#vampire series

[moonie-on]

Loustat rockstar version

[stormcided]

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER (1997-2003)

"blood ties" S5 E13

[thedivergentrealities]

Anne Rice's The Vampire Lestat (amc+/amc)

[faestunna]

the rot of my blood masterlist

He remembers the faint feeling of a kiss upon his shoulder, to which he returned so gently—when he still had it within him to be gentle.

BEFORE READING

prologue I. II. III. IV. V. and more

This series contains dark and mature content, including sexual themes and thoughts of death. Minors do not interact. Negative comments will be removed. Do not upload my work on here or anywhere else. © faestunna 2025.

[wishingonjellyfish]

When The Town Wakes ~ Part 2

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴛᴇ | 4.ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ | ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

synopsis: Sevika’s control falters as hunger and desire blur. A shared moment of blood and trust is interrupted by the arrival of a dangerous newborn vampire, forcing Sevika to protect what little she still holds dear.

tags/warnings: vampire!sevika, human!reader, vampire!silco, vampire!jinx, vampire!vi, oral, marking, strap, age gap, yearning, blood, death, fingering, nsfw

A/N: Night Crawling ~ >:)

You woke up groggy, still caught in the haze of sleep, and instinctively curled closer to Sevika beside you.

She was already awake—had been for a while—her mind restless and far from rest. When you nestled into her side, she stirred slightly, her body tensing beneath the sheets, but she didn’t pull away.

You slipped back into sleep, comforted by the fading warmth she left behind. But when you woke again, Sevika was gone.

She must have slipped from your arms sometime before dawn. The space beside you was cold, the sheets undisturbed.

You sat up slowly, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the windows, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you glanced around—still clinging to the hope you might catch a glimpse of her lingering in the quiet.

You rose from the bed, still disheveled, and made your way to the door. Padding barefoot down the long, silent halls, you noticed how bare everything was—no pictures, no posters, not even a stray nail in the wall.

It felt like no one had truly lived here in years.

As you turned a corner, your feet met the top of a staircase. You placed one foot on the first step, the wood beneath you groaning in protest, creaking like it might give way under your weight.

A shiver ran through you, but you kept going, step by careful step, until you reached the bottom.

Once there, you hesitated. The house felt unfamiliar, like a place that shifted when you weren’t looking.

You didn’t know which room was which, so you wandered—moving slowly from space to space, taking it all in, trying to understand the bones of the place she'd brought you to.

Sevika stood at the long kitchen counter, quietly making herself a cup of strong, black coffee. She didn’t need to look up to know you were near—she felt your presence before you even crossed the threshold.

You stepped into the kitchen and froze, surprised to see her moving with such calm, human ritual. Watching her pour the dark liquid into a mug, you hesitated, unsure. Could vampires even drink coffee? Or anything that wasn’t blood?

The thought sent a chill down your spine.

The memory of her fangs grazing your throat hovered just beneath the surface of your thoughts, sharp and electric.

She tensed, pausing mid-motion, then turned to look at you—eyes narrowing slightly, as if she could see the memory flickering behind your eyes, feel the fear and fascination tangled there.

She held your gaze for a moment longer, the silence stretching thin between you.

Then, without a word, she turned back to her coffee, lifting the mug to her lips. You watched, waiting for some kind of reaction—revulsion, discomfort, anything—but she drank it like it meant nothing.

Like it was just a habit she hadn't let go of. The scent of it drifted through the air—bitter, rich, grounding—and somehow, that small, mundane detail unsettled you more than the memory of her fangs ever could.

You stepped further into the room, the floor cool beneath your feet, the quiet hum of the house pressing in around you. She didn’t speak, and neither did you—not yet.

You wanted to ask where she’d gone, why she’d left the bed, but the words caught in your throat and died. Instead, your eyes were drawn to her back—the bandages loosely wrapped around her shoulder, the way the morning light traced the curves of her body, casting long shadows across the tile, as if even the sun hesitated to touch her.

She was aware of your gaze and knew you were watching.

You lingered at the edge of the kitchen, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if trying to hold something in—your breath, your questions, your fear.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked softly.

Your voice barely broke the silence, but it made Sevika shift. She didn’t turn around—just nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped closer, drawn in by something heavier than curiosity. Your eyes fell again on the bandage wrapped around her shoulder—the edge of it had darkened, fresh blood seeping through. The sight made your stomach twist.

She wasn’t invincible. You knew that. But seeing her wounded stirred something primal in your chest. Protective. Angry. Afraid.

“You’re bleeding again,” you said quietly.

At that, she turned.

The morning light caught her face, illuminating the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the tired curve of her mouth. Her eyes—still crimson, though muted in the daylight—met yours. She looked worn. Not just tired, but frayed, like something had been chewing away at her from the inside.

“It’s nothing,” she murmured.

But it wasn’t.

You crossed the distance between you slowly, each barefoot step muffled by the cold tile. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch as your fingers reached out—hovered—then gently brushed her arm.

“Let me change it.”

For a moment, she just looked at you. Not wary, not distant, just… uncertain. Like she couldn’t quite make sense of the offer. Then, with a quiet breath—resignation or surrender—you couldn’t tell—she gave a small nod.

She sat on the edge of the purple, worn velvet couch in the next room, her shirt discarded on the armrest. Her muscles were tense beneath skin marked by old scars and scattered bruises, both fresh and faded.

You knelt beside her, first aid kit in hand—the one you’d found tucked away in a cabinet the other night. You tried not to look too long at the exposed line of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her chest, the vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone to see.

Carefully, you peeled the bandage away.

Dried blood clung to the gauze—but beneath it, something worse.

The wound was deep, torn at the edges like it had been ripped rather than cut. But it wasn’t just physical. It pulsed faintly beneath your touch. The skin around it had turned a sickly shade, veins fanning outward like black roots buried in flesh.

Something unnatural. Something that didn’t want to heal.

You inhaled—and the stench of the wound hit you. Metallic and sour, sharp enough to make your stomach turn.

Sevika watched your face as you worked, her jaw clenched, her shoulder stiff beneath your touch. You could feel her resisting the urge to pull away—not from the pain, but from you.

“Why does it look like this?” you asked, your voice hushed.

She didn’t answer at first. Just stared past you, toward the window where sunlight leaked through thin curtains, falling in pale, fractured strips across the floor.

“I haven’t fed. Not human blood.”

You paused. Your hand hovered over the wound, the alcohol pad trembling between your fingers.

“That was days ago,” she said.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet. Distant.

You looked at her again. Really looked. The hollows beneath her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged just slightly under the weight of something unspoken. The exhaustion in her face wasn’t just pain—it was hunger. Restraint.

Something inside her was unraveling, thread by thread, and still, she was holding on.

“You’re starving,” you whispered.

A flicker crossed her expression—guilt, maybe. Or pride. You couldn’t quite tell.

“I didn’t want it to be you,” she said.

Your breath caught.

She didn’t need to explain.

The memory of her fangs against your skin was still there, buried just beneath the surface—sharp and electric. It hadn’t just been fear. There’d been something else. Something darker. Something you still hadn’t shaken.

“I would’ve let you,” you said, before you could think, before you could stop yourself.

Her eyes snapped to yours—sharp, startled. For the first time, her guard slipped. And in the space between one breath and the next, her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ll lose control.”

Silence settled again, thick and heavy. You didn’t move, and neither did she.

The alcohol pad had gone cold in your hand—forgotten.

“I trust you,” you said finally, the words quiet but steady.

She let out a soft breath—almost a laugh—but there was no humor in it. Just disbelief, a sadness that lingered.

“You shouldn’t,” she said.

Her eyes dropped, and for a moment, she looked small—not in strength, but in spirit. Like something inside her was breaking, and she was trying to hold the pieces together with nothing but sheer will.

You reached for her—not to treat the wound this time, but just to touch, to anchor her. Your fingers found hers, and though she didn’t squeeze back, she didn’t pull away either.

“You’ve been holding back all this time,” you murmured. “You think I haven’t noticed. You’re bleeding slow. Healing slower. You’re tired, Sevika.”

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out. Her throat worked as she swallowed whatever protest she’d been about to give.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, barely audible.

“You won’t.”

She looked up, and there was something raw in her eyes now—something unguarded, desperate.

“I’m not sure I know where the line is anymore.”

You leaned in slightly, your forehead almost brushing hers.

“Then let me help you find it,” you replied.

For a beat, the only sound was her breath—shaky, uneven. And then:

“What if I take too much?”

“Then I’ll stop you.”

She laughed again, the same broken sound.

“You say that like you could.”

You smiled faintly.

“Maybe not. But I’d still try.”

That made her pause. Her gaze softened, something flickering behind it—affection, maybe. Or fear.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she lifted your hand and pressed your wrist to her mouth—not biting, just resting it there. Her lips were cold, trembling.

And when she finally spoke, it was so soft you barely heard it:

“Don’t let me lose myself.”

Your heart thudded loudly in your chest, each beat a reminder of the fragile thread you both were walking.

You rested your other hand gently on her cheek, feeling the cold beneath your fingertips—the faint tremor that ran through her like a warning.

“I won’t,” you promised, your voice steady even as doubt clawed beneath it.

She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch as if it could ground her.

When she opened them again, a flicker of something fragile—a plea, a hope—shone in the depths of her crimson eyes.

“Promise me,” she whispered, her voice raw, “if I slip, if I fall too far, you’ll stop me. No matter what it takes.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“I promise.”

Sevika pulls back your wrist, her mouth opening just enough for her fangs to catch the sunlight, glinting sharp and deadly. You can feel the thrum of your pulse—loud, uneven—and you swear to God she hears it too.

She tilts your arm just so, letting the light fall on your skin, revealing the delicate vein beneath.

Her lips brush against your wrist—soft, but cold—and for some reason, you expected them to be rough. Before your mind can catch up, with a swift, deliberate bite, her sharp fangs pierce your tender flesh.

Warm blood spills slowly between her lips as she drinks, her eyes locked on yours, unblinking. The heat of her breath contrasts with the chill of her mouth, sending a strange shiver through you.

When she finally pulls back, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding escapes in a soft exhale. Her voice follows—low, rough, and filled with hunger:

“Not many would let me taste them like this.”

For a fleeting moment, her crimson eyes soften—just a fraction—before the mask falls back into place.

The wound on her shoulder sealed shut in an instant—skin knitting smooth, blood halting mid-flow. What remained was no longer a gaping maw, but the ghost of it, a pale outline where violence had been. A scar in the making.

Still, her hand held my wrist—firm, steady, almost tender.

Her gaze dropped to the blood trailing down my wrist, and something shifted in her expression. Hunger stirred there, quiet but ravenous, as if she wanted more. All of it. As if the taste had only awakened something deeper.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t give in.

Our eyes met, locked in that fragile, dangerous space. I tried to pull back—slow, careful, unsure.

She didn’t let go.

Not yet.

She stepped into the narrow space between you, her fingers still curled around your wrist like a promise she hadn’t decided how to keep. Slowly, deliberately, she raised your arm, her eyes never leaving yours.

Then her lips parted.

Her tongue brushed against your skin, tracing the blood in a slow, deliberate line.

You shuddered—not from pain, but from the sheer intimacy of it, the heat of her mouth against your pulse, the quiet reverence in the way she tasted you like something sacred.

Something forbidden.

Her tongue lingered—slow, searching—as if she were memorizing the shape of you through taste alone. Each motion sparked beneath your skin like a current, impossible to ignore. Her breath warmed your wrist, her mouth no longer cold, and you felt the edge of her restraint stretched thin—threadbare against the moment.

She closed her eyes, and for just a heartbeat, you could almost believe she was savoring more than blood. Something quieter. Older. Like she missed what it meant to be human… to be alive.

When her eyes opened again, they were darker. The red had deepened—rich and glassy with want. But her grip never tightened. She held you like you were something fragile. Like she knew she could break you if she wasn’t careful.

Your heart pounded, loud in your chest—loud between you.

“Sevika,” you whispered.

She stilled. The sound of her name grounded her, brought her back.

Her lips slipped from your wrist, though her hand didn’t follow. A smear of crimson lingered on her mouth, catching at the corner. Her chest rose and fell—unsteady, uneven—like she was wrestling something inside her that didn’t understand mercy.

“I shouldn’t have,” she said, voice rough, barely above breath. “I didn’t mean to take that much.”

“You didn’t,” you replied, even as your legs felt weaker beneath you. “I’m still here.”

Her thumb brushed lightly over your skin, like she needed to feel it—needed to know you hadn’t vanished. Her gaze flicked down to the bite, not yet healed, then lifted to your face. There was hesitation there. Uncertainty.

“I don’t know how to want this,” she murmured. “Not without destroying it.”

You stepped closer, uncaring of the blood still seeping from your wrist. Your free hand rose, cradling her jaw, guiding her to meet your eyes.

“You haven’t destroyed me yet,” you said softly. “And I think you’re trying harder than you want to admit.”

That cracked something in her.

A breath caught. Her eyes flickered with something raw—too fast to name. Grief, maybe. Or longing. She leaned into your touch, her forehead resting against yours. Your blood still warm between you.

“You keep saying you trust me,” she whispered. “But what happens when I trust you back?”

You swallowed, hand steady against her cheek.

“I think,” you said, voice low, “that’s when we stop running from whatever this is.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes still shut, and at last, her grip on your wrist loosened. Her hand drifted downward, settling at your waist—light, almost hesitant, but steady. Her fingers spread against you, not pulling, not pressing—just resting there, like she needed the contact to convince herself this wasn’t a dream. That you were real. That she hadn’t already lost you.

Your foreheads still touching, her presence close and steady. She leans in, her breath a whisper against your lips, and you tremble—just enough for her to feel it.

She doesn’t move closer—not yet. She just hovers there, her mouth a whisper from yours, not quite a kiss—just the promise of one. Your breath stutters as her nose brushes against yours, the touch slow, deliberate, reverent. The air around you crackles—fragile, electric, humming with something far more dangerous than blood.

When she finally speaks, her voice is so soft you almost don’t hear it.

“I don’t know how to do this gently.”

You tilt your head, barely, just enough for your lips to almost meet hers.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

She leans in—closer, closer—about to close the distance, her breath mingling with yours—

BANG.

The sound of the door slamming ricochets through the house like a gunshot, violent and jarring. Both of you flinch. She pulls back instantly, instincts sharpened, eyes flashing red as her body tenses.

Her hand tightens briefly at your waist before releasing you entirely.

The moment shatters like glass.

Bootsteps echo in the hallway.

Someone’s here.

She pushes you behind her in one swift motion, body tensing as she squares her shoulders, then grabs her shirt and yanks it on in one practiced motion. Every muscle coiled and ready. Her stance sharpens—alert, protective—as the sound of the door reverberates through the house.

In the shadow, someone lurks. Sevika’s eyes snap toward the source—dark, unblinking, calculating every flicker of movement.

A low growl vibrates in her throat as she shields you behind her.

Slowly, a figure steps out from the darkness and into the light—not just anyone. It’s Silco, and behind him, a girl with long, bright blue hair woven into two braids, a side bang framing her face.

Sevika exhales sharply, a breath escaping her lips. Her body relaxes just enough, and she steps forward.

Sevika’s gaze never wavers from Silco’s face—sharp, wary—but beneath her guarded exterior, something unreadable flickers.

The girl with blue hair watches silently, eyes cautious yet curious, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, a restless tension in her movements.

The air thickens, heavy with unspoken history.

Sevika’s voice cuts through the silence—low and steady, but edged with tension.

“Why did you bring her here?”

Silco’s lips curl into a tight, knowing smile. His eyes flicker briefly to you before settling back on Sevika.

“This is Jinx,” Silco says quietly, “she’s a newborn vampire.”

Sevika tenses, stepping in front of you like a shield at the sudden revelation.

“Hey,” Jinx says, waving at both of you, her tone light but eyes watching carefully.

“Why did you bring her here?” Sevika growls, voice low and sharp.

“She’s a danger to humans,” Sevika adds, her gaze fierce.

You step forward slightly, curiosity pushing past your caution.

“What’s a newborn vampire?” you ask, still lingering close behind Sevika.

Silco turns to you, his one good eye sharp and assessing.

“A vampire recently transformed from human,” he replies.

You glance at Sevika and lean in, whispering so only she can hear,

“What does that mean?”

Her voice drops to a growl beneath her breath.

“Her emotions are raw… and she’s more drawn to blood."

You glance down at your wrist. Jinx’s eyes follow the movement, and she stirs slightly—her eyes darken, pupils dilating as she licks her lips. You tense behind Sevika, instinctively reaching for her hand. Sevika stiffens for a moment but doesn’t pull away—not yet.

She steps in front of you, sharp and unyielding. Then, without a word, she releases your hand and takes slow, measured steps toward Jinx, placing herself squarely between the two of you. Her body radiates a tense, barely contained energy, like a predator sizing up a rival.

“You don’t just bring someone like her into this house,” Sevika says, her voice low and dangerous. “Especially not without warning.” Her gaze flicks to Silco but doesn’t soften.

Jinx shifts under the weight of Sevika’s stare but doesn’t back down. Instead, a flicker of something—defiance, desperation—sparks in her bright eyes.

Sevika’s hands curl into fists at her sides. “Newborn or not, she’s unstable. Do you want her to hurt someone? Or worse—turn them?”

The tension in the room thickens, the silence heavy enough to drown in. Sevika’s chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths, but her fingers twitch as if craving control.

Then her gaze softens just a fraction—just enough to reveal the conflict beneath her hardened exterior. She isn’t just guarding against Jinx, but against what Jinx represents: an unstable force, a reminder of what Sevika herself once was, or could become again.

“Look,” Sevika says, her voice dropping to a low, almost vulnerable tone, “if you’re going to stay here, you follow my rules. No feeding on humans. No outbursts. No endangering anyone.”

Jinx’s lips twitch into a reluctant nod. “Got it.”

Sevika’s posture relaxes marginally, though the wariness never leaves her eyes. She glances at you, then back at Silco, silently warning: This is far from over.

Jinx rocks back on her heels, eyes darting between the three of you. Something fragile flickers across her face—uncertainty, maybe even fear—but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. She clasps her hands behind her back, as if trying to contain the restless energy crackling just beneath her skin.

Silco steps forward, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

“She needs stability. Control. If she doesn’t get it…”

His voice trails off, heavy with implication.

Sevika doesn’t look away from Jinx.

“Then maybe she shouldn’t be here at all.”

“That’s not your decision,” Silco says, calm but cold. “You forget—this house was built on second chances. Or did you already burn yours?”

The words land hard, but Sevika doesn’t flinch. Her jaw clenches, and a flicker of something old and raw passes through her—shame, anger—you can’t quite tell. She draws a breath, slow and deliberate, then turns slightly. Just enough to glance at you over her shoulder. as if to say

Stay close. Stay behind me. Don’t trust her. Not yet.

Jinx catches the look. Her brows tick up, and a crooked grin curls at her lips—too playful to be kind, too sharp to be safe.

“Don’t worry,” she purrs, her voice sweet as rot. “I’m not here to bite.”

“Not tonight,” Sevika mutters, stepping forward again. Closer now—close enough that if Jinx made one wrong move, she’d strike without hesitation.

The silence between them settles like a living thing—tense, watchful.

Then, reluctantly, Sevika steps back. She doesn’t look at Jinx again—only at Silco.

“She slips once,” she warns, voice like iron. “You deal with it. Or I will.”

Silco nods once. His agreement is wordless, but it lands just as heavily.

Jinx’s gaze lingers on you, curious.

“What’s your name?” she asks, her tone featherlight.

You hesitate. Before you can answer, Sevika cuts in—quiet, firm.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Jinx smirks, head tilting just slightly.

“Right. Guess we’re not friends yet.”

With that, she turns and strolls deeper into the house, as if she owns the place—like the floorboards were laid just for her.

But beside you, Sevika stays tense. Her breath is steady, but shallow. She’s tracking every step Jinx takes.

You reach for Sevika’s hand again.

This time, she takes it.

Tightly.

And doesn’t let go.

Her grip is steady, but there’s something fierce beneath it—like she’s holding on not just to you, but to her control. Like you’re the thing keeping her from coming undone. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles once, slow and deliberate.

A silent reassurance.

Or a warning.

Jinx vanishes around the corner, her footsteps soft but purposeful, echoing faintly through the hall.

Still, her presence lingers—like static in the air, sharp and waiting.

Silco doesn’t follow right away. He stands there instead, gaze pinned to you both with that cold, precise stare.

“She’s not like us,” Sevika says, her voice low, meant only for you and Silco. “She doesn’t care what she destroys, as long as she feels something.”

Silco’s face doesn’t shift.

“Then teach her to care.”

Sevika lets out a bitter scoff.

“I’m not a fucking babysitter.”

He watches her—long and slow, gaze unreadable. Then, without another word, he turns and follows Jinx down the corridor, his footsteps silent, final. The quiet that settles in his wake is suffocating, thick as smoke.

Sevika exhales. Long. Controlled. Her hand still clasped around yours like a tether. The silence stretches—thin as glass, and just as breakable.

“I don’t like this,” she mutters. “She’s unstable. Half-wild. Like holding a lit match near dry kindling.”

You tilt your head up to look at her.

“Then why let her stay?”

Her jaw ticks. The question cuts too close. She takes a few steps toward the hallway, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed.

“It’s not my call,” she says finally. “Silco sees something in her. That alone makes her dangerous.”

She turns back to face you. Her eyes are darker now—grave.

“So you don’t go near her. Not alone. Not ever.”

You nod, but something in you twists—tight and sharp.

Curiosity.

Or maybe something colder.

Sevika steps in again, voice dropping to a breath against your ear. Her fangs graze the edge of your skin—barely there.

“She’ll smile. She’ll act sweet. But that thing inside her?” Her voice hardens. “It’s hungry. And it likes the taste of fear.”

A shiver skates down your spine.

Sevika leans in closer, her forehead almost brushing yours.

“She slips,” she whispers, “I’ll stop her. No hesitation.”

Her hand squeezes yours—tight and protective.

You believe her.

You absolutely believe her.

And somehow, that terrifies you more than Jinx ever could.

comment to be added to the taglist ~

[sonya-natalia-b]

Zack Ignoffo (Phury), Joel Cederberg (Tohrment) and Andrew Biernat (Zsadist) on the set of The Black Dagger Brotherhood Season Two.

From Audrey Hare's (Mary) Instagram.

[teacupsandtopgun]

Hell of a Night

Vampire!Javy "Coyote" Machado x Female!Reader

Summary: Good wine and a good fuck. Those were your primary motives for venturing into the bar that evening. San Diego was still reeling from the latest killing in a spate of horrific Dagger murders; it was reckless for you to venture beyond the safety of your family home at all. Was it fate that caused you to cross paths with Javy Machado? Or something more sinister? Either way, you were in for one hell of a night…

Author’s Note: Sooooo this has been almost a year in the making... oops? Thank you to anyone new that takes a chance on this fic and thank you to anyone that has stuck around this long!

Part 5

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: 18+ no minors please. Swearing, explicit sexual references, references to violence, religious themes, reader has an odd obsession with death...

Disclaimers: Lines in red are lyrics from Easier Than Lying by Halsey

You'd been to many a wedding in your life. There was a period in your early adolescence when, every other weekend, you would be forced into a ridiculous blancmange-shaped dress and shipped across state to sit through yet another extended family member’s nuptials. The ceremonies dragged, the priests droned, and the choirs were dire. You scuffed your shiny shoes by kicking the pews in front and wondered aloud if bad taste in bridal wear was genetic, until your grandmother pinched you so hard you dared not utter another word.

The late-teenaged you suffered all over again, attending the second or even third marriages of those you'd already had the misfortune of witnessing walk down the aisle. It made you cynical. You believed in love, yes. Passion, absolutely. But being bound to another human soul under God's watchful eye until death do you part? That was clearly the stuff of fantasy and nonsense.

Or so you thought.

Turns out eternal marriage did exist. And death wasn't the end; it was merely the beginning.

-

“You’re an absolute vision, my Angel,” Javy professed solemnly when you rejoined him at the altar, his gaze sweeping over your lace-draped figure.

Natasha had formally presented you to the ‘congregation’, then sank back into the dark alcove from whence she came, a masked observer once more.

“Radiant, just radiant…” he breathed. There was such overt desire, such greedy, gluttonous want in his eyes that it caused your cunt to pulse. His appearance only worsened your plight.

His eternally youthful skin bore a luxe golden glow in the candlelight, luminous and dewy, fresh from bathing. His already impeccably groomed moustache and goatee had been trimmed with precision, and his hair was perfectly shaped. He wore a loose, white linen poet shirt with a deep V that exposed his broad, sculpted chest, and a pair of leather breeches, hung in such a way that barely concealed the shape of manhood you knew was hidden beneath them. In such an outfit, it was easy to picture him dripping with blood after a feeding, crimson spilling from his lips and staining the linen. Vampiric. Deadly. A haunter of nightmares through centuries yore.

And you were his perfect bride, the fated gothic heroine dressed in purest, scorching white.

Javy bowed his head so that his lips lingered beside the shell of your ear, the low timbre of his voice as dangerous as a hand between your legs. “I cannot wait to devour you once again, when you are truly, eternally mine.”

Your eyes fluttered closed and visions of the preceding hours flooded your mind; Javy's tongue, claiming you, searing his name onto our psyche. His hands, violently passionate and reverently gentle, the hypnotic sounds of his hot, ragged grunts as he fucked his cock into you, possessing you, allowing himself to be possessed by you. Oh, if only you could have him again, right here on this altar. The decadent promise of his mouth was only a hair's breadth away...

A throat was cleared in your proximity, rudely reminding you there were other people in the room.

“Shall we begin?”

The masked officiant with the booming voice from earlier stood before you both once again. He introduced himself as Reuben, Javy's trusted brother (a bond forged by death, not familial ties). It was he who would officiate your oath of marriage and guide Javy through the letting of blood, turning you, and binding you to the sect for millennia.

In Rueban’s hands was a heavy leather tome, gilded with gold. Each crackling, age-stained page was patiently turned until he found the relevant scripture.

“We have convened tonight, under a Blood Moon sky, to witness the most sacred of rituals; the unbreakable union of our beloved Javier, and his long-awaited Angel. Before the rise of tomorrow’s sun, their two souls will be woven, bound and chained as one. Together, they will walk in lockstep through eternity, traversing the endless thread of time, their love immortal.

The night ahead bodes a ceremony of devotion and death, passion and possession.

As such, in accordance with the laws of our kind and the teachings of our forbearers, we, the gathered, bless proceedings with a solemn declaration.”

Rueban’s voice grew louder, reverberating off the stone walls with grand authority.

“My friends. My sister. My brothers. Will you join with me in making such a vow in the presence of our Sire?”

“We will,” rumbled the assembled chorus.

Sire. Captain Mitchell, the man who’d condemned Javy to living death, was among you. Under which mask and cloak did he hide?

A page of the ceremonial book was turned. Reuben continued.

“Do you swear to honour the oath Javy and his Angel are about to make with as much fervour as they?”

“We do.”

“Do you promise to welcome our soon-to-be blood-bound sister to our House of Daggers with open arms, as if she has always been one of our number?”

“We do.”

“Finally, do you pledge to teach her the ways of the dagger; to sharpen her bite and burnish her into a proud and lethal blade?”

“We do.”

Reuban nodded, satisfied. “The sect has spoken. Our declaration will soon be sealed forevermore with the spilling of blood. But first,” his voice softened slightly, “we have the small matter of a marriage to attend to.” He cast his arms wide. “May the keepers of the artefacts make their presence known.”

Three cloaked figures emerged from the darkness and breached the perimeters of the candlelight. In slow, measured unison, they stalked closer to you and Javy. If Rueban stood at your north, the others assembled themselves at your south, east and west. For a few extended seconds, they stood as statues, still as marble. Then, in a flourish, they each produced a golden chest from beneath their cloaks.

Perhaps these mysterious chests would reveal something about the dagger who had been entrusted with them. Were their contents symbols of each dagger’s relationship with Javy, a mark of the lifetimes they had already shared with one another? Or were they tokens from the past before each had been turned, relics brought over the threshold from life to death?

“My Angel.”

Like a whistle to a straying pet, Javy so effortlessly commanded your wandering attention to return solely to him.

“The gifts I bestow upon you now are only a fraction of the trove that will soon become yours. They are but mere tokens, representations of all that I give, even the treasures and riches beyond human comprehension.”

Javy turned to the east and opened the first of the chests.

“With this necklace, I give you all my earthly possessions. My land, my coin. My assets and my titles.”

Javy lifted the most extraordinary jewel-laden festoon necklace and fastened it around your throat. The grandiose heft of it weighed you down, and the string of rosaries you already wore looked paltry and sparse in comparison to the opulent yards of strung garnets that encircled your neck in exponentially tightening layers. An imposing pear-cut ruby rested at your jugular.

The western dagger’s chest was opened next.

“With this ring, I give you my heart. My unvanquishable love, my unyielding devotion.”

The ring’s band fit snugly on your finger, as if it were fashioned with you in mind, centuries ago. A smooth oval-shaped ruby nestled in a bed of gold, engraved with precision into two twisted vines of ivy, curling and constricting around the finger that contained the vein to your heart like a deadly snake.

You waggled your fingers, admiring how the candlelight danced prettily on the surface of the jewel.

Only one chest remained. The final dagger’s pale hands unlatched the lock and prized open the lid, the hinge creaking. Your eyes widened, and your chest tightened, trapping your next breath.

Javy was giving you a crown.

Your mind travelled back to when you were small, playing dress up with your siblings and cousins. You remembered turning a ratty red tablecloth into a cloak and donning a plastic tiara you’d stolen from the costume box at school. It would give you such a thrill, delivering orders and commanding your loyal subjects to do your bidding. Yet the game almost always ended in tears; a peasant would run to tell tattle tales, and you’d wind up on the bottom step, furiously holding back tears after your grandmother clipped you round the ear.

As you grew older, you realised she was only harsh on you because she believed you had the most potential. That you had the smarts, whiles, and ambition needed to become the best of them. She saw herself in you, she’d confessed once, after a night of wine had loosened her thin, leathery lips. But she didn’t want you to make the same mistakes she did. She knew which divine punishments would befall a little girl who dreamed too big. She needed to make you tough enough to face them.

She taught you to be proud, but never prideful. She taught you to rise, but never to reign. She taught you to stand tall, to climb, but never to reach too high. And, on the days you were too insolent to listen, she’d kick out the rungs beneath you herself to teach you her lesson.

You’d snapped at her once, vicious.

“Whatever you give to me, from yourself you take,

Well, if you’re a hater, then hate the creator

It’s in your image I’m made.”

You braced yourself for swift and painful retaliation, but none came. She simply knocked her walking stick into the ground and walked away, muttering. “Finally, the girl learns.”

Your grandmother’s own aspirations had been snuffed out by a patriarchal world, condemning her to a life of nothing but wifedom and motherhood. Each new child that grew inside her belly was a nail in the coffin where her dreams lay dead and cold.

But your dreams weren’t the same as hers.

Here you were, sinking to your knees for a man - the devil, awaiting your coronation, pledging to rule San Diego’s dark and deadly underworld by his side…

“With this crown, I give you dominion. You are raised above all others, heralded and protected, forever in command of my affection.”

Javy placed the golden, red jewelled coronet upon your head with ceremonial care. His fingers swept around the edge of your face before tipping up your chin.

“My Angel. My queen.”

You rose as a new woman, an empress of darkness.

“The Blood Oath will now be made,” Rueban announced. “Angel, you will look upon the eyes of your betrothed and repeat after me, verse by verse.”

You turned to Javy to hold his gaze. The weight of it compounded with gravity, chaining you to the earth on which you stood. The words you were about to utter would be the most important you would ever speak, your last as a single, living mortal.

Rueban gave you your script, but in the darkest depths of your heart, the verse felt already familiar, a spell cast long ago that had lain dormant until the eternally binding incantation passed your lips.

“To you, Javier Machado, I pledge,

The first bite of my living flesh,

The first drink from my chalice of blood.

With only you will my lust be fed,

Passion sated, my soul understood.

You are my sovereign, my saviour,

by your love I am born anew.

I am your mistress, your muse, your maker,

I speak only the language of you.

From this night forth and for forever,

I am yours and you are mine.

Let us walk through hell together,

In death we are divine.”

Rueban nodded, satisfied.

“Brother. Look upon your betrothed and speak your oath.”

Javy’s dark, elegant hands clasped yours even more tightly, holding steady your heart.

“To you, my Angel, I pledge,

The shelter of my immortal flesh,

The command of my chalice of blood.

With only you will my lust be fed,

Passion sated, my soul understood.

You are my sovereign and my saviour,

In your love I am born anew.

I am your master, your muse, your maker,

I speak only the language of you.

From this night forth and for forever,

I am yours and you are mine.

Let us walk through hell together,

In death we are divine.”

Yours and Javy’s union was the closing of a wound in the universe, flesh and skin, sinew and tendon, knitting together, healing a tear in the very fabric of time.

Rueban shut the ceremonial book with a satisfying thud.

“The Blood Oath has been spoken. I now pronounce you wed.”

Javy didn’t wait to be told; he needed no permission from Rueban, nor anyone else, to kiss his bride. His wife.

You body bowed into his fervent grasp like the twisted branches of an ancient tree. Your mouth was open, wanting, eager to drink at the font of his passion, even if it was poisoned wine. His tongue rolled against yours, coating it in some kind of scarlet madness that seeped into the deepest, unchecked recesses of your mind, debasing you beyond redemption. Oh, his perfect lips could convince you to commit every sin all at once, if it were what he commanded; Superbia, Avaritia, Luxuria, Invidia, Gula, Ira and Acedia. But God needed to review his list and add another: Machado. The very worst of them all, a sin of both the flesh and the spirit.

If Javy was the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, then you would feast upon him until you were sick and plunge from God’s gallows into the depths of hell, sated and satisfied. If Javy was the serpent, the voice of the devil hissing temptations into your ear, then you would do his bidding, heaven be dammed.

Reluctantly, your lips were torn apart. Upon the ending of your kiss, you found yourself bathed in crimson moonlight. In the gloom, you’d assumed the peak of the high vaulted ceiling was made of ancient stone, when, in reality, you and Javy stood beneath a circle of red-stained glass – stained with blood for all you knew, and the earth had turned to the perfect position for the moon’s aura to flood through, drenching you in bloodied rays.

“The Blood Moon calls, and we must answer. The Blood Moon demands, and we must give.”  Reuban’s voice was urgent, fire and brimstone. Your future with Javy would soon be endless, but the night, this night, was not.

He gestured grandly. “The altar is yours, brother.”

Your necklace and crown were removed and locked away once again in the chests from which they came, but you still felt the truth of Javy’s promises, deep in the marrow of your bones.

The ring remained. 

Javy lifted you onto the marble altar with a god-like ease, your body no more burdensome to him than a plucked feather. Then he alighted the table himself and settled on his knees behind you, your back supported by his strong, muscular chest.

He rubbed your arms reassuringly and pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your neck, indulging in a deep inhale that seemed to draw the river of blood that still pulsed in your veins closer to the surface, simmering just beneath the layer of skin.

“The time has come, my Angel,” he whispered for only you to hear.

The infinite finality of death loomed before you. A black, ever-expanding abyss, into which you would soon fall, deeper than the darkest depths of the ocean and emptier than the endless expanse of outer space.

But what of death did you truly know? What of death did you truly understand? You remembered your grandfather's funeral, black lace shrouds and sombre piety. Your mother's tears and a eulogy full of lies, claiming he was a good man taken too soon, when you all knew him to be a cruel man, not taken soon enough.

So no, the cold hands of the Reaper had not gripped you yet. Death was something that happened in stories, in books and films, on the news. Death happened to other people.

Still, you’d always harboured a fascination for the macabre. You’d followed the trail that death left behind, scavenged for the morish breadcrumbs that tragedy and violence left in their wake. You poured over newspaper clippings and reddit threads and devoured true crime podcasts and video essays. Why did people kill? What circumstances might drive you to do the same?

Why you had a thirst for such knowledge, you couldn’t quite explain. But it was… enthralling. Engrossing. Erotic, even.

Le Petite Mort: ‘The Little Death’. An idiom for the brief, intense, and transient loss of consciousness or weakening of sensation, specifically during an orgasm.

If an orgasm was a little death, then Javy had already committed your murder thrice over.

Odaxelagnia: Sexual arousal from biting or being bitten.

Vampire: A preternatural being or corpse, said to subsist by feeding on the blood of the living by biting their neck with long canine-like teeth.

A new life beckoned. It would cost you your old one. But of all the ways you could choose to be killed, you were glad it was to be Javy’s mouth.

“I’m ready.”

His arm snaked around your body, tightening across your breasts. The white robe was slid off your shoulder. His muscles flexed, his grip firmed, and your breath hitched as if captured by a coiling constrictor. There was no escape now. You already felt lightheaded, the inescapable, primitive terror of imminent death finally dawning, no matter how much you told yourself you wanted this; you wanted immortality, you wanted Javy, he would never do anything to truly hurt you -

Then his teeth sank into the waiting flesh of your neck.

As always, I would love to know your thoughts! I think there's probably only one chapter left of the story I want to tell. I promise it will be a good one!

I hope you enjoyed Part 4! I would love to know your thoughts, as always 🥰 Part 5 is in progress I promise...

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