Archive of Our Own ^beta

It could have been mistaken for a blow in the wind, as a splash from the stream ahead. It could be mistaken for a bird darting from the leaves overhead, or the ground shifting under your shoes.

But there was no mistaking. There was no doubt. Someone was behind you.

Your world spun, sickeningly tossing the soured alcohol around in your stomach. It fermented as you walked, fumes lifting and clouding your vision. Your mouth tasted disgusting, sticky, and dry, buttered scones and beer – a spoiled combination in your gut.

You sway as you walk down the cobblestone path from town, arms extended on both sides to keep your balance, one foot in front of the other. All you needed to do was get home, all you needed to do was make it to your door. But the rocks crunch under your boots, not just yours, someone else, right behind you.

Fingers slip around your throat first – freezing bone wrapped in thin flesh. They seared on your heated neck as they wrapped around it and suddenly you are yanked back off your feet.

Your back slams onto a heavy force, a chest with unyielding give. The hand around your neck buries itself into your skin, nails popping through flesh in a line. You gasp, jerking, but another arm slithers its way around your waist, anchoring you in place.

A breath, hot and humid, brushes past your ear as the person perches their chin on your shoulder. Their demeanor felt dominant, but their tone was gentle.

“Darkness is a terrible place to walk,” the voice says. It bounces around in your head, rattling the dull ache in your temples. “Monsters lie in these woods, sweetie. You ain’t being too careful.”

The hand around your waist hitches at your hips, pressing them into him further. Though his grasp was ice cold, his body felt warm under the clothes. The hand on your throat felt impossibly long, the fingers nearly connecting with each other as they held in place. You feel the blood from your cuts warm your skin, wafting in the air.

Suddenly, forcefully, you are tossed. Not in a practical way, not in a way that would land you gently. No, he tosses you far, allowing your body to meet air before it crashes harshly on the stones below. Your palms meet the shards first, splitting the skin open and embedding the tender flesh with dirt. Your knees land second – you hear a crack. Hot, shocking pain lights up your knee, shooting agony throughout your nerves. You cry out, it meets the muffled resistance of trees and the calm darkness of night, but nothing more.

He was over you before you had time to recover from your pain, his hand wraps in a fist in the back of your hair, yanking back so hard your neck aches with resistance.

“Dangerous business walkin’ yourself home like this. All exposed and disorganized. You shoulda been taught better. Don’t ya worry, I’ll teach you better.”

You are spun on your back, knee bending at an angle you’d never felt. It was broken, crumbled bone shifts under the skin. Panting, you thrash your hands out, gripping and scratching at anything on the man that you could. Your nails met fabric first and you ripped it apart – he let you.

Your nails met skin next and you dug in deep, hot, sweet liquid bathing the tips as you peel away the flesh on his chest.

He lets you. No, he wants you.

A satisfied noise leaves his lips, a predatory sound, full of want and desire. “You wanna be bathed in my blood darlin’? You wanna be fucked in it? I’ll give that to ya, only cause you're so damn pretty n' this moonlight.”

You blink, once, twice before your vision clears just enough to see him above you. Eyes red hot like embers, blazing their heat directly at you. There’s a smile spread across the man's face, wide and full of life – like he was unwrapping a damn Christmas present, not ripping you apart.

He grabs your wrist, taloned fingers squeezing painfully as he lifts your palm to his lips. He drags his tongue over the severed flesh, purring as blood and dirt coat his throat.

“Fuck, baby. You’re so sweet for me already.”

“Fuck you!” The words felt harsh in your throat, like razors scratching at the windpipe. This only spread his smile wider, glistening with red-hot blood.

“Fuck you, sweet thing.”

He spits. It sprays across your face, splattering your blood all down your neck and chest and into your open mouth.

Disgusting and weak. Just how he loves them.

His mouth connects with your neck before you have any battle to put up. Teeth threatening the skin, scraping past sweat and mud. The feeling of the daggers freezes you in place, and suddenly your throat is too tight. His knee knocks your own apart, forcing itself to press into the lined hem of your crotch. He applies firm pressure, letting out a breath when he feels your heat sink into the fabric of his trousers.

“Fucking disgusting,” he slips a fang over your skin – it splits open with a silent hiss.

He drinks the blood that’s offered, rolling his knee over you again, and he gets a gasp in return. There it is. That’s what he wants.

Emotions. Fight. Feeling. Humanity.

One taloned hand locks your wrists in place, painfully squeezing, digging them into the mud. The other scrapes down the exposed skin on your stomach, down the frayed openings where it met the ground. Blood coats his fingers as they roll back and forth in the wound.

You scream out, it's shattered in your throat, crisp and tight. The pain washing over you was unyielding – your knee throbs hot, neck stings, palms ache and everything bleeds. Yet, the vampire digs a nail into your open skin, admiring the way the top layer waves over his nail, how it slicks over his finger.

“You'd better hope you bleed more. This is all the lube you're getting.”

Those words shake you, toss you around like he had just thrown you again. Your world spins still, the alcohol heavy and hazy in your system. Any true fight you may have had wipes clean when your limbs turn to jelly, soaked deep with the night's rum and Cokes.

His fingers leave the wound on your stomach, eyes blazing on the wound, watching it gush further with red nectar. In the lowlight you swore you could see drool pooling over his chin, wobbling in a line as he moves.

A metallic jingle shoots into your ears, it batters around in your head before you connect what it's from – his belt, his zipper.

“No!” You yank with as much force as you can on your wrists, but his hold is iron, his nails are the anchor. You jerk your hips – a pathetic attempt to toss him from you, but really it just causes you to brush up against his freed cock, and he purrs in answer.

“There she is. That desperate little thing, just for my cock. Beg me for it and maybe I’ll fuck ya gentle.”

His bloody hand wraps around his length, pumping over it slowly, allowing you to listen to his fingers scraping over the skin. It sounds wet, merely from your blood and maybe some of his own pre-cum. But he wanted you to hear him pleasuring himself over you as you bleed, as you pant and cry. And you were crying. Tears stained your cheeks, puddle pathetically into your hair underneath you. He releases his cock only to yank at the waistband of your pants, slicing them clear down the line sewing them together. Your pussy meets the cold night with no invitation – no grace.

You kick up, your good knee connecting with his ass, knocking him forward only some. That sickening smile jerks at his lips again and he sighs, low and heavy.

His fingers meet the cut in your stomach again, and suddenly your vision blurs. He swirled his fingers in the layer of warm liquid pooled over the wound, pressed his knuckles into the severed skin, just to watch you squirm. He stroked himself one more time with the blood coating his hand. He was urgent, not bothering to take his trousers off, or even pull them down. He was just barely free from his zipper, just barely exposed to the night, but he had to have you.

Both of his hands move in a swift shot, nails wrapping around your thighs, yanking them up and forcing them over your head. He had no sympathy for your broken knee, he had no care that the wound on your stomach splits apart further as you bend in on yourself. He wants to see your pain, he wants to drink in that scared, pathetic little face as he fucks you.

As his cock presses to your entrance, you feel vomit boil in the base of your throat, heating your cheeks. He takes no notice and presses in, eyes layered with red desire as he watches you under him. He wasn’t welcomed, wasn’t wanted, wasn’t invited – but he slipped in like he was.

Only lubricated with your blood, he snaps his hips forward, giving you no time to settle, to adjust, before he sinks deep inside of you. The cry you let out was music to his ears, a symphony played only for him.

He pulls your hips toward him, forcing his cock deeper inside, forcing the tip against the soft spot inside of you, right over the swelled pleasure point. And beside yourself, beside any true fight or cry or ache - you moan. Through all the pain and horror, when his cock presses against that, your body lights up without any permission.

And he knew that.

Fuck he knew that.

Pulling back withdraws his cock only some, enough to allow your walls to sink in, to tighten in protection, before he snaps forward again, this time with more force, smashing your body further into the muddy rocks under you.

It wasn’t slow or savored – it was fast and broken and weepy. Like he was unwound with you around him. Like he was drawn to madness from your scent.

Pulling back again, he fully exits you, watching as you squirm – but not to fight – it wasn’t to fight. It was a beg. He had you right where he wanted you, worshipped in blood and his delight. Whimpering for more.

More.

More.

“There we go, there’s a good girl.” He was buried inside of you with one movement.

His thrusts were timed with precision, with pointed angles that perfectly massage inside of you. He savored the gasps you sucked in as he fucked you dangerously. He purred as you cried, from fear? Sure. From ecstasy? Maybe.

Both? Fuck. Both.

Your body rocked, pain shooting through you like a perfectly trained arrow. One trust in washes you with warmth, the withdraw soaks you in aching pain. The withdrawal reminds you of your split skin, of your broken knee, of the taste of blood in your mouth. But he doesn’t stop, no, he only becomes madder with the looks you give him.

“You're gonna regret not fighting me more,” he growls between pants. “I’m going to fill this pretty little cunt so full of my seed, you’ll be blossoming for me for weeks.”

They weren’t just words. They were a promise. A disgusting truth made manifest as his thrusts break, becoming more erratic, less measured.

You hear his cry out, then feel the warmth of his cum as he milks himself into you, swaying his hips to ensure it coats the walls. When he finally pulls out, he releases your thighs, sitting back on his knees to watch his seed spill from between your legs. Your cunt wept so pretty with his cum, glistened so alive.

“Oh, I’m gonna make you regret not fighting me more,” he repeats before he dives toward you, keeping that promise, steady on his lips.