#vampire smut

[six-swords]

I just posted a non-con smut fic about a vampire disciplining and fucking a trans guy 🦇🩸

[draculast33th]

feeling his hands slide up my thighs like snakes slithering on the ground with his lips hot on my neck, sharp teeth grazing my pulse, my heart nearly beating out of my chest in anticipation.

i want him to bite me but he doesn’t. instead he settles in between my thighs fitting snug up against me.

“bite me.” i whisper and he says not yet. snaking his hands up my back as his lips consumes mine in a heated kiss. our tongues danced together as we grind against each other and i can feel his length get harder the rougher we get. stepping back a little he rips my panties off discarding the shedded garment aside. as he unbuckles his belt holding my gaze his eyes burn with an intensity that gets me wetter than ever.

“i hope you’re ready to take me. all of me.” he says while getting back in his previous position this time lining up with my entrance. i nod enthusiastically. i’ve been ready since we first met.

his lips find my neck again and sharp unforgiving teeth sink into my neck at the same time as his length. the burning sensation feels like magma spreading through my body as it clashes with the pleasure of him inside me. it’s euphoric. i want to scream but i can’t. gripping his hair i pull him closer while meeting his thrusts.

i moan his name begging him to go deeper, harder. i want him to break me. i’m nothing but his toy to use as he pleases, he can drink as much as he pleases. i am his and he is mine forever.

…..

a/n thought of this randomly needed to get it out bad. can u tell i have a thing for vampires? need one bad. i’d probably write more stuff like this if ppl like it.

[intersectionals1ut]

I don't see the innately sexual nature of a vampire feeding / being fed on mentioned or used often enough.

Like it's how vampires reproduce. We feed on someone, drink them nearly dry, then let them (or make them) feed on us in return.

There's a certain intimacy in feeling their skin give way to my fangs, and then the heat of their blood in my mouth. Then, while they're in their most vulnerable state and they're lightheaded from the blood loss, watching them lap up your blood like it's the last drop of water in an arid desert. Watching a new baby vamp get born into the world, with you as it's master.

[thesanguinesonnet]

WIP Wednesday Finished Friday

Thank you for the tags @kt-catt @eliwyntorleth @87000beesinapersonsuit @deianestormborn @hollowharpwrites

Am I late? I just finished chapter fourteen of The Chiaroscuro of Szarr and I am unwell. It was the self-titled chapter, and it includes The Trope.

I am going to spend the next couple days catching up on everyone else's goingons. I'm behind on BlueSky, Tumblr, and reading.

I'm just going to shamelessly drop some of that trope below. CW: F/M explicit smut. Bloodplay. Vampire/Human sex. Period oral & PIV sex. Read at your own risk. There is a render attatched below.

His hands gripped harder. His eyes went soft and he drew his lips up and made a sound trembling from his chest and put his mouth on her. Cazador licked up her cunt, smiling halfway through.

Bernadette's legs turned to water, one arm tried to grab the lip of the tub, and she almost tumbled backwards. Cazador's arm clamped across the back of her thighs and hauled her into his mouth like she weighed nothing. His strength lit her up as much as his tongue did.

She found the lip and leaned back, he threw one of her legs over his shoulder, and his fingers parted her. Bernadette's other hand slid into his hair. The noises he made while gorging on her made her thigh shake against his ear and the heat kept climbing and climbing and she heard herself saying his nickname in a mantra, Caz, Caz, and the room shrunk and faded to the shadows made entirely of his mouth.

Cazador dropped her leg and stood to his full height, a tree of a man. His mouth and chin were dark and his pupils had eaten the red almost whole. " I want you," he said, vocal cords strained and rough. "Bernadette, I want you."

Another wave of heat bloomed between her legs. "Yeah." She moved around him, already pulling his arm, leading towards the door, and walking backwards. She struggled with the door latch and he assisted her.

She made it to the bed, rolling onto her back and watched him undress on the way to her. He hauled his shirt up over his head and threw it to the floor, his hair falling wild and wrecked, hands already at his trousers, shoving them and his braies down and stepping out of both without breaking stride. He came up onto the bed the way the panther used to pounce onto its platform.

His hands closed on her ankles and yanked her down the mattress to him. She yelped as she slid, hair catching the sheet behind her. He shifted both legs over his shoulders, his fingers spreading her cunt apart and his warm mouth met her flesh and she jerked.

Cazador dragged a flat tongue over her, chin trailing, and sealed over her clit, sucking. Bernadette's hips came off the mattress and his forearm slammed them back down and held them there. He growled. She balled the sheets beside her, tugging on them.

Two fingers pushed into her while he fluttered her clit with his tongue, occasionally sucking, or dipping the point down left or right like he was licking a dinner plate clean each time she felt blood gush. He hooked his fingers in her, jerking back and hitting the spot each time. She tried to hold back the whine, it rushed past her gritted teeth.

"Do not shy from me," he murmured. "Be barbaric with me."

She bunched her neck back, closing her eyes and a high whine knocked out of her as he slammed his fingers back. His tongue snaked around his fingers and back up to her throbbing clit. He sucked it cruelly, fangs right there. She could feel the twin points bracketing the softest part of her, a flinch from breaking skin. His hair tickled her inner thigh as it shifted.

She propped up on her elbows. He wore her. Blood smeared across his face, chin, up the side of his jaw, across one cheekbone, even over his nose. It stretched down his throat and on his teeth when his lips pulled back. He looked up from licking another stripe, rocking his hips against the bed, dragging himself against the sheets.

Cazador withdrew his fingers, each one red to the knuckle. He looked at his own hands in silence and brought them to his mouth and she gasped. Sexier than Billy Loomis.

He slid them back in, crooking them inside her. Bernadette curled her left leg up, digging her heel into his shoulder. "Don't play in it," she breathed, half a laugh.

He grinned, continuing to play, spreading the blood. That thumb dragged across her clit in slick circles. When she rolled her hips he sat up on his knees, pinning her with his forearm and dropped his mouth back to her cunt. That tongue did insidious things. She swore she could die right now, in pure bliss. With blood smeared across his face, streaking back through his hair, countenance akin to a slasher.

The other bloodied hand squeezed her breast, caging her flesh, bulging between his fingers. Her grip on the sheets expired and one hand carded through his sable hair and tugged. She bit down on the back of her knuckles.

He snarled his approval into her cunt and sucked her skin up into a pop, fingers picking up a pace that made the headboard knock into the wall, and she moaned, practically begged. Babbling curses, his name, and gibberish. Everything rose up tight and she fought his hold to buck into it, heel digging into his back. She rolled as much as she could, thighs locking around his head.

He stopped, and lifted his head. "No, not like this." He kissed into the crease of her thigh. "Not on my mouth. I want to feel it."

"Come here," she begged, dropping her legs off his shoulders. He crawled up her body dragging his mouth as he went, spreading the blood across her stomach, and closed it over her breast sucking hard enough to bruise and shoot straight between her legs. When he pulled off her own blood ringed the nipple. He did it to the other one.

Bernadette threaded her fingers behind his neck and into his hair and pulled him down. They kissed, his plush lower lip caught between hers, and it tasted like an open wound. Pussy and pennies, not her first time tasting the combo. She licked into his mouth, and sucked on his tongue. He moaned appreciatively against her mouth. He lowered his stomach over hers, and his cock lay hard, hot, and leaking across her, twitching.

"Bernadette." her name came out of him mangled. He arched himself, reaching between them and guided himself, dragging the flare of his cock up and down her vulva. "I want you."

"Take me, Caz."

Cazador pushed himself forward, gripping one thigh, and pulling her onto him. She felt so full, so fucking impaled on this man. Every centimeter of him pulsing inside her while her body screamed fuck me. She felt his balls settle against her ass. Then he lowered himself back over her. He was so fucking tall and yet horizontally they were perfect for each other. He slid one arm under her back, pressed a kiss to her lips, already sliding.

She spread her legs wider, and he pulled one of her hands down from his neck and pressed it into the bed, fingers gridlocked with hers. His hair fell onto her face and clavicle. She gathered it with one hand, even as it poured through her grip like silk. Every roll of his torso and hips pushed them both towards bliss. Their sounds mixed. His whispers in languages she didn't understand heightened every nerve in her body and she kept thinking she would crash.

He released her hand and caught her hip, pulling her into each roll. Her hands trailed down his sides and back, feeling the roll and arches. She ran a thumb over the side of the scar on his chest and he whined, and kissed her harder. Bernadette rocked up to meet each of his rolls.

"Da," he rasped, hips driving to meet her. "Da—asa—fuck me, fuck me—" The common jumbled out of him way above his range, gripping her and slamming into her. "Fuck me, draga, just—like—"

She smiled, he was picking up her slang. It was endearing and ridiculous and it spurred her on.

Cazador dropped one hip to the mattress and hauled her half onto her side against him without pulling out. His hand stayed splayed over her hip, yanking her back into every roll, and the other slid under her head, fingers fisting into her damp hair.

She clawed at his chest, ran her hands over the expanse and dragged the skin anywhere it would give. Their sweat sealed their stomachs together, pocketing heat. His grip on her hair started to sting. And every grind into her made her sob into his mouth. She was so close, so unfairly close, and she wasn't the type of woman to get off from penetration alone.

His metronome changed, the nails dug into her hip, and he slammed her onto his thrusts. "You—" he got out, forehead grinding against her temple. He groaned, holding her against him, until his hips stopped stuttering. He made a shaky noise, kissed her neck, let go of her hip, and that hand went to her clit. "Beside me," he whispered. "Not left behind."

Cazador continued to roll and rub, keeping the same tempo. She appreciated his touch, his kisses, and the look he gave her. It didn't take long for him to build her up and tip her off the edge. "Caz."

"Yes."

It drew up taut. Right there. Right at the edge. Bernadette couldn't hold back the groans, they belted out of her. The sensation sparked like the ghost-flame from the tavern and shot through her core. One last touch, one more roll and she came unglued on him, wailing into his shoulder, cunt clamping down on him in waves, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave eight red roads, thighs shaking, and hips bucking for anything.

After several seconds he lifted her chin from his shoulder, kissed her hairline, temple, and the corner of her eye. "Thank you," he murmured.

She started laughing before she had the air for it. "Did you—did you just thank me for sex?"

"Yes." Cazador moved his hands over her. Down her side, over her stomach, her hips, the tops of her thighs. "You are a great deal of woman, Bernadette. And I like all of it."

Gently tagging: @bladesingerlily @alliskit @cherry4ecstasy @wasteful-sam @the-shadowfell-darkroom @elandra-beltharys @optimisticgrey @kimberbohwrites @faeriiefire @ann-bg3-lol @the-lunarvoid @cinder-rellish181 @gortashsrighthand @victoria-strangelove @unovafarm @purpleasters-inseptember @lolthwoven @emmyandthetieflings @grandninjamasterren

[skzdust]

Yungi vampire smut (it's their first time)

pet play

knife play

emotional/sweet

secret fourth option (tell me !!)

Voting ended onJul 6

[azoor-draw]

Vampire x Bartender reader

Warnings : mention of blood, afab reader, mdni, no use of y/n, vampire, piv, no protections used (wrap it before you tap it), smut, sex without romance

Masterlist

The last stool had been empty for twenty minutes already. You were wiping down the counter, the rag moving in slow circles across the polished wood, when the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up. Of course.

He always came at closing time. Never early enough to bother the other customers, never late enough to find the door locked. Just at that precise moment when you were alone and tired and ready to go home.

The man was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent. His hair was dark, combed back neatly, and his skin had that particular pallor that some people mistook for anemia or too many hours in an office. You knew better now. You'd known for about three months, ever since he first walked in and ordered something you didn't serve.

"Mister...," you said, setting the rag aside. "We're closing."

"I'm aware." He walked toward the bar, his steps measured and deliberate. "I won't keep you long."

He settled onto the stool, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. You already knew what was coming. The same conversation every few weeks, always at this hour, always when you were alone.

"I need a drink," he said.

"We have whiskey. Vodka. Some wine too"

"Not that kind of drink."

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. "Mister, you know I can't serve what you're asking for."

Three months of this. Three months of him coming in, ordering something you couldn't provide, and leaving with that same polite smile when you refused. He never pushed. He never argued. He just showed up, asked, and accepted your answer like a gentleman accepting bad weather.

But tonight felt different. Maybe because you were tired. Maybe because the bar was empty and the city outside was quiet and there was something about the way the streetlight caught his face that made him look almost lonely.

"Mister." You gluped, not sure anymore. "I still can't serve what you're asking."

"I know." He tilted his head, studying you. "But I also know you have a storage room in the back. And I know you close in five minutes."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. A skip, then a flutter, then a steady thump that felt too loud in the quiet room.

"That's not something I do."

"I'm not asking you to make it a habit."

"Why me?" you asked. "Surely you have other options."

He considered the question carefully, which you appreciated. Most people just said whatever came to mind first. This man, or whatever he was, seemed like the type who weighed every word before releasing it.

"You're clean," he said finally. "I can tell. You take care of yourself. You don't smoke, you drink moderately, and I've never seen you touch anything harder than coffee during your shifts." He paused. "Also, you're kind. You let the homeless man off the street use your bathroom last winter when every other business on this block turned him away. I saw that."

You remembered that night. The man had been shivering, covered in snow, and you'd let him warm up in the back for an hour before the police came to take him to a shelter. You hadn't thought anyone noticed.

"Three months," you said slowly. "You've been watching me for three months?"

"I'm a patient man." He smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. Just barely. "I had to be sure."

The bar was empty. The clock on the wall ticked past closing time, and outside, the city hummed its usual nighttime melody.

You made a decision.

"Follow me."

The storage room was small, cramped with boxes of liquor and stacked chairs and a mop bucket that never seemed to dry properly. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a yellow glow that made the space feel smaller than it was.

He followed you inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed in the tight space.

You rolled up your sleeve, exposing the pale skin of your forearm. The veins were visible underneath, blue lines traced against flesh in the dim light. You'd thought about this moment before, in the abstract way people think about unlikely scenarios. Never seriously. Never expecting it to actually happen.

He stepped closer, his movements slow and careful. He reached out and took your wrist, his fingers cool against your skin.

"Thank you," he said, and he sounded genuine. "This is not something I take lightly."

"Just do it."

He brought your arm to his lips, and for a moment, nothing happened. Just his breath against your skin, cool and steady. Then his mouth opened, and you felt the sharp pinch of teeth breaking through.

The pain was immediate but brief. A sting, then a warmth that spread outward from the wound. You watched, half-fascinated and half-horrified, as his mouth pressed against your arm. He didn't suck, not aggressively. Instead, he seemed to let the blood flow naturally, taking slow and deliberate draws that made your head spin.

The world narrowed to the sensation of his mouth on your skin. The warmth of your own blood leaving your body. The strange intimacy of standing in a storage room with a man you barely knew, giving him something that felt almost sacred.

He drank slowly, as though savoring it. Minutes passed, or maybe seconds. Time lost its shape in that small yellow room.

When he finally pulled away, you expected him to stop there. To wipe his mouth and thank you and leave. But he didn't.

He leaned in again, and his lips pressed against the wound. Not to drink this time. To kiss it.

The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, that your breath caught in your throat. His lips lingered on your skin, soft and cool, and when he pulled back, the wound had stopped bleeding. He'd sealed it somehow, with his saliva or his tongue or something you didn't understand.

"There," he said quietly. "That should heal quickly."

He released your wrist and stepped back, giving you space. His eyes were darker now, the pupils dilated, but his expression remained calm and composed.

"Thank you," he said. "That was... more than I expected."

You lowered your sleeve, feeling lightheaded. "You're welcome."

He reached into his jacket. His hand emerged with a handkerchief, crisp and white, which he offered to you.

"For your arm. In case it stains."

You took it, not knowing what else to do. The fabric was soft, expensive, monogrammed with what probably were his initials.

"Is there anything I can offer you in return?" he asked. "A tip, perhaps, for the service?"

The question hung in the air between you. You should have said no. Should have thanked him and sent him on his way. That would have been the smart thing, the safe thing.

But you didn't.

"I'm open to suggestions," you heard yourself say.

Something shifted in his expression. A flicker of interest, of hunger, though not the same hunger he'd walked in with. This was something else entirely.

"I could show you," he said, his voice dropping lower, "what it feels like to be wanted. To be taken care of." He stepped closer again, his hand reaching up to cup your face. His palm was cool against your cheek. "If you'd let me."

Your heart hammered in your chest. The storage room felt smaller, warmer, charged with an energy that made your skin prickle.

"Yes," you said.

He kissed you then, slow and deliberate, the way he'd drunk from you. His mouth was cool but not cold, tasting faintly of copper. Your blood, still on his lips. The thought should have disgusted you. Instead, it sent a thrill through your body that settled somewhere deep in your stomach.

His hands found your waist, guiding you backward until your back hit the wall. Boxes rattled somewhere behind him, a bottle clinking against another bottle. The sound was distant, unimportant.

His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air. His fingers traced along your waist, your ribs, mapping the contours of your body with an attention that made you shiver.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "I knew you would be."

His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His teeth grazed your skin, not breaking it, just teasing. A reminder of what he was, what he could do.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, feeling the expensive fabric of his jacket beneath your fingers. He was solid, real, even if the rest of this felt like a dream.

He turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the wall. The storage room door stared back at you, locked, a flimsy barrier between this moment and the rest of the world.

His hands worked at his belt, the sound of metal sliding against leather sharp in the quiet room. Then his fingers found the waistband of your pants, sliding them down with your underwear.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice rough but still polite, still controlled, "how long I've wanted this."

His hands gripped your hips, steadying you. You felt the pressure of him against you, the cool touch of his skin, and then he pushed inside.

The sound you made was not a word. It was something deeper, more primal, torn from your throat without permission. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made your knees weak.

"Shh," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I know. Take a moment."

He stayed still, letting you adjust, his hands warm on your hips even through the coolness of his skin. Patient. Always patient.

When you moved against him, a small shift of your hips, he took it as permission. He began to move, slow at first, each thrust measured and deliberate. His breath was cool against your neck, his body pressed against your back, hemming you in against the wall.

"You feel incredible," he said, the words almost a whisper. "I knew you would. I could tell, just by looking at you."

Your hands scraped against the wall, searching for purchase. The pleasure built slowly, a wave rising from somewhere deep inside you.

"Tell me what you need," he said, his voice still that same polite murmur. "I want to give you what you need."

Faster. Deeper. The words wouldn't form properly on your lips, so you pushed back against him instead, showing him through movement what you couldn't say.

He understood. His thrusts grew harder, faster, the rhythm of his body driving you toward the edge. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you close.

"That's it," he said. "Let go. I've got you."

And you did. The wave crested and broke, pleasure flooding through you in hot waves that made your vision blur. You cried out, the sound muffled by your own hand, by the wall, by the sheer intensity of the moment.

He followed moments later, his body tensing against yours, a low groan escaping his lips. He stayed inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against the back of your neck.

The silence that followed was heavy. Intimate. The kind of silence that felt more honest than words.

He pulled out slowly, carefully, and you felt the sudden emptiness like a loss. Your legs gave out, and you slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor of the storage room.

He knelt beside you, adjusting his clothes with practiced efficiency. Then he turned to you, his expression soft in a way you hadn't seen before.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

You couldn't answer. Your body was still trembling, your mind still catching up to what had just happened. Tears had gathered in your eyes, the kind that came after intense pleasure, and they spilled over before you could stop them.

He saw the tears. Something in his face shifted — concern, maybe, or tenderness. He reached out and brushed the tears away with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle.

"It's alright," he said quietly. "That happens sometimes. It's just your body processing everything."

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, a soft press of lips against your skin. Then he pulled back and smiled, a real smile this time, one that made him look almost human.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. "You're welcome."

He stood and straightened his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles with practiced ease. At the door, he paused, looking back at you.

"I'll come more often," he said.

Then he unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving you alone in the yellow light of the storage room, your body still humming with the memory of his touch.

Hope you enjoyed

Clic here for more!

[bruised-saint]

I need blood in my mouth from wounds I’ve caused and I need blood in my mouth as I’m tied up helplessly and beaten senseless oh the duality of man

[elarasilentpurr]

Bite of midnight

Pairing: vampire Jungkook x human reader

Warning: 18+, supernatural, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, orgasm, oral

The moon hung high over the old gothic mansion on the outskirts of the city. You had wandered in during a storm, seeking shelter, never expecting to find him.

Jungkook stood in the grand hallway like a shadow come to life. Tall, pale skin glowing under the moonlight filtering through stained glass windows, messy dark hair falling over his forehead. His crimson eyes locked onto you with predatory hunger mixed with something deeper — centuries of loneliness.

“You shouldn’t be here, little human,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet and dark as midnight. “But now that you are… I don’t think I can let you leave.”

Before you could run, he was in front of you, moving faster than your eyes could follow. He pinned you gently but firmly against the cold marble wall, one hand beside your head. His breath was cool against your neck as he leaned in, lips brushing your pulse point.

“I can hear your heart racing,” he whispered. “Are you afraid… or excited?”

You shivered as his fangs grazed your skin without breaking it. Then he kissed you — slow, deep, and intoxicating. His tongue tasted like dark wine and sin. You melted into him despite the danger, hands fisting his black shirt.

Jungkook groaned softly, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you up the grand staircase to his bedroom. The room was luxurious and dark, dominated by a massive four-poster bed with silk sheets.

He laid you down reverently, but his eyes burned with hunger.

His cold fingers traced your jaw, tilting your head to expose your neck. He leaned in slowly, letting his fangs graze your pulse point without breaking the skin. You shivered, arousal flooding your body.

Jungkook’s control snapped.

He kissed you fiercely, tongue sliding against yours with possessive hunger. His hands moved with supernatural grace — one moment your soaked clothes were intact, the next they were torn away, leaving you completely bare beneath him. He shed his own black shirt.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned against your lips, palming your breasts and rolling your nipples between his fingers. “So alive. It drives me insane.”

He kissed down your body with reverence and greed, sucking bruises into your skin that would last for days. When he reached between your thighs, he spread your legs wide and dragged his tongue slowly through your folds, savoring your taste with a deep, guttural moan.

“Fuck… you’re dripping for me already.”

Two long fingers pushed inside you while his tongue circled your clit with devastating precision. Your back arched off the bed, fingers gripping his dark hair as pleasure built rapidly. He curled his fingers perfectly, sucking on your clit until you came hard on his tongue, thighs trembling around his head.

Jungkook rose above you, lips glistening with your arousal. His crimson eyes burned as he freed his cock — long, thick, and pale, the head already leaking precum. He rubbed it along your soaked slit, teasing your entrance.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

Your eyes locked as he pushed inside you in one slow, powerful thrust. The stretch was exquisite. He filled you completely, bottoming out with a low hiss of pleasure, fangs bared.

“So tight… so perfect,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You were made for me.”

He started moving — deep, sensual rolls of his hips that made you feel every inch of him. His lean, muscular body moved above you with controlled power, toned back flexing under your nails as you clung to him. One hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider while the other braced beside your head.

Jungkook kissed you deeply as he fucked you, tongue tasting every moan that left your lips. His pace gradually quickened, thrusts becoming harder, more desperate. The wet sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mixing with your cries and his low, sinful groans.

He buried his face in your neck, fangs scraping teasingly against your pulse.

“I want to taste you,” he rasped, voice strained with need. “Just a little… please.”

When you tilted your head in consent, he sank his fangs into your neck. The sharp sting melted instantly into overwhelming pleasure. Ecstasy flooded your veins as he drank from you, hips snapping harder, pounding into you with raw hunger. The combination of his bite and his thick cock driving deep inside you pushed you over the edge.

You came hard around him, walls fluttering and squeezing his cock as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Jungkook groaned loudly against your neck, drinking deeply for a few more seconds before sealing the bite with his tongue.

He thrust into you a few more times, then buried himself to the hilt with a broken moan. His cock pulsed as he came, flooding your insides with cool, thick seed. The feeling of him filling you while still buried deep made you shudder in aftershock.

Jungkook collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you with his weight. He stayed inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as he licked the remaining blood from your neck with gentle strokes of his tongue.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered against your skin, voice hoarse with satisfaction and something deeper. “My warm, beautiful human. I’ll never let you go.”

He kissed you slowly, tasting faintly of blood and sin, as the storm continued to rage outside — two beings, immortal and mortal, tangled together in the dark.