Have You Reconsidered Embracing Ceremorphosis?

Have you reconsidered embracing ceremorphosis?

Honestly living for this rn

His Lady Love —Masterlist

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

tag list | if you'd like to be added to the tag list just fill out the following DOC ✨✨✨

summary | to escape your cursed lineage, you sail away to the ends of the world, where you discover a new world, one with only two continents instead of seven. you make a life for yourself in the court of kings landing, where you catch the eye of a certain targaryen prince.

warnings | violence; blood; targaryen incest; future smut (18+ mdni!); fluff; hurt/comfort; trying to follow canon plotline (major changes for some stuff); he falls hard, she falls harder but he's still the one obsessed.

i do not own any character from the book "fire and blood" or the following shows "the house of the dragon" or "the originals" except the reader (which is you)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 1

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 2

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 3

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 5

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 6

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 7

As someone who lost their father to cancer I feel this is very important to share. Please vote in 2024, and vote for those who care more about the people rather than bullshit politics.

(I don’t typically talk politics or world affairs but this hit me hard.)

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞…𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒.𝟗𝐤

𝐀𝐍: 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲'𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐜. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞

𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It’s the faint, purposeful thump of leather boots on stone that pulls you somewhat lethargically from the crinkled tome before you. A deep breath, a relieving stretch of tired muscles, an exhausted slump over the ornate marble table. An empty moment passes, followed blissfully by several more, and then reality crashes back around you like a peal of thunder. 

Fuck.

The roaring fire that had been dancing and crackling merrily in the grate to your right has long since turned to ash, and the library is now illuminated in a pearly glow rather than a golden glimmer. 

You’ve done it again. 

Groggily, you run your hands over your tired face, caring little that they’re likely spotted with ink stains. You had promised him this wouldn’t happen anymore. He had been vocal on how it displeased him to find you shivering in the library at absurd hours of the night, and you had promised that you would bring your studies to your chamber once the moon began to climb. 

And you had kept that promise.

Well, until tonight. 

Tonight, the High Valyrian text has kept you stubbornly in your seat. It’s complex and dense and has evaded your blossoming translation skills for the better part of the evening. You had desperately wanted to make your husband proud - you had envisioned yourself returning triumphantly to your chambers able to boast that, even with your own patchy translation skills, you had managed to untangle the seemingly endless sentences.

The gods, it seems, are not looking upon you with favour.

A fresh wave of irritation bubbles within you. The text before you feels mocking in its complexity and you’re briefly overcome with the urge to tear the delicate pages from the spine.

The burning vexation with your husband’s mother tongue, though, doesn’t stay with you long.

The heavy footsteps that had broken through your studious stupor continue to grow louder as they approach the doors, and, unsurprisingly, it takes only moments before your heart feels as though it’s trying to echo their rhythm.

Because those footsteps are familiar and they can mean only one thing. 

Aemond has come looking for you.

The knowledge of such a simple fact sends excitement surging through your blood like a bolt of lightning. In your mind's eye you can picture your husband prowling around the castle in search of you, and growing increasingly frustrated when you continue to evade him. In truth, you really hadn’t intended to displease him, but, given how you’ve quickly become the prize at the end of a hunt, it’s impossible not to eagerly anticipate your discovery. 

You’re close to giddy when the colossal doors to the library finally heave open, but you force your eyes back to the pages strewn haphazardly across the table, feigning a deep interest in the intricate text. Even when the doors ease closed and Aemond’s determined footsteps come to a gradual stop at the opposite end of the table you still don’t look up, biting back the smile that’s threatening to unfurl across your lips. 

The seconds continue to tick by, the tendentious quiet of the library only broken by the sound of your own heart pounding in your chest. Under your husband’s heavy gaze - because you can feel how intently he’s watching you - you fight the urge to fidget, to nervously tap at the table, to do anything to channel the excitement that’s furiously rushing through you. 

Of course, it’s Aemond who finally breaks the silence. 

“The hour grows late and our bed grows cold,” he says in that silken smooth voice. “Haven’t I told you how it displeases me to find you here so late? I do not relish the thought of my wife freezing to death in a library chair.” 

The excitement bubbling through you finally escapes in a loud burst of laughter. You raise your head to look at him, but your smile only grows wider at the serious expression on his handsome face. “We are far from the ice of the North, husband, and the fire has only just died. It would seem I have cheated death once more.”

Aemond’s face remains impassive, but you don’t miss how his lips quirk with the ghost of an amused smile. His eye stays trained on you as he walks the length of the table, only stopping once he’s close enough to reach out and take your hand in his. The warmth of it seeps pleasantly into your cool skin, and, with that, you know he’s caught you.

“Do you think me a fool?” he asks quietly, tracing his thumb slowly over your knuckles. 

“I do not,” you answer, suddenly now craving the warmth of his embrace.

He hums a response, then turns his attention to the array of books covering most of the marble topped table. “And what is it that is keeping my wife so infuriatingly out of my reach tonight?” He asks, picking up a book at random to scan the page. “High Valyrian? I hadn’t realised you were so inclined, my love.” 

You offer him your sweetest smile. “How else am I to whisper filth in your ear when we break bread with our neighbours? I know how tiresome you find the ceremony of Court, I only wish to make it more tolerable as any good wife would.” 

Aemond smirks and tosses the heavy tome carelessly back atop the others. “Indeed? And how far has my little scholar progressed in her endeavour?” 

“A fair amount, though some parts are proving to be more challenging than others,” you admit. 

It’s impossible to hide the tinge of shame that wraps around your words. Your husband speaks High Valyrian beautifully and with an ease that you’ve long been jealous of. Each word of the ancient language drops from his lips as naturally as rain from the skies, all while your own meager attempts have been clunky and awkward. You know Aemond would never taunt you for it, but the embarrassment and frustration still burn like dragonfire within you. 

“Mhm.” It’s the only response he offers before placing your hand back in your lap. 

With the practiced ease of a seasoned predator, your husband takes the few remaining steps to stand directly behind your chair and places two large hands upon your shoulders. “Mayhaps you need a tutor? It would be a sin to let such a brilliant mind go to waste, no?” He poses the question quietly, almost innocently, but you know him well enough to hear the not so subtle ripple of debauchery beneath every word. 

You shift slightly on the velvet cushions as a pleasant tingle gradually fizzes to life between your thighs. 

“Mayhaps I do,” you answer thoughtfully, fighting not to react when the soft pads of his thumbs begin to trace the exposed skin of your shoulders. “Who do you propose, my prince?”

It’s a ridiculous question, you know, but you’ll happily play his game tonight. Already, your need for him is burning a fiery trail beneath your skin. Tonight you’ll be his, however he wants you.

As if there were any other option.

You hear the soft rustle of clothing, feel the familiar caress of blonde hair on your shoulder, and then Aemond’s forehead is resting against your temple. “Someone who understands how to properly motivate you.” His teeth nip playfully at your earlobe, and you’re powerless to stop the breathless moan that floats like a dream from your lungs. 

Your head hits the gilded back of the chair in tandem with one hand curling around the edges of the mahogany armrest. The other tangles loosely into Aemond’s hair in an attempt to guide his lips back to your neck, the eager tilt of your head a silent plea to your husband to begin his assault. It matters little that you’re in the library, that anyone could easily push their way through those doors and catch your shameless tryst. Such is your need for Aemond you’d happily let the entire kingdom watch as he made you his. 

The tip of his regal nose traces a faint line along the sensitive skin of your neck, and you hold your breath in wait for the press of his lips on your throat, but they don’t come. Your brow furrows, followed almost instantly by a soft whine tumbling quietly into the silence of the library. All until you feel your husband’s hot breath against your cheek. 

“Translate,” Aemond murmurs softly in your ear. “Kostilus bodmagho nyke, valzȳrys.”

Your mind grasps quickly at the threads of words, hastily weaving them together in what you pray is the right answer. “Please teach me, husband.” 

“Mm, good,” he replies simply, and your reward is the feel of his lips on your neck as he sucks his mark into your skin. 

Your sharp cry of pleasure echoes through the columns of the library, and melts swiftly into a shameful moan when you feel the wet heat of your husband’s tongue against your skin. Your hand twists deeper into his hair in another desperate attempt to pull him closer, because you always need him closer. Aemond is your heaven and your hell, he’s your every sinful thought brought to life, and you’d happily drown in him if given the chance. 

“Husband, please,” you breathe out, your head now fully resting on your shoulder and eyes fluttering closed. 

You never tire of your husband’s affections, whether they be brief and fleeting or whether they have you moaning his name long into the night. Each touch of his hands or press of his lips only makes you crave him more.

You can never get enough of him, but, this time, your desperate pleas go unanswered. 

Aemond untangles himself from you before you can draw breath to object. Instantly, you miss the comforting warmth and familiar weight of him draped around your shoulders, and you turn to him with betrayal shining in your eyes. Your husband only reaches for your hand with that perpetual smirk curling on his lips. With ease, he pulls you from your nest of cushions in a twirl of skirts so he can settle back comfortably in the chair. Just as easily he tugs you forward, guiding you closer until you can go no further, until you have no choice but to straddle him and feel the heavy weight of his hands resting low on your hips. 

“Mhm. Much better,” he purrs, pressing against your hips to slide you closer. 

The scent of him wraps around you like a favourite blanket - smoke and leather and, somewhere deep underneath, the faint, sweet smell of cinnamon. 

It’s Aemond. 

It’s home.

Loosely, you drape your arms around his neck, letting your fingers idly play with errant strands of blonde hair. “I must admit that I have never known my tutors to be so familiar with their students,” you tease him, watching the smirk grow on his face. 

Aemond’s lilac eye twinkles softly at you, and then his thumb and forefinger reach out to gently pinch your chin. “I should like to think not, wife, or they may find themselves soon without their heads.”

Your fingers curl into the soft material of his jerkin as something hot and primal stirs to life in the pit of your stomach. This is no idle jest; your husband is dangerously possessive of what he perceives to be his, and if some poor soul were to get too familiar…

His possessiveness doesn’t frighten you. Rather, it makes you crave him so deeply that you feel the ache right down to your bones. You need this man like you need the air that fills your lungs, and, instinctively, you begin to rock against the thick material covering his thighs. 

Aemond chuckles low in his throat, curling his hands tightly round your hips to hold you in place. His grip is like steel - hard and unyielding - and you know that tonight your release will not be easily granted.

He studies you silently and with such intensity that you wonder if he can hear the pounding of your heart. You feel his fingers dig into your hips - a warning in itself - and then he shifts his thigh beneath you at just the right angle to brush teasingly against your aching core. 

“Aemond, please!”

He quirks an eyebrow at your plea, but, infuriatingly, makes no move to offer any relief. “Zaldrīzes,” he says quietly, holding your gaze with that beautiful lilac eye. When several moments pass and fail to say a word, that familiar smirk pulls across his face. “Mhm. Mayhaps you tire after your hours of study, wife.” He makes as though to lift you from his lap, but, at the final second, the last piece of the puzzle slots into place. 

“No!” You cry out, not the least bit ashamed at how desperate you sound. “Dragon. That’s what you said, isn’t it?” 

Aemond relaxes back against the chair, lilac eye flashing with satisfaction. “Good,” he says simply, and you feel his large hands run along the length of your back and along your shoulders until he’s cupping your head firmly between them

His lips are warm as they meet yours and the sheer force of his kiss takes you by surprise. You melt into him easily, letting your own hunger for this man guide your lips. Your fingers tangle greedily into his hair, and every inch of you screams more, more, more.  Aemond’s kiss is slow and deep and lasts nowhere near long enough. You clutch at him and swallow a whine when he finally pulls away, peering at him with desperate, pleading eyes. 

The taste of him lingers on your lips - faint traces of honeyed wine - and you want nothing more than to get drunk on him, to have so much of him it addles your senses and strikes you dumb.

You want Aemond Targaryen, more than you’ve wanted anything in your life. 

“As I said, wife, someone who knows how to motivate you.” The soft pad of his thumb traces your cheek, and you can’t help but instinctively lean into his touch. “Dārys,” he then says, letting his hand fall to rest on the curve of your shoulder. 

“King,” you answer before the last syllable leaves his tongue, so eager are you for the coming reward. 

This time, Aemond’s praise doesn’t come. Instead, his lips latch onto the sensitive skin of your jaw, kissing and sucking until the silence of the library is filled with your moans of his name. His kisses are warm and slow and, when you feel the wet press of his tongue against your pulse point, you’re shamelessly arching into him in search of more.

“Jaqiarzir,” he continues, beginning to suck another mark into your flushed skin.

Your mind is half gone to the lavender haze of lust. All you know is the softness of Aemond’s lips, the firmness of his thighs underneath you, the silky feel of his hair twisted around your fingers. Against that, everything else feels so terribly unimportant, but a gentle nip to your jaw reminds you that your husband still expects an answer. 

“Glory,” you half moan, feeling a burst of pride surge through your blood when Aemond hums against your neck. 

“Clever girl,” he murmurs, taking your chin back between his thumb and forefinger to reward you with a single slow, deep kiss.

Once again, he pulls away long before you’re ready, and his eye is filled with a quiet dare to challenge him. 

You know better. 

“You’re becoming a tease, husband,” you settle on saying, hearing the evident breathlessness in your own voice. 

“If my love would prefer a different means of instruction, then I am nothing but willing to hear so,” Aemond replies smoothly, his one eye twinkling with mirth.

You fight to keep a neutral expression, but all too easily a grin is curling across your lips. “I would not dream of questioning your methods, my prince,” you reply coyly.

His hands have returned to settle on your hips, and somehow he manages to pull you closer still. The brief friction of his breeches against your smallclothes is equal parts glorious and torturous, and is enough to pull a deep, quiet groan from your lips. You aren’t sure how long Aemond intends to play his little game, but the strings of your resolve are pulled taut and threatening to snap with each passing second. 

Something he no doubt already knows. 

“Mhm,” Aemond hums, his face unreadable. 

You feel his hands once again slide along the length of your back until they reach the high neckline of your gown. He pauses for only a heartbeat, then begins to unlace your bodice with practiced ease, expertly pulling each lace loose until the rich burgundy fabric falls soundlessly from your shoulders. 

You inhale deeply as the cool night air hits your skin, peaking your nipples and sending a trail of goose pimples along your arms. You’re in nothing more than your silk chemise and, when your eyes flick back to your husband, he’s gazing at you intently, almost as if…

“Keep going. Please,” you say softly. 

Aemond makes the same short work of your chemise until it pools loosely around your waist, and then you’re bare before him. His eye trails appreciatively over your naked breasts, a new hunger sparking within it at the sight of your naked flesh. 

As though he hasn’t seen you like this a thousand times before. 

“Gevie,” he all but whispers, taking a nipple and rolling it firmly between thumb and forefinger. 

You cry out sharply at the heady mix of pleasure and pain, of teasing and torment, and your husband smirks proudly at the response his touch elicits from you. 

“Please, Aemond, I beg you.” Your voice drips with desperation, but you no longer care. You can feel the slickness of your thighs beneath the folds of your gown, and feel the need for this man burning beneath every pore you possess. 

If he wants you to beg, you’ll fall to your knees. 

He cocks his head mockingly to the side and gives your nipple another cruel twist. “Your lesson has only started, wife. Would you give up so easily?”

A frustrated curse slips from your lips before you can swallow it, one that you know Aemond hears but chooses to ignore. You want to say yes. You want to curse this damn language to the Seven Hells and take your husband to bed, but your stubborn pride rears its insufferable head. 

“No. I want you to keep going,” you say, arching your back to press more of your breast into his hand. 

“A wise choice, my love,” Aemond murmurs, then reaches forward to trail a path of slow, wet kisses along your collarbone. When you sigh audibly in content he wraps an arm snugly around your waist to press you closer, and soon his lips are moving against your skin again. “Vhagar's kipagīros iksis hae nēdenka hae issa handsome, se zȳhon ābrazȳrys iksis se olvie fortunate riña isse se sīkuda Dārȳti.”

You hear the soft drawl of Aemond’s voice, hear every hard consonant and soft vowel, but the words of Valryian barely register in your lust addled mind. Vaguely, you note that he’s said something about Vhagar, but with with the teasing press of his lips along your collarbone and the tops of your breasts, you find that you really couldn’t care less. 

You want him to devour you right here in the library, but your husband is waiting patiently for an answer. 

“Can…can you please repeat?” you ask when your senses slowly begin to return. Aemond quickly obliges and this time you try in vain to grasp at every word. “Vhagar is…handsome and…fortunate…because of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

You know you’re wrong before the last word leaves your mouth, but, in your current state of arousal, you’re proud to have even gotten that far. 

The confirmation comes in another cruel twist of an already sensitive nipple. “Wrong,” Aemond tells you softly, driving the point home with another sharp nip to your neck.

The raw need for him is simmering in your veins and pulsing between your legs, threatening to turn you half mad unless you get your fill of him, but all you can do is roll your hips against his thigh, though it doesn’t grant you even a modicum of relief. 

Aemond is in charge tonight, and you’ll feel that euphoric release only when he allows it. 

“Seven Hells,” you groan, letting your head fall forward onto his shoulder. The cool leather is a welcome relief against your flushed skin and Aemond allows you a moment of respite, but mercy is not on his mind.

You feel the tip of his nose trace softly along your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine, and then his warm breath is tickling the shell of your ear. “Again, wife.”

A shaky sigh leaves your lips, but you know you have no choice but to obey. “Vhagar…Vhagar is handsome and - fuck, Aemond!”

You arch into him until your breasts are close to crushed against his chest, because now his hand is beneath your gown and those long, practiced fingers are teasing your aching cunt through the material of your smallclothes. 

“Keep going,” he commands firmly, running a single fingertip firmly over your clit.

You swallow the whimper that’s beginning to rise in your throat. “Vhagar is handsome and the Seven Kingdoms are fortunate.” The words spill from you like a sudden downpour and, for just a moment, you bask in the blissful feel of your husband touching you where you burn for him. 

His touch is like water to a burning flame but, as quickly as his hand has slipped beneath the layers of your gown, it’s just as easily gone. This time, you can’t suppress a whine. 

“Wrong again,” Aemond says, taking your chin back between his thumb and forefinger. “Mayhaps I am not motivating you enough, my love.” 

“Your motivation is cruel,” you answer back petulantly, although you’re already missing the feeling of his lips on your skin and the taunting tease of a single finger. 

Aemond’s soft smirk only grows. “Mhm,” he hums, and then you’re suddenly in motion. 

His hands are curled securely beneath your thighs as he raises you from his lap and sets you atop the library table. From your vantage point you see the mischievous twinkle in his lilac eye as two large hands hold your legs apart, and your jaw falls slack when he then falls to his knees between them.

It’s a deliciously sinful sight that goes straight to your head. Aemond Targaryen, perhaps the most feared dragonrider and skilled swordsman in King's Landing, is on his knees before you and gazing at you as though you’re an oasis in the desert. 

“Gevie,” you whisper, echoing his earlier compliment. 

Even in the half light of the library you catch the faint blush that stains his cheeks, but his face remains impassive. “Sweet words will get you nowhere, wife. Again,” he says, and presses his lips to the inside of your knee. 

A shameless groan fills the quiet space as your fingers curl tightly around the edge of the table, It’s simultaneously too much and nowhere near enough. You hear Aemond’s elegant words of Valyrian, but only a handful more register in your lust-addled mind as his lips continue their journey along your thigh. Your translation comes forward on a shaky breath and is broken by moans and yelps as Aemond sucks bruise after bruise into the soft skin of your thigh. 

You bask in the feel of it - because little feels better than your husband marking you as his - and when he doesn’t stop, you believe that this time you’ve actually gotten it right. 

Aemond’s slow path of kisses continue until you feel the brush of his hair against your lower stomach. You inhale deeply, preparing for his strong hands to make short work of your smallclothes. The anticipation makes your hips tilt expectantly, waiting for the glorious feel of his warm mouth, his skilled tongue…

“Wrong,” he says softly, pulling his head back from between your quivering thighs. 

You’re ready to combust into a million little pieces with how great your need is, and the last of your pride slips through your fingers like freshly spun silk. “Aemond, please! I cannot bear it! Take me…please.”

Your begging is his weakness and you wait for him to crumble, but as your eyes meet his lilac one, you see only a steely determination. 

“Shh shh shh,” Aemond soothes you, running the pad of his thumb over your knee. Yes, you can, ñuha prūmia. Now try again.” 

Your husband repeats himself once more, this time placing intentional emphasis on the words that are still evading you. Slowly, the intricate words of Valyrian slot into place, the web of tangled knots unravels, and you can’t help but laugh at Aemond’s choice of words.

There are many reasons why you love the man between your thighs - his bravery, his protectiveness, his determination to name a few - but never has one person been able to make you laugh so easily. Others may see a monster, you only see the man who holds your heart in the palm of his hand. 

“You are demon, my love,” you scold him lightly, feeling him smirk against your inner thigh. “Vhagar’s rider is as brave as he is handsome, and his wife is the most fortunate lady in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Sȳz riña,” Aemond praises you, all while pushing your thighs wider apart. 

Warm hands slide over your thighs to your smallclothes, and one swift pull rips them roughly from your body. 

And then you finally feel the warm wetness of his mouth against your aching cunt. Tonight, he doesn’t tease, but instantly begins spelling out promises with his limber tongue.

You’ll hold him to every one of them.

Aemond licks a firm, slow line along the dripping length of your cunt, making sure to empathise each lewd noise of your arousal. You bite your lip as electricity crackles beneath your skin, trying as best you can to stifle the sounds that are bubbling in your throat.

Something your husband is having none of. 

“I want to hear you, my love,” he says from where he’s nestled between your thighs. He squeezes them roughly, informing you that his words are a warning and not a request.

The sound of his voice coaxes your eyes down, and you fleetingly see the shine of your own arousal coating his top lip. 

“Seven fucking hells!” You cry out, twisting a hand tightly into Aemond’s silver hair to push him closer. 

Your husband smirks and doesn’t take his lilac eye off yours as he buries his tongue back in your cunt.

It’s like throwing a flame to a funeral pyre.

Pleasure white and hot explodes through every inch of you, so blindingly intense that you have to throw a hand on the table behind for support. “Husband, please! Keep doing that!!” you plead roughly, beginning to grind against Aemond’s face in a desperate search for release.

He moans against your cunt and tightens his grips on your thighs until you’re sure there’ll be tiny bruises along your skin tomorrow, but you’ll welcome every single one.

“You’ll be the death of me, Aemond Targaryen,” you sigh, letting your head fall back on your shoulders to bask in every second of pleasure. 

You hear his appreciative hum from between your legs, and then his tongue settles wondrously on your clit, licking and lapping like a man starved. With each swirl and flick of his talented tongue the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, promising a blinding release on your husband’s mouth. 

“Aemond…Seven Hells, Aemond…I’m so close, please,” you plead with him, arching your back as the first tendrils of release begin to flick teasingly through your core. 

Your husband responds by pulling you closer to his mouth, clamping you tightly to him until you’re balancing beautifully on the very edge of pleasure. 

Less than a minute later a tidal wave of pleasure pulls you fully beneath its surf. 

The force of your release sends your eyes rolling in your head and Aemond’s name leaves your lips like a sacred prayer, echoing wildly off the high ceilings of the library. You care little - let all of King's Landing and beyond know that you belong to this man body, mind and soul. 

Aemond’s tongue doesn’t leave your cunt until you’re panting and mewling above him, practically boneless atop the table in the wake of a shattering release. He presses a quick path of soft kisses to your inner thigh, fixes your skirts around your legs, and climbs to his feet while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I believe that a successful lesson. What say you, wife?” he says with a smirk, fixing you with his good eye and reaching out to pull the bodice of your dress back over your shoulders. 

You shiver at his chaste touch. “I think another may be in order. It’s of the utmost importance that I master this language, wouldn’t you agree?” you tease him back, wrapping heavy arms around his shoulders. 

Aemond steps between your thighs and rests his forehead on yours. “Mayhaps a longer lesson is needed then?” he murmurs quietly.

You don’t fight the smile that unfurls across your lips. “I wouldn’t dare to question your methods, my prince.” 

He answers with a small smile and a quick peck to your lips. “Mhm. In our chambers would be wise. I fear your next lesson may last throughout the night,” he says, each word loaded with filthy promise. 

You take his offered hand and slide from the table top on shaky legs, feeling fresh excitement begin to bubble in your veins. “Then we must make haste, husband. Every second counts when such an important task is at stake.”

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

"creature of myth."

pairing: vampire!gojo x fem!human!reader summary: when you receive an offer of marriage from a mysterious wealthy lord, it’s too good a deal for your family to turn down. but nothing could be so perfect... right? content: MDNI (18+  ONLY), dark content, nsfw, gets dubcon/noncon in some spots, yandere behavior from gojo, implied death/k*lling of a character (not reader or gojo), arranged marriage, victorian au, plot that ends with porn lmao, spooky dooky vibes, blood, blood sucking/eating, praise, biting, unprotected sex, creampie, virgin!reader, discussion of virginity, cherry popping, pain, pet names (princess/love), reader is highkey clueless about sex, discussion of masturbation, ideas of masturbation as “sinful”, very minor religious themes, fated “mates”, gojo is highkey insane, coercion and manipulation, like SO much neck kissing, ooc gojo??? (had to alter his character to match a victorian vampire lord LMAO). a/n: PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. THERE IS DARK CONTENT AHEAD. is this a gojo fic or a twilight fic?? Going back to my roots fr fr. straight down to the “SAY IT, SAY IT”. this fic is also way too long my apologies bbs. i hope you like a hefty side of plot with your porn. parts of this fic feel way too cheesy to me but sometimes i eat that up, yk?? this fic was inspired by this amazing work by @rice5x ! and, finally, thank you all for the support on my most recent fics. i'm just getting back into being active on this blog and it's been amazing reading each and every comment/reblog/ask. they genuinely fill me with so much joy. keep them coming hehe. anyway, i hope you enjoy and remember, ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. credits: dividers by @cafekitsune. banner art by @ndsoda on twitter. wc: 11.6k (sowwy)

You remember perfectly the way your mother’s jaw dropped when Satoru Gojo proposed to you. You’d never seen the man, and you still hadn’t. He’d asked to marry you via messenger, a simple letter delivered by hand with a list of all the things he’d be willing to pay for your hand. Offers of money, land, protection, connection- anything so long as he got you. You’d thought it was a joke. Your father nearly took a shovel to the head of the poor messenger, thinking the letter was some kind of cruel prank, some sort of targeted disrespect. You’d only started to believe when you really looked- saw the Gojo crest embroidered on the man’s suit, the fine leather of his boots. If it was a prank, somebody had spent a great deal of money and effort to pull it off. 

You’d asked for proof nonetheless, and you’d gotten it. Documents signed and sealed with a well-known waxen crest, gifts that could only have been purchased by a wealthy lord. The one thing you never got was the lord himself. He refused to see you, to come down from his mysterious castle on the hill. It didn’t surprise you. He rarely deemed town worthy of his presence. He had a reputation as a recluse, as a man who only ever liked to see and never be seen. What little glimpses people got of him were usually through the dark window of his carriage. Still, his appearance preceded him. White hair, light eyes… “haunting” said those who had the luck to see him. Those who went to work for the lord tended to return… changed— if they returned at all. 

You accepted, of course. How could you not? You were a peasant family with no status or wealth to your name. The promises Lord Gojo had made would make your parents into aristocrats all on their own. But that left you wondering… why did he want you? You offered him no benefit. If anything, you sullied his bloodline. The question scratched at the back of your mind. It came to you while you ate breakfast, while you washed your clothes, while you weeded in the garden. Some part of you told you that you needed the answer before you ever stepped foot in that castle. You needed that answer, but you’d never get it. 

Your wedding wasn’t even a wedding- just a piece of paper that had already been signed and witnessed, once again delivered by a familiar messenger. You signed at your dining room table and… that was that. You were married. 

Later that night the carriages arrive. Men flood your home, all dressed in blue velvet, the Gojo crest embroidered on their chests. They seem puzzled when you tell them you’ve packed all your belongings into a measly three bags. 

You say a quick goodbye to your parents, drawing them into stiff embraces. You love them, and they love you, but you can’t bear to see their faces as they send you away to a man who couldn’t even show his face for your wedding. 

The carriage ride is somehow longer than you’d thought it would be- apparently, the castle’s size makes it seem deceptively close. The trip is rocky and twisty and altogether unpleasant as you steadily make your way toward the castle gates. By the time you reach them you think you’ve probably dozed in and out of consciousness at least half a dozen times. 

The castle is even more intimidating up close. Spires that swirl into the clouds, sculptures that stare, doors that look more suited to being locked than opened. It’s… terrifying. 

When you finally roll to a stop, you move for the door. When you swing it open you get your fair share of strange looks from your attendants and remember that you should have waited for the footman. Your face heats as you climb out anyway, unwilling to subject yourself to the further humiliation of waiting for assistance. 

Your feet hit gravel and all you can do is stare- up, up, up, to where the castle’s peaks disappear into the fog. When your eye flashes to a window on the east side of the manor you think you see a swaying curtain. You tuck your arms around yourself and shiver, but it’s not from the cold. 

You nearly stumble over your feet on your first step inside. The entrance hall is larger than your former house, with ceilings that stretch so high you can hardly make out the figures on the frescoes that adorn it. Silver and blue drape everywhere, the Gojo family colors. You swallow when you see a chair that is most definitely worth more than your family’s annual income. 

The floors are marble and when your worn heels clack against it, you only feel reminded that you don’t belong here. That question pricks in your mind again as you pass portraits of every Gojo heir to have lived in the last three hundred years. Why me? Why me? Why me? 

Your footman deposits you in your room, a place more lavish than you’ve ever seen. You have a four poster bed with a canopy of blue velvet, a window that overlooks a sprawling estate, and more square footage than you’ve ever dreamed of. 

“Pull this if you need any sort of assistance, ma’am.” 

You turn to see your footman referencing a silver cord at your bedside. You assume it’s one of those contraptions that rings a bell in the servants’ quarters. You try to hide your amazement- you’ve never seen one in real life before. 

You clear your throat and give your most ladylike nod. “Thank you, um-” you pause, your brow furrowing. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked your name.” 

Your footman appears stunned to silence, like he’d never expected you to care about his existence, much less his name. He recovers quickly, though, and forces a small smile. “Thomas, ma’am.”

You smile and it’s genuine. “Thank you, Thomas.”He bows and makes a beeline for the door, but you have one more question. “Oh, um, Thomas-” He freezes, turning slowly on his heel to face you. 

“Yes, my lady?” 

You cringe at the title. The sound of it creeps across your skin, foreign and… wrong. Why me? Why me? Why me?

You clear your throat again. “Do you know, um, well-” You shift, trying to word your question properly. “Do you know when I might see the Lord?” 

There is a pause, a moment of tension and silence, and then an answer. “No, my lady.”

Thomas does not stick around for more questioning. The door clicks shut behind him and then you're left with only the sound of retreating footsteps. 

You’re stunned to say the least, mouth still halfway open, more questions on the tip of your tongue. Should you seek him out? Was that proper? Would he come to you? Would he meet you for dinner, perhaps? Surely he would come to your room tonight to… consummate. Would that be the first time you lay eyes on him? When he’s over you? 

You sigh. There’s nothing much to be done about it now. You find your way to the bed and sit down hesitantly. It feels like a crime to rumple such primped and polished cotton. You do it anyway- it’s going to happen sometime, right? You fall back against the mattress and don’t fail to notice how utterly comfortable it is. The silvery patterns on your canopy swirl and bend together. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep much last night, anxious for the morning… and it’s only mid-afternoon now. You had time for a nap, right? Your eyes are closing before you can convince yourself it’s a bad idea and then you’re swept away into a world of warm darkness. 

You wake with a start. Your first thought is that it’s dark now. Your room is pitch black except for the stream of moonlight passing through your stupidly large window. Your mouth feels dry and your skin is cold, like you’ve just woken from a nightmare. If you have, you don’t remember it. Perhaps that’s a blessing. 

You sit up, combing a finger through your hair and laughing pitifully when you realize that you left your shoes on as you slept. You hope Thomas didn’t walk in to find you in yet another unladylike position. A glance at the foot of the bed reveals he might have. Your bags have arrived- all three of them. You eye them with a combination of longing and contempt. They don't match this place. They’re worn and used- everything here is shiny and new. Still, they’re all you have, and all you have left of your life before. All you have left of home. 

You stretch your arms above your head, nearly groaning at the burn in your muscles. The carriage ride did your body no favors and you suspect you’ll be sore for many days to come. 

You rise, no longer content to lie in bed. You’ve had your rest and, from the state of darkness outside, you suspect your new husband might be joining you soon. The thought twists a certain tightness into your gut, but you push it aside. If that was the price you paid for all he gave your family… then you’d pay it gladly. 

You start with candles, finding a box of matches at your bedside. You light every candelabra you can find. The room, the castle, seems so perpetually… black- like it soaks up every ray of light it touches. Even when you’ve finished it doesn’t feel like enough. You make a note to ask Thomas for more in the morning. 

You find a meal, carefully prepared and preserved, on a table near your dresser. Judging by the fact that it’s still warm, you conclude that it can’t be much past mid-evening. You originally intend to pick at the food as you unpack, but one bite has your mouth watering. It is the most delicious thing to ever touch your lips, complete with dessert waiting on the side. You clean your plate before moving onto your bags. 

You lay your clothes out on the bed. A few dresses, riding pants, undergarments, an assortment of ribbons and bows. At one time these items had been the finest things you owned- now you owned a castle. 

You find an armoire that looks like a master sculptor carved its edges and grab a dress, intending to hang it. Instead, your dress hits the floor when you part the doors to find the hangers already full. Your lips part. Luxury dresses of silk and satin line the rack, fading into some that appear more casual outfits of cotton and linen. You stretch a hand out, curious and utterly… amazed. To think your new husband had gone to all the effort… Your hand brushes purple silk and- 

“Do you like them?” 

You screech, jumping to face the voice at your back. It takes a moment for your eyes to find him, leaning casually against one post of your bed. Your breath is stolen for a second time. Snow white hair, piercingly blue eyes, pale soft skin… you know who he is even without looking at his dress, at the air of authority he claims. He’s your husband… and he is the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

He laughs, then, and it’s a warmer sound than you’d thought it would be- rich and full. A sound that seeps into your bones and settles in your soul. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but the twinkle in his eyes makes you think that perhaps that’s a lie. 

Your heart pounds and your eyes flash to the door. It’s shut. You didn’t hear it open, nor did you hear it close behind him. You also didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear breaths, didn’t hear him. 

He follows your gaze and laughs again, though it sounds a bit… strained? 

“I have a habit of being unintentionally lightfooted. I apologize.” 

Your heart is still pounding but you find it in yourself to have some decorum. You snap your jaw shut and bow your head slightly in respect. “You must be Lord Gojo. Forgive me for my insolence.” 

There’s a beat, and then footsteps– ones you actually hear this time. You clench your jaw when he stops before you and then nearly gasp when he takes your hand and brings it to his lips. 

“Satoru, please,” he winks and you think you might stop breathing. “I am your husband after all.” 

You force yourself to nod, to swallow, to act normal. But how can you in the presence of a man that looks like… that? There’s something too unreal about him, too perfect. It’s almost… unsettling. 

“Of course… Satoru.” 

He straightens and shows you a close-lipped smile that digs a dimple into his left cheek. You have to look away to avoid stumbling over your own feet. 

“So, do you like them?” Your brows furrow- “The dresses,” he clarifies. 

“O-oh.” Your features relax into an easy smile. You turn back to your armoire, running a hand along another gown. You don’t think you’ve ever touched something so… finely made. “I like them very much. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

There’s a little chuckle as you turn to face him again and you have to steel yourself before you meet his eyes. He’s mesmerizing, too mesmerizing. You think you could probably lose yourself in those eyes forever… 

“No need to thank me. If they don’t fit, we’ll call for the seamstress in the morning.” 

You nod softly, still lost to the situation. There’s a beat of silence in which your husband does nothing but… look at you. His eyes roam freely and the hair on your arms stands under his gaze. He traces the lines of your nose and jaw and lingers on your pulse. Can he see just how fast your heart is pounding?

“Did you… get dinner?” It’s a stupid question, you know, but you don’t think you can bear another second of that look he’s giving you. “I fell asleep and found a plate. I hope I didn’t prevent a proper meal…” You trail off. Perhaps you shouldn’t have pointed out your own shortcoming? 

He gives you another smile and you swear he inches just a little closer. “You did no such thing. I’m… perfectly satisfied.” 

You nod, glad that he doesn’t seem upset at the very least. Your lips press together, unsure of what to do or say. You’ve never had a husband before. Wasn’t he supposed to just sort of… put you on the bed and… do it?

Your eyes flit to said bed and your husband must see because he hurries to continue. 

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, hm?” His eyes flit to your armoire and back again. “Wear the blue dress with the lace to breakfast, yeah? Been dying to see it on you.” He chuckles like he’s just told some sort of amusing joke.

Your brows furrow. That was… not the topic you’d been expecting. “You’re not…” You feel your cheeks heat and tighten your jaw. “Not staying the night?” 

His lashes lower a fraction and those eyes pierce you again. You don’t think you could move even if you wanted to, even with him prowling closer, each step eating up the space between you. He doesn’t stop until you’re nose to nose and you can feel his breath fanning over your cheeks. It’s cold somehow, chilling, and you shiver. He smirks. 

“Not tonight.” 

His head dips and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but then he’s bypassing your mouth altogether and- his lips connect to your pulse. His mouth is cool, just like his breath, and you shiver uncontrollably under his touch. 

His touch is just a fleeting moment, just a wrinkle in time, and then he’s gone. His footsteps are quiet brushes on the hardwood and the creak of the door even seems tamed in his presence. 

“Goodnight,” is all he says, and then he’s gone. 

You climb into your bed an hour later wondering what in the world just happened. 

~  

You do wear the blue dress to breakfast and you can only gape in the mirror when you realize that it fits perfectly. It has you second-guessing yourself. Had you sent your measurements in advance and forgotten about it? No, you’d only sent a handful of pieces of information to the Lord prior to your marriage and you remembered all of them very clearly. Everything had gone through a messenger, everything had been clear and direct– you would have remembered sending your measurements– you didn’t. So had he just… guessed? 

That seemed impossible with how everything fit you like a glove, but it was the only explanation you had. The only one that made sense. 

When you join Satoru for breakfast it’s in a sitting room as lavishly decorated as the rest of the castle, but perhaps organized to be a bit more… liveable. He has no plate in front of him, only a tin cup that hides the contents of whatever he’s drinking. You assume coffee or juice. Perhaps he’s just not a breakfast person. 

“It fits!” he says. His hands clasp together in front of him and he smiles again, dimples and all. 

You nod and fight the heat that bubbles beneath your cheeks as you take your seat. “Yes, perfectly.”

A plate is set before you and a glance up reveals it’s Thomas serving your breakfast. You smile, hoping for some acknowledgement from him, for a small piece of comfort. Instead, you get his averted gaze and quick retreat. Your brows furrow, but before you can say anything, Satoru is back to speaking. 

“I hope Thomas treated you well yesterday?” 

You glance up, but Satoru’s eyes aren’t on you, they’re on your footman. His smile is bright, but it’s anything but friendly. You fight a shiver. 

You glance at Thomas. He’s perfectly still, perfectly straight, but you think you see a muscle clench in his jaw. You clear your throat. “Y-Yes. Thomas was very helpful.” When Satoru keeps staring the boy down you add, “-and very respectful.” 

That seems to satisfy. Satoru breaks his stare and some of the tension in the air instantly eases. He shoots you another dimpled smile, this one with a little more warmth. “Perfect.” 

There’s a beat and then he’s standing, draining whatever he has in his cup and then straightening his jacket. “Well, I have some work to do. I’ll see you for dinner?” He’s grinning again, like it’s so normal for a man to abandon his bride on their wedding night and then again the morning after. All you can do is nod. He chuckles. “See you then, princess.” And then he’s gone.

~

If this is to be your life you don't know how you will survive it. You spend the day milling about. Through the gardens, through the castle, through the stables. Thomas is never far behind, but any attempt at conversation is nipped in the bud by hit shortness. It’s like he fears coming too close. He’s never closer than a couple paces except when he has to bring you something, only to retreat again as soon as possible. The other servants barely pay you any mind apart from giving you a respectful greeting and then immediately averting their eyes. There is no work to be done, no guests to be had, no parties to plan… and no Satoru. You don’t see your husband once on tour around the grounds. You ask Thomas where his office is only for him to vaguely point out a window in the east tower. You don’t see so much as a ripple in the curtains. 

Dinner comes around at the pace of a snail. When it’s finally time to get dressed a lady’s maid whose name you don’t even catch arrives to help you lace your dress. As soon as your corset is deemed tight enough she’s back out the door with a curtsy. Thomas leads you to the dining room and your eyes roam the whole way. Even after having spent the whole day exploring, there are halls and corridors that you’ve yet to step foot in. 

The dining room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the place– filled with singular items that could feed entire families for years. Somehow, you think you’ve already grown accustomed to such things, since the only thing you truly care to look at is your husband. Satoru’s already seated, but he stands when you enter, looping around the table to pull a chair out for you. 

You give him your most genuine smile, accepting a kiss to your knuckles in greeting before you settle. “How was your day?” you ask as he takes his seat again. 

He chuckles. “Perfectly fine. And how was yours, princess?” Your nose crinkles. That’s the second time he’s called you that. Something about it feels wrong. You’re still getting used to being a lady. Princess feels even worse. 

“It was… good.”

You watch a perfect white brow arch in the candlelight. “Oh? Just good?” You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to the corner– to Thomas. 

You hurry to elaborate. “Well, I just– I can’t help but feel as if there’s not much… use for me.” Servants flood in, some carrying wine, others carrying trays that hold more food than the both of you could ever possibly consume. 

That brow arches impossibly higher. “Use?” His lips crack into that smile again, but it’s tight this time. Too tight. “You have no use. You only enjoy yourself. Surely Thomas has told you that.” 

A plate of steaming food plops in front of you. Even its heavenly smell can’t quell the sudden dread in your gut. “Of course! Of course he did.” Your stomach twists and you decide that perhaps now is not the time to press the subject. “I’ll just… I’ll try riding tomorrow.” You hate riding, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. 

Satoru’s smile thaws into something less menacing. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.” 

You nod eagerly. “I’m sure I will.” 

You grab your fork, eager for a new subject. From what you can tell, dinner is roast chicken and vegetables, though it’s the luxury version as everything seems to be. The spices are intoxicating and the green beans are even arranged in a pretty little pattern that makes them look too good to eat. You do anyway. The first bite nearly makes you moan, but you chew slowly, delicately, trying not to let your upbringing show.

It’s not until several bites later that you realize you’re the only one eating. A quick glance reveals your husband has no platter, no chicken or green beans. He’s only… watching you. You clear your throat, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. 

“You’re not… eating?”

That permanent smile grows a little wider and you can’t help but feel as if there’s something… menacing about it. “Ate before I came.” 

Your brows furrow. “Oh. Were you on the road?” 

You think you see something wild flash in his eyes. “No.” 

The rest of dinner passes slowly, almost painfully. Satoru doesn’t eat a bite, doesn’t even look enticed. You wonder how that’s possible when it smells like a spice bomb went off in the dining room. 

By the time you’ve cleared your plate you’ve discussed everything from the number of horses in the stables to kinds of crops grown on the estate. It’s comforting to know a little more about your new home, but it’s not enough. 

“Is there a library?” you ask. You’re on dessert now. It’s the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had and it takes everything in you to hold back a moan each time it touches your tongue. 

“Of course.” Your husband’s eyes flicker to Thomas again and you’re honestly starting to fear for the poor footman’s life. Everytime you ask a question it’s like Satoru is angry it hasn’t already been answered. “It’s yours to use as you please.” 

You smile lightly. “Perfect. Thank you.” 

He softens a bit at that. “Is there anything specific you wanted to read about?” 

You shrug. “The estate, I suppose. I should know my home’s history, no?”

His eyes get that wild look again, that sparkle that you know speaks to nothing good. “Oh, absolutely. I have some personal favorites to recommend. I’ll leave them aside for you?” 

You swallow and give him a shallow nod. “That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

He chuckles. “My pleasure.” 

When dessert is finally over, you stand slowly. Satoru’s not far behind you, saying he’ll walk you to your room. Your heart leaps at his words. Will he stay with you tonight? 

He offers you his arm in the hall and your mouth runs dry when you feel the corded muscle beneath his jacket. By the time you reach your room, you’re thinking of tugging him in behind you. His denial to stay with you last night was not only confusing, but… off putting. Nearly offensive. Did he not like how you looked? Did he think something was wrong with you? 

You muster all the courage you possess and force your lips apart. “Will you stay with me tonight?” 

His eyes spark again and you hold your breath. He presses closer. This is it, you think. His lips hover over yours, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. And then he dips his head, his mouth pressing to your pulse. 

“Not tonight,” he whispers– and then he’s gone. 

~

You wake suddenly. It’s the middle of the night, you gather. The light streaming through the window is weak enough to only be that of the moon. 

Your heart is pounding and your skin is slick with sweat despite the chill in your bones. A nightmare, you think. It must have been a nightmare. 

As you settle back into your sheets you swear you see a ripple in the darkness. You close your eyes. If your nightmare is real, you’d rather not see it coming.

~

The library is huge. It’s sprawling and smells of paper and leather and everytime Thomas lights a candle you flinch at the idea that one misplaced spark could end thousands of years of knowledge. 

The books Satoru left you are… perfect. Just what you were looking for. They’re all comprehensive volumes of the history of the estate, many of which reference each other. You’re stunned to see that several are written by very well-known authors of both the past and the present. You knew the Gojo family’s influence reached far, but not that far. You peruse the titles. The Gojos: A History, A History of the Gojo Crest, History of the Gojo Castle, Revisiting the Gojo Family: A Comprehensive History. Altogether you have well over a few thousand pages of information– but there’s one book that doesn’t fit with the rest. It’s relatively unassuming. A black cover with some sort of gold rune etched onto its front. When you flip to the title page it reads “Creatures of Myth and Where To Find Them”. Your brows furrow. You slide it to the side– must have gotten mixed in with the others, you think.

~

You ask Thomas to bring the books to your room. He does. Very respectfully. He sets them on your bedside table and then retreats like a kicked puppy with only a polite goodbye. You sigh. His behavior has only gotten stranger in the past few days. You think the servants’ coldness must have something to do with Satoru, but you can’t figure out why. Had he ordered them to stay away? Why would he? 

You decide it’s a question for another day and dive into your books. You spend hours, days, reading every chapter, page, and word. The pure amount of information is dizzying. Apparently this specific estate had been in the hands of the Gojo family since the eighth century (with several razings and consequential rebuilds). You also learn that Satoru was not only the most wealthy lord on the continent, but the most wealthy man. Even wealthier than the king apparently, though that fact was kept fairly under wraps to protect the crown’s ego. The estimates of your husband’s net worth made your head spin.

Satoru joins you for breakfast and dinner every day. You never see him eat a morsel. It’s… unsettling to say the least. It’s always just that tin cup, filled with something you could never quite see. You develop a pattern of waking in the night, too, with the overwhelming sense that something is watching you. Sometimes you could swear you feel the bed shift as you jerk awake. Each time you simply close your eyes and try your best to slow your heart, convinced your mind is playing tricks on you. 

Your days feel a little more productive with a book in your hands, but you’ve read them all three times over by the time a fortnight has passed. You find yourself packing them up to return to Thomas when a certain black cover catches your attention. You grab it from the pile and settle back into your seat. You’ve nothing better to do, right? 

You flip back the cover, revealing a familiar title. “Creatures of Myth and Where to Find Them”. You don’t recognize the author’s name. A quick scroll through the table of contents reveals nothing particularly interesting, but you pick a random chapter on ghouls and decide to start there. 

It’s fascinating. Nothing about the style is boring and the words fly by. Your silly little myth book is a page turner. By the time you notice the light has started dying you’ve read about ghosts, fairies, werewolves, and goblins– all of which have been a delightful little read. A glance at the clock reveals you have a half hour before dinner. One more chapter, you think. Your eyes skim the title. “Vampires [Vampyr]”. 

You skim the first paragraphs until your eyes settle on a line that catches your eye. 

“Contrary to popular belief, vampires are not always crazed blood-hungry monsters. Many live among humans quite comfortably and are able to avoid detection with a little well-placed effort.” 

You purse your lips. What a… terrifying thought. You skim a little further. 

“A vampire’s key characteristic is, of course, their desire and need to drink human blood as sustenance. However, a vampire can be spotted sooner if one is able to recognize their subtler traits. Vampires often have skin lacking any sort of flush. The lack of blood in their veins results in a sickly pallor, even after the most rigorous exercise. Their skin is also noticeably cold to the touch. At best, a vampire’s body will reach room temperature. Vampires can also be noted for their preternatural beauty. They will stand out as the most attractive person in any crowd. Finally, a vampire will have fangs. If one wishes to identify a vampire, one only needs a good look at their teeth”.

A chill settles over your skin. You flip ahead a few pages. 

“Vampires are unable to consume typical human food. Should they attempt to, their bodies will immediately reject any and all foreign substances.” 

Your stomach drops. You don’t want to think about why. You skip the rest of the paragraph. 

“Vampires possess several supernatural abilities that set them apart as a human’s predator rather than their equal. Vampires are known to move unnaturally fast and are notably light footed. If a vampire does not wish to be heard, they will not be. A vampire’s strength is inhuman, well over ten times that of the average man. They also have a penchant for darkness, an ability to hide away in the shadows that cannot be explained. Oftentimes they will seem to appear from thin air.”

You skip ahead again.

“Vampires have been known to take mates. Mates usually come in the form of another vampire, but in some cases a human has been chosen. Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly. Oftentimes, vampires make these decisions with haste, with little regard for whether or not the threat was real. A vampire will do everything in their power to please their mate, but have been known to forcibly restrain their mates in situations of unrequited feelings. Above all else, vampires wish to possess their mates. Two bonded vampires will sometimes spiral into gloriously destructive fits in their endless desire to protect and possess one another. A vampire bonded to a human will show an increasingly protective nature, often isolating their mate from others.”

Your heart pounds. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You flip the pages, desperate– desperate for a piece of information that will save you from the thoughts spilling in your mind, from the thoughts you will do anything not to believe. You reach the “Where to Find Them” subsection and nearly gasp with relief. Surely, vampires do not pose as wealthy lords of Europe? 

“Vampires can be found everywhere. They do not exist in only one country or continent, but all over the world. Odds are that you have faced at least one vampire in your life, unknowingly or not. Some vampires choose to live solitary lives, surviving in the wilderness where human society will not attempt to tame their wild nature. Others choose to live among humans, some even existing in positions of very high authority.” 

No, no, no. This can’t be happening to you. It can’t be real. You’re dreaming, you’re having one of those nightmares again. You’re going to wake up any second. 

“One tale recounts a razing of the Gojo estate in the 12th century.” 

You’re panting, hyperventilating. This isn’t happening. 

“Soldiers of the enemy force recounted a singular man, the son and heir of the then Lord Gojo, taking out a minimum of 800 men. He was described as having his family’s characteristic white hair as well as blue eyes. Eyewitness accounts depict the Gojo heir as covered in blood and killing savagely and with inhuman strength.” 

No, no, no. 

“(See next page for only existing portrait)”

Your fingers tremble but you can’t stop them. There’s no way. It’s not possible. 

You flip the page and Satoru stares back at you. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You nearly scream. Your door rattles angrily, but you’re not sure you can answer it, not with the knowledge flooding your mind. The knocking continues. You run your hand over your face and smooth down your hair. You feel frazzled, dirty, despite not having moved from your chair all day. Another knock prompts you to set your book aside and stand. You do your best to compose yourself, to put on a straight face. You fail instantly when you pull back the door not to reveal your faithful attendant, not Thomas, but Satoru. 

You bite back a shriek and instead force a smile. You’re suddenly very aware of the blood pounding in you veins and of the fact that he most likely knows. 

“Hello,” he says, but his voice is lower than usually, more intense. 

You force a breath into your lungs. “Hello,” you answer, but it sounds more like a squeak than a greeting. 

Something flashes in his eyes, something familiar, something that is no longer interesting but rather terrifying. “Are you alright? You seem a little… flushed.” The concern on his face feels anything but genuine. 

“I’m fine,” you answer, but even you can tell that reply too quickly, too eagerly. You rush to cover it up. “Is it time for dinner? Where’s Thomas?” 

His lip twitches and you see a muscle in his jaw flex. “Thomas has… left us.” 

No. This wasn’t happening to you. There was no way this was happening to you. 

“He… what?” There’s an unmistakable wobble in your voice that only causes Satoru’s face to fall further. 

“It’s no matter. He’s gone. Now it’s just you and me, hm?” He chuckles and the sound rattles your bones. “In fact, I was thinking I’d cut down on the number of servants we have entirely…” 

You mind races with the memory of knowledge you wish you didn’t have. “Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly.”

You nearly stumble, but lean against the doorframe just in time. Your husband had disposed of a man, all because he brought you meals and books?

“What have you been up to today, princess?” The question breaks your trance just in time for you to see your husband’s eyes flicker behind you. 

You wet your lips. “Just some reading.” You plead that he doesn’t ask anything further. He does. 

“About the estate?” he asks. 

You nod and try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes.”

His smile returns and this time it’s not forced. “You got my books, then?” 

You try smiling back, but you’re fairly sure it looks more like a grimace. “Yes.”

“Anything interesting?” he presses.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Does he know? Does he know that you know? “Yes, of course. Lots.” 

He pauses and you see the debate and then the decision in his eyes. You think it’s the first time you’ve felt true terror when he meets your gaze again. “I think we should skip dinner tonight. It seems we have so much to discuss.”

You don’t even have the wherewithal to scream when he steps into you, forcing you back until he’s shutting your door behind him. He doesn’t stop there, though. He keeps pressing, keeps pushing until your knees hit the bed and you’re falling to the mattress. He crawls right after you.

“Who knew my little wife was such a reader? All those books in such a short time… You must be simply spilling with information.” 

You retreat across the mattress, squeaking when your back hits the headboard and his arms cage your waist. You’re trapped.

His hands find your hips and you’re all too aware of how cool his touch is. Even more so when he pulls you right into his lap.

“Satoru-” your voice is pitiful, breathless, and you’re ashamed to say it’s not just from the fear in your gut. He’s never been this close before, never touched you, held you like this. “Thomas-” 

“Don’t speak his name.” His face pulls into the first scowl you’ve ever seen and the sight is enough to root you to the spot. Never have you seen anything more frightening. A creature so beautiful, so perfectly angelic, filled with an insurmountable rage. It’s wrong. “He’s gone. He’ll never bother you again.” He’s closer now, his breath skating over your skin. It’s cool and now you know the reason why. 

You shake and tremble and you know– Thomas is dead. Your husband killed him– killed him for getting too close when all he did was stay at a distance. Satoru killed him. Killed him. 

He buries himself in your neck, his voice a near whine. “Thought I could put up with it, just so you’d have someone to take care of you…” He groans. “I was so wrong, princess. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way you smelled more like him than me…” 

You feel him melt against you then, relief washing over his body in a wave. “But he’s gone. And now it’s just you and me, hm? Just you and me…” He hums, like remembering that fact is all he’s ever needed.

He’s kissing your pulse again, now, and your heart is racing faster than ever. Your fingers curl into his shoulders. You should push him away, away, away. He’s a killer, of thousands no doubt. You’ve never felt at home here, never felt like you belonged. This is why. You’re not even the same species. He’s something else, something your hands were never meant to touch. 

Your mind screams at you to do go, to shove and kick at him and leave this place behind. Go, go, go your gut says… but you don’t. You can’t. It’s too… good. The feeling of his cool lips against your skin, of what you’re sure is his tongue prodding at your pulse… it’s intoxicating. He is intoxicating. How could anyone blame you for wanting more of someone, something, so divine? 

“Have you figured it out yet, love?” Your breath hitches and he chuckles, licking a long stripe up your neck, before he settles back at your pulse. Always your pulse. “I can feel those little gears turning. Tell me, what have they discovered?” 

He knows you know. But he’s going to make you say it. You swallow and feel his grip on you tighten. “You’re…” Your breaths come faster. You can’t. Not aloud. Aloud makes it too… real. 

“Yessss?” he prods. He’s licking at you again, all the way across your throat to find your other pulse-point. 

“You’re not…” Something sharps nicks at your skin and you bite your lip to hold back a whimper. 

“Go on, princess.” You think he’s just smelling you now, just burying his face as close to you as possible and taking you in. 

You close your eyes tightly, holding back tears. “Not human,” you breathe. A piece of you breaks with the admission.

He huffs a little laugh against your skin and pulls back to look you in the eye. “That’s good,” he purrs. “But I think you can be a little more specific, no?” His lips press to your chin, then the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw… “Tell me.” 

Your lips wobble, muscles clenching tighter with each passing moment. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to speak it into existence, but you also don’t dare to disobey him. 

“You’re a…” You shake and tremble. He draws a line up your neck with the tip of his nose.

“Mhm?” 

You open your eyes, thinking this might be the last time you see. “Vampire.” 

He chuckles and you feel his teeth press to the skin of your neck. “That’s right, princess. So smart.” 

He smiles and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen his teeth before. Everytime he smiles at you it’s close-lipped and dimpled. But this… this is the smile of a predator– all white and pointy and fitted with a set of menacingly long fangs. You sob at the sight. 

“Shhhhh,” he coos. He has your chin in his hand, forcing you to truly look at him, to see him for what he is. “I won’t hurt you, love.” You want to believe him so badly it burns, but his laugh washes away any fire and turns it to ice. “Not unless you want me to.” He wiggles a brow like it’s just a little joke, like he’s not an actual fucking vampire that had his fangs over your neck just moments ago. 

“Satoru,” you beg. You’re not sure what you’re begging for. Release maybe? But, no, that’s not right. You don’t want him to let you go, not when you finally have him close after all this time. “Why did you pick me?” 

The question slips out. You hadn’t even been thinking about it, hadn’t even noticed it scratching at the walls of your mind, but it made its way out nonetheless.

His brow creases, but not in confusion. Moreso in… thoughtfulness. “Do you think about that a lot, princess?” 

You nod and you suddenly want him closer, want him to touch you everywhere, hold you like his life depends on it. You want him, no matter how horrible it might be. 

He nods and hums, kissing the tip of your nose lightly. “Well…” he says. His thumb swipes over your lips when he leans in to whisper in your ear. “At first I wanted you for this.” His head dips to your neck again and you feel the familiar brush of his lips against your throat. “You smell…” he chuckles. “Like heaven. Which is a place I’ll never get to on my own, so I had to bring my own little slice home, no?” He laughs again, a little louder this time, genuinely amused. “Went into town one day and caught your scent on the street. At first I thought I must be walking past the bakery, but, lo and behold, there was no baker in sight.” He’s still kissing at your pulse, worshiping it. “Went crazy, princess. Didn’t think I was going to be able to contain myself when I found you. Thought it might be quite the scene.” He huffs a laugh and you shiver, somehow both terrified and intoxicated. “But then I saw you–” he groans and something clenches deep at your center. “And I knew I needed more than just your blood. Needed you.” He’s rocking into you now, and your breath catches when you feel something firm against your backside. “Went to you in that little room you slept in every night. Watched you. Couldn’t stay away. Knew I had to have you.” You feel him smile against your skin. “After a week I couldn’t take it anymore. Sent you that letter, married you. Made you mine.” He groans again. “Then I met you and you were so pretty, princess. Already knew it, but hearin’ you talk to me, look at me.” Teeth graze your pulse. “Needed you more than ever. Almost took you right on the fucking floor in here while you were lookin’ at those dresses.” You whine when his hips roll into you again. “Oh, but I knew I couldn’t. You’re so fragile, love. Had to wait, had to make you feel safe, yeah? Spent all this time forcing myself to stay away, ‘fraid of what I might too if I was in your presence too long. Had to control myself. Had to make you realize you could trust me.” He panting, like he’s so pent up he can hardly sit still. “Do you trust me, princess?” 

Your brows scrunch. Say no, say no, say no a part of you screams. Run, run, run. You can’t. “Yes,” you breathe. 

You feel him smile again, feel the pleasure of submission. “Good girl.” 

You’re on your back. It happens so fast your eyes don’t even have time to gasp. You don’t see Satoru, but you feel him. Everywhere. His hands are roaming your body softly, sliding under buttons and laces and popping them off. Your dress loosens with every passing moment until Satoru reappears above you, diving straight for your neck again. “So good, princess. Let’s get you out of this dress, yeah?” 

You nod wordlessly, entranced. He finds your mouth as he rids you of your clothes. His tongue presses in and you flail against him, unsure of what to do, of how to handle the intrusion. The kiss is heavy, too heavy, but Satoru can’t seem to stop. He devours you as he gives up on laces and buttons and simply shreds your dress down the back. You tremble when the cold air hits your skin, when his cool fingers dust your collarbone. 

“I always forget how many damn layers they make you ladies wear,” he chuckles. His hands run beneath your shift, up across your bare thigh. You gasp at the touch. No one has even been so close to you before. You feel the threads of your corset snapping away, feel your breaths growing deeper. You tremble when he pulls your sleeve down past your shoulder and runs his mouth along the newly exposed skin. 

“Satoru,” you gasp, and your hand pulls at his flowing white shirt. 

He chuckles, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You wanna see me too?” You nod, lips parted and eyes glassy, and he laughs again. He lips dust over the corner of your mouth. “Alright.” 

His hands shift from you to himself, working at the laces on his chest. His movements are speedy, practiced, like he’s been lacing and unlacing shirts for hundreds of years. Your throat tightens when you realize that he has. 

You gasp when he reveals himself, when his shirt slides away to reveal an expanse of pale skin and carved muscle. You’ve never seen a man like this and seeing one this close up for the first time is nearly blinding. He’s art, you think- nothing less. 

“Touch me, princess,” he says. You can’t. You shouldn’t. He’s too beautiful, too perfect to be beneath your insignificant hands. “Need a little help?” he asks, and there’s a lilt in his voice that makes you sure he’s grinning. 

His hands find yours and bring them to his chest, running your palms over his collarbones, his pecs, down, down, down across his abs that you can feel each and every one… You whimper, watching your own fingers grope his skin. He pulls you lower, lower, lower, and you gasp when your fingertips brush the waistband of his pants. But then he’s laughing again and he’s throwing your arms over his shoulders and pulling you closer, kissing your neck like it pained him to be parted from your pulse for so long. 

“Not so fast,” he says, like he wasn’t the one nearly stuffing your hands down his pants. His hands are on your corset again. You can feel it dangling onto you by a thread, literally. All he needs is a couple more pulls and you’ll be bare. By the look he gives you, you can tell he’s 

thinking the same thing. “You touch me, now I touch you, yeah?” There’s a tug and a tear and then so much… cold. You’ve never realized how cold this castle is, not until you’re exposed to its elements fully. You’re naked. 

Satoru sits back on his knees and just watches. His gaze is searing, burning, despite the iciness of his being. It’s too much. Your hands move to cover yourself, to maintain some modicum of your dignity- 

“No.” Strong hands find your wrists and pry them apart. “Let me see you,” he says. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. 

Your jaw clenches and your frame shakes, but you do as he asks, letting your hands fall limply at your sides. There’s silence for many more moments and it seems to go on so long that you can only squeeze your eyes shut under his gaze. Surely he will turn you away now, get up and leave, tell you this was a mistake, tell you that you’re– 

“Beautiful,” he breathes. Your eyes snap open to find him already staring at you. “Beautiful,” he says again, and then he’s on you, lips at your pulse, hands on your skin. His touch is cool and you squeak at the chill that runs up your spine. You’re not sure it’s entirely from his temperature. 

His mouth seeks yours and he devours you. You feel as if he’s sucking your soul out through your lips. “Tell me you’ve never done this before,” he begs. “Tell me I’m the first to touch you.” 

You whine against his mouth, both aching for more and overwhelmed by what he’s already giving you. “Y-You’re the first,” you whisper. 

His groan is deep, primal. It rattles through your chest and you whimper when his hands dig into your waist hard enough to bruise. “Yes,” he breathes, and you shiver again. “Lie back, princess.” Your eyes widen, with anticipation or fear you’re not sure. Probably both. He chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” 

You pray he means that. “Just relax, love. Here, hold my hand.” His fingers find yours, twining them together. When you swallow, his eyes follow the bob of your throat. He leans back again and your body twitches when his free hand skims the skin of your thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he finds your knees and you gasp when he parts your legs, revealing you so completely to his gaze. The way he stares, like he’s committing you to memory, it’s nearly enough to make you snap your thighs shut, but a squeeze from his hand reminds you to relax, to trust. 

His palm skates up your thigh and settles near your hip, his fingertips inching closer to where you can feel an embarrassing throb. 

“Tell me, love. Have you ever touched yourself here?” His fingers dust low on your tummy- just low enough for you to catch his meaning, but not low enough to give you any relief. Your face heats and your teeth dig into the flesh of your cheek. You have, you have touched yourself there, but it’s the last thing you want to admit to your new husband. It’s shameful, it’s dirty, it’s- “Don’t think I’ll judge you, princess. Just wanna know.” 

You gulp down a breath. You should come clean. “Y-yes,” you stutter, and the sound of your voice so weak and helpless only makes you flush further. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand again. “On the outside or the inside?” 

Your eyes widen. I-inside? You’d never considered that… “J-just the outside,” you answer. 

Your eyes grow even wider when his head rolls back and he moans straight up to the ceiling like your answer is heaven-sent. When he looks back to you his fangs are on full display. “Well, I think you and I are in for a little treat today, hm?” 

Your brow furrows and your lips part to ask him what he means– his fingers travel those last few inches down your tummy and find your clit. You squeak and jolt so violently that he presses a hand to your hip, holding you to the mattress. “Somebody’s sensitive,” he chuckles. He holds you still for a moment and then lets your hips go free. “Try to stay still. I promise it’ll feel good.”

You nod hopelessly, but this time you’re prepared for when he touches you again. Your muscles clench at the first touch, at the foreign sensation of a touch down there that wasn’t your own. But then it’s more. It’s languid, slow circles around a spot that you’ve never been able to pinpoint so well on your own. It’s heat building in your tummy that seeps through every vein and into every pore. It’s relaxation that you’ve never known, that has you melting into the mattress despite the chill of the touch. 

There’s a little huff of a laugh and then his voice. “Good girl. Feels nice, yeah?” You nod hesitantly and squeeze desperately at his hand, searching for an anchor. His head cocks to the side and you watch the smile slide across his lips. “It’s about to feel even nicer.” 

By the time you realize what he’s doing it’s far too late to stop him. His mouth closes around your cunt and you yelp, trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation- but he’s got his freehand on your hip again and his grip is bruising, punishing, as he holds you in place. He licks a stripe through your folds and you find yourself jolting again, uselessly so against the pressure of his palm on your hip. “Stop that, princess.” Your heart drops at the admonishment until you feel his guiding touch. “Rock into me like this.” His hand rocks your hips into his mouth and the pressure of his tongue against your clit is so delicious that you whimper. “Good girl,” he says and your heart rises right back up. “Keep doing that, now.” You don’t dare defy him. You rock like he showed you, a little jerkily at first, and then you find a rhythm that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, love,” he says, and the sound is muffled against your cunt. “Here, put your hand in my hair.” He finds your wrist and guides you forward until your fingers are tangling in those snowy locks. They’re even softer than you’d imagined. “Good girl,” he whispers and suddenly he’s taking one last long lick and lifting his head to meet your eyes. “‘M gonna put my fingers in you now, princess.” Your chin wobbles. “It might hurt a little bit, but stay still, okay?” You can’t do anything but nod. 

His eyes return to your cunt and you can feel him prodding at your entrance, circling the hole as you clench in anticipation. “Relaaaaaax, love,” he says and you nod. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth– 

You feel the exact moment he pushes into you and a whine of pain rips from your throat. Your walls clamp down like a vice, angry at the intrusion– but it’s already too late. There’s a beat of silence, of anticipation, and then he’s– laughing? 

Your brows furrow when you hear it, your head lifting to a sight that locks your limbs in shock. Satoru’s hand is lifted in front of his face, his pointer finger coated in– blood, you realize. Your blood. And he’s a fucking vampire. 

“Oh princess,” he coos, and the manic look in his eyes makes you tremble. “You really are perfect.” 

Things seem to slow as you watch him take his blood covered finger into his mouth. You’re sure you’ve never seen an expression more blissful, more lost to sensation. His eyes roll back and his body shivers, like he’s ascending to some higher plane. Maybe he is. 

When he pulls his finger from his mouth it’s completely licked clean. You hold your breath. He’s going to go for your neck now, right? He’s had a taste and now he’ll want more of it, all of it?

“Fuck,” is all he says. His mouth is back on your cunt so fast you don’t even see him move. 

Your mouth falls wide. It hurts, the way he is so desperately licking at you. You feel his finger again, pressing in, in, in, only to pull back and suddenly be joined by another. The stretch tears at you. You thrash and jolt, but Satoru doesn’t bother telling you to stop this time. His arm wraps over your hips, holding you in place. He seems immune to how hard your legs squeeze at his head or your hands pull at his hair. He’s lost. You can feel him licking, lapping, and prodding at you like you’re a fucking gold mine. He’s lost to desperation, to the need for more, more, more. Every so often he lifts his chin and you see his mouth smudged with a mixture of your wetness and your blood. He laps at his lips like an animal, dragging his thumb across his chin and sliding it into his mouth to make sure he gets every last drop. 

You’re not quite sure when the ravenous pain turns to a ravenous pleasure, when it turns from terrifying to downright delicious. You don’t notice your moans filling the air until Satoru joins you, groaning and whining into your cunt and telling you to keep going, to keep making those sounds. The hand you have buried in his hair doesn’t fight to push him away any longer, only to pull him into those now practiced rocks of your hips. His fingers thrust deep, curling into a spot that makes you feel so good and his mouth has found your clit again. He sucks your nerves lightly between his lips, tongue swirling in little circles. Your thighs start to shake. 

“Yes. Yes. Give it to me.” 

“S-Satoru–” you breathe. Warmth and tightness pool in your tummy, and you recognize it as your approaching orgasm, though you know this one will be far different than any you’ve ever managed to give yourself. Your body shakes and your breaths tremble and then– you fall over the edge, rocking your hips senselessly, losing all form of rhythm. Warmth tingles in your spine and seeps all the way down to your toes. You think you cry out, cry for your husband, cry for more, cry for less, but if you do you don’t hear it. All you hear is the pounding of your pulse, of pleasure throbbing in your veins until the world slowly seeps back in through the corners of your vision. 

Satoru is grinning. A speck of your blood clings to his chin and his fangs peek out from behind his lips. The sight makes your blood run a little colder. If any part of you doubted what he was before… well, there was no doubt any longer. 

There’s a shift between your legs, his hips slotting between them, and you’re suddenly snapped back to reality. From the look in his eyes, you’re not done. 

Frantic hands find his pants and he undoes each button with a quickness that is almost inhuman. You wonder if he could go even faster, if he’s holding back so as not to scare you. If he is, it isn’t working very well. Fear surges in your veins right alongside anticipation. 

“S-Satoru–”

“It’s alright, love.” His hand finds yours without his eyes ever looking up. His grip is just a little too firm, a little too cold. “Just stay still.” 

You whimper, but you don’t think he’s paying attention to that, and soon enough, neither are you. His pants slide down just past his hips, just enough. You gasp. 

You’ve never seen a man in the nude, never even dared to think about what it might look like, though it seemed you no longer had to guess. His hand wrapped around his shaft, giving one long and slow stroke that made his breath hiss through his fangs. The tip was flushed, angry, and leaking something that looked clear and sticky. You couldn’t help but notice it was a lot thicker than a finger, or even two. If his fingers had hurt…

He moves with that alarming quickness again, leaning down to hover over you, chests nearly pressed together. “Gonna take you now, princess. Gonna make you mine.” His eyes bore into yours, blue and shimmering with something wild. His hand presses into the mattress beside your head. “Stay still, now.”

It’s all the warning he gives you. You feel like you’re splitting– straight up the middle. You wail, hands flying out to claw at his back. It hurts. It hurts. 

“Satoru, p-please! It’s–” 

Lips catch yours– hungry, feral. The kiss is not gentle, not soothing. It shuts you up, it keeps you quiet, it keeps you still as you feel him sinking further, deeper into you. It’s too much, you try to say, but the poke of sharp teeth against your lips keeps you silent. Your hips jolt and wiggle trying desperately to escape the stretch but it’s no use. By the time he’s fully inside you, tears are streaking down your cheeks, fat and heavy. His lips break away and his eyes reappear. You shake when you see that none of the wildness has been tamed, that you’ve only just begun.

“Good girl,” he coos, and a cool finger traces a line across your jaw. “Took me so well.” You hold back a sob when his hips shift a little, testing, prodding. He must see the pinch of your eyes, the twist of your mouth, because he’s quick to comfort. “Just hold my hand, princess.” His hips rock in earnest this time and you whimper, squeezing down on his hand with all your might. You’re panting as he chuckles. “Breathe, love. Breathe. Soon you’ll be begging for more,” he laughs. It’s not long before he’s rocking into you sincerely, setting a pace that stretches you to the brink of breaking. At first it’s all you can do to grasp onto him, to bite your lips through the whimpers and hold his hand. And then it’s… more. It’s heat and warmth despite the coolness of his body on yours. It’s sensation and… pleasure. He laughs when the first moan slides past your lips, burying his face in your neck once again. You hear him at your ear, panting his hot breath across your skin. 

“Feel good, princess?” You nod, letting your hips rock against his as he showed you before. It feels good– it feels right. He chuckles, but there’s nothing light about the sound. “Wanna feel even better?” Something sharp pokes at the skin of your neck, hard enough to make you squeak, to make you freeze at what you know he wants. 

He pulls himself back, pressing his forehead to yours, searching your eyes with his. Something like a cruel smile dances on his mouth. “Just a taste, love. I promise it won’ hurt.” His tongue darts out and licks across your lips, his thrusts rocking just a bit faster. “You’ll feel s’ good an’ I’ll only take a little.” He laughs again and it sends a chill through your bones. “Promise.” He sounds breathless, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. The increase of his pace makes you whine and you squeeze his hand again. He buries himself back in your neck, panting. “Come on, love. Say yes. Say yes f’ me.” Your eyes glaze over. Your body justles with each new thrust. He’s desperate now, seeking a release that you don’t think is any kind you’re familiar with. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants in your ear. You’re not sure when his words twist in your mind, when they settle on your tongue and push past your lips, but you know it feels so right when they do. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

His fangs clamp around your pulse. You scream when the sting rips through you, violent and savage– but it only lasts a moment. Pain fades to… ecstasy. You feel his throat bobbing with each swallow, feel your blood seeping from your skin and onto his tongue. You’d thought it would feel slicing, draining, like the life was being sucked from you. It doesn’t. It feels wonderful. Heat spreads under your skin, emanating from your neck and down to your toes. It feels like breathing for the first time, like sugar being pumped into your veins. It feels like heaven. Your hand tangles in his hair, holding him close. You don’t want it to stop, not ever. You could die like this, have him suck every last drop of blood from your veins and thank him for it with your dying breath. 

He’s moaning now, hands curling into your hips while he fucks into you relentlessly. The pace is grueling and brutal. You know it should hurt but only feels perfect. Anything less would not be enough. Anything else would leave you wanting. You feel it building, feel that familiar twinge at your core. The ecstasy flooding through your veins has it coming faster, has you teetering on the edge in moments. 

“Satoru…” You hadn’t noticed how dizzy you felt until you tried to speak. You wonder why… “‘M gonna…” 

He fucks you harder, something menacing and deep rumbling in his chest. The sound makes you shiver, makes you whine, makes you come. 

Your body shakes and a cry rips from your throat, cunt clenching like a vice around him. Your eyes roll back, hands scraping trails down his back. Your thighs quake with the intensity, with the overwhelming senses of pleasure that erupt throughout your body. Every nerve is firing, every hair rising. It’s an unstoppable current, one that sweeps you away, helpless to its pull. 

His thrusts grow sloppy and untimed. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place while he makes you his. His teeth break from your neck and when you look up through blurry eyes you see his head thrown back, your blood streaming down his chin in thick little globs. You feel it when he cums, feel the thick ropes of it seeping into your womb, feel the way he keeps fucking you, pushing it deeper and deeper inside. He’s moaning, chanting your name like a prayer at the heavens. 

When the moment ends he slumps over you, eyes half lidded and tired. There’s a familiar grin on his lips, one that inspires both comfort and uneasiness in your gut. You can’t help but stare at him, at the blood that stains his chin and cheeks, that reddens his lips so beautifully. You want to reach out and touch him, touch his blood-soaked skin and see what it feels like, what it tastes like. What you taste like. 

His eyes slide to the side, finding your pulse again. You groan. Yes, you think. Please, yes. More. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of that. Of his teeth in your flesh, of the euphoria flooding your veins. More, more, more, your mind chants. 

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “No, princess.” He raises a finger to trace the curve of your neck. “I took more than I should have…” His expression doesn’t tense with worry. His cheeks pull into a smile, those little dimples shining through. “But what can I say? You just taste so good.” Like he needs to emphasize his point, his tongue darts out to trace his lips, lapping up some of the remaining blood on his chin. “You taste like mine.”

You whine. More, more, more. It’s all you can think about. You lift an arm weakly. You want to pull him to your neck, to make him drink, to make him fill you with the heaven you had just moments ago. 

He catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply. His lips split into another grin and you see his eyes spark again with the wildness you crave. 

“Not yet, princess.” he coos. “But soon.” His smile grows even wider, until those fangs are on full display, until you’re trembling again. “Forever,” he whispers.

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You wouldn’t guess it, but more often than not, Sub!Eren loves when you’re mean to him. In fact, he might even prefer it. He’d definitely let you tie him up—bound his wrists together painfully tight, his hands situated behind him while he sits so prettily between your legs, your back to the headboard while his presses to your chest, his long legs spread wide…

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･

Long, disheveled strands of chestnut occlude his vision, his pained face contorted in sheer desperation—deprivation. His chest heaves as weak, shuddered breaths drag from his parted lips, your teasing hand working crudely at his heavy, swollen balls—slowly kneading them, rolling them between the pads of your fingers, squeezing just tight enough to force a helpless, guttural whimper from the depths of his chest. Fuck, you’re going to kill him tonight and he’s sure of it.

“Spit on it, ‘Ren.” You demand, kissing his temple sweetly, your free hand creeping up to tautly squish his cheeks, forcing his mouth wider. Not a second thought passes as he pools saliva behind his tongue, soon puckering his lips to messily drool onto the head of his own cock. “Such an obedient puppy for mommy, yes?” A cruel, bewitching smile graces your lips while he nods meekly, whimpering wantonly as his head lolls back slowly to rest on your shoulder.

His cock is so angry with you. It throbs in your hand, begging for something—anything more. The wet, sensitive head weeps in sinful bubbles of precum, obscenely dribbling down your slick fist in rivulets as you pump him languidly. Eren can hardly help the pathetic buck of his hips as he selfishly attempts to get more out of your teasing hand, but you’re quickly reprimanding him with a harsh squeeze down the length of his cock. It’s been nearly an hour of this torturous cycle and he’s completely delirious. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

“Fuuuuck, p-please jus’ lemme cum, mommy... m’so close. Been such a good, p-perfect boy for you,” he pleads fruitlessly, huffing out desperate whines as if to will you, “didn’t touch myself all day like you asked!”

Liar.

Your thumb swipes along the head of his cock, collecting the sinful mixture of arousal and saliva as you hum in feign contemplation, “I don’t believe you, ‘Ren.” He nearly sobs when you quickly pull your hand away, rudely denying him of what he craves the absolute most. Release. “Mommy hates when you lie to her.”

Eren knows you know. How does he expect you not to? Did he truly think you’d just turn a deaf ear to his obnoxious moaning when you came home from work? Were you just supposed to ignore the fact that his cock was practically leaking by the time you entered the room? It’s like he doesn’t even care enough to be discreet anymore, especially when you specifically instructed him not to touch himself until you get back.

Eren’s eyes are brimming with warm tears as he begs for your mercy, fat, briny droplets of utter desperation threatening to spill down his flushed cheeks, staining his pretty face. God, he’s so frustrated and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it this time. You’re being awfully mean, but what does he expect he disobeys to you? This is merely the deserved consequences of his actions—his punishment. The only thing you ask of him is to abide by your one, simple rule: Do not touch yourself while I’m away. Is that so hard?

You’re crudely taunting him as you wrap your hand around his cock like before, pumping his messy shaft at such a gnawing, ponderous pace that it forces a throaty moan from his permanently gaped mouth. “You’ve been such a bad boy lately,” you tut, directing his raptured eyes onto yours with a not-so-gentle tug of his face, “am I just supposed to reward that kind of behavior?”

“But it was hurting me, mommy—my cock, it was so painful earlier… m’sorryyyy,” his voice nearly quivers as he whines, thick brows furrowing while he desperately tugs at his restraints, “I didn’t mean to, okay? Couldn’t fuckin’ help it… just get so hard thinkin’ about you, m’sorry.” And almost, there’s a brief moment of clemency—a fleeting instance of your forbearance, almost.

His lips are pursing together as he pants through his nose, a painful whimper of agony sitting in his chest when you squeeze him again. “Eren, baby, I truly don’t care.” You’re so mean, yet still, the thick, protruding vein that adorns the underside of his cock throbs painfully against the palm of your hand at your abrasive tone. Absolutely ridiculous, you think. “You disobeyed me… again. You’re not sorry.”

"I am, mommy! I swear I am, p-please! I'll do anything... you know I will," his hips are rolling toward your fist, haphazardly meeting your teasing strokes, "f— fuuuck, you can sit on my face like last time if you want... don't even need to breathe, y-you can suffocate me 'n I'll eat you out like a good boy! I swear, mommy... pleaseeee?" His usual timbre voice breaks sweetly as he pleads for reprieve, craning his head to find your stoic gaze, jade eyes glossed over with a painful sheen of tears.

A single, searing droplet falls when you shake your head softly, humming as you decline his alluring offer, but it's when you’re teasingly removing your hand from his cock that turns one, fleeting tear into several and soon, he's practically sobbing, weeping a frustrated stream of pretty little tears, marring his crimson-flushed cheeks in a beautiful, gut wrenching sheen that has arousal pooling between your legs.

As you kiss his tears away, Eren winces, his ever growing frustration apparent and evident. "You don't deserve my pussy, 'Ren," you hum, slipping from behind him to stand to your feet, "not tonight. Mommy doesn't reward bad behavior." You remind as you begin to walk away, nearing the bedroom door.

"No..." he breathes, tugging harshly at his restraints, "no, no, no... p-please don't leave me like this. I'm sorry, okay?" He's completely bare, his poor, neglected cock twitching lewdly as he lies there helplessly, fat, swollen balls painfully full as he sobs, yearning for your touch. "Mommy, no…”

"Oh, my poor baby," You frown, feign concern thick in your tone, "think about what you did." Are the last words you utter before leaving the room, locking the door behind you.

He'll learn.