My Lord

My Lord

Prince John x F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2023 Masterlist • Day 7: Slow and Soft

Summary: The ex-Prince is condemned to live out his days in exile.

A/N: Look, I know he’s got blue eyes in the film. But I have decided no. 

Warnings: one slap to the face, talks of marriage, oral (f receiving), dry humping, hand jobs, 'my love' as a term of endearment, typos, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 3178

Being exiled wasn’t as bad as he had thought. The weather was certainly better. 

No matter what he’d done, King Richard couldn’t bear to see his younger brother executed or locked up in some dank prison. So he’d stripped John of his titles and sent him overseas under the guardianship of the Marquess and Marquise.

Banished. 

Never allowed to return to England under punishment of death. 

It had taken weeks to get there, more than enough time for John to fester and drive himself to madness on the ship. Haunt himself with the imaginary horrors that were waiting for him. 

Instead, when they landed, he was treated well. Like a far-off, but still regal, cousin of the Marquess. Not that it stopped him from sulking for the first few months. 

However, the worst thing was, undoubtedly, you. 

At least at first. 

You were one of the head servants. Though you were treated more like one of the Marquess and Marquise's children, with the amount of freedom you were given. And the language you were allowed to use. The offhand and familiar way you spoke to them and him. 

It had driven him up the wall. Your snide comments. Your little eye rolls. The way you somehow managed to sidestep him, and challenge him, and completely get under his skin at every single opportunity. 

You had been the one to drag him out of his rooms in those first few months, not taking no for an answer. 

“It’ll do you no good moping around here all day, my lord.” The way you said the title always sounded like an insult. 

You took him on walks and rides, to markets and tailors, making him come with you to choose a horse. Demanding that he helped you prepare vegetables, making him carry his own bow and arrows when you both went hunting. Things that were beneath him. Things that he hated, dreaded. Until one morning, when you were accompanying the Marquise on a trip and had been away for a few days, he had woken up in such a foul mood. Realising only in the evening with a huff that he missed you. That he couldn’t remember a time when he had been happier than being in your presence. 

Not to say you still didn’t annoy the hell out of him. 

Originally, you didn’t even have much to do with the ex-prince. It was only when John’s spitefulness had upset some of the other servants, and in turn, the Marquess, that you had been sent to ‘deal’ with him. 

He had nearly been in exile for a year at the midsummer festival. Had become a little too intoxicated on barley wine and, as you helped him to his chambers, he had kissed you. Soft but demanding. Gentle but unyielding. 

You had pulled back like you had been struck by lightning. And smacked him across the face. Hard. Not some dainty brush of your fingers. Or a sharp sting of your palm, no, you had hit him with the heel of your hand. A bowl that would have nearly sent him sprawling even if he hadn’t been drunk. 

You had left without a word. Or look his way. 

The next morning John had risen late, memories of the previous night coming back in a rush, of him fisting his cock with tears of anger and self-pity on his skin. Quickly, he realised you had not come to wake him at the usual time. 

He had enquired after you, subtly of course. And the young servant boy, Lucas had told him that you had left instructions for the ex-prince to not be awoken, due to his previous intoxication and late night. That you had headed out into the woods early in the morning. 

He didn’t see you until late afternoon, having spent most of the day in his rooms, staring out of the window to the woods, waiting for your return. He bit at his nails until they bled, going back and forth with the idea of readying his horse and riding out into the forest after you. 

He had pretended to be in bed when you knocked and came into his room, bringing him white flower tea. 

You hadn’t looked directly at him, keeping your voice oddly cold as you explained that the tea would help with his hangover, and that the flowers were from the forest. 

His heart had nearly broken when he released you had spent most of your day collecting them for him. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Pain running through his heart like needles through fabric. 

You looked at him then, a small kind smile on your face. “For what, my lord?” Your normal tone back. 

John beamed, his eyes shining. 

You swallowed. “I am sorry, my lord.” 

“For what?” 

You tapped your cheek, mirroring the bruise on his face.

His smile widened and he shook his head. 

When during the evening meal the Marquess asked about the bruising, John had simply laughed and told him that he had had a small disagreement with someone at the festival who had a ‘mean right hook’. He made sure he caught your eye as he said it.

You both went back to your normal routines. Dancing around each other, while simultaneously spending most of your waking hours together. 

Nearly a month after the festival you had accidentally walked in on him after his bath, his hair still wet from the rose water as he sat on his bed and fisted his cock. 

Apologies had slipped from his tongue, despite the fact that you’d technically barged in on him. But you had simply walked around and sat down next to him on the bed. He watched you in a trance as you took hold of his length in your hand. 

“Let me help you, my lord.” 

He had tried to kiss you again, but you moved your face away. 

Wordlessly and without looking at him, you coaxed him further onto the bed and sat with him between your thighs, his back against your chest as you wrapped one arm around him and used the other to bring him to his release. 

You had left silently, leaving him to the dark night and slumber. But you spoke to him the following morning as if nothing had transpired between you. 

The next evening, just before bed, you came to his room again and stroked him until he found his release with a sob in your arms. 

You did the same the next night, and the next, and the next. Never allowing him to kiss you or touch you in a way that could cause your own pleasure. Always fully clothed while he was stripped bare. Over the next weeks, you slowly allowed him to hold your hand, arm or calf as you touched him. Let him grasp onto you as his orgasm overtook him. 

It hurt. Though he didn’t want to dwell on why. 

However, no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept rotating back to you. Your soft skin, gentle hands and the sound of your heart when he pressed himself close to your chest. 

John leaned against the wall, looking out to the dark night sky. 

You came into his room silently, only looking to him once you’d reached the bed. You’d expected him to be sitting on it ready, unclothed. Instead, he stood, still in his attire from the day. 

You barely manage to raise an eyebrow before he moves towards you, taking hold of your hands in his. His skin is cold, desperate for your heat. 

“My lord?” You frown. 

He takes a step forward, his heart racing, eyes shining in the candlelight. Slowly he raises his right hand and touches your cheek, brushing over your skin with his thumb. 

His touch is soft, gentle. As if you were some precious thing that would break under the smallest pressure. Some skittish animal in the woods. 

You gaze back at him, his slightly parted lips, his dark eyes, unable to focus on any feature for longer than a second.

He leans forward, moving to kiss you and you step back, pulling your hand from his as if he burnt you. 

“My lor-”

“My love,” he looks at you imploringly. The thudding pain in his chest sharpening, beseeching. Like he had been gutted and strung out, his ribs broken and split outwards so that you could view his beating heart. 

“I am not your love.” You whisper, there is no heat in your words.

“You are.” He takes a step forward and drops to his knees when you step back. “You are.” He says brokenly, his voice thick. “Please, please, I do not need to be yours. I do not... I wish I was. But you are mine. My love. You will always be my love.” 

You swallow and stare at him, almost frozen by his words. 

“I... I...” he screws up his eyes, all the words he wanted to say mixing up and fleeing in the moment. “You do not need to return my feelings, but please, know that I will always love you until my dying breath.” 

You shake your head, pain tight in your chest. “I’m not,” you breathe deeply, your voice softer than he has ever heard it. “My lord, I am just your servant, I serve-”

“I love you.” His voice breaks slightly at the end. The weight of the words too much. “I love you,” he slowly takes hold of your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles and palm. “I love you.” He kissed your wrist, staring up at you imploringly and kissing up your arm when you did not move away. “I love you.” Cautiously he stands so that he can kiss your collarbone, your neck, your jaw, your cheek. “I love you.” He whispers. 

You hold your breath, searching his eyes for something he’s not sure you’ll be able to find. Carefully he inches forward, closing the small space between you. 

You don’t move, don’t lean to him, but you don’t back away. Softly he presses his lips against yours, almost sobbing when you finally touch. 

He pulls back a fraction after a second. “I love you,” he whispers against you. “Please, let me love you.” 

You shake your head, agony tight in your throat. You can’t look at him. Not when his voice is so soft, not when your body and heart are crying out for you to give in to him. “There are plenty of others who could warm your bed for you my lor-”

John rushes forward, kissing you again. This time his lips are demanding, pleading as he cups your cheek and slowly opens your mouth with his own. He groans when you part your lips and let him inside. “I do not want someone to warm my bed.” He kisses you desperately, stroking your tongue with his. “I want to give you my heart.” 

You moan softly into his mouth, grabbing hold of his arms and pulling him closer, pressing your body up against him. 

He groans against you, moving you back to press you against the wall and hitching your right leg up over his hip so that he can grind his aching cock against your heat. You gasp as he presses against your clit, focusing all his attention on caressing you where it makes you cry out the loudest, happily swallowing down your mewls and whines. 

He squeezes your breast with his right hand, pinching the pebbled nipple and moaning when you whimper and arch into his touch. 

He ghosts his lips down your neck, sucking a love bite into your skin just below your ear. His beard scraps deliciously at your skin and sets your nerves alight. 

You bite down on your lip, trying to muffle your cries. 

“Let me love you,” he whispers, his voice low and heavy as he ruts desperately against you. “Let me show you, let me make you sing for me.” 

He kisses you roughly, needily, all tongue and teeth as he pulls at your skirts, snaking his hand under the fabric. 

You want to give in, want to let him pull sounds and sensations from you as his heart desires but panic grips you.

“Wait,” you pull back. 

He stops, stops his kisses and his roaming hands but still stays pressed close. 

“My lor-” you bite your lips together when you see the flash of pain on his face. “My...” you touch his cheek softly. You want him, you want him so badly. “I cannot, I haven’t...” You swallow. “I...”

“I wouldn’t cum inside.” He mutters, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. Even as he says the words a slight groan escapes him at the thought of you spread out under him, full of his cock and spend. “Not until we’re married, you have my word.” 

Your thoughts stop for a second. “Married?” 

He nods and smiles. “If you’ll have me.” 

“My lord-” 

He presses his lips to yours again, kissing you languidly before he drops down to one knee. 

Your eyes go wide. Words escaping you. 

“I have asked the Marquess and Marquise. They have given their blessing; I can marry you if you wish it.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest, the way he phrased it. As if he were the servant wishing to marry a lord. 

Slowly he takes off the jewelled ring on his little finger, one of the few things he had been allowed to keep from his time as prince. “Will you take me as your husband?” He looks up at you nervously. “Will you take me as yours?” 

You nod, not trusting your voice for a moment. “Yes.” 

His eyes light up as you speak, a wide smile breaking across his face as he softly takes your hand and slips the ring onto your finger. He kisses each knuckle, and then the back of your hand before standing and pressing his lips back to yours, slow and soft. 

Gently he guides you to the bed, freeing you of your clothes and pressing you back down against the mattress. 

Uncertainty bubbles in your veins as he moves his hands down your body, slowly feeling every inch of you. He pinches your nipples with vigour, dipping his head so that he can take one into his mouth. Lavishing your breast with attention before moving on to the other. 

He groans, deep within his chest, looking up at you through his lashes when you gasp and moan softly. So determined to pull every ounce of pleasure he can from your bones. 

Languidly he kisses down your stomach, pressing your thighs apart. 

You nervously go to cover your sex, heat breaking out on your skin. 

“My lo-”

“Let me make you feel good.” He murmurs, his voice laced and heavy with lust. His eyes hungry and wild. 

You barely manage a nod before he dives to your core, licking a long, flat stripe through your folds with his warm tongue. 

You gasp loudly, quickly covering your mouth with your hands as he does it again, flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

He’s a demon, possessed and ravenous as he devours you. Slowly sinking his tongue into you and then inching up painstakingly slowly. Ending each movement with a swirl around your clit that has your thighs shaking and stars building at the corners of your eyes. 

You moan against your hands, the sensation all-consuming as he erases any other possible thought. You can’t stop squirming, simultaneously trying to get closer, nearer, desperate for more pleasure, and trying to back away from the heady onslaught of your senses. 

He doesn’t let you escape, pressing firmly against your thigh and keeping you spread wide for him, his hand on your stomach keeping your back flat to the bed. 

“You taste so sweet, my love.” He looks up at you, his eyes dark, blown wide and drunk. 

You open your mouth, moving your hands away to speak when he leans forward, sucking your clit into his mouth and revelling in your cry of pleasure. In how your muscles tense beneath him. 

He gently presses two fingers inside of you and curls them upwards to stroke your walls. 

You shake under him, your hips bucking up against him unthinkingly as you gasp and sink into pleasure. 

John watches you intently through hazy eyes, sucking constantly on your bundle of nerves, watching your every movement keenly. Desperate to lift you higher and higher before you come crashing down. 

He strokes against a spot that makes you sob and focuses all his attention on it, your slick coating his fingers and dripping down his hand. 

The pressure begins to build uncontrollably, pushing you right to the edge. You grope around for his hand on your stomach, grabbing it firmly. He squeezes back and groans against you as fresh wetness hits his tongue. 

You moan loudly against your fingers, trying your best to dampen the sound as lightning runs along your nerves, your orgasm rippling through every limb. You gasp, contorting in your pleasure as John doesn’t stop, keeps stroking, keeps sucking, prolonging your bliss for as long as he can. 

Finally, your legs stop shaking and he pulls his mouth away, slowly pulling his fingers from your dripping folds. 

You mewl as he licks them clean and pulls off his clothes. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve seen him naked, but it feels different. Personal. A sight all for you. 

He leans down, kissing you hungrily and settling between your legs. 

The weight of his thick cock, hot against your core makes you gasp. You sink your hand into his hair, pulling lightly at his curls as he rubs his length against you, spreading your slick all over his aching cock and grinding perfectly on your clit. 

You sob against him, holding him close as he keeps moving, building up a deep and overpowering friction. That bottomless weight starts to settle in your belly again, the coil growing tighter and tighter as he rubs and ruts against you. 

You grab hold of his arms tightly and rock with him, trying to gasp out and warn him of your impending orgasm. “I... my lor-my love!” You gasp as he hits perfectly, his thick length massaging wonderfully over your bundle of nerves and through your folds and you gasp as you cum again. Pleasure blossoms along your spine, kissing every nerve as you cry out and are overtaken by ecstasy. 

John groans, moaning loudly as you call him ‘your love’. The look of bliss on your face, the fact that you are falling apart for him drives him to the edge and pushes him over. He kisses you sloppy, whining into your mouth as he spills against both of your stomachs. 

He doesn’t stop kissing you as you come back to yourself, breathing hard. Your skin is sweaty, hot, but you keep him in your arms as he presses close and whispers sweet words in your ear. 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading! (Using a different tag list for kinktober so I don't overwhelm anyone.)

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“all i see is smut” “why can’t i find fluff and angst and not smut” “how come fluff isn’t—”

yet when nonsmut fics come across your dash you don’t support it by circulating it with a reblog. smut is pushed because it’s the smut audience that tends to be more supportive when it comes to boosting the fics they read 💗

opinions on rewrites?

I'm thinking of rewriting some of my original oneshots

People turning against Chappell Roan for not accepting harassment & stalking of her and her family, saying Hozier is acting embarrassing for defending his girlfriend THAT Y'ALL WEREN'T EVEN SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT after she got harassed online, calling Pedro Pascal names for.. apparently not greeting fans loudly in his own private time?

Y'all have GOT to get a grip on real life if you think celebs establishing boundaries is working against you. You do not know these people, you will not sleep with these people and they do not owe you anything!!!!!!

this is so cute! also i think you have thw wrong header bc it says 'rydal keeps asking you out' on it ❤️

Ask The Question

Outcome 3 x GN!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 3: Drinking Game

Summary: Rydal keeps asking you out.

A/N: Opps, this is basically fluff. Thank you @thexsanctuaryx for saving my butt and beta-ing again!

Warnings: fluff, teasing, drinking, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 649

You take a shot, the whiskey burns your throat. You can’t remember if it’s your fourth or fifth, your tolerance having been consistently burned down during the course of the evening. 

There’s a pleasant buzz at the back of your head.

He chuckles, his dark eyes twinkling. “I can’t believe you didn’t want to answer that one.” 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him so relaxed, without every single muscle tensed, posed and ready to strike.

You pull a face, “I have my reasons.”

“Which are?” Amusement dances in his expression.

You pause then shake your head. “Nope.” 

“That’s unfair.” 

“Is not.” 

He shifts a little closer to you on the floor, pressing his arm against yours, “Is too.”

Outside the wind is howling, the night dark and cold. 

The light from the fire plays across his skin dreamily. 

“I took my shot.” You gesture to yourself. “I’m playing by the rules.”

He tuts playfully, “How is, ‘Are you interested in anyone right now?’ so difficult to answer?”

“You can’t trick me, mister. I’m still not gonna tell you, besides it’s your turn.” 

“Fine.” He gives you an eyebrow raise and then pretends to think. “Truth.”

You pout at him for a second and then grin wickedly. “Are you interested in anyone right now?” 

He snorts.

“See?” You gloat. “Not so chatty now are you?” 

“Yes.” 

“What?” 

“The answer’s yes.” He gives you a smug smile. “Your turn.”

“What?” You splutter. “Who?” 

“It’s your turn.” 

“Hey-”

“Rules are rules,” he nudges your shoulder again, “and it’s your turn.”

You sigh dramatically. “Alright…” You know he’s going to ask something similar again, and again if you say truth until you’re too tipsy not to answer honestly. You swallow. 

Part of you wishes he wasn’t so beautiful, wasn’t so charming. That you weren’t hopelessly head over heels in love with him. 

But he obviously had someone he had eyes on. You tried not to let the disappointment that was tearing at your insides show. 

“Dare.” You finally say. 

“A kiss.” He speaks so softly you think you must have misheard.

“Sorry?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, breathless.

“A kiss,” he repeats, leaning closer until he can brush his nose against yours. 

“I…” You don’t know what to do, what to say, your mind racing and also unhelpfully blank. 

He reaches up slowly and lightly touches your cheek in a silky sweet contact. Your skin buzzes, practically hums where his fingers brush against you. 

“A kiss.” He says a third time, barely moving his lips this time as he tilts his head to the side and closes the gap. 

He kisses you softly, gentle and sweet like he doesn’t want to break you, but he groans when your lips move against his. His touch on your cheek grows firmer, his fingers slide down to cradle the back of your neck as he flicks his tongue along your bottom lip. 

This can’t be real, can’t be happening. You’d had too much to drink and passed out on the stupidly plush carpet. 

He hums against you, his kisses growing bolder, more demanding as he licks into your mouth, teasing your tongue with his own. He tastes like the whiskey and that stupid lemon you’d dared him to eat six rounds ago. 

His lips are softer than you expected, but as skilled and firm as you’d daydreamed of.

When he finally pulls back he keeps his eyes closed, a soft lovesick smile on his face. 

You swallow nervously, all words empty from your mind.  

“You can ask me that truth now.” He says softly, his hand still on your neck, tracing soft circles along your skin that makes you shiver deliciously and ache with want. 

“I…who are you interested in?” You finally stammer out, getting lost in his dark eyes. 

He kisses you again, lightly and whispers against your lips. “You, dummy.”

Thank you for reading!

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Summary: Spoopy Vampire falls for Basil Stitt (~2.4k)

Contents: 18+, gn!vampire!reader, blood, over pants hj

-----

Basil Stitt was the perfect meal.

Healthy enough. No romantic attachments. Only talked to his family a few times a week. Most importantly, he never left his apartment.

You weren’t above taking advantage of a lonely soul. You’d been a vampire since the early 1900s, and couldn’t remember what guilt even felt like.

You’d been watching Basil for a week or so from the building across from his. Noticed he was home at all hours of the day and night.

It had been awhile since you’d had a long-term meal. It was nice, once every quarter century or so, to have more than a one night stand with a human.

Basil was cute. Part of his face was damaged and one of his eyes was a little milky. You could fix that, though, if he wanted. And if he agreed to be yours.

But honestly, you preferred him this way. His scars made him human. Most vampires looked down on that kind of thing, but there was something about Basil. Like a sad puppy you wanted to scratch behind the ears.

He ate cold pizza straight from the fridge. He head-banged alone for an hour at 3 a.m., then cried until sunrise. Fell asleep with a pile of jelly beans on his chest, right there on the floor of his living room, a knife stuck in the cushion of the couch next to him.

He was perfect.

You watch Basil wake up, disoriented, then head toward the bathroom for his morning shower.

You slip out of the apartment you’d been staying in, one you’d charmed the occupant into loaning you (along with their neck), and out into the cold, gray morning.

You smell Basil’s shower gel as soon as you get off the elevator. He uses so much you can smell it through the window on the nights you’d watched him sleep. You can’t wait to lick the scent off of his skin.

You pick up the bakery box from the mat in front of his door. He gets donuts delivered on Sundays. You have to knock for almost five minutes before he answers. You hear his heartbeat racing. Poor baby, you can smell his pang of fear.

He opens the door with a paper bag on his head. He’s adorable.

Even through the two eye holes he’s cut in the front, you can see his dark, beautiful eyes. When they make direct contact with yours, you let the warm, false, charm of your immortality wash over him.

“Take off the bag, Basil. You don’t need it ever again,” you coo.

He rips it of with one hand, eyes wide.

“Oh,” you say with a smile, “you’re just perfect.”

He half smiles, his eyes dazed. “Thanks. But I’m not. I’m a monster.”

You raise an eyebrow at his choice of words. You let the charm fade, interested to see how he reacts.

Basil blinks, looking unsure all of a sudden. “Um. Who are you?” He asks, his hands fidgeting with the open door.

You inhale deeply. His scent is amazing. Sweet and clean. You can almost smell his loneliness. Even though you haven’t been human in more than 100 years, it touches you.

More than mouth-watering. You feel a stirring where you heart used to be.

“I saw you got a bakery delivery from the place down the street,” you say. “I just moved in down the hallway and was hoping you’d take pity on me. Invite me in for breakfast.”

Basil swallows. His hand comes up briefly, almost touching his scars. He turns his face so you can’t see them.

You lift the box of donuts. “I think these are still warm,” you say with a small smile.

Basil chews his lip. You smell sweat start to form at the back of his neck. Precious man child.

He takes a breath, as if to make himself brave. “I always make a big pot of coffee in the morning. I have juice, though, if you don’t drink caffeine. Come on in.”

Bingo.

You lay your hand on his chest briefly as you pass him to enter his apartment. Your hands itch to tidy things. This mess won’t do at all. Basil deserves better.

You stand in the middle of his hallway, so he has to make contact to pass you.

He lays his hand on your bare arm. His eyes go wide.

“Wow, I guess it’s cold this morning,” he says. “Your skin’s like ice.”

He rushes to the kitchen to pour you a warm drink.

“A gentleman,” you say, following him. “I haven’t met one of those in a long time.”

He shakes his head, embarrassed. “I’m not really. I broke up with my girlfriend over the phone a few months ago. I’m…”

His words trail off as you stand close to him in the kitchen.

You’re trying hard not to charm him. His real reactions are so cute, so genuine. You wish... well, doesn’t matter. Despite what books say, vampires can’t charm people into falling in love with them.

The thought startles you. Love. 

Is that what you want?

Basil hands you a mug, interrupting your thoughts.

“We can sit down in the living room,” he says.

He scoots by you and quickly clears the couch free of pillows and an empty bottle of wine. He flips the cushion that has a huge slit cut into it, filling spilling out. You’d watched him take a kitchen knife to it.

His outbursts are less these days, but still happen once in awhile.

You sit, setting the bakery box on his coffee table. He’s careful to hide the left side of his face from you. Always positioning himself just so, looking at you sideways. He’s so nervous his heart sounds like a bird’s.

You have no idea what scarred him.

Although, if the yellow post-its are any indicator, it was probably lightning.

You hadn’t seen it from your vantage point, but one of his walls is almost covered in lightning-bolt drawings and words.

“Are you an artist?” You ask, looking at the wall.

Basil half-laughs, sips his coffee. “No. Just another office drone. I work from home. I can’t leave my apartment. Obviously.”

Your gaze turns back to him. “Why do you say, ‘obviously’?”

Basil’s mouth turns down at the corners. “My face.”

His shoulders slump. You set aside the mug. It’s cold already from your hands sapping out the heat.

You move closer to him on the couch.

“I think you’re perfect,” you say.

“You’re perfect,” Basil says. “Confident. Gorgeous. I wouldn’t have had a chance with someone like you, even if I were normal. And now…”

You touch his hair with your hand, letting your fingers play with his dark curls, brush through. His eyes flutter closed. You feel him melt into the affection.

“Can I smell you? I know it’s weird, but I’d like to get to know you. Scent bonds beings in a way that nothing else can,” you say.

The question comes out of you without thought. It’s not a calculated move. You feel like you’re on a first date.

Basil’s eyes open. He nods.

You lean toward him, your face gently in the crook of his neck. The tip of your nose caresses his skin as you inhale. Basil’s so sweet your body is singing for him already.

You lean away before you lose control.

Basil turns his head, looking at you face-forward. He’s still nervous, but you’re unbelievably proud that he’s already showing himself to you. He probably sees the tinge of bloodlust in your eyes, but he doesn’t back away.

Maybe he feels it too. Something between you two that’s more than prey being drawn into a predator’s den to be torn apart.

You lick your lips. Basil’s gaze drops to watch, then flitters away.

“You want a donut?” He asks.

“Honestly, I don’t really eat.”

Basil’s brows furrow. “But I thought, I mean, you said you wanted breakfast. Not that I’m calling you a liar. Shit. Sorry. The only people I talk to are on conference calls at work.”

He looks down at his lap.

“It was a pretense. I wanted to meet you,” you say.

The tops of Basil’s cheekbones color pink from the compliment. You can’t help yourself. You reach out and touch his beautiful, warm skin with your fingers.

“I don’t mean to say I’m a stalker,” you smile reassuringly. “You’re interesting. Attractive.”

“Me?” Basil says. His voice gets high-pitched with disbelief.

You nod. “I have a sixth sense about humans. Compatibility and whatnot. I think you and I could be tremendously good together.”

You drop your hand when Basil doesn’t reply. It’s been many, many years since you’ve bothered to ask a human what they might like. Since you’ve tried to woo one without any special powers.

“I’ve lost my touch,” you say with an awkward smile. “I won’t force you. I’m sure your instincts are telling you to run by now. I’ll save you the trouble. Tell me to leave and I won’t bother you again.”

“My instincts are telling me to ask you to stay,” Basil says. He looks out the window. “Then again, they also told me I could fly and I should jump off my balcony right after my accident.”

You gasp quietly.

“It was okay. I fell into a dumpster.” He clears his throat. “It was gross, but I lived. Haven’t left my apartment since. But I think, sometimes, I knew you were watching me.”

“Your survival instinct. Like a gazelle on the savanna, your body knew I was there.”

Basil blinks. His big, brown eyes are clear when he looks at you again. He seems more sure of himself.

“I’m not perfect either. So, whoever you are, or whatever,” he corrects himself, “I think you’re interesting too.”

He smiles, the scars on his face making one side slightly tighter. As if he feels it, his smile fades slightly. He’s beautiful, nonetheless. You hope you can show him how beautiful.

“I’m a vampire,” you say quietly, trying to say it gently, hoping he doesn’t run screaming.

His body tenses. Apparently, his fight or flight is broken because Basil is still for a full ten seconds. Your thirst tugs at its leash, sensing an easy meal. But after so long, you’ve learned to control it.

“It’s daytime,” he says after awhile.

“It’s cloudy,” you answer. “Not comfortable outside for me, but I don’t burst into flames.”

“I invited you in,” he says to himself.

“You did.”

“But you don’t want to kill me?” He asks. He looks more confused than concerned.

“No,” you say emphatically, “I won’t to harm a hair on your precious head, Basil.”

He bites his lip uncertainly.

You reach out and tug him gently until his head lays in your lap. He looks up at your face, seemingly hypnotized by you, even though you’re not using any kind of charm on him.

You smile down at him serenely, twirling his hair around your fingers with one hand, the other brushing over the pulse beating in his neck.

“It would make me so happy if you would be mine,” you say.

His eyes flicker away, then back to yours. “Yours?”

“You have no idea how perfect you are, especially to someone like me,” you say, running your nails under the collar of his shirt. “Like you were made for me.”

You feel the blood rush up his neck, warming his face.

“Sweet Basil,” you say, leaning down.

You kiss him, leading with your tongue, before you let your fangs out. You want him to get used to the feeling. Basil barely notices, kissing you with wild abandon.

“You, you can,” he whispers, out of breath from the making out. He swallows. “… you know.”

You feel tenderness bloom inside of you. “Oh, Basil, my darling boy. I would be honored.”

He smiles, shifting to sit up slightly. “It won’t, like, turn me into a vampire or anything, right?”

“No, that’s a very different process,” you reassure him. “I won’t take too much, especially this first time. It’s very intense.”

He’s nervous, bless him, but determined. “I don’t think anything’ll hurt more than when I got hit by lightning.”

“It won’t hurt. Not after a few seconds. It’s intense in other ways. Sexually.”

Basil’s dark eyes pop wide. “I can handle it,” he says, mostly bravado.

“If you’re sure,” you say, bending your head.

You scrap your fangs along his neck. They’re sharp enough to leave a pink trail behind them, just a scrape along his skin.

He shivers.

You cradle him in your lap, your hand going higher on his leg.

“Is this okay?” You ask.

“Yeah, definitely.” He nods so hard his curly hair bobs down over his forehead.

You brush it back before getting back to it. You lay a hand over his already hard cock. Just enough pressure to draw a tempting whine from him.

His hips raise to meet your touch. You bite him. Fangs so sharp they slide into his neck like a hot needle through butter.

Basil tenses, flinches, but moans when your hand finds the head of his cock, teasing him over his pants.

You suck at the puncture wounds, a mouthful of heaven. He comes immediately, shuddering, a wet mess in his pants that you feel soak through right away. You moan at his neck, drinking and drowning yourself in the scent of him. The taste of his blood, warm and welcoming.

You shudder as you pull away. You kiss the wounds, suck gently again because you can’t help it. He tastes like candy. Sweet and addictive.

He looks dazed, but happy, looking up at you from your lap. Good boy that he is, he’s already half hard again.

“Will you stay?” He asks you. “I- I’ll be yours.”

You smile, a bloody tear at the corner of one eye. “Basil, dear, I believe I’m becoming very attached to you. Please know, you’re more than a pet to me.” You stroke his scarred face. “I will protect you with my life. And you will give me your life blood in return. Promise me.”

His face is soft and vulnerable. His milky eye closes slightly as he stares up at you with wonder. “I promise.”

You gently tilt his head. “Let me drink from you again, my Basil. And let us never be without each other again.”

:: Next Fic: My Girlfriend is a Ghost (Anselm) ::

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