nights ago on your walk back home.
His red eyes met yours and your vision blurred. You stumbled once, dropping the basket you somehow managed to hold onto through everything that had happened onto the ground. Your body swayed and the last thing you remembered was the feeling of ice cold hands wrapping around your waist as you fell backwards.
“Slowly raising his hand, he gently ran his long fingers over the witch's cheek, wet with tears.
The contrast of their skin looked mesmerizing.
Her skin was so warm and tender. The blush turned her a deep pink. The witch squeezed her big eyes shut. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw her loosen her grip on the sheets.
Just as slowly, so as not to scare her off, Malfoy bent down to her disheveled hair and inhaled the delicate fragrance. She smelled like a newly opened rose. Charming, attractive, gentle and a little sweet.
"Tell me your name," he whispered into her hair.
Quietly, but firmly, the witch replied: "Hermione."
My previous art (dark dramione vampire au) has been expanded! This is part 2
the darkest side (artfic) by (me!😱) Dara_Art published on AO3, link in bio 🖤
“Max hadn’t expected Daniel to look like that—although Sebastian had warned him, said Daniel was too similar to Jenson, and he knew Daniel too anyway.” :) <3
smushed two prompts together, oops! this was fun, i should do more requests, it was actually very very fun. potential chapter 2 in the future. [ao3, 8k]
There are a few things Max knew about vampires. One, they only came out at night. Two, they drank blood. And three, they were dastardly handsome.
Actually, that’s wrong. That’s incredibly wrong.
Not the third one, that’s correct, and from Max’s flushed expression and GP’s raised eyebrows, that’s incredibly correct.
Jenson was a vampire. Contrary to myth, they didn’t actually get superpowers. No superhuman strength, no superhuman sight, no Twilight-esque telepathy or compulsion or whatever it was. He was turned in the summer of 09’, halfway through his magic championship. Shame, he used to say, red eyes would have paired much prettier with the Honda colours anyways.
The world obviously didn’t know, but it was an open secret in the paddock, and if you knew how to look, (and believe Max he knew), you could see it in how behind the grey his eyes were rimmed slightly red, an illusion of a perpetual hungover. His grin was wolfish — though that was how Jenson smiled anyways, even before 2009 — and his tongue just a little longer, poking into his cheek when he was bored during press conferences. Oh, and his nails didn’t grow. Max remembered looking at them during a press conference in 2015, staring at Jenson’s fingers, thin, lithe, his nails perfectly manicured, his palms soft, uncalloused, like the hands of a paper pusher, not a driver. Jenson had caught him looking, had laughed when seventeen-year-old Max had flushed at being found out, when he had tried to nudge Carlos under the table to grab his attention and ended up kicking the leg of Jenson’s stool instead.
Jenson had shown Max his hands then, under the table as someone —- Britney, probably — droned on about the championship or whatnot. His hands were soft, incredibly soft, and Max knew that his face was completely red when he played with Jenson’s fingers then, marveled at the prominent bone and the give of flesh, almost if Max squeezed a little harder he could’ve pierced through the soft tendons and saw the skeleton underneath. And the nails, of course, like a French manicure, feminine, beautiful as Max turned Jenson’s hand over between his own calloused fingers. Jenson was precisely double his age then, but it almost looked like Max was the older one, his hand rough and scraped from years of karting and driving.
“You have really nice hands,” Max whispered, dropping Jenson’s hand and letting him re-cross his arms. Carlos looked over, intrigued. Jenson laughed.
“It’s only because I’m skinny.”
“Yes,” Max protested, insisting, “And the—” He waved his hand at Jenson, brushing against the concept which was not to be talked about.
Jenson barked out a laugh, then winked as Nico turned around, annoyed at the disturbance.
“Well yes,” He conceded, “That too. But it mainly just makes you skinny.” Jenson shrugged, “Not like you are, teenaged and lanky and everything, like, proper skinny.”
Max raised an eyebrow and raked his eyes over Jenson’s body, as much as he could, covered by the white McLaren team kit. Jenson’s eyes twinkled. He looked alright. On the slimmer side of a driver, maybe, but most drivers were skinny, and Jenson had a healthy pat of muscle on his bones.
“I don’t see it.” Max said, stupidly.
“No, I guess you don’t.” Jenson laughed, and then the matter was over.
+=+
Max was fascinated by it. Carlos was mainly fascinated by how to beat Max. Well, Max was fascinated by that, too, but he was also fascinated by vampires. Drivers weren't banned from driving for being a vampire, not in the same way heart issues or diabetes prevented you at the highest level, seeing as it barely gave any competitive advantage or disadvantage. They bled the same, hurt the same, died the same. Still, it was fascinating. His father didn’t know much about it, too busy trying to cling onto a rapidly drying F1 career, then too busy trying to build the champion he could never be. But Michael knew.
Of course he did, uncle Michael, the God of the paddock, he knew everything about it. Slow summer holidays where the parents disappeared to cook, and drink, and complain about the children, Max would try to drag uncle Michael to a corner of the house and corner him with questions. It was a lot more successful when Mick helped him. David Coulthard was a vampire, though you’d’ve never guessed. So was Mika Hakkinen, actually. Rumour in the paddock was that Mika turned David, during their McLaren days. Some people said they got turned together during a night out, others said after Melbourne, that Melbourne race. Uncle Michael dismissed all that with a laugh, Mick perched on his knee and Max pretending to fix a car. David turned Mika, absolutely no question, he said, though uncle Michael didn’t elaborate more.
Sometimes Max would wonder when he saw them in the paddock, holding microphones, standing close as David whispered something in Mika’s ear, probably about how much better their cars were in the good old days. Max would watch how Mika’s eyes would glint with red before he’d let out a laugh, shaking his head as David smiled, grinned, amused.
Who else? Uncle Michael would tap his chin, purposefully drawing the story out as Mick would pout and Max would rub his kart with increased intensity until it shone. Senna wasn’t, to Mick’s dismay. It wasn’t really a question if Max rationalised it properly. Senna was fast, stupidly fast, godly, alluring. Human in ego and shine, human in his radiance, how he enraptured desires and hearts and ambition. Vampires were not alluring, they faded into the shadows, captured by the dark only until they smiled, they laughed, they wanted you to see.
Senna wasn’t, but from that generation Jean Alesi was, and so was Niki Lauda. Further back, uncle Michael wasn’t sure.
At that point, someone would call them inside to eat, and uncle Michael would slap his thighs, laugh, and stand up, ruffling the hairs on Mick’s head and patting Max’s shoulder, saying, get into F1 first before you think about it!
Niki liked Max. Thought he was a hot headed idiot all throughout 2016 to 2018, but he liked Max. Resented Helmut to his deathbed for a litany of reasons, one of which Max himself, but Niki liked Max. He was rough with his words, and scalded Max to the media. The next Maldonado, but his hand was soft when he clapped Max’s shoulders, and his grin was sincere when Max sighed heavily after the race was over and went up to Niki to chat, pushed away his aggravation and asked for a story from a time gone by, when racers braked much more aggressively than Max did but no stewards were there to stop them. Max hung around Mercedes for a few years like that, ignoring Lewis’ side eye, and when Niki was gone, he waited until Toto wanted to talk to him after the aggression of 2021 had cooled, just for a taste, and hung around Mercedes again.
It was very obvious who wasn't a vampire and who was during silly season. There were vampires amongst the reports, of course, and Max would see in some a glint in their eyes, red, tongue darting out to lick their lips, hungry, as they prowled around the paddock, looking for blood.
Max didn’t like journalists, swarming like flies, sticking their noses in places where they didn't belong. Though it was fun for him to people watch. Well, vampire watch.
+=+
Vampires weren’t superhuman, but they were… something, certainly. Max had one of his misconceptions about vampires corrected in Malaysia, 2016. He tripped out of a hotel elevator, drunk, giggly, riding the high of the 1-2 and Daniel’s unabashed attention in the evening and wandered around the gardens of the hotel, sipping occasionally from his water bottle and daydreaming of nothing when he stumbled onto them.
Them, as in Jenson and Fernando, pushed up against the wall of the hotel building. They were in the shadows, standing on the rear end of the building leading to the gardens. Fernando’s back was against the wall, the white of his t-shirt catching the fluorescent streetlight, and his eyes were droopy, dazed, as he stared unseeingly into the general area which Max had wandered into. Jenson was standing in front of him, right opposite Fernando. He was pressed up right against Fernando, his legs bracketing Fernando’s, a hand in Fernando’s hair pushing his neck gently to the right, the other with his fingers intertwined in Fernando’s hand, and his mouth—
Jenson’s lips were on Fernando’s neck, the pale column catching the light of the streetlamp to their right, Jenson’s mouth slightly open as he sucked, he bit, he drank around the two small punctures he had made in the soft flesh connecting Fernando’s neck to his collarbone. A thin strand of blood slipped out from Jenson’s mouth and trickled down his jawbone, tracing a line down his throat before disappearing into the collar of his McLaren shirt. Max felt his mouth run dry.
Fernando didn’t seem to notice Max standing a few metres away from them on the path from the secluded area they were in, his gaze facing Max’s direction but unfocused. Blissful, almost, stuck in a comfortable area of drowsiness and pleasure, his eyes fluttered shut as Jenson mouthed at his neck, his left hand playing with Fernando’s fingers before gripping tight, squeezing his wrist once, and letting go. Max couldn’t look away.
Jenson stepped back, finally, removing his mouth from Fernando’s neck with a wet erotic noise, and from the angle he was standing at, Max could catch a corner of his expression. His fangs. long and sharp, catching the light, glinting white and pale and smeared with blood before Jenson stuck out a long tongue and licked it off his teeth. Fernando blinked, almost as if coming back into consciousness, still leaning against the wall, his gaze at Jenson sharpening slowly.
“Bloody hell, that was—” Jenson breathed, “Sorry about that. Spot of bother, and all that crap.”
Fernando shook his head slightly, and when he spoke his Spanish accent was as prominent as when he won his first championship, “You needed it, I was around.”
Jenson sighed, wiping the palm of his hand against his mouth before running it through his hair, smearing blood over his dirty blond locks, streaks of red in his hair. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Fucking guy at the bar, smashing his bottle on the table, if you weren’t…” Jenson trailed off, and sighed again.
Fernando’s senses seemed to return to him, and he gave Jenson a weak smirk.
“That is why you do not go to dangerous places on your own, my friend.”
Jenson opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Fernando’s gaze had shifted slightly to the right, over Jenson’s shoulder, and noticed Max, pink-faced and eavesdropping, standing on the path staring at them. Fernando tapped Jenson’s shoulder, cutting him off, and pointed at Max.
“Oh. We have a visitor,” Jenson said airly, before grinning.
Max stood stilled, like a deer in headlights, torn between awkwardness and burning interest. Fernando rolled his eyes at Jenson’s wolfish smile, clapped him on the shoulder, and walked away past Max back to the hotel entrance. Max could only flush and stare as Fernando walked, his eyes trapped on his retreating figure, the smell of iron heavy in the air.
Jenson ruffled his own hair again, before walking up to Max and patting him on his shoulder, leaving a slight hint of blood on Max’s T-shirt. Concealed, mostly, by the navy blue, but the stench filled Max’s lungs.
“You’ve got questions?”
Max chewed on his lip, a wide-eyed gaze at Jenson. He was drunk before, hazy and stumbling, and now, frighteningly sober. He nodded, but found no words from his throat. Jenson only laughed, and in the darkness of the night, the streetlamp behind him casting a warm backlight, illuminating the edges of his figure, Jenson looked… inhuman. Almost like if Max reached out he would disappear into flecks of gold.
The allure of vampires in the dark, their stunning nature that only came out at night.
Jenson seemed to notice Max’s transfixed stare, and laughed, walking along the path back towards the hotel out of the gardens and gesturing for Max to follow him.
“It has that effect, if we stand in the darkness too long,” Jenson explained.
Max unstuck his throat and croaked out, asking, “We?”
Jenson shrugged, “Vampires. We have that, ah, effect, on humans, if we’re stood in the night. Doesn’t matter, probably not what you were asking.”
Jenson led Max back towards the hotel’s lobby, and when they were within a closer distance Max felt himself feel a sudden chill, a sudden warmth, like his limbs were limbering back up after a stiff eight hour drive, like dunking his body into an ice-bath after a hot Singaporean race, burnt by the cold, shocked back to life. Jenson only laughed, pushing open the door to the lobby until they were back under the bright fluorescent lights. Jenson pressed the lift’s button with one pale, delicate finger.
“I got hurt in the bar,” Jenson began, and Max snapped up his gaze from where he was staring at his feet.
“What?”
“Some guy was drunk, it’s not important, got a bit of glass smashed in my arm. And well—” Jenson stopped, as if contemplating his words, “Vampires don’t heal.”
Max furrowed his browns in confusion, and Jenson smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“It’s weird, I can heal, but like—. I’m dead, technically. Or, not dead, I don’t know, I’m not the expert on this.” Jenson shook his head, and ran his hands again through his hair. The dusty brown was tinted with red. “Not dead, I guess, cause I can still bleed, and I’ll die when I’m ninety, like, properly, but my blood can’t… Well, can’t clot.”
“Like… that Russian prince's blood disease?”
Jenson chuckled.
“Probably. Probably not. Or like, say if I smashed my leg falling off my bike, the bone and muscle doesn’t regrow like you, they’d just stay broken. I’d just bleed out and die, even if I got a papercut.”
Max blinked.
“It’s not all bad,” Jenson continued, “I can heal freakishly quickly, just need to drink some human blood.”
“Do you not—usually?”
“What, no!” Jenson exclaimed, laughed, “You can’t just get human blood, especially not for three meals a day. Animal blood, obviously. Hospitals aren’t going to run themselves dry giving you bloodbags until it’s a medical emergency. I just couldn’t be arsed this time, and Fernando was by.”
“Oh,” Max said, stupidly.
The lift arrived with a cheerful chime, and Jenson cocked his head in its direction.
“I’m not staying in this hotel,” Jenson said, shoving his hands in his pockets. There was a bit of blood in the corner of his lip that had crusted into a dark brown. Fernando’s blood. “Good job on the one-two. Next time be the one standing on top, eh?”
“Yeah. Yeah—thanks, thanks Jenson.” Max said haltingly, before stepping into the lift, giving Jenson a slight wave farewell as the doors slowly closed. Jenson’s eyes seemed to spark red before the doors slammed shut and Max found himself staring at the cold steel.
+=+
So that was one misconception Max had about vampires he resolved a year-and-a-bit into being an F1 driver.
The obsession faded as time went on, as most things did. Max went from fighting for podiums to fighting for wins to fighting for championships to standing at the top of the entire circus with his teeth bared, the conqueror.
But then it was 2023. 2023, and Max was winning it all. Winning everything, virtually, because the Ferraris had fallen back behind and Mercedes had no idea how to work the ground effect cars and McLaren was still shaking off the rust of its mid-field reign. Winning it all, because Daniel was in his garage, Red Bull shirt hanging off his frame, a smile on his face as he leaned on the counter in Max’s garage before FP1 in Silverstone.
It was a good season. His best season, probably. And he had Daniel by his side.
Daniel, who grew thinner and quieter and more haggard in the McLaren papaya whom Christian managed to snag back to Red Bull as a reserve, brought back the fragile pieces of the teammate Max used to drool over, used to follow like a lost puppy with it’s new favourite human, and deposited him at Max’s door all for himself. And it was fun. Media challenges were always better with Daniel, it was lighter, easier, happier, a diatribe and a laugh and they were back seven, six, five years ago, no titles or time apart between him, just a lewd joke Daniel would whisper in Max’s ear before quali, or a grin as he flopped on the sofa in Max’s driver’s room, or the fond smile he’d offer him from the other side of the garage.
Max enjoyed being the subject of Daniel’s affection again, the source of his laughter. Of course, it would grow awkward at times, Daniel as reserve, Max as reigning champion, but they laughed it off. Brushed it under the carpet of things they did not talk about.
The thing about brushing things under a carpet was that when you walked, you tripped on the lumps of objects underneath the fabric. Max didn’t care about the gaps in their resume, the gaps in their tenure as teammates, didn’t care about that, as long as he had Daniel back, smiling and radiant. But, well. There was another thing Max had shoved under the carpet.
Max was very nearly convinced that his ex-teammate was a vampire. Max hadn’t expected Daniel to look like that—although Sebastian had warned him, said Daniel was too similar to Jenson, and he knew Daniel too anyway.
“You okay, Max?”
Yeah, no, Max was okay, Max was most definitely okay. He nodded faintly at Daniel, who grinned, then wandered away, his eyes glinting, glinting red, like rubies in sunlight, like rosso corsa, like the shade of the bull, red, on their suits, stark, like blood, like—.
Okay.
GP slanted Max a glance as Max stared at Daniel on the other side of the garage, his own data forgotten before he shook his head, gave GP an apologetic smile, and looked back down at the telemetry he was supposed to be examining. Daniel was leaning against the wall on the other side of the garage, giving Max a blinding grin and a happy shuffle to make Max laugh before he poked around, looking at everything with unusual interest, chatting with a few of Max’s engineers. Max was sitting on the black plastic chairs for the mechanics, tablet on his lap, getting distracted by his ex-teammate. Silverstone qualifying was in an hour, he hadn’t the time for his thoughts to wander. He hauled himself up from the chair and placed the tablet on a table to focus properly whilst standing, but that was a bit of a moot action. His thoughts wandered anyway.
Vampires weren’t common, and Max knew better than to speculate on someone’s…affliction, if they were one and chose to hide it, but from the moment Daniel gave him a sheepish grin on the other side of Christian’s office for the first time in half a decade, and Max gave him a long-awaited hug, his teenage self’s interest was piqued, in more ways than one.
For one thing, Daniel was thinner. Not thinner in the way some people wasted away when they were in a stressful and unsupportive work environment (cough, McLaren), but thinner in the way he seemed almost lithe, birdlike. End of twenty-two, there were hollows in Daniel’s cheeks, eaten by his crushed spirit. Beginning of twenty-three, Daniel was thinner, but his cheeks were solid, and there was a hint of muscle underneath his shirt. Thinner, not in weight, but… less corporeal, if that meant anything at all. Max couldn’t help but stare at Daniel, his hands moving delightedly as he explained something to Max, tracking the lines of his muscle, Max’s throat going dry, his mind going mad.
And his hands! Yes, that was another thing. Daniel’s hands were never so soft, never that comforting on Max’s shoulder, Max’s arm, Max’s cheek. When Max pointed it out, Daniel only laughed, said awkwardly it was because he wasn’t driving anymore, and the conversation moved to something else over the carpet, but Max wondered. The smooth shape of Daniel’s fingers as he held the cards for a silly video, for a media challenge, the way the pads of his thumb pressed gently on the paper, the way his hands opened wide as he illustrated a particularly cheerful point, the comforting weight of his fingers on Max’s wrist as he caught his attention.
And, well, Daniel was alluring. He was alluring before, but that seemed to be dialed up to the extreme. Maybe it was the time apart, but Max couldn’t help but stare, but venture into the sim room at Milton Keynes excessively to chat with Daniel, to fervently argue his case when Christian was considering a seat swap. A seat swap, that Daniel had just gotten, and would be driving for the next grand prix, just after Silverstone.
“...on the sim it steps out turn eight, what do you think, Max?”
Max blinked, and looked up from where he had been staring at the telemetry on the tablet, unseeing, and found Daniel standing next to GP at the table, a fond smile as he watched Max, GP looking on with interest, headphones around his neck.
“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Daniel laughed at Max’s blunt admission, lifting a hand to pat softly at Max’s shoulder, before he explained his concern again. Max clenched his fingers into a fist to prevent himself from touching the skin where Daniel’s hand had left him, merely smiled as he listened to Daniel’s voice, letting his Australian accent wash over him.
Max was overthinking this, he told himself, as he lowered himself into the car before Q1. He had always had a thing about Daniel, probably the only thing besides his preoccupation with vampires. It was just the presence of Daniel that reverted him to his past self, full of nosy interest. His current self had a pole to snatch.
+=+
Before the season started, Sebastian had called Max. Congratulated him on the championship, wished him well, and told Max to keep an eye on Daniel. Keep an eye on him, because Daniel was being a reserve driver and it was a tough blow, and Sebastian wanted to make sure Max would be nice about it. Max nearly threw this phone across the room in frustration. Obviously, he ranted into the phone, obviously.
If Sebastian was offended, he didn’t say it, only finished the call on a cheerful note towards the next season, one that he wouldn’t be sharing with Max, and before he hung up, said something vague about Jenson and Daniel and a mess of things Max couldn’t catch, but before he could ask about it, Sebastian had hung up, and Max was too embarrassed to ask Sebastian to repeat himself, and promptly shoved the conversation under the carpet he was increasingly trying to not trip over, forced himself to forget and focus on winning, focus on smiling at Daniel until his eyes creased with delight, focused on wrangling Daniel back into F1.
Well, until Zandvoort.
+=+
Zandvoort was Zandvoort. Lord, it was ferocious, beautiful, tantalising, exciting, orange. So orange, it called his name with a fiery passion and Max could only smile back, grin, teeth bared. He got his first ever grand slam here, on the circuit they brought back, basically, just for him. A win here was like winning in Monaco, hallowed, heavenly, and so fucking satisfying.
Daniel was also back in the car. A not-so-good Hungary that Max ended up winning because, well, it was 2023, and Max was going to relish in that fact, and they poured into Zandvoort with Max ready to equal Sebastian’s win streak. Christian was ecstatic, Checo only gave him a wan smile. The rest of the ride rolled their eyes and faked a grin. No one likes a winner. That’s fine. Max was just very happy to be there.
The day started easily. Making stroopwafels with Checo in the Red Bull hospitality for a video. “Making” was an exaggeration, spreading caramel on some waffles as the professional chef cooked and they joked and answered. Checo said the national flower of the Netherlands was weed, and Max laughed harder than he probably should’ve, loose, and happy, and delighted.
He did manage to make a stroopwafel by himself, smushed some waffles and caramel together haphazardly to his best effort when Daniel walked in. Daniel gave the room a glint of a grin and Max a smaller, fonder one, the first body Max noticed within the sea of staff going here and there and the litany of cameras in front of them.
Daniel, who wore the silly orange cape back in 2021 when Max was a sweaty ball of unconstrained anxiety at the thought of Lewis chasing him, or, worse, having to chase Lewis. Daniel, his figure growing weary with the unruly Mclaren in the wrong shade of orange, and then he was in Zanvoort wearing Max’s orange. Max’s colour hanging off his back, with a full-teethed smile and Max’s name printed on the fabric on his neck, and Max had to try very hard to keep a neutral, normal smile in front of everyone, to bite down strongly on his lip as Daniel paraded around like he was his. And now this year, Daniel, finally back in a seat, his grin refreshed and his tongue darting out to lick at his teeth from the other side of the room where he was chatting with someone, Max stuck behind the cameras, wearing white and black that didn’t suit him, not like navy blue suited him, not like the deep dark royal colours made Daniel pop and gleam. Well, not like he wasn't radiant now.
“Daniel!” Max called out, and ignored Choco’s curious slanted gaze, “Daniel!”
Daniel couldn’t hear him above the din
“Daniel! I’ve made a stroopwafel for you.”
That was a bit of a lie. It wasn’t for Daniel, it was made just to be made, like most things were done just to be done, how they raced just to race, smiled just to smile, but now that Daniel was here, in this dimly lit room full of cameras and staff and the only light a small lamp illuminating the stove behind Max, the stroopwafel was a thousand percent made for Daniel and Daniel only.
“Daniel!” Max tried again, and this time Daniel did turn around, his eyes bright, delighted, and began making his way towards Max, coming up to a stop in front of him, eyes expectant and a little mischievous. Max was still holding out the stroopwafel, now cooled.
Max repeated again, slightly dumbly, “I made it especially for you.”
Y’know, Max envisioned a lot of things. Worst case, Daniel could be a little like Max, unfortunately needing to stick to his diet and refuse. Pity, but Dnaiel would probably make it up by cracking a joke or knocking his shoulder against Max’s, so that would be alright. Or maybe, Daniel would take the stroopwafel out of Max’s hands, lift it to his lips, the food Max made, Max touched, and take a bite, then smile at Max, caramel staining his teeth, and a grin Max would file away for, uh, later purposes.
What he didn’t expect was for Daniel to bend out and eat it straight from his hand. Automatically, Max tilted the stroopwafel so Daniel could bite down better, and pretended his pulse wasn’t pounding in his fingers.
Max and Daniel were not strangers to food sharing. They’ve shared more in 2017: beds, driver’s rooms, pieces of track, dignity. Max had fed Daniel before, in 2017 when he was tired and refusing to get up from the sofa and for a joke Max decided to bring over the plate of strawberries someone had brought into factory and fed one to Daniel when he was lying down as a joke, one that backfired horribly as Daniel wrapped his lips around the plush red fruit and smiled at Max as if he had hung the sun. Daniel had also fed him before, bites of a sandwich he had steered off after a particularly bad race and Max was moping in his motorhome, refusing to come out for dinner or anything else, and Daniel had barged in and ripped off pieces of his own sandwich to feed to a petulant Max who gradually stopped frowning.
All that was besides the point, because this time Daniel was bending down, his mouth just millimetres away from Max’s fingers, the same latitude line where Max’s crotch would be, and Daniel was biting down on a piece of stroopwafel that Max had made himself, smiling as he did so.
Max let go of the stroopwafel for a second as Daniel bit down, before he gripped it again, holding the thin dessert between his fingers. As Daniel pulled back a thin strand of caramel stretching from the waffle in his hand and Daniel’s teeth, he looked up and smiled at Max.
Oh.
Daniel was grinning, a small canine (fang, Max mentally corrected, fang) poking out from his upper lip where the caramel strand was connected, and from underneath his lashes where his eyes were bright with delight and creased into a smile, there was a slight red rim. A blink and you’d miss it tint of red, but obvious enough to Max — to Max, who had spent the better part of his childhood watching Lewis' racing lines and Alonso’s overtakes and staring into old pictures of Niki Lauda that they had in the house and brushing his thumbs over the slight red glint in his eye, captured, even, in those old fuzzy photographs. Max, who spent his early days in F1 chasing after Daniel on track when he could, and in the paddock, when he couldn’t, the same way his gaze drifted to Jenson and David, when they were commentating, and his ears were open and nosy if someone even mentioned the word vampire.
He kept his face impassive — his heart beating loudly — and probably too impassive, the stern glare that people mistook concentration for anger. Daniel didn’t, though, straightening up and smiling at Max as he chewed the stroopwafel, his teeth moving behind his cheeks. Now that Max had noticed the red glint, it was obvious. Not the kind of redness you’d get when you were sleep-deprived, when you stayed up too late on the sim, but an alluring red, one that rimmed Daniel’s pupil and reflected off his iris and seemed to call out to Max from between the beautiful brown, like caramel, if it was flecked with something better than gold. Jenson’s eyes were never like this. They were red, but red in a stark, almost obvious way, the rim of blood around his grey sharp gaze that made him seem hungry, mischievous. Daniel’s was deeper, a darker red that stained not only the edge of his eyeball but seemed to reflect, turning the hazel into woodbark, red, like splatters of blood on a mahogany table, or droplets squeezed out of a steak..
Checo didn’t seem to notice, but Checo wasn’t the one besotted with Daniel and vampires.
“That’s good, I like it,” Daniel commented, reaching up a hand to brush at his chin, removing whatever crumbs there might be, the move instinctual. He grinned at Max, and oh, was this room always this dark? Or was it just Daniel? The backlight lit up Daniel's face as if it was glowing, so maybe it was just Daniel.
“Don’t give up the day job!” He quipped, and Max managed a small smile, his heart thrumming, his fingers fidgeting. He dropped the stroopwafel on the table and turned back to Daniel, his voice raw.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Too sincere a statement, Verstappen, but Daniel laughed all the same, smiled at Max so endearingly before he moved behind Max to poke and prod at the cookery, his right hand glancing along Max’s side, the orange apron, as he passed.
So Daniel was a—
+=+
Zandvoort was wet. Gloriously so, because Max loved the wet. Changing conditions, differing tyres, and the feeling of suddenly finding grip on the outside line, like uncovering gold from a mine. But wet races came with risks. Risks like your teammate pitting early on inters and lapping seven seconds faster. Risks like if your name was Charles and your pit crew forgot tyres existed. Risks like driving over an especially damp stretch of tarmac and aquaplaning off the road. Risks like hearing GP on the radio say Daniel's in the wall and have nothing to to be able to do about it.
Risks like driving a biblically wet race, the stands all filled with blue instead of orange as everyone had their raincoats on. Risks like hearing your ex-teammate’s in the wall and after a panicked review of one’s own internal database have one’s thoughts stray to a hot Malaysian night and Jenson brushing blood off his cheek, it lingering on his fingers, the stains that found its way onto Max’s shirt, which he stared at for an hour before he dunked it cold water and watch it swirl down the drain.
“Is Daniel alright?” Max asked on the radio, voice urgent, tight, worried.
There was a hospital, but it wasn’t close, not nearby, and there was the medical centre in the paddock, but did it have bloodbags? Probably not, Max thought panickedly, and the hospital was at least half an hour, maybe more, away. And no one knew Daniel was a vampire, because if anyone knew, it would be Max, or Christian, who would’ve probably told Max anyway. It wasn’t even an open secret like Jenson was, just a hunch that Max — and probably Sebastian, he corrected, had — but a hunch that Max was goddamned sure of being true.
“Is Daniel hurt?” Max asked again, his voice growing panicked, the strangling worry wrapping around his throat
Was Daniel hurt, even if it was just a slight cut of his gloves, even if it was just the press of his seatbelts into his chest? Daniel went straight on into a wall, right? Did he break any bones? Did he sprain his wrists? Did he let go of his wheel? He was behind Piastri, Max recalled seeing on the timing tower, did he swerve? What was Daniel’s condition?
“Stay calm, Max,” GP said, a little uselessly, “He’s just out of the car, and I think—”
What did GP fucking think? Did GP know that Daniel was a vampire, did GP know that Daniel needed blood, now. Would the team have the awareness to go to the hospital immediately? Fuck, why didn’t Max ask Jenson all those years ago what he usually did in case of crashes, why didn’t he ask Jenson how log it took before—
“Red flag, Max, red flag.”
His heart skipped a beat, terrified.
“Zhou’s in the wall, but he’s okay, he’s okay. Just bring the car back.”
Thank god for GP. Max focused on the sound of his voice, pushing the car back to the pits with his feet to the floor, probably faster than necessary, and pulled up to a stop at the end of the pit straight.
“Can we get out of the car? Will it be a long one?” Max asked, already ready to undo his belts.
“Not sure Max, not sure.” GP said, his voice steady, and Max could hear the sounds of GP turning to Christian to ask. If he wasn’t wearing his HANS device, Max could probably swerve his head completely and see GP asking Christian on the pit wall. He resisted the urge to jam his thumb onto the radio button and demand an answer.
“You can get out of the car Max, it might be a while.”
“Okay,” Max was already undoing the buckles before he stopped, and pressed the radio button again, “Where’s Daniel?"
If GP was intrigued by Max's line of questioning, he didn’t show it.
"Daniel's out of the car, he’s in the AlphaTauri garage.”
Oh. Good.
Getting out of the car was routine, quick, easy. Walking out of the car and into the alphatauri garage was not routine, and warranted many odd looks. Look all they wanted, he thought, pulling off his helmet, he needed, needed, to find Daniel.
He had been in the AlphaTauri garage, practically stayed there during the entirety of Daniel’s first day back, and he brushed past a mechanic with practiced ease as he stepped into the corridor obscured by a wall, the section where cameras weren’t allowed to film, and knocked on the door of Daniel's driver room.
The sounds of shuffled feet told him that Daniel was behind it, and the ashen pale face when Daniel opened the door told Max everything he needed to know.
“Max–? What, why are you here?” Daniel said, surprised. His hands were held aloft gingerly, and by the way they looked Max knew they were sprained at the very least, most likely broken.
He stepped into the room, pulling Daniel in and pushing him to sit down on the couch, placing his helmet on the ground and gave Daniel a worried once-over.
“Why aren’t you at the medical centre, what the fuck, Daniel?”
“Well, if I was at the medical centre you wouldn’t’ve found me,” Daniel let out breathlessly, a facsimile of a laugh on his expression, “And—”
So Daniel was avoiding the medical centre then. Whatever, Max didn't have time to dwell on it. Daniel’s eyes were violently red now, almost like they were bleeding, taking over the brown. The room was not even dim, the hard white light hitting their features, and Max didn't need a second invitation.
“Drink,” he said, no, demanded, tilting his head to the side, and exposing the flesh of his neck to Daniel, kneeling in front of him where he was seated on the sofa, Daniel’s knee brushing against Max’s racesuit.
“What? Max–” Daniel said, voice wavering, feigning innocence.
“Look, you’re a vampire, I know, and I don’t know if you know this, but if you don’t drink blood now, you could be seriously fucked, extremely soon, and that’s before I hit you to death for not telling anyone.”
Dnaiel’s eyes flicked with something for a second, bewilderment, annoyance, surprise, fear, before it landed on a strained amusement.
“How the fuck do you know that? No wait, you're Max Verstappen, of course—”
“Oh my god Daniel, just drink before you pass out.”
He had faded into an alarming shade of pale that didn't suit Daniel’s tanned features, and his expression was growing watery. Daniel’s gaze drifted from Max’s eyes which then slipped to the length of exposed skin. Max pulled down his racesuit to give Daniel better access, taking the Nomex to the side, and shuffled forward so that the front of his thighs hit the edge of the sofa, his body bracketed by Daniel’s legs.
Daniel hesitated, for a moment, before he leaned in.
It was a weird, extremely weird, sensation. There was a slight bit of pain, prickly, like a slim needle piercing his skin but after that, it wasn’t anything Max had experienced before. He had given blood in the past, the sense of numbness as he felt the blood leak out of him and into the bag, but this was different. This time, Daniel was sucking, actively sucking along his skin to pull out the blood, a bruise probably forming on Max's neck. From the corner of his eyes he could see a slight strand of blood leak out of Daniel’s chin and disappear into the scruff of his own racesuit. He was making a mess of it, Daniel, mouthing at Maax’s neck desperately, hungrily. and his neck, the undershirt, and Daniel’s mouth were all becoming stained with blood. Max had to stifle a moan at the image.
And another thing was that while giving blood was sensationless, a little cold, maybe, this was different. It was almost, pleasurable, no, definitely, a slight soothing feeling that spread through Max's nerves that made him so pliant against Daniel, his body softening and his eyes fluttering shut, as if drifting into a light nap, whilst his expression faded into one of contentment. God, it felt good. Like a dose of morphine after a surgery, the drowsy beautiful feeling. Max couldn’t help but have his thoughts drift back to Malaysia, that night. He wondered if Fernando might’ve tugged at Jenson to stay, when he made to leave, if it felt like this.
Some time passed, Max didn’t know what. NO one called for him, which was probably a sign that the reg flag wasn’t over yet, but after some unspecified time passed and Dnaiel pulled back with a wet noise, leaning back against the sofa. From between Max’s lashes – his eyes were heavily lidded, almost close to being asleep – he could already see Daniel look a lot better, colour tinting his cheeks. Max was fully kneeling on the ground now, sitting on his soft racing boots, and his cheek resting against Daniel’s knee. Daniel wriggled his fingers, bending them and his wrist, his eyes open in delight at the regained function. From Max’s hazy gaze, there was blood all over Daniel’s chin, a thin line tracing down his throat, deep red. Max’s blood. Max’s blood on Daniel's chin.
That fact shouldn’t have made Max feel as satisfied as it did.
Dnaiel seemed to suddenly remember Max, blinking and looking down to where Max was resting against his leg, slowly waiting for his energy to return, for his limbs to feel less like lead.
“Oh, shit, Jenson mentioned that.”
Daniel wiped his mouth quickly, blood staining his white racesuit, and lifted Max ungracefully by his armpits, and dropped him unceremoniously on the sofa, his eyes large, worried. Max’s mouth felt like it was filled with water, his tongue too large, making speaking a challenge.
“Are... ok?” Was all he could get out, though there was a vague tingling sensation in his feet, pins and needles.
Daniel’s eyebrows were creased with worry, though he did smile slightly, fondly.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m—god, you’re going to scold me for being an idiot, right?”
Max nodded to the best of his ability, which was actually quite a lot, and Daniel smiled sheepishly at Max’s nod.
“I know, I know, but it’s.. I got turned in Abu Dhabi. I don’t even remember by whom, or when it was, or what even happened. I had just signed the contact and I was leaving the hotel room, and the next thing I know I’m lying on the ground staring at the sky in some damp alleyway and I was really fucking hungry.”
The world was back into focus for Max now, and he could slightly shift himself back into a properly seated position instead of a pile of limbs, and his eyes narrowed in anger. Who the fuck would do that to a random person, who the fuck would do that to Daniel, his Daniel. Daniel seemed to spot Max’s narrowed eyes and laughed, slightly, wearily.
“Yeah, no, I don't know. It’s a bit past now. I… honestly, thank fuck I was flying back with Jenson. It was the last day so I just, I don’t know, packed my stuff and got on the plane. Yes, yes, you can tell about it later, it was a tiring weekend, I was just glad to be over with. Anyways, Jenson took one look at me on the flight and immediately knew what was up.”
Max sat up properly. He was back to normal, or as much as normal as he could probably be. Tired, still, but less an all-consuming need to sleep, more of an, ah, post-orgasm bliss, a soft feeling that he tired and failed not to relish too much in.
“That was stupid,” He said, and Daniel let out a small chuckle at Max’s serious expression, “Why the fuck din’t you tell Christian?”
Dnaiel touched the back of his neck, awkwardly, staining the fabric.
“I don’t know, there was just...never a good time I guess. It wasn’t an FIA requirement, and I… Well, I don’t know, at the start of the year I was hoping for a seat, and I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.”
Max furrowed his brow, pressed, “There’s no disadvantage to you being a vampire.”
“I know, I know, it’s just—” Daniel let out a self-depreciating chuckle, “It;’s embarrassing being let go for a driver nearly half your age. An an aussie driver, I don’t know, it stung more, I guess. And just—I was really happy to be back in Red Bull again, Maxy, you know that.”
Max felt, no, he knew his heart flipped slightly at the nickname.
“You could’ve died! We don’t have bloodbags on hand, and—wait, how are you—”
“I’ve got blood, animal blood, Jenson hooked me up with a guy.” Dnaiel reassured Max, who didn’t feel that reassured, “And I know, I’m sorry, that was stupid, but hey, look who came to save the day!”
“Barely,” Max breathed, “Thank fuck for the red flag, or what would you have done? Just sat here? Not gone to the medical centre?”
Dnaiel was looking at him with a painfully soft expression, but Max was on a bit of a roll now and the words simply tumbled out of his throat. Maybe that post-orgasm bliss also contributed to the post-orgasm complete lack of filler.
“I was so worried in the car, but of course GP didn’t tell me anything where you were, and I was thinking, you know, at the start of the week, that you were probably a vampire, and it was terrifying, to be driving and not knowing if you just—”
Max couldn’t finish his sentence before Daniel already had his lips on Max.
And well— Daniel tasted like iron, and with a pang Max realised he was probably tasting his own blood on Daniel’s chapped lips, and he was only slightly horrified at himself over how hot he found that. Daniel was edging closer to Max, his hand on Max’s leg, warm, and Max was kissing back, his words died in his throat as Daniel pried open his lips slightly with his tongue (his longer tongue, Max easily remembered, his tongue which was—) teasing the inside of Max’s cheek, sending slight tingly feelings down Max’s spine and warmth rushing to his toes, and Max could feel Dnaiel’s fangs catch on his own lips, the blood seeping into Max’s own mouth and a sliver of saliva tinged pink running down his throat.
Daniel pulled back with a wet noise, his eyes were dark, irises blown dark and shadowed by red. Max stifled the urge to make a disappointed needy whine. Fuck, Max loved him so much.
“That was unfair.” He said with a slight pout, though Max knew he was already grinning.
“What was?” Daniel asked, faux-innocent.
“Interrupting me! When I was concerned! And distracting me, and your... your mouth, and your tongue and—”
Daniel kissed him again, and oh, oh, Max was happy to shut up.
