need more monster posts about recieving pleasure that doesnt automatically make the recipient the sub
like. allowing a human settlement to slowly grow right at a distant edge of my territory til I deem it worth razing, taking my pick of new toys and devouring the rest along with their livestock. returning to my den and servants with limbs aching from the long journey, maw and claws and mane matted with gore. tossing my prizes aside for the moment, knowing they'll be taken care of, fed, cleaned, dressed, restrained if necessary, and sinking into the waters of a hot spring. the heat soaking into my muscles and starting to warm away the aches there while half a dozen pairs of hands work the dried blood from my fur and muzzle, the only interruption the occasional sting as an arrow or splinter is dug from a flesh wound.
when that's done, hauling myself out to drowse and be dried off and have my body worked over more fully. Claws spread and sharpened, sensitive pads pressed and checked for injuries and softened with oils if they're looking too dry. Jaws open so my teeth can be picked clean of cloth or sinew, irritating splinters of bone or metal dug from my gums. The pleasure of having my tongue pushed on and the taste of skin more than enough to get me hard, tail curling and uncurling with every shiver through my body.
having a bound toy brought and positioned under me, so as my cock emerges from its slit, I push straight into a hot, tight, slick hole. rocking my hips into it as my muscles are worked over to finish what the hot water started, especially around my shoulders, hips, and the base of my wings. especially my wings. pressure on the aching flight muscles is delicious, the limbs being moved and stretched making me purr. the purring only gets louder when hands move to my belly, the skin there extra sensitive because of how I gorged myself earlier.
a second toy placed between my jaws, legs forced apart and pinned between my back teeth, licking the salt and fear-taste from their skin, burrowing my tongue into them until they howl, the swell I make in their stomach pressing against the back of my incisors.
a full-body shudder as I come, pulsing so much into the toy beneath me that the bulge of my cock disappears. they're pulled off me, turned around, and have barely enough time to open their mouth before I plunge my cock into their throat. barely softening, I press myself deeper, as far as I can go, purring still as my servants carry on massaging my aches away.
that continuing til I physically cannot come any more, having each toy replaced as they're filled up or worn out, til I'm mindless and limp with well-fed animal pleasure.
if you're still taking writing prompts: how about a monster/monster with the POV from a more experienced/stronger/larger monster that has just recently transformed the other monster (previously a human?) by some means into their new, monstrous form, and is watching them experience for the first time emotions and sensations they know so well; the joy of their new powerful body, the feelings of freedom and strength, the erotic abandon to the the bestial, etc.
Listen to me. When you stand, it's gonna take you a couple of tries, all right? You're gonna be stiff and sore, your balance will be all off--but your body knows how it wants to move, okay? So relax. Take it slow.
I'm going to cut you free now.
All right, hindlegs first, then. Up you come. Watch the tail-- no, no, don't worry about it. Those walls have taken worse beatings. Just relax. Relax. Feel your body, the weight of it. The ground under your head. Your chest. Your back legs are splayed-- dig those claws in a little deeper if you need to. Forepaws to the earth, brace with your tail, and up we go. Don't fret, love, I've got you.
I'm sorry about the ropes. The growing pains were bad. You were doing a whole lot of thrashing for a couple of days there. You could have snapped a leg. Trust me, a couple of sores and some chafing are much easier for you to deal with. If there was another way--
What? You thought-- to protect me? From you?
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just-- oh, darling, I know you're new, I know you're strong and eager and hungry, but five minutes alone with you and I could be picking my teeth with your bones. Speaking of, I think it's time to take that muzzle off you now.
Feels better, yeah? Go on, give that jaw a good stretch. Curl your tongue and feel those new teeth of yours, curved and hard and sharp... mh, those came through beautifully, didn't they? Yeah, the itching is normal-- your gums will be kind of tender, but that'll fade after a few weeks. We'll catch you someone to chew on.
For now, though, let's get you outside. Come on, take a step-- yes, you can, there, like that. Another, come on, and another, trust your body, it wants to move, that's it, wants to run, and run, and run--
Oh, you are gorgeous.
I mean it! What's with the look? You think I say that to everyone I've fucked into their new shape? No, love, you're special. You really are. Every body I work on is eager for what I give it, even if the mind inside isn't so much, but yours, darling, your flesh fucking leapt under my touch. You swallowed every drop of strength and blood and cum I could pour into you. You were a pleasure to shape.
Come on, then. You're only new once. These first hunts, first kills, they'll always be the sweetest. I want to be there for them with you. I want to watch your appetite unfurl.
I promise you, it will be everything you never knew you wanted.
idea for continuation of dragon/human storyline (which is Very Good and I go back to often): while messing with spells and/or interacting with other magic creature/plant/food/etc. that accidentally put human to sleep. Magic rules, so a kiss should wake them up, but a) mild panic over do dragon mlems count as kisses? what do when dragon does not have lips? and b) no, no, spell *has* been broken, but the waking up bit is delayed by a few minutes --love, Blep
I have learnt many things since I came to own you.
I knew that the king I took this ruin from fancied himself a magician. He gathered power to himself and wrapped himself in it like armour. Not that it did him any good in the end.
I did not know about the library he left behind. That was your discovery-- a winding network of tunnels and chambers below ground, richly decorated, if somewhat neglected. The walls are packed with books in what is, you assure me, startlingly good condition.
I cannot say I would have much cared if I had found this library for myself. Well-preserved or not, the books are too small and too delicate for me to handle, let alone read. And the dark wood and embroidered hangings are not to my tastes. But the place delighted you, and so you have sole possession.
You've brought much use from it. It is where you found the spells that have left their permanent marks on your skin, for one. And much as I would like to, I can't keep you with me all the time. It charms me to think of you engaged so while I am away, discovering, reading, shaping the place to your fancy much as I have shaped the upper world to mine.
But occupied or not, you are always there to greet me on my return. So it is not like you not to come when called. Where are you, little thing? Must I hunt you out? I am all for games when the mood is on me, but right now I ache from hours in the air. I have little patience left to test.
I search for you, following your taste in the air. I find the stairs you descended, taking you into those tunnels too small for me. I cannot follow, but by now I can make a good guess--there. I press one eye to a crack in the foundation. You are collapsed over a table, open book pillowing your head. Your chest rises and falls in sleep. Did you tire yourself out, love?
I set my claws into the crack, pry it open. Dust cascades, beams shriek and stone splinters. I expect you to wake, to shout in alarm, to scold me for breaking things, as though I don't have the right to break anything I own.
But you don't. You don't stir at all as I catch you up. You loll in my palm against my claws. You are warm, unmistakably alive, but limp, deeply, deeply asleep.
I do not feel uneasy. I never feel uneasy. But this is not as it should be.
I grope for the book you were using as a pillow, but of course, I can't read it. The text is minute, even by the standards of a spellbook, and the cover gives me no hint. A growl is building in my chest. My tail lashes, gouging the stone of the walls and floor. What were you doing, foolish one, what did you do to yourself?
I examine you for some clue. No mark on your body other than the ones I have made. Whole and unharmed, not so much as an insect bite. Your heart beats soundly, your breathing unlaboured. Poison in the ink, maybe, or the paper? There is no scent of it on your fingers. I do catch traces of your own slick there, though, beneath your soap. Were you missing me, little one? Were you distracting yourself, or looking for some inspiration? I know your taste for being taken while you sleep, so perhaps...
There, caught in your throat. A sleeping spell. I don't know how it got there-- you could have murmured it to yourself as you read, or else it might been left between the pages and you breathed it in by accident.
Either way, it is irrelevent. The breaking of a sleeping spell should be the easiest thing in the world. A kiss from a beloved. True, we've never been able to share a kiss in the exactest sense, but there's none so beloved to you as me.
I settle into a crouch and cup you gently in both palms. My tongue flickers from between my jaws. It slides against your cheek, your jawline. One limb curls around your throat, tip pressing your lips apart. Automatically, the other snakes about your hips, toward your cunt where I lick and tease, though I stop short of filling you. All the same, I can feel how easily you would give. You have been missing me, haven't you, love? How often did you fuck yourself thinking of me while I was away?
You lie there in my palms, utterly unresponsive. I can't deny it wakes something in me, your warmth, your sheer vulnerability. What if I speared you on me now? Wore you for hours, abused you in a way I never could while you were awake? I feel my cock growing tight in my slit at the thought. If it were not you, I might. I've done worse to less favoured toys. If it were not you...
But it is. I withdraw, my mouth and throat full of your taste. And you do not move. The kiss hasn't worked.
Why not? It can't be a technicality, surely, can't be that I don't have lips to press to yours. It can't be something that asanine. If it is, I will hunt the originator of this spell, or their descendents, and eat them alive.
I coil you in my tongue again, pull you halfway between my jaws. No coyness this time. My tongue fills your cunt, your throat. Your taste overwhelms me. My cock is full and hard, twitching as I thrust my hips against empty air. I am coming undone, breathing harsh.
Breathe. You need to breathe. I pull my tongue from your airway, and the release of you even that slight degree is a wrench. I cup you close, listening, waiting--
--and feel you stir, ever so slightly. Relief floods me in a monumental wave. I give in. My tail curls beneath me, crushing my cock between it and my belly. Fuck, I haven't humped myself like this since I was a desperate adolescent. But I need release and it comes quickly. As I sprawl there, panting, I can check you over properly.
The spell has dissolved. Whether it was because that counted as a kiss after all or because it was simply dislodged by the throatfucking I gave you remains uncertain.
You are still asleep, though you no longer have the utter limpness of spelled unconciousness. A lingering side effect, leaving you something like drugged. My claws begin to move over you in the by now familiar patterns, spell-lines flaring into life. You are safe and well and I am glad of it and if I am not hilted in you soon I will snap entirely.
The island was beautiful and hidden, as any trap should be.
With summer not yet half dead, the air was rich as earth, heavy with the heat and the breath of a hundred different flowers. The scent carried nearly half a mile out to sea. Sailors, stranded for weeks or months in doldrum waters, would feel the cool fingers of a breeze on their sunburnt skin. The scent would curl through their mouths and noses, the first sweet thing in a seeming lifetime of parched, burning salt. Soothing, stroking, it was the promise of fresh water, shade, life. But only a promise.
They would scramble to hoist the sails, to follow the islands breath, unable to stop and think, too eager for solid ground. Most would never reach it.
From the balcony that overlooked the west of the island, the monarch watched the ship list sharply to one side. Tiny human figures were visible on the deck, scurrying this way and that, some making for the rigging, others clinging to whatever they could reach. Distant voices called in a panic. Below the deep blue surface of the bay, silvery shadows flickered.
Nothing could beat merrow for spite. They would drown some of the sailors for sport regardless, yes, but it was only because they knew the monarch wanted one that they tried to make certain none reached the shore alive. They knew full well their advantage in numbers, and that the monarch would never be so suicidal as to fly over open water.
But with enough luck...
There. A single, bedraggled shape dragging itself up the pearl-black sand of the shore. It lay there for a moment, gasping like a landed fish, before half-crawling, half-stumbling into the jungle. The monarch’s feathered antennae shivered in the warm breeze. Even at this distance, the scent was easy to pick out, salt-wracked notes in the familiar floral symphony.
Time to go. Merrow weren't the only danger the island held for something as pliable as a human mind.
2. Bells
The confusion of foliage thinned, leaving only one type of plant, bulbous and jug-like, with waxy leaves that rustled in the motionless air, and slick mouths that gaped to the sky. From deep within each, there came a different, sweetly pure note that surged and faded, not entirely out of sync with its neighbour. A little like rushing water, a little like bird song. The sound was, the monarch had been assured in the past, very beautiful to a certain ear.
The sailor stood in the middle of the clearing, heedless of his ruined clothes, the beating sun, the flies that were already beginning to settle on his skin, swaying ever so slightly in time with the nodding of the pitchers. The monarch circled him slowly. Blood ran from deep gouges in the sailor’s calves. Merrow had sharp claws.
The monarch gently took hold of one unresisting arm, leaning in until the taste of fear and sleep were almost overpowering, and spoke.
"Come."
The hushed syllable shattered the unbroken humming of the pitchers. The sailors eyelids fluttered. With immense difficulty, he turned his head to look at the monarch. He did not look surprised by what he saw. His throat worked, words struggling to find their way out.
"Who..."
"This way." The monarch held the man's arm lightly, as though they were two friends out for a stroll, "Can you walk?"
"I..." The sailor shuddered in pain, head turning as the two of them stepped out of the clearing, "The music..."
"The groves are wonderful. A vital organ in the body of the jungle." Human speech felt strange in the monarch’s throat. It had been so long. "But it would be unwise for you to linger here. Much as it would suit the plants to feed themselves on your thoughts and the soil on your body, I prefer the minds of my company to remain undigested."
The man did not reply. He walked with a limping gait, but brushed away any further assistance. "The pain helps," he said, and the monarch was content to let him be.
3. Delight
The sailor, whose name was Kalan, turned the square of ruby jelly back and forth between his fingers, and bit his salt-dried lip.
"I read a book where someone took this from a creature like you once."
"Oh?" The monarch leaned across the table to pour the wine, "How did that turn out for him?"
"Not well." Kalan hesitated, and placed the sweet back on the dish with obvious reluctance. His eyes darted back to it, even as he turned to address the monarch, "Aren't you smothered, all wrapped up like that?"
"Not particularly."
"But it's so hot."
"I assure you, I'm quite comfortable. But your concern is touching."
Kalan fidgeted with the stem of the wine glass, casting nervous glances to the side, to the green-shaded vaulting of the dining hall, anywhere but the dish between them. The monarch let the silence roll out, unaffected.
Kalan cleared his throat unnecessarily.
“Do you have a name?”
“Not one that you would be able pronounce.”
“Try me.” Kalan made the challenge as though he were glad to have something to fight about, “I’ve been around. I know more of most languages than anyone I know.”
The monarch produced a fine imitation of a human chuckle, “I mean what I say. You lack the necessary organs to produce the appropriate pheromones.” Polysyllables came easier now. It was all a matter of practise.
“Oh.” Kalan fell silent again. Then, almost furtively, his hand darted out and he bit into one of the sweets before he could change his mind again. He chewed, first rapidly, then slowing. The tension in his posture began to soften like wax under sunlight.
The monarch did not smile. A smile would have required lips. “It is good?”
“It’s… warm. Warming. But not—it’s like…” Kalan shook his head like one trying to shake water from his ears, and reached for another.
When the dish was empty, the monarch rose.
"You must be uncomfortable in those ruined clothes. Let us find something more suitable for you in your room."
4. Velvet
"You're saying this is mine?" Kalan turned to take in the small tower room, the bed of crowded cushions, the windows and mirrors, digging the toes of his bare feet into the rug. He pulled a pale blue shirt from its hanger, releasing the smell of silk and mothballs. “Actually mine?”
"If you choose to stay."
Kalan ran the fabric through his fingers, once, twice, again, again. “I might, at that.” He made to take off his salt-stiff shirt, then paused.
"Why are you still here?"
"I would like to watch you dress."
Kalan stiffened. Clearly he thought this was the catch. That was how humans thought of things, in terms of bargains and trade and prices. It never occurred to them that the monarch would not be angry if they refused. Perhaps it had something to do with how short-lived they were. They couldn't afford the monarch’s patience.
Slowly, Kalan began to strip, face heating under the monarch’s obsidian stare. The blue silk made for a pleasing contrast to sun-browned skin. He relaxed a little as the monarch made no move towards him, and more as soft, clean material brushed against him again, again. He picked at the fringe of a gossamer scarf, frowned.
"What's this?"
"The initials of the one that came before you. She liked to label her favourites." A slight twist of wistfulness came with the memory.
"Came before—” Kalan’s face drained of colour, and he dropped the garment as though it had burned him. "I'm not the first?"
"Why would you be?"
He didn't seem to hear, "I thought—but you—” All delight-induced ease had dropped from him, “How many have there been? Where are they? What the fuck did you do to them?"
"There is no need to shout." The muscles in the monarch’s shoulders twitched.
“No need to—when I’m trapped here, wrapped and coddled by some kind of fucking—”
Ah, well. This moment always came and went sooner or later. With Kalan, it would be sooner. One developed a sense for these things, over the years.
The monarch bowed slightly, though there was no deference in the action.
“You are overwhelmed. I will leave you to recover yourself. In the interim, do try not to tear your stitches.”
Something small and fragile exploded against the closing door. The monarch did not pause or look around. Sooner, rather than later.
5. Patterned
The view from the balcony was unparalleled. Below, the jungle sprawled towards the ruffled blue silk of the sea. Kalan watched with the gaze of someone not seeing, seated on the stone bench the monarch never used. He had chosen to wear the new clothes.
"And you just... keep them?"
"I take them in. Provide for their needs."
"As lovers?"
"Often. But not always."
"Pets, then." Full of disdain.
"Occasionally."
"But why?"
"I like to watch you." An inarticulate sound of disbelief. "It's true. Your lives are short, but so beautiful. There's something wonderful about watching those days play out, cared for, fulfilled.”
“So you’re a selfless lover, then.”
“Hardly.”
The breeze rustled gently through the following silence. Uncommonly, the monarch broke it first.
“What are you thinking, Kalan?”
"I've been trying,” Kalan said, slowly, “To work out what colour your cloak is."
"And what have you decided?"
“That you aren’t wearing a cloak.”
Once again, the monarch did not smile, “Would you like to know what colour it is, even so?”
“I…” Kalan swallowed hard. Ragged nails snagged on silk cuffs, bit into rough palms. “I would. It’s not like there’s anything for me to go back to.”
"Then you'll stay?"
"I'll stay."
The monarch raised him from the bench, carefully, mindful of the wounded leg, clumsily re-stitched, and tilted his face upwards. With a gentle sound, like shifting canvas, the monarch’s wings unfurled.
Kalan’s eyes widened. His jaw went slack. Pupils almost swallowed their surrounding iris in their eagerness to drink in the endlessly shifting colour. No fear-taste about him now, only heady, golden awe that the monarch took in as eagerly as Kalan took in the now green, now gold, now vermillion, now sky-ocean-night blue sunset, sunrise, sunset pink threaded through with—with—
The shadows around them lengthened into evening, hot and dark. The monarch breathed and sighed. Kalan swayed, ever so slightly. His wounded leg trembled. At this, the monarch shivered, seemed to wake.
“Ah…” In one motion, Kalan was lifted, cradled as though he weighed nothing, shrouded still in those deep, ever-shifting wings.
"There. Beautiful..." The monarch leaned down and grazed mouthparts lightly as a kiss over Kalan’s forehead. Another human gesture. "Come inside now. I am going to take very, very good care of you."
a little out of the usual for me but i offer you owner with predator pet and prey pet dynamic. master fucking some trembling little bunny and their hunting dog on the side, humping the mattress and waiting for their chance to lick the cum out of their puffy hole, master taking their dog into the woods to chase down a doe and choking the shaking thing on their cock when it’s caught, letting their dog rut into their prey at the same time and dragging it home on their knot, etc etc
anon if this is out of the usual for you you should take a trip out there more often please this is some GOOD shit
normally I like to be a solitary hunter, either stalking or chasing, but oh my god there's something so hot about a master letting the dog bolt after the prey and following behind at a far more relaxed pace, noting the place where the prey tried to lose the hunters by crossing a river, the flattened undergrowth where there was a tussle and the prey broke free, the steadily worsening trail of blood that follows...
then finding the dog with the prey pinned down, teeth fastened about their throat (did you know gun dogs were bred to have incredibly soft mouths and a delicate grip so they didn't damage the flesh of the quarry they retrieved?) eyes glazed and cock hard and drooling and pressed against the poor prey's belly, but resolutely waiting for their master
whistling to bring the dog to heel, gripping the prey by the scruff of their neck to turn their head this way and that, crooning over how gorgeous they are as they pry their jaw open to see the soft pink of their tongue and throat, slowly drawing the prey's mouth to their cock in a way that would be gentle if it weren't for the irresistable force behind it, fucking into their throat deep and slow and staying there a moment just to enjoy the feeling of the prey choking for air
a needy whine reminding them of their other pet, the one who did so well on the hunt, waited for their master so patiently, held out against every instinct to wait for them to arrive, who they now reward with permission to mount and rut into what they caught
strolling home again, stopping to watch their dog struggle with hauling the prey who is dragged home as the hunting trophy they are, scruff between the dog's teeth again, speared and caught on their knot, heavy with cum from two hunters, barely conscious, let alone aware
yeah there's something so hot about that. dunno what tho
speaking of transformation what are your thoughts re shape-shifting monster of some kind losing control of their transformation because of lust for a hot human plaything? i'm talking werewolf that can't help growing claws and fur whenever their crush talks to them. a shapeshifter's human mask slipping when a lover touches them.
shape-shifting beast that takes on a human form to cruise bars looking for a human hookup, going home with them, and when the sweet obliging human is sucking them off on the couch they realise the dick in their mouth is... changing. the human looks up and sees the unmasked monster sitting over them, but by then it's too late to run, the monster's claws are gripping the human's head, its tail or tentacles wrapping around them, holding them firm, as the creature in front of them strokes a claw down their cheek and promises to show them a real good time...
hhghghg that second bit in particular fucking Kills me- the human finding somehow their date's cock is a little too far into their throat and trying to correct for it and just... not being able to, it just pushes further into them, growing, changing, and now tentacles are curling over their face and shoulders and they want to pull back and get a look at what has a hold of them but they're held fast and all they can see is a flowing, shifting mass and the glow from something that might be an eye, or might be an opening mouth...
meanwhile the monster gets to unwind from the confining shape they've been trapped in, relax and grow to a size that makes their date a much tighter but much nicer fit
*leans into mic* uhhh newly crowned monster king [<- very large] holding a competition for anyone across the lands, be they monster or human, to become his betrothed--except the competition is mainly just him trying out all the participants as his personal cocksleeve (bonus points if whomever is chosen gets gradually transformed more into the king's monstery likeness the more he uses them as his little fuck toy) (bonus comedy points if the other half of the competition is a banquet decorating contest bc his advisor told him he couldn't just fuck all the participants and use that as the only metric for his decision)
"monster king [<- very large]" new gender just dropped lads and im all over it
god there's soooo many things i love here tho. having the participants be a mix of monster and humans really really appeals to the bit of my brain that refuses to choose between anything ever. plus, they'd all have genuinely different qualities! nagas have a tail that can constrict or be tied like a cock ring, mer are colder but faaar more slick, a 'taur can hilt you much more easily and has an extra set of limbs to scrabble at you with, a slime-based creature can take far more abuse than any of the others, god im fucking drooling at the possibilities actually
and the process of 'testing' each participant can be drawn out near indefinitely (subject to a battle of wills with the advisor, of course). Choosing a betrothed is not a decision to take lightly, after all. It'd be pointless to find someone who seems perfect only for them to break after a month or so. Better to select a number from those who feel the best and see how they stand up to several hours of constant wear, physically and mentally. Maybe the banquet from the other part of the contest would be a good scene for that (because of course I love the idea of getting to be big big monster royalty gorging myself stupid then unwinding by stroking myself off with the toy I've been wearing all evening. in some respects i'm very easy)
At that point though the transformed monstrous-ness is probably starting to show through in the participants, and while it's not permenent at this point, it would be a very bad look to reshape someone in your likeness and then decide they aren't worth keeping after all. and I like to think at this point the monarch would have found a toy they genuinely like and connect with- still a toy, a pet at most, but a beloved one nonetheless. Plus, if they want to keep a few more, purely as accessories with no deeper attachment, then who is going to tell a very large and hungry monster king no?
It's your own fault, you're perfectly clear on that. You're well-practised at (hah) living your life half-fed. You know your limits, how long you can safely starve yourself down to the half-day. You shouldn't have let things get to this point.
And yet, somehow, at some point, you fucked up. One botched hunt turns into a week of low profile, two nights hiding at home are two nights you can't get back, then three, then four, and by then you're already so tired and hungry that the effort of safe hunting feels monumental, so best to just try to sleep and wait for the creeping cold and the gnawing at your insides to die down, just a little, just enough to let you think-
And so on.
Idiot.
So here you are. Shuddering with withdrawal on his doorstep, gripping the doorframe tight enough to splinter, praying to a god you don't believe in that you won't have to knock again. You don't want to think about what would happen if you woke the neighbours.
You hear the rattle of the latch and for a moment the needling cold in your limbs is banished by a surge of oh thank god. He leans on the door, tousled and groggy, the walkway light making him squint. He smells good, warm, like cheap beer and smoke and sleep, and you're so fucking hungry.
His heartbeat picks up when he recognises you. The squint becomes a concerned frown, "Everything all right?"
He's got eyes, he can see it's not, but you shake your head anyway, "Can we talk?"
"Yeah. Yeah, 'course. One second, I got-" He waves vaguely, and the cold comes back in a rush as you pick out a second heartbeat, fainter, still slowed in sleep. Fuck. Fuck, he's got someone else with him. Why did he have to have someone else with him? Not that he can't sleep with whoever he likes. Obviously. Fuck. Why didn't you think of this ahead of time?
You try to backtrack, "If you- you know what, doesn't matter, I can just-"
"Oh, shut up." He leaves the door swinging open behind him as he vanishes back into the flat. You hear murmured voices, the rustling of bedsheets and clothes. You could leave now, but then what? It's not like you've got anywhere else to go.
His 'friend' shoulders past you, resentment rising from him like steam. You hold your breath as he leaves, but it doesn't do any good. His scent is unfamiliar, no associations to keep him safe from you. And it would be so easy to-
"You gonna stand out there all night?"
Your eyes snap back into focus. You're here to avoid that sort of thing. You breathe in, and tell yourself you feel calmer, "Sorry. Uh- can you-" You stub the toe of your shoe against the threshold, "It's fucking stupid, I know, but right now I'm not-"
"Yeah, fine, whatever. Come in." You follow him inside. You've never been able to work out why that particular impulse is even a thing. Something to do with territorial instincts, maybe? Whatever the reason, it's embarrassing. Apex predator biologically programmed to be incapable of home invasion. What a joke.
He drops onto the sofa, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes, "Right. What's got you in such a twist that can't wait til morning?"
You wish you could be having this conversation outside. You could turn your face away, wouldn't have to look him in the eye or breathe him. The image of him tangled up with some stranger won't leave you, all snarled up with your hunger and you have to ignore it but it's so fucking difficult with him there half dressed and still half-asleep, bared skin and warm blood and he is staring at you because you haven't said anything for several seconds now, he's waiting for you to get to the point so say something-
"Sorry about your date." Your voice is clipped, "If I'd known-"
"It's no big deal. Told him it was an emergency. Whiiiich I'm gonna guess it is." He gives you a deliberate once-over, "You look like shit, mate."
"And I'm usually just glowing with health."
"Cut the crap, Red, it's three in the morning." He props his head on his hand and looks up at you, "Hey. I wanna help if I can, I really do. But I'm not gonna play twenty questions for it, so just tell me what it is you need, yeah?"
All the little speeches and persuasive turns of phrase you've been rehearsing in your head on the way over here desert you. You can't talk your way around this. Your teeth itch and your throat aches and there is a gaping, twisting hollow where your stomach should be. You swallow hard.
"I need you to let me feed from you."
His face doesn't change, but his heartbeat lurches and the sharp taste of adrenaline edges the air. You recognise this from when he first found out what you were. He is afraid of you.
"I don't trust myself around anyone else." You speak quickly and clearly, "I left it too long, and if I have to go hunting, I won't- it won't end well. But if you... I don't want to hurt you." That's a lie. You don't want to want to hurt him. There's a difference.
"So you want me to let you drink my blood." His voice is flat. The fear scent is thick and close.
"You can say no."
"Bullshit." The hard edge to his voice makes you flinch.
"I mean it." You do. "I'm not even gonna ask why, I'll just leave."
"And let you waltz off into the night and murder some poor bastard?" He rubs his hands over his face, "Fucking hell, mate, d'you see what kind of position you've put me in?"
You stare at the floor without answering. You aren't going to insult him with an excuse, or an apology. You have said what you came here to say. There is a long, long pause. Gradually, his heartbeat slows a little.
"...So how do we do this?"
You shouldn't be glad, but you are. Beyond glad, you're fucking ecstatic. You fumble in your jacket and hold something out to him. He stares.
"Is that a fucking stake?"
"You can have it between me and you the whole time. That way, even if I'm wrong, you can just-" You make a jabbing motion, "No more problem."
He's still staring. You know what he's thinking, because you're thinking it too. Just stake the monster anyway and have done with it. That would be the safest thing to do. At this point, it's a risk you're willing to take. After all, he has to trust that you won't just rip his throat out.
Carefully, he reaches out and takes it from you, weighing it in his hand, "Okay. Does it have to be the neck? Can you, I dunno, bite me in the arm or something?"
"Probably, yeah. Got the most practise finding the carotids, though."
"Neck it is then. I'm not having you make a dogs breakfast of my elbows." He points the stake at you like a sword, "And any hint of you fucking up gets you the business end, okay?" His tone is light and he's almost smiling. His eyes don't match it at all.
You practically jam the thing against your ribs for him, and he flinches from you. You're moving too fast, too eager, too close. You can't help it, except you're going to have to, because the one thing you cannot have him do right now is to change his mind and say no. Pull yourself together. Don't give him a reason to think that you'll enjoy this.
So you let go of his wrist. You move carefully and deliberately to sit beside him. You don't lean in. You relax your jaw, the curl in your lip and fingers. You are in control. He is safe with you.
You can't take your hands off him entirely.
"I won't do anything unless you say." Sincere, measured. He breathes in, out, steeling himself. You wait. His pulse is rapid under your palm. Finally, he tightens his grip on the stake, and nods.
You keep your movements deliberate, feeling the slightest pinprick of pain against your ribs as you lean towards him. His chest rises and falls quickly and his breath is golden-warm as it rolls over your jaw. You set your teeth against his neck and allow yourself one fraction of a second to fix this moment in your memory, desire and satisfaction a skin's width apart, wanting at a pitch you haven't felt since you were newborn. Then you bite down.
Blood fills your mouth and for a moment you are so paralysed with the taste that you forget to swallow. Hot and rich and copper-tang and salt, cut sour with alcohol and nicotine and that bright, surging, gorgeous current of fear. You thought you were hungry before, but with the first wash of heat down your throat something new unfurls inside you, sharp and lethal and starving, and you can't help it, you moan against his neck and there is no way he didn't hear you but for once in your life you can't bring yourself to care.
It's a strange experience, feeding from someone who isn't trying to fight you off, not having to take little and quickly and gone almost as soon as you've begun. You can take your time. To begin with he's tense as all hell (and really, can you blame him?), but as you drink he begins to relax, just a fraction. His heart rate slows, each pulse strong and regular. You can imagine his expression softening, eyes fluttering half-closed. His head tilts away from you a little, exposing more of his neck, giving you more room. It could almost be an invitation.
It's not, though. It's just the sedative in your saliva working its way through his system. That or the bloodloss. But you can pretend.
The point of the stake stays lodged beneath your ribs as you shift, practically climbing into his lap as you adjust your hold. He's gripping it with both hands now, and it strikes you suddenly how absurd a precaution it is. If you wanted to get rid of it, you could just wrap your hands around his wrists and squeeze. You could pin him there and take anything you wanted, everything you wanted and told yourself you didn't, couldn't, could crush him to you and bite and kiss and dig into him until he screams. If you wanted to.
Instead, you hold him as gently as you can, almost tenderly. Anywhere you touch seems to glow beneath your fingertips. That thing that woke in you has calmed, sinuous and luxuriating in the warm blood filling your belly. This is what makes eternity worth it. Fuck the philosophical stuff, the fantasies of infinite skill or power or spectating the future of a species you no longer belong to, fuck all of that, because it is nothing compared to the sheer, brief, ravening joy of being fed.
It can't last.
He pushes you away, not hard, not even with the stake but with a flat palm on your chest. And you let him. It isn't easy. There's no struggle, no moment where you sink your teeth in deeper on instinct, no second where you forget your promise and whose blood it is on your tongue. But that doesn't make it an easy thing to do.
You stumble off him, keenly aware of his skin leaving yours, the stretch of cold air now between you. That's good, the gap is a good thing, makes a boundary, clears your head. You need to clear your head. God, he's gone so pale.
You've never had to look after somebody afterwards before. You do your best- help him lie back properly on the sofa, raid his fridge for orange juice (it's technically out of date but the seal is still on and he hasn't touched it since he bought it, so it should be all right?) and the bathroom cabinet for bandage and medical tape. He's got a killer of a headache, but the only thing in the cabinet is aspirin, and you're pretty sure that's not something you're supposed to give to somebody who's still bleeding, so you tell him you couldn't find it. You tape gauze over the wound you left while he complains and tries to drink straight from the carton at the same time. After that, you sit on the floor by the sofa and wait for him to recover.
You're still hungry, of course. But it's a normal hunger, the kind you live with every day. The dizzying feeling of balancing at the edge of a cliff has gone, and your hands are no longer shaking. You are yourself again. For whatever that's worth.
You hug your knees to your chest, wrapping yourself around the small glow of warmth at your core. You know you should go hunting as soon as you leave, that was the whole damn point of this, but you don't want to. That would- bring the whole thing down, somehow, make it normal, mixing his blood with the blood of strangers you couldn't give a fuck about, diluting and destroying this little piece of him that's properly yours.
His breathing has slowed, and you almost panic before realising that he's just dozed off. You tug gently on his sleeve, "Hey. Hey, you probably shouldn't sleep here."
"Mngh." He swats vaguely at your hand, "Tired. Gonna sleep here."
"You're gonna fuck up your neck."
"'S already pretty fucked up."
Point taken.
Still, he drags himself to his feet, leaning on you while he regains his balance. You want to hug him or something, show some actual normal human affection, but you seem to have forgotten how, and anyway, he's already meandering his way back to his room to collapse face first onto the bed. You trail after him, and hover awkwardly in the doorway, trying to ignore the scent of that stranger still clinging to everything.
"You gonna be all right?"
"Yeah, yeah." He turns over, punching the pillow into shape, "Had hangovers worse'n this."
"D'you want me to stay?"
"No."
It shouldn't hurt. He's not being dismissive. Or cruel. He's tired and short on words because of the fucking monumental favour he's just done you, and you owe him for it. So it shouldn't hurt.
"Door's not on the latch, yeah?"
"Yeah. It'll lock behind you."
"Alright." You pause, fumbling for the right words, "Thanks. Seriously. For- I know you said I wasn't giving you a choice, not a real one, but it- I get what you did for me. And it means a lot."
The words sound thin and pathetic to you but for the first time since you showed up, he smiles at you. It's exhausted and wry and you're fairly certain he's laughing at your attempts to thank him for acting as a human juicebox, but it's still a smile and with it everything seems a lot more bearable.
"'Course I'm gonna help. Dread creature of the night or not, you're still my mate."
You smile back. Without showing your teeth.
You say goodnight. You debate whether or not to leave the stake here, and decide to take it with you. Don't want him to think you'd come looking for a repeat performance. This should be a one-time thing. This has to be a one-time thing. You tip what's left of the orange juice down the sink. You are not making excuses to put off leaving.
You stand in the hallway, staring at the threshold of the open door. This is not a vampire problem. This is a you problem. You want to stay. You want to crawl into bed with him and bury your head between his shoulder blades and know that he'll never be scared of you, not for a second, because he trusts you and you'd never do anything to fuck that up once you had it.
Yeah. Right. You've got such a great track record there.
Your stomach growls as you step out onto the walkway and close the door behind you as quietly as you can. You've got hunting to do before sunrise.
