over a year later, i finished the drabble that was supposed to go with my other shatsome vampire drawing. made a new drawing as a treat.
Sips usually felt the shift in their appetite coming – more lips on him than teeth and tongues.
shatsome, 2K words
content: vampires, biting, blood, hand jobs, blow jobs
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The couch was a slumped and threadbare monster Sips was sure they’d found on a curb somewhere. Its upholstery smelled like damp beneath him. Most of their flat had a makeshift quality even a year after the three of them moved in, from the junky furniture to the blackout curtains Smith nailed into the wall above the windows. Half of it was just for Sips, though – the scratched end table to hold his cups and takeout containers, the little coffee machine, the toilet paper in the otherwise empty bathroom closet – which somehow made the rest of it almost charming.
Sips laid sideways on the couch, Trott in his lap and the other two knelt on the floor with his wrist pulled between them. Under the cool press of their mouths, the pain of the bites faded into a dizzy ache. He touched Trott’s bright blonde hair with his free hand, drifting.
Feeding from him was an exercise in restraint, and they tended to go still after the bite, waiting to lick at the blood that ran down his skin rather than pull it from his veins. They only started to move again when they were trying to stop themselves, frustrated and still hungry.
Sips usually felt the shift in their appetite coming – more lips on him than teeth and tongues.
He catalogued all their different tells over the months and privately thought he’d gotten good at recognizing them. Expert, even. Trott grew strained, squeezing his eyes shut; Ross’ slid open, bright and staring. Smith would suck at the closing bite then make a wounded little noise, again and again, while Sips measured the seconds between them like thunder after lightning.
They breathed steadily when they fed, not just pulling air to operate their lungs and vocal cords. Their hearts beat faster; their skin warmed. They clung to him, held him, clenched their fingers in his shirt and in his hair–
Trott dragged a hand up Sips' thigh and palmed his cock through his jeans, which was a much less subtle cue.
"Fuck off, Trott” Sips said, feeling a huff of laughter at his neck when he pressed up against Trott's hand. He was half-hard already and deep into convincing himself it was more pavlovian at this point than anything.
Luckily, all three of them were still too busy sucking his blood to be assholes about it; he doubted Smith or Ross heard him at all. Even Trott only managed to laugh again, but the heat of it and the scrape of fangs when he smiled made the whole thing into kind of a double-edged sword.
Aside from a couple mishaps early on, they were careful about how much they drained him. That was half the point: to finesse their control, now that they’d lost their coven’s discrete connections for blood-sourcing and body-dumping. (The other half of the point was not to kill him.)
Sips hadn’t weathered a close call in months. Still, the feedings had an effect on him. Too hot, too bright and light-headed. Something he’d chalked up to nerves in the beginning, but the excuse quickly wore out.
He'd asked once if they used some kind of toxin when they fed – in their saliva maybe, little glands of heady chemicals under their tongues.
Ross had made a face at him, vaguely offended.
“Glands?,” he’d echoed, both of them coming down from the first of those feeds that went just a little too far. They were lying in bed but fully-clothed, still in the somehow stranger phase of the relationship where Sips came over to let them bite him and they didn’t fuck afterwards. Didn’t even cuddle.
“That’s disgusting,” Ross said mildly. “I hope not.”
Ross was most easy-going and also most likely to give a straight answer, not as guarded as Trott or as defensive as Smith. Sips tried not to hold it against them. He was fuzzy on the details but guessed that most of the humans before him hadn’t exactly been asked (or able) to elaborate on their personal experience of the bite.
Blood early on in the evening made the other two vampires antsy. Smith had volunteered to run to the gas station on the corner for snacks, and Trott banged around in the empty kitchen looking for something to revive Sips, occasionally swearing to himself.
Sips assumed it was Ross’ job to make sure he didn’t pass out. He sat cross-legged on the bed beside Sips, leaning back on his hands. With the windows blocked out, the light from a single bare table lamp struggled to fill the bedroom. Ross’ eyes seemed brighter.
“Where did that come from?” he prompted as soon as Sips had been quiet too long.
Unselfconscious with blood loss, Sips described the rim-lit haze that settled over him when they drank. The buzz under his skin, the mental shear as his thoughts raced and lagged all at once.
(But not how he'd jerked off after their last session, touching the marks one of them left in his neck.)
Trott finally abandoned his cabinet-slamming to drop on the other side of the bed. What looked like genuine fear had pushed some of the frenzy out of his eyes. He put his hand on Sips’ chest, over his heart, feeling.
Back then, Trott touched him more freely than the other two vampires, who both noticeably deferred when it came to Sips. He’d found it reassuring, in a way – Trott might be a little possessive of the person he brought with him to the party but not the chips and dip.
“That happens every time?” Trott asked, and Sips startled, caught out.
“Just the once,” he insisted, before he remembered they hadn’t heard the part in his head.
Unless–
“I mean, yeah,” he amended. “Mostly.”
Trott continued his examination by cupping Sips’ forehead, his cheek. Normally, he’d get about as much useful information from touching a radiator cover, but the amount of Sips’ blood in his body made the difference between their skin temperatures worryingly slight.
Sips thought about telling him to try under his tongue next.
“Tonight I would understand, but if it’s every time…” Trott said eventually.
"Sorry, mate,” Ross concluded, “I think that’s all you.”
The couch cushions released another waft of basement as Trott finally cut himself off, leaning back to kneel over Sips. He slid his tongue across his teeth, searching.
Sips wasn't thrilled about getting off on the feeling like he might die. Then again, he supposed that was most highs. Blood ran slowly from the fang marks in his neck. He felt it soak into the collar of his t-shirt – black, whenever he visited. If he remembered. A few of his lighter shirts were beyond cold water and peroxide, relegated to his date nights at the vampires’ apartment the same way he had a pair of jeans he only wore to paint houses.
Trott’s eyes tracked the blood as it rolled down. He leaned in again, still hazy, but surprised Sips by going for his mouth instead. The kiss tasted sharp, metallic. Truthfully, Sips hadn’t loved it when they first fell in together, but now he didn’t think twice about it – sort of like kissing a person right after they blew him. Sort of.
Trott settled himself on the couch, tucked up against Sips’ side. With one hand, he undid Sips’ jeans and pulled his cock free.
“Shit,” Sips said on an exhale as Trott jerked him off, too slow to be anything but a stall. Without thinking, he tried to move his arm and was abruptly reminded of the two vampires still feeding at his wrist, their tangle of grips inescapable.
They would let go if he told them to — or at the very least, if Trott did — but it all drained into the same murky, luminous feeling pooled inside him.
“Trott, come on,” Sips said once it was clear Trott only meant to play with him.
The complaint earned him a laugh and a few gratifyingly tight strokes. Trott curled his other hand around the back of Sips’ neck and pressed a thumb over the wounds, tilting his head up to lick at the blood beneath them.
Publicly, Trott was the best behaved, but privately he had a mischievous streak to rival Smith’s and could get mean once he felt comfortable enough.
“Thought you wanted me to fuck off?” he teased.
“I want to come sometime tonight,” Sips said, mostly to make him laugh again. In reality, he knew what Trott was doing could get him there just fine, and probably faster than he wanted to admit.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Trott said, amused. “Don’t be greedy.”
Sips almost fired back before he realized it wasn’t aimed at him.
Ross sat up immediately beside them, tongue flashing out to catch a spot of blood. His hands hovered and seemed to want something to hold again; his fingers curled into the edge of the couch. As usual, Smith took a moment longer to pull himself away. He made a frustrated noise against Sips’ wrist, turning it to mouth over his own bite and Ross’ in an almost-kiss before finally letting go. Sips pulled his stinging arm into his chest as soon as it was free, to assess the damage. The wounds had all but stopped bleeding.
“Jesus, Smith,” Sips complained anyway, pressing it against his shirt. He sighed sharply as Trott gave his cock another few good strokes for his trouble – and likely for their audience, the bastard. The other two watched intently from their places on the floor.
“Say thanks, at least,” Trott suggested, pointedly dragging his hand out of Sips’ jeans.
Ross and Smith grabbed for him, their restraint shattered. Together, they spun Sips to face them on the couch, shouldering his knees apart. Smith tugged his jeans halfway down his hips while Ross pulled him forward on the cushions – no cooperation needed on Sips’ end. Their strength teetered at the edge of scary whether they were using it to fight or to suck his dick, blood-warm mouths and carefully managed teeth. He felt his pulse swell beneath his skin and worried vaguely it would force his bites to bleed again.
Trott slipped behind him in the shuffle, pulling Sips back against his chest. He stayed quiet, watching the other two go down on him – unobtrusive beyond the weight of his attention and the hand he kept low on Sips’ belly.
The three of them didn’t really get off anymore. At least not in a way Sips understood. Once he’d confessed to having less-than-platonic feelings about their arrangement, Trott let him know (explicitly) what he was in for, rather than let him find out for himself.
Afterwards, Sips had to be talked down from trying to put the genie back in the bottle, knee-jerk uncomfortable with the idea of being serviced or charging them sex for blood.
“I want to make you come, and you want me to make you come,” Trott had reassured him, slightly exasperated. “It doesn’t have to be complicated.”
Sips wasn’t sure about the last part, in the grand scheme of their relationship, but they’d never given him reason to doubt that the first part was true.
Ross and Smith sucked him in chaotic tandem: bumping mouths and foreheads, trading territory, falling in and out of sync. Their hands squeezed hard at Sips’ thighs and rubbed up under the hem of his t-shirt. He reached back to hook an arm around Trott, holding on.
Any other night, they might take their time with him. Draw it out a little while. But drinking his blood beforehand left them impatient and single-minded – denied the peak of one high and desperate for another.
Sips fucking liked it.
Turning had changed them in ways he didn’t understand. A strange give and take. He was human still, but he spent all his time with vampires, immersing himself in their rhythms and needs. Maybe some of their strangeness had rubbed off.
When he came, Trott found the bite on his neck and kissed over it, aching like a bruise.
