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Everyone in the Order has a personal pre-hunt ritual. There are the obvious, acknowledged steps: arming oneself to the teeth, praying for holy guidance and true aim, drinking vervain tea, informing the rest of the church barracks exactly where you are going in case you don’t come back. And then there are the real rituals, which are worse optics but much more indicative of the hunter’s habits. Despite purporting to be stoic, lustless paragons of righteousness against the ever-encroaching dark, everybody in the Order has some vice that they write away. Most of them are harmless, but they almost always rear their heads during the calm before the storm. Some of the other hunters keep good luck charms obtained from magicians or witches. Others hide liquor in corners of the barracks, and never go on a hunt without sneaking a mouthful first. Another methodically removes, wraps, and hides his gaudy gold rings before every hunt, his vanity taking priority over punctuality.
Your vice finds you in a tavern with a low roof and far too many animal trophies. It’s fifteen minutes to midnight, the establishment is noisy but not rowdy, and you are nursing a beer that you find much too bitter. The drink, however, is not your vice; it is just an excuse to be standing with your back to the wall, nonchalantly people-watching as you mentally prepare yourself for your hunt tonight.
You’ve been tasked to investigate claims that a pack of at least six young ones are taking shelter in the abandoned copper mines just north of the town’s limits – a place you have never been and are itching to explore. Six, of course, is an estimate based on a collection of terrified eyewitnesses, some of whom claimed to see at least nine or ten skulking around in there. Either way, it’s too big an assignment for someone of your seniority, but nobody else was keen on taking the job despite it being posted for days. You are certain that you can handle it, and that doing so might finally convince the rest of the hunters to stop calling you rookie.
You didn’t become a vampire hunter to be talked down to.
Your thoughts are scattered when the door of the tavern opens, and after being greeted by the bartender, a man ducks his head to fit through the door frame. He is not only absurdly tall, but broad through and through. His long coat is the color of charcoal, matched by the wide-brimmed hat atop his head. Besides his sheer size, though, your gaze lingers on his face – or rather, his lack thereof. With the combination of dull black hair hanging around his shoulders, a pair of thick black goggles, a dark cloth mask pulled up over his nose, and the brim of his hat pulled low, not an inch of skin is visible. His hands are gloved, and his clothes under his coat are nondescript and similarly grim in color. Even your uniform looks promiscuous by comparison.
You cannot hear him from where you are, but he moves towards the bar, orders a finger of whiskey, and pays upfront with a generous (but not pompous) tip. As more and more patrons notice the faceless behemoth in the room, lively conversation settles into a cautious murmur as they cast wary looks when they think the newcomer cannot see. They don’t seem alarmed; maybe the faceless man is not a newcomer after all. But he is certainly not someone that anyone feels comfortable associating with. As the man stands to his full height, whiskey glass dwarfed in his enormous hand, other patrons make a point of turning their shoulders away from him, signaling their unease and hoping he will not ask for a seat. The bar is not full, and neither are the tables, but the silent rejection is stunningly palpable.
You think you get it; the man is, even from a distance, creepy. Most of the patrons here are upper working class: tailors, mine supervisors, bookkeepers, university students. They might not be at the bottom of the ladder, but they will still be swept up if some terrible change occurs. Outsiders could be indicative of such changes, and therefore are not to be trusted. This man is not dressed like a tailor or a stonemason or a teacher, more like an unusually-foreboding farmer than anything else. And the way those black goggles sweep across the room, like the huge blank eyes of a dragonfly, is strangely intense. Not to mention how, even when taking up more space than any other single person, he stands alarmingly and amazingly still. Not even the floorboards creak under his boots as he looks around the room. You can’t help but stare.
The man seems to recognize the unease he is causing, as he does not approach any of the tables who turn their backs to him. The brief stab of concern that you feel is flushed out by alarm when he suddenly turns to look directly at you.
Your eyes widen, grip tightening on your beer, but you don’t tear your gaze away or say a word. Despite the paranoia tightening in your chest, you crack the tiniest smile at him. Whether he reads this as an invitation, reflexive politeness, or ambivalence is unclear, but the masked man wordlessly makes his way to the back of the tavern – towards you.
With only a stiff nod of acknowledgement, he settles with his back against the wall, only a few inches from your shoulder.
Up close, you realize that he is definitely the biggest man you’ve ever seen. You also realize that, because of the darkness of his goggles, you cannot tell if he is looking over your head or directly at you. The volume of conversation returns to normal in the tavern, and for a moment, you consider leaving now. Letting the man keep his space and his silence. Instead, you stay put, and break the silence with a careful question: “... How are you going to drink that with your mask on?”
And there it is. Your vice: curiosity , plain and simple. You can never leave well enough alone. That’s why you linger in public places, people-watching when you should be spending your free time in training or in church. That’s why tonight’s hunt is what it is. It is not duty that drives you, but a desire for intrigue. For something new. Something exciting. Something to really test you, not just in terms of skill, but your comfort zone.
… You read a lot of fiction in your spare time.
The masked man is definitely looking at you now. Swirling the glass of whiskey in his hand, he speaks slowly: “... I ain’t.”
The voice shocks you. It’s viciously raspy, but deep enough to carry a richness and resonance. It’s simultaneously gentle and harsh, soothing and irritating your nerves in the same moment with a thick southern drawl and velvet-coated steel. A smooth, strong substance, ravaged by time and smoke. You like it more than you ought to.
For a moment, it sounds like he isn’t going to elaborate any further. But as you continue to look at him, he draws in a slow breath and finishes his thought: “... it ain’t for drinkin’. It’s for holdin’.”
Immediately you understand, and elaborate without thinking: “so you can stand here without being asked to leave.”
He tilts his head like he might be side-eyeing you. Suddenly on the spot, you sheepishly lift your tankard. “Me too.”
His shoulders turn until he is actually facing your direction, and now there is no doubt in your mind that he is studying you. The dragonfly eyes are unreadable, but the tiniest nod of his head tells you that his gaze is sweeping you from head to toe. There is nothing revealing or special about your appearance – not to you, at least – but you still feel like you are being subjected to some intense scrutiny. You don’t hesitate to return the stare, questions easily forming on the tip of your tongue. Why wear the mask? Is he in hiding? Is it a religious practice?
Before you can even consider how you would ask such a question politely, he speaks first. “Never seen a priest in leather before.” His low rasp is singed with amusement.
You feel your ears heat up at his statement. The traditional hunter’s uniform is seated firmly on the fence between clerical and tactical; on first glance, long leather gloves and boots seem an ill match for your otherwise-priestly garb with a high, prim color and shapeless tunic and pants. You’re tempted to yank your coat open to show him the wooden stakes strapped to your chest, or the revolver loaded with silver bullets. It’s not like anyone in the Order is secretive about their work as a hunter; on the contrary, many flaunt it as a way to establish a heroic reputation. Though you are not particularly keen on that level of attention for yourself, it seems to work well for them.
“I’m not a priest,” you finally say, and leave it at that. You figure it’s a good way to tell if this man really is from out of town, or just a strange local. Perhaps he doesn’t know that your town runs rampant with the undead.
The stranger makes a low noise, a little hmph like he is thinking. Or like what you’ve said has disappointed him somehow. “Sure are dressed like one,” he muses, still staring straight at you. “S’a warm night for garb like that.” His tone is thoughtful, remorseful even, and you are once again struck with the idea of being studied. Like an ant under a microscope. Or a piece of ancient jewelry being admired in a museum.
“Ha, you almost sound disappointed,” you say without thinking, before your head catches up with your mouth and your jaw snaps shut with an audible click. Fuck . That was too far. Your eyes widen as you stammer out the beginning of an apology. “H-ha, sorry, that was… probably too mu–”
crrck
The glass in the stranger’s hand has cracked under the force of his grip, nearly shattering in his fingers. You cannot see his eyes, but the squaring of his shoulders and the way his head jerks back tells you that he is stunned by what you’ve said to him.
You’re no better, your embarrassment coiling with alarm as the man looms over you. Though not afraid, you are tense; you don’t want to have to fight a civilian just because he is angry at… what? Flirtation? You suppose that’s what you were doing, wasn’t it?
Instead, he moves the glass to the other hand, dragonfly eyes still trained on you. “I won’t say I’m not,” he finally says in a softer tone. It’s no less rough and raspy, but carries less of that strange edge.
You freeze. His quiet staring, taking you all in, appraising you, takes on a completely different light. “Oh,” you cough out. What do you say to that? Thank him? Say the same right back? You don’t even really know if you’re interested in him, even if the heat in your face suggests more than just that damnable curiosity. But the silence between the two of you is deafening, and you’re desperate to fill the air: “So, um. Are you new around here?”
He tilts his head to the side when you change the subject. “Why d’you ask?”
“My uniform is usually a dead giveaway for what I do.” You hesitate to say the second, more obvious half of your question. But if he hasn’t spurned you yet, he won’t do it now. “… and you’re not exactly easy to miss.”
The masked man is quiet for a moment before huffing quietly, almost like a stifled laugh, and leaning back. “I’ve unsettled you.” He doesn’t frame it like a question.
Ah. Of course. You want to kick yourself for being stupid; maybe he isn’t wearing the mask for anonymity, or work. Maybe he is scarred or sickly, and the mask is for your benefit, and you’ve just implied that you find him creepy, which you do , but… not in a way you mind. Intimidation and intrigue stir a strange cocktail in your gut that makes you lean forward and blurt out, “it was a compliment.”
The stranger pauses. He stands remarkably still when he isn’t speaking or fidgeting; with all his layers on, you barely spot the rise and fall of his chest. “... Is that so?”
You nod once, not trusting yourself to say anything appropriately clever.
“Huh.” He turns to face you a little more, until his shoulder is blocking about a third of your view of the rest of the bar. “Ain’t you full of interestin’ insights.”
You let out a nervous chuckle. Every centimeter closer to you makes you more aware of how big he is – specifically, how much he dwarfs you. Instead of instilling fear, it sends a little thrill up your spine. “Noticing unusual things is kind of my job,” you say with much more confidence than you feel.
“Y’still haven’t told me what that job is.”
You put your free hand on your hip. “And you haven’t told me if you’re new around here.”
There’s a smile in his voice as he hums in acknowledgement, swirling the damaged glass again. You’re surprised it hasn’t crumbled to pieces in his grip yet. “... Suppose I am new. Relatively.” He plants his free arm against the wall, letting himself more easily loom over you. There is no effort to trap you between the wall and his body; he has left a wide-enough opening for you to slip out, and he would risk spilling his glass if he reached out to stop you. It seems to be a conscious effort. At the same time, you are struck with the sensation that he would like to be trapping you, but is holding back. “I jus’ tend to keep t’myself.”
Even under his coat, you can make out the broadness of his shoulders and arms. You find yourself hurriedly sipping the unpleasant beer before trying to say anything. “Why’s that?” Hopefully your cheeky little smile will make it clear that you’re just joking when you add, “Are you in hiding or something?”
“Yeah, sure.” You can hear it in his voice, how his smile changes to a toothy grin. It feels like a victory, compared to how quiet and closed-off he was when you first spoke to him. Like you’re witnessing something that few get to see. “I’m on the run. Saw your, ah, holy getup ‘n thought it’d be my last chance t’atone for my unspeakable crimes.”
Okay, so he has a dark sense of humor. You can roll with that. No hunter makes it long in the business without using a little bit of humor to soothe the sharp edges of the violent lives you must lead. “Ooh, scary,” you chuckle. “That explains the mask. Here I thought you just had the plague or something.”
He offers a tiny shrug. “Never said I didn’t. But that certainly makes your compliment a little stranger, wouldn’tcha say.”
You swallow back colorful language as your ears redden again. The masked man has breezily pinned down the very thought process that you’ve been battling with for the last several minutes: that, despite what many would see as warning signs, something about him is compelling to you.
Fearlessness in the face of the most macabre is an obvious prerequisite for your job, and curiosity and fascination towards the imposing and mysterious is just a regrettably self-indulgent byproduct. But this isn’t normal for you. You’ve met and killed vampires who are twice as traditionally charismatic and seductive as this stranger. But his understated charm is interwoven with caution and intelligence that draw you deeper without even trying. It’s taken less than ten minutes for you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he has more stories to tell you than he has life left to tell them.
Not that he seems too much older than you. Not that you’d mind if he was.
Besides, the comparison does not really suit the stranger. None of your prey would ever cover their faces, or have a moment of pause when someone complimented them. In your experience, immortal beauty always comes with a side of narcissism.
“Well. Um. If you hadn’t noticed by my ‘getup’, I’m not the least strange person,” you finally say.
“I noticed.” He leans just a hair closer, almost too slight to catch your attention. “That was a compliment, too.”
“Oh.” You mentally kick yourself for the slight tremor in your voice.
“My apologies if it wasn’t clear. S’been a while since I, ah…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, instead twisting the subject away. “... Say, y’never told me what you did for work.”
At least you’re not the only one feeling a little in over your head. You clear your throat, straighten your back, and take another sip of the beer. It does nothing for your confidence. “I’m not a priest.”
“You said that.”
“Right. I’m…” You could just tell him. If anything, it is encouraged to broadcast your work to locals in case they need to confide in you about some strange sighting. But mystery seems to be the name of the game for the masked man, so you’re compelled to keep your cards a little nearer to your chest. “I work in pest control.”
“Really now.” He sounds equal parts amused and doubtful. “It’s a late hour t’be settin’ rat traps.”
“Well, the worst pests are active at night. You wouldn’t believe how big they get around here.” You roll your shoulders back, just to stretch them. “Sometimes traps aren’t enough.”
He whistles lowly. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Sure is. But I haven’t caught the plague yet, so I must be doing something right.” Even with this euphemistic approach, you have to admit that you enjoy boasting about your job. You’re damn good at it, no matter how inexperienced you are; you’ve never lost a teammate or a victim, never been bitten, and never had to call for unexpected backup. The rookie title does not just grate against your pride, but your track record. So maybe it’s made you a bit too hungry for approval, and maybe the stranger’s obvious interest is feeding your ego. You would wager that pride is not the most immediately-deadly sin.
“S’that what the leather’s for?” He chuckles. “So y’don’t get bit?”
“It definitely helps with that, but it’s also easier to clean. Plus it’s a good look.” You run your hand through your hair, letting him see the full expanse of your glove. It’s very closely fitted, with laces running from your wrist to your elbow, and the deep brown leather carries the slightest sheen. “Wouldn’t you say?”
You’re about to laugh again, when something happens. The chatter of the room happens to die down enough that you can hear a quiet, strange sound, just barely audible over the background noise. A visceral stretching sound, like pulling leather too taut, coming from the inside of the stranger’s mask. Like his skin is being pulled away from his flesh.
Your smile falters. The size and anonymity of the stranger lose their fascinating shine. You realize that with less than half a step, he could completely block off your view of the rest of the bar.
And that you can’t be completely sure he is a human.
Though you are familiar that many kinds of supernatural entities exist, you have not actually read up on most of them. Many should not, ought not, or even cannot be hunted. You’ve no idea what witch hunters get up to, for instance. Or werewolf hunters, or exorcists. You’ve never encountered a devil, or a faerie, and you wouldn’t know exactly how to escape such an encounter with your skin and soul intact. The overlap of skill and knowledge exists between different kinds of supernatural hunters, but only marginally.
The woes of being a rookie, you suppose.
“Yeah,” the masked man murmurs, his tone gentle despite the horrific noise that came from his facial region just a moment ago. “I’d say a lot more than ‘good’, if you’d let me.”
You’ve seen how supernatural beings try to seduce their prey, and this isn’t it. But you should be afraid, shouldn’t you? Why is your brief surge of paranoia soothed by the quiet cadence of his voice? Why do you have the sudden, distinct feeling that if he wanted to hurt you, he would have done so successfully by now?
And why does that only make you less afraid?
God, you’re losing your edge. Just because you know you can fend off a regular man, even one of his size, does not mean that you can let your guard down. Besides, you have a job tonight. You have no time, no excuse, to act like a normal person being hit on by another normal person.
Before you can even reply to him, the clock over the bar chimes loudly, almost loud enough to drown out conversation. Twelve chimes. Midnight.
The stranger’s head twitches slightly to the side, but otherwise he does not regard the sound. You, however, take the opportunity to cough loudly into your fist and set your mostly-full tankard on the floor. “Shit, that’s the time. I should really get going. To work.”
You take a cautious step forward, and part of you expects him to block your way. To insist on more time, or ask you for something. Instead, he moves back, giving you ample room to step aside.
“Of course,” he replies, not sounding the least bit offended. Disappointed, maybe, but there is no aggression in his tone. “Rats ain’t gonna kill themselves.”
“Not last I checked.” You manage a polite smile as you back away. “See you around?”
He hesitates to answer, looking down at his drink once before looking back at you. “If I’m lucky,” he finally says.
You nod before swiftly walking toward the door, too aware of his gaze piercing your back as you finally leave.
It’s like the stranger said: the rats aren’t going to kill themselves.
Young vampires present a unique challenge. Their inexperience with hunters, as well as their general ineptitude regarding their own strengths and weaknesses, can make them easy prey. They underestimate everything and everyone around them, always running high on hormones and a vicious power trip. At the same time, a great weakness of vampires is their predictability and the tendency to remain set in their ways: two things that newborns lack. Their irrational fearlessness could lead to your death almost as quickly as it could lead to theirs.
If they are conglomerating in this abandoned mine, then they are likely trying to form a coven. That will make other nearby undead agitated and aggressive as they squabble over their ‘claims’ on human populations. The worst kind of vampire is a paranoid one.
But you know that you can handle this. If you pull it off, then maybe you’ll finally be able to shed your rookie status. And if you fail, then you won’t be alive to see how embarrassing it would have been for you.
The mine is easy enough to find; on a clear night with a full moon, you hardly need the lantern you carry with you. You can hear them squabbling with each other just inside, barks of laughter cutting through animalistic snarling and the tearing of flesh. There’s no time to waste or linger; every second you try to form some sort of plan risks your scent being pushed their way. It’s best to let your training and reflexes carry you to survival.
You silently slink up to the rickety wooden doors of the mine, careful not to trip on the overgrown cart tracks. Drawing in a deep breath through your nostrils, you count down from three. Then, with your revolver in one hand and lantern in the other, you kick the doors down.
Inside is a broader room than you expected, with two mine shafts splitting off into darkness. The ground is littered with human bodies, all drained of their blood and many half-stripped in a search for clothing and valuables. Various trinkets catch the dim candlelight, jammed into whatever nooks and crannies in the walls can function as a ‘shelf’. The air is thick with the stench of fresh and old blood congealing together on the dusty floor. But these facts hardly catch your interest when seven heads lift to stare you down with glowing red eyes.
… Seven. Okay. More than you’d hoped.
They’re newborns alright; three of them jump out of their skin when you kick down the door. Their fangs are small and neat, claws fresh and uncurled, eyes huge when they see you. For a long moment, nobody moves. The vampires seem uncertain whether they should be scared or angry.
Finally, one of them speaks, brushing his hair from his face and fixing you with a broad, sultry grin. His mouth and chin are smeared with fresh blood. “ Well , isn’t this a treat? I didn’t know the cattle would start to come to us–”
You lift your revolver and send a silver bullet through his neck.
In less than a second, the room dissolves into chaos. Two female vampires charge you with furious snarls; you drop your lantern and lift your crucifix necklace to drive them back. Smoke rises from their skin as you take a step forward, before movement in the corner of your eye makes you turn. It’s a short male lunging for you; he gets a hand around your neck, but one of your stakes finds its place in his chest before he can begin to squeeze. With a guttural whimper, he collapses.
A fifth vampire with blackened claws and a shaved head grabs you from behind and effortlessly throws you aside; you hit the hard rock wall and slump to the ground, grip tight on your revolver. It isn’t enough to keep you down, but you let out an exaggerated groan and pretend to be dazed. When a silver-haired vampire approaches you with a carnivorous grin, claws twitching excitedly at his sides, you snap to attention and shoot him in the side. He roars as you scramble to your feet and shoot him once more in the head for good measure.
Instead of grabbing another stake, your hand settles on a delicate glass vial strapped to your belt, which you yank free and throw directly at the one of the female vampires. She lifts her arms to block it from hitting her face and shrieks in confused agony as the holy water corrodes the skin of her arms, giving you enough time to shoot the one with the shaved head. They’re too quick; you only graze their arm as they retreat, eyes huge, finally regarding you with genuine fear.
The seventh vampire, the biggest of them all, tries to charge you head-on, only to trip on one of the human corpses and land face first on the ground. It gives you time to lunge for him, pulling another stake free from its holster and driving it in-between his shoulder blades. He howls, but before you can pull the stake free, the other female grabs your arm and yanks you away from him. Her claws rake down your arm but don’t quite pierce the thin chainmail under your hunter’s vestments; before she can realize her mistake, you jam the barrel of your revolver against her ribs and pull the trigger. She falls with a scream, and you don’t waste time watching her die.
Two left. The female that you’ve burnt twice now moves too fast for your eye to follow, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking you to the ground with it. You cry out in pain as she lands on top of you, teeth bared and eyes lighting up with glee as she tries to hold you down long enough to bite you. Your revolver is pinned underneath you, but you manage to wriggle your other arm free. Though you aren’t strong enough to throw her off of you, you can get your fingers inside of the small pouch at your hip. It’s just barely enough to grab a pinch of the powder inside and throw it directly into her face.
The female screams as the garlic powder hits her already-charred skin, and you are finally able to kick her off. You know you should save your last bullet – you’ve still got one left to kill – but you can’t take any chances when you’re already bruised and tired. Without hesitation, you thumb back the safety and shoot her directly between the eyes. She hits the floor without making a sound.
The last vampire, the one with the shaved head, stares at you from across the room with huge eyes and trembling claws. They look unspeakably furious. But as you brace for one final attack, they turn tail and bolt for the exit of the caves.
You swear through your teeth as you pull a stake from your coat. Vampires are too fast to pursue on foot, but you know that you need to try. You lift your head just in time to see the vampire standing at the top of the mine shaft, silhouetted by the moonlight, glowing eyes regarding you with what must be a victorious sneer.
Maybe they don’t know that you are out of bullets. You lift your revolver to level it at their head, when their silhouette is suddenly obscured by something else.
A huge, dark figure completely blocks out the moonlight.
The vampire turns around to see the figure, and their scream of astonished horror is cut off by a hoarse gurgle. Your eyes adjust just in time to realize what’s happened: the huge person has hoisted the vampire up by the neck, effortlessly lifting them until their feet are kicking uselessly in the air. The newcomer doesn’t react to their clawing or strangled pleading, instead just planting its other hand on their shoulders as the hand on their neck begins to twist and pull .
You watch in petrified horror as, with the wet sound of tearing flesh and muscle, the vampire’s head is ripped away from their body.
You should run. You know you should run. Instead, you snatch your lantern from the ground and lift it to properly see the figure in the warm, dim light.
Its skin is ghastly and borderline nauseating, corpselike in complexion and texture, almost like it might be hanging off of its huge frame. Its eyes and cheekbones look sharp and sunken, more resembling a demon wearing human skin than something that could ever call itself a real man. With its hat askew, you can see the long, matted brown-black hair that frames its face, offering no softness to features both too loose and too stiff to register as completely human. Clawed hands big enough to effortlessly envelop your thigh are dripping with the blood and brain fluids of the other vampire as the monster lazily tosses the headless body aside, staring at you with eyes that you can only describe as predatory. There is not a drop of humanity in them, not any emotion you can recognize, besides hunger.
Then it opens its mouth to run its tongue over its teeth, and the mouth doesn’t stop opening until it stretches from pointed ear to pointed ear. Even from a distance, you can see how the flesh on the sides of its face has been warped and permanently torn apart to make room for two rows of uneven, bloodstained juts of bone that hardly resemble any humanoid teeth.
The corners of its ‘mouth’ twitch in what you assume is meant to be a grin, before it speaks: “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s dangerous t’be out so late?”
You recognize the voice immediately, as if you hadn’t already noticed the charcoal-colored coat and hat. A voice like honey mixed with gravel, a spoonful of sugar to help the poison go down.
But it’s not just that which has you shaking in your boots: it’s that you know exactly what he is, despite never seeing something like him before. You’ve only heard of his kind in stories – beings who grow so ancient that they lose the tiny scraps of humanity left in their mind and body. As their age creeps past the centuries and into the millennia, they become something primordial and terrible. Ghost stories, cryptids, legends, something told to your hunters to try and thin the herd of any recruits who might be too cowardly to continue past basic training. Of course, even those who finished their training were told to run and pray if they encountered something like him. Not that either would do them any good.
“You’re a vampire,” you whisper as you pant for breath. You’ve never been fooled by a vampire masquerading as a human before, even if you have had some close calls. But then again, this one is as similar to other vampires as he is to a human.
“I know I don’t look the part.” He unceremoniously drops the dead vampire’s head on the ground and brings his heel down on the skull. It cracks and crumples like an eggshell under his weight, letting him grind his heel into a mess of brain matter and what little remains of the corpse’s face. “Quite the pests you’ve got.”
His brutality is so effortless. Your throat tightens - like you’re about to hold back vomit - but you don’t feel sick. Just breathless.
You were flirting with a fucking monster tonight.
And he was flirting back.
“D-Did you follow me here?” You tighten your grip on your empty revolver.
“I came t’kill this lot. Seems I was too slow.” The ancient vampire steps on the discarded bodies as he moves closer to you, until he is only a few meters away. “Didn’t know there were still hunters in this town.”
You take a quick step backwards, only to suddenly hit the stony wall behind you. Fuck. “Stay back,” you choke out. You still have a stake left, but his arms are so long, and his claws … He would be able to bludgeon you to death or tear you to shreds without ever coming close enough for you to stake him.
“Now now.” He’s still ‘smiling’ as he takes another step forward. “I don’t mean much harm. I’ve only got a couple questions about this getup o’ yours.”
You don’t hesitate to draw your empty revolver and point it in front of you. “That’s nice. Stay the fuck back unless you wanna spend the night digging silver out of your guts.”
He chuckles, the sound low and dark and horrible. “Ain’t you brave. Most holy folk would be beggin’ for mercy.”
“And most of them couldn’t survive a den of seven newborns.” You thumb back the hammer of your gun. “I told you in the tavern. I’m pretty damn good.”
“Mm. Y’made short work of ‘em.” His bloodstained claws twitch at his sides, like even the mention of his most recent kill is firing him up. “But I heard six rounds on my way over.”
“So what.”
“So that means you’re outta shots.”
Fuck .
Though your shooting arm is shaking, you don’t falter. You fight down the tremor in your voice and retort, “I reloaded.”
“Oh, I see.” He takes another step forward, so close that you couldn't miss a shot if you tried. “Then shoot me , hunter.”
You do it. There’s nothing else to do. You pull the trigger to hear the damnable noise that both of you were expecting:
click
Immediately you drop the revolver and reach inside your coat, but just as your hand closes around a stake, the vampire snatches your wrist and slams it against the wall behind you. You cry out, panting and cursing, as the force breaks your grip; the stake clatters to the ground and rolls out of reach.
But the enormous monster doesn’t lunge for your neck. He doesn’t tear your head from your shoulders and flay your flesh from your bones. Instead he makes a low rumble in his chest, like a feline purr of satisfaction, and leans close enough that you can count the lines of his face. With one hand still on the wall, his posture is almost identical to the one he took at the tavern.
“Easy now. You’ve just had a hard fight. Let’s not agitate the bruises.” His voice is calm, infuriatingly so, and his observation only makes you glare harder. Because he’s right; your back hurts, your neck hurts, and your legs hurt. You aren’t in the right shape to fight something so powerful that you were never even taught how to face it.
“If you’re going to eat me, then don’t fucking gloat about it,” you retort. “I’ve got better things to d–”
“I’m not. Gonna do that.” He cuts you off sharply. “I told you I didn’t mean y’harm. But you can’t say the same t’me, now can you?”
You draw in a shaky breath, glancing quickly up at where he has pinned your wrist to the stone. His hand is impossibly huge compared to yours; you doubt your thin chain shirt would protect you for longer than a few seconds. But you suspect that your own capabilities are not what he’s asking. “Y-You mean the Order,” you mumble.
“I’d rather your people know t’give me my space,” he muses. One claw of his free hand lands under your chin, tilting it up so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes are not a brilliant red like the other vampires, more of a cool amber. They are bright with interest as he studies you. “An’ maybe it’s been a little while since I had… a nice conversation, but I’m feelin’ mighty generous. So I’ll just send you back t’your masters with a lil’ message.”
You can hear the crack and crunch of bones shifting and dislocating and grinding against each other as his mouth opens in earnest this time, impossibly wide and long and deep, like a venomous snake. Thanks to his huge height, you can see the entire inside of his mouth from your position: the second row of similarly-ghastly fangs, and the enormously long tongue that drips with saliva.
The implication is as clear as day: he intends to leave you with a bite. With a mouth like that, the wound could take up half of your chest. He could take the bite from punishing to lethal with only a flex of his jaw muscles, rendering you completely powerless to do anything but take whatever he wants to give you. You can’t shake the image from your head, or the sounds he might be making as he sank his teeth in, or what it would feel like to be at the mercy of something so…
… Damn it.
You aren’t completely naive to your more niche interests. You’ve read books and had dreams that no soul will ever, ever know about. But to have it directly in your face, inches from your neck, with one clawed hand pinning you to the wall while the other touches your face with something verging on gentleness , is too much for you to process. It doesn’t help that your current dry spell is less of a drought and more like an industrial dam.
The sensible part of your brain makes you shrink back and squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for him to rip open your collar and sink his teeth into your neck. And the treacherous other half fails to restrain a tiny, embarrassed whimper.
…
Silence. Your high collar is not torn away, and neither do you hear him moving. You crack open one eye, chest heaving as you try to compose yourself, only to see the vampire staring down at you with an expression you can only call dumbfounded .
His jaw relocates enough for him to speak: “Did. You say something.”
You shake your head frantically, eyes huge.
He squints. “You made a noise.”
Oh. Oh, no. “N-No I didn’t.”
“Why are you red.”
“I’m– I’m what?”
“Your face. It’s red.”
“I’m… I mean, it’s a… um…” You fight back another embarrassing noise. “Just bite me, okay? That’s what you’re doing, right?”
“Most folks don’t sound so eager.”
“I told you I’m not most folks–” You start, impulsively, then realize what you’ve almost said. Your mouth snaps shut with a dull click as you wilt under his scrutiny. Worst of all, when you try to look away, the claw under your chin is unrelenting.
“You’re blushing .” He says it like an accusation. “At me .”
Fuck.
“Um.” Your reaction is too slow for any plausible deniability. Swallowing back an ounce of your panic, you try to underplay his statement with a fake laugh and a helpless little shrug. “Y-You’re, I mean. Come on. You’re a vampire, I’m sure you always get people blushing at you–”
“I don’t,” he cuts you off flatly – not in a way that suggests he is offended, but like he is telling you that the sun will rise tomorrow. It’s obvious to him, but as he says: “Mighty strange that y’wouldn’t’ve pieced that together yourself. Mighty…” He looks you up and down. “... intriguin’. ”
You’re not blind, and despite how this current encounter is going, you aren’t stupid. You can tell ‘confused but genuine interest’ when you see it, and that rational part of your brain tells you to take this opportunity to beg. Or run. Or do something to get out of this mine.
He flirted with you in the bar. Carefully, uncertainly, maybe even clumsily, but it worked for you, didn’t it? It had you itching to learn more about him, up until the realization that he was potentially dangerous. And now, being faced with the fact that he is more dangerous than you could have expected, you’re not repulsed. At least, not in any way that is failing to draw you in.
God, you’re doomed.
You let your lantern clatter to the floor, and reach up to place your hand on his wrist. You cannot come close to wrapping your hand around it, and you’re still too scared to caress his face, but you hope that the gentleness of your touch conveys enough something to buy you some time to think. He doesn’t stop you, even if you feel his muscles jump slightly under your touch.
“... Okay. You’re right.” You clear your throat, glancing up at where he is still pinning your wrist. “I swear that this– this hasn’t happened before.”
“So it’s not just vampires.” His hand at your face shifts so he’s holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger, calloused fingertips gently stroking the delicate skin under your chin. “It’s just me .”
There’s a low edge to his voice, a feeling that he has an answer he wants very badly. So you tell the truth by nodding once.
The vampire growls in his chest, the sound so deep that it makes your bones shake. His breaths are raspy and slow, his eyes darting over your face and shirt and the length of your limbs. You’ve excited him.
You squeeze his wrist and take a chance, filling the silence with your shaking voice. “Believe me, I-I’m just as surprised as you are that I’m, um. Interested. And that you’re interested. Unless you were just pretending to like what I said back in town.”
He hesitates, eyes darting to your mouth before he carefully works his way to an answer: “… No. I wasn’t.” His touch on your face isn’t gentle, but it feels less dangerous now. The hand pinning your wrist to the wall eases slightly, still keeping you trapped but not enough to hurt you. “I’ve still got an ego, sweetheart. Not often it gets warmed up.” You bite back another whimper as he leans closer, ducking his nose under your jaw. “‘Specially not by someone who oughta be resistin’ my, ah, unholiness. ”
For a moment you think he might bite you after all. Instead, he just breathes in a sharp breath through his nose, smelling you. Taking you in, like you’re a fine meal about to be savored. The feeling of smallness and helplessness hits you again, wires crossing with the sensation that the vampire is admiring you in his own monstrous way, and you whimper a second time before you can stop yourself.
He growls a second time, and you can hear his tongue slide over his teeth. “Pretty little voice for a pretty little hunter,” he rumbles near your neck before pulling away and inspecting the furious blush on your face. “I’d hoped y’really were in pest control so we could… talk again. I’d quite like seein’ how strange y’really are.”
You were already having a hard time keeping your composure, but now he’s complimenting you. Your head is swimming, caught between terror and your fluttering heartbeat, unsure if you should be flattered or horrified. He sounds borderline fond of you, and you ought to try and use that to escape. To beg for your life. If you go home with a bite on your neck from a monster of his size, then pandemonium will ensue. You’ll never be anything in the eyes of the church, nothing more than a victim of an ancient monstrosity.
But you don’t really want to leave. You don’t want to stop being looked at like you’re something precious and enticing, or to stop being handled by someone so much more ancient and dangerous than you will ever be.
He sighs as you drag the topic back to reality. “But it’s a little late for that,” he tilts his head. “If I’m t’be left alone, I have a reputation to maintain. It’s just business.”
You curse as he looms over you, mind spinning to try and find a foothold, a bargaining chip, anything. You can’t threaten him. You don’t know where he lives or even what he wants, besides to be left alone and…
… that he is interested in you.
“M-Maybe it doesn’t have to be just business,” you blurt out.
The vampire freezes, and his hand on your chin reflexively tightens. Just as you’re about to wince in pain, he releases it completely and hits you with a single syllable: “What.”
“N-Nobody has to know we crossed paths.” You swallow as you feel a sharp blush creep onto your face, but if you stop talking now, you’ll lose your nerve. “You wanted to know how strange I really am, huh? Well, I’m down. I-I’m down for anything. Seriously.” You crack a nervous smile. “Just don’t bite me.”
“... What.”
“I’ve heard stories that, um, that your anatomy all still works after you become a vampire–”
“What.”
Sounding confident right now is nearly impossible, but you stand your ground. “C-come on, are you going to make me spell it out? If you don’t want me t–”
“I didn’t say that.”
You shiver as his gaze finally breaks from yours to sweep up and down your form, lingering on the shape of your hips as well as your neck and mouth. Appraising you. “O-Oh.”
“I told you I’d’ve seen you again. ‘N that I’d say some unholy things t’you if you’d let me.” The vampire releases your wrist from where it was pinning to the wall, and tilts your chin up again with one hand. “I meant it.”
The unabashed, blatant praise makes your head spin. His plain honesty should not work its way so easily under your skin, yet here you are, bright red and stammering as he presses his thumb against your bottom lip. His claw is long enough to slit your throat with barely a twitch, yet he does not even bruise you. “Don’t ‘this’ defy every oath you’ve ever taken?” he asks as he studies your face. “How many Hail Holy Mothers is it gonna take t’wipe me off?”
He’s stating the obvious, offering you an out. Pretty noble, for a murderous monster. Instead of taking it, you take the plunge and lift a hand to the side of his face, cupping what little remains of his cheek. The skin is cool to the touch and weathered beyond what you expected, but the vampire leans into it so quickly that you suspect it’s not even a conscious choice.
“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” you finally reply, fighting down a grimace as your thumb slides over a portion of skin that has been torn to shreds to make room for his teeth.
“Guilty as charged,” he rumbles, amused at your keen eye and cautious touch.
You’ve never been this afraid in your life, but you can’t deny that it’s doing something for you. It goes against everything you stand for, everything you’ve fought for, but maybe that is what makes it so exciting. That being said, the smell of corpses is not quite so charming. “Um.” You glance back and forth at the piles of human and vampire corpses. “Maybe not here.”
His fangs glint in the lamplight as he grins at you. “Outside?”
You gawk at him for a second, about to propose going deeper into the mine. But that will do little for the smell, and you have less than half an idea of how safe it is down there. The thought of being out in the open should scare you more than it does; instead, you find yourself equal parts horrified and exhilarated. The more dangerous this gets, the more it makes your stomach clench with anticipation.
Despite your sensibilities, you shut your mouth and nod. The vampire grins even wider, and without taking his eyes off of you, picks up your lantern and revolver for you. After pressing both into your hands, he turns around and walks toward the entrance of the mine, removing his hat in the meantime.
You follow, leaving your last stake on the floor behind you.
As you step out of the cave, you jam your gun back into its holster and hurriedly try to look more composed. Your face and neck are beaded with sweat, your hair is far from orderly, and you aren’t particularly keen on your flustered appearance being called out for a second time.
As it turns out, your efforts are pointless; the second you’re clear of the entrance, your new business partner descends on you like death itself, grabbing your forearms and pressing you none too gently against the exterior wall of the cave. The stone cliff face is not sharp, but it isn’t comfortable either, and you wince.
“‘Not just business’, you say,” he muses in that vicious rasp, taking your chin in two fingers as he paraphrases your proposal. “You had somethin’ in mind.”
It isn’t a question. You bite your lip as you look up at him, torn between meeting his eyes and staring at his maw. The hints of it even resembling a human mouth – the cracked lips, the frame of short facial hair, or the way the corners twitch up in a facsimile of a smile – do little to soothe the primal fear that arises when you look at it. Even if the threat of death is long gone, your prey instinct kicks into overdrive whenever you glimpse that second row of teeth. The level of control he would need to bite you and not instantly tear out a mouthful of your flesh would be like stepping on an eggshell without breaking it. It makes you feel… special. Important. You, of all people, are able to shock and entice a being that is older than the town you live in.
And now he wants to know what you had in mind. Probably to feed his own ego, as he told you earlier. “I-I didn’t think of anything specific, but…” You feel heat rise to your cheeks again as the vampire silently waits for you to explain. “Okay, maybe I have a few ideas.”
“Don’t be shy.” He slides his tongue over his teeth, with his free hand flexing and relaxing at his side like he’s not wholly sure what to do with it. Are you supposed to kiss him now? You hardly know how you would go about that – even besides his enormous height, there’s the matter of that mouth, simultaneously frightening and exhilarating.
He seems to like your mouth just as much as you like his, as his thumb catches on your bottom lip for the second time that night, pressing gently against it to look at your own teeth. His claw retracts, so close to your face that you can hear it sliding back, and it gives you an idea.
Meeting his eyes, you close your lips completely around the tip of his thumb, swirling your tongue around the pad and sucking softly. It feels a little silly at first, but the vampire makes a noise like he’s been punched in the gut. It reminds you that this kind of attention is almost as novel for him as it is for you, at least in his recent memory, and it makes you almost delirious with excitement. The idea that you can have such an effect on him without even grabbing him through his pants.
“ There’s an idea,” he murmurs hoarsely, and you understand immediately as he pulls his hand away. “‘N here I thought you’d be timid.”
You release his thumb with a tiny pop , wetting your lips with your tongue and flushing when his eyes track the movement with predatory intensity. They remain fixed on you as you sink down to your knees, and he leans forward and bends his legs just enough to put you at eye-level with his crotch.
Unlacing your gloves doesn’t feel particularly seductive, but he watches with a rapt attention as you make quick work of them. His nostrils flare sharply as you pull off the first glove, and again at the second, claws twitching at his sides like it’s taking all his strength to not tear your clothes off of your body.
Maybe it is.
Once you’ve thrown your gloves away, you reach up for his belt buckle, unsure if you should be looking at his face or your target. You choose the former, but it doesn’t make it any easier to think as you fumble with your words: “I’m, um. I’m not the most experienced at this, but I-I don’t have that much of a gag reflex, so…”
The vampire chuckles; the sound makes your stomach clench, almost as much as his massive hand lifting to cup the back of your head. “You’re makin’ me feel mighty special, sweetheart. Don’t apologize.”
That’s the second time he has called you sweetheart , and you’ll admit that you like it more than you should. You’re about to roll your eyes at him, when the hand on the back of your head suddenly pulls you closer. You get the intentions just as your face is pressed against the crotch of his pants, and open your jaw to mouth at him through the fabric. It’s messy, and you’re sure you must be inept at it, but your business partner makes a noise at the back of his throat that is unmistakably aroused. When you look up at him with wide eyes, you find him staring right back, enraptured by your efforts, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he watches you.
God, that tongue. It is unspeakably huge, and disturbingly prehensile. You force yourself to look away before you can dwell too much on any possible implications of that.
You can feel him through the fabric, hardening under your efforts, and your patience wears itself to the bone. Pressing both hands against his legs and pushing sends enough of a message, and he releases your head so that you can get back to work on his belt buckle.
“There’s no rush,” he rumbles. “I ain’t exactly small.”
This time, you do roll your eyes. “You don’t have to gloat,” you retort as you open the belt. “Just let me look.”
When he braces a hand against the wall behind you and bends his legs slightly, it makes up the distance enough for you to comfortably pull down his trousers, easily revealing his erection and…
… Oh.
You can feel the color drain from your face as you come face to face with something that is… more than proportional. When you open your mouth to say something, anything , all that comes out is a wordless noise of surprise.
You ought to be afraid; your hand doesn’t even fully fit around the base, there is no way you can fit the entire thing in your mouth, and you can already imagine how your jaw is going to ache from trying. It’s almost funny how big it is, its size less resembling a human erection and closer to your forearm. Instead, you squeeze your thighs together and bite back a whine as you stare at it.
“I warned you.” His tone is deafeningly smug, but he doesn’t make any move to pull your face to his crotch again. You appreciate his patience, even if you don’t share it. With only a halfhearted glare to acknowledge his attitude, you spit into the palm of your hand and stroke him from base to tip. He sighs softly, sliding his claws gently through your hair.
“You don’t have to be that smug,” you breathe, trying and failing to sound annoyed. “Just, um… wow. Just give me a second.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he replies, still sounding thoroughly pleased with himself. “Take your time.”
You fix him with an unconvincing glare before you pull in a sharp breath through your nose, open your mouth wide, and drag your tongue from base to tip. He lets out another hard sigh, almost a groan, so you do it again before taking the head into your mouth. It’s hard to keep your teeth clear, but you do your best to wrap your lips around him as he rests heavily on your tongue.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he croons as you stroke the rest of him with one hand. When you look up, you find him watching you with a carnivorous sort of rapture. “ Fuck , you’re a natural.”
Whatever color left your face earlier has returned with full force now, and you know that he sees right through the little glare you give him. Despite his size, you’re determined; you pinch your left thumb in your fist and take him deeper, doing your best to bob your head on the first couple of inches. You know you could never fit it all in your mouth, but damn if you won’t give it a good effort. His breathing comes out hard and ragged above you, hissing through his teeth as you run your tongue against the underside and use your hand to stroke whatever you can’t fit.
It’s not until he nudges the back of your throat that you almost gag, then manage to fight it down and swallow noisily around him. The vampire’s groan ends in a low hiss, and without warning, his hips rock forward so he hits the back of your throat a second time. You cough this time, pulling away with a gasp, but you don’t waste a second to wrap your lips around him again as you breathe hard through your nose. It’s exhilarating, the way his arousal pulses on your tongue and his grip tightens on the back of your head. The knowledge that any lost traveler or hunter could see you right now is more of a fantasy than anything – you’re far from any trail – yet the thrill of the compounded risk only spurs you on.
The vampire purrs as you take him as deep as you can. “Ain’t you a sight like this. My little hunter, takin’ it so well. Like you were made for me.” He growls hoarsely, like he’s struggling to keep his composure. “I’d fuck that pretty face every night if I had the chance.”
His words shouldn’t have such an effect on you, but such plain, unfiltered praise and attention is so novel that it pulls a greedy moan from your lips, muffled by his dick.
Cracked lips curl back to reveal his teeth in a merciless grin, and you know that he’s caught on. “Would y’like that, sweetheart? Bein’ ruined by a monster?”
You don’t think, just nod feverishly, and his grin broadens. “Shoulda known,” he hisses as he rocks his hips forward again, taking a fistful of your hair to hold you in place as he takes control. “Someone who looks at me like that wouldn’t have conventional tastes.”
Your second moan is cut off when his dick nudges the back of your throat and eases further still, sliding into your throat, completely cutting off your air for a second before he eases back out. He’s soon relentless, building up a rhythm as he angles your head to meet his thrusts so he can fill your mouth and throat with each jerk of his hips. Your hands go from stroking him to gripping his waist for dear life, tears blurring your vision as you look up at him. He’s still staring down at you, eyes wide and half-mad, his calm control splintering like a matchstick before your eyes.
“That’s right,” he growls through his teeth as he fucks your face. “Take it. Take it. You’re all mine.”
You can barely breathe, let alone speak, but you know that your strangled moan conveys your feelings better than any words could. His grin returns, the expression more monstrous than human, and you’ve never been so wet in your life.
It’s not long before his low snarling gets louder and longer, the snap of his hips more sporadic and frantic, and suddenly the vampire is clutching your head in his claws with a deep groan as he reaches his climax.
You nearly choke as he releases down your throat, but you squeeze your eyes shut and manage to swallow most of it. As he pulls out, you feel more dribble down your chin as you cough and gasp for breath. His hold on your head relaxes, letting you slump forward and wipe the tears from your eyes. He stares down at you, clearly still coming down from the high but kind enough to comb your hair away from your face.
As you straighten up, rubbing your stiff jaw, a brief shot of tension lances through you. It was exciting, it was fun, and if the proverbial puddle between your legs is anything to go by, you probably wouldn’t say no to more fun. But the monster’s fangs are still glinting in the dull light of your dropped lantern, and a part of you still doesn’t trust him to uphold the deal.
He snaps back to attention as you rise to your feet, but the expectant expression he gives you as he tucks himself back into his pants is incomprehensible. You break the silence before you can get too nervous. “Well. Um. I should get go–”
Your voice tapers off into a squeak as he reaches up with one hand to wipe the mess from your chin. You open your mouth when his thumb presses against your lips, and blush furiously as he smears his own seed on your tongue. A low, vicious growl rumbles from him at the sight, shaking your very bones. Before you can even take a step, or make an excuse to leave, his hand drops to press hard against your abdomen, pinning you to the wall.
“Ah-ah-ah, hunter.” His other hand lands on your thigh, wrapping around it with ease. “We ain’t done with our ‘more than business’ yet.”
Your eyes snap wide open, all your muscles going rigid. Are you going to have to run for it? What are your chances of surviving that, let alone outrunning him? “No. We agreed, you wouldn’t bite me.”
“An’ I’m a fiend of my word, but… ” His tongue snakes out to slide across his teeth, coating them in thick saliva. “… that’s not the only way I’d like t’get a taste of you.”
He raises an eyebrow, and the hand on your thigh sneaks inward. When two thick fingers press against your crotch, you gasp and clap a hand over your mouth to muffle your shocked, flustered moan.
The vampire grins, huge and victorious. “You’ll have to forgive my, ah, approach .” His fingers rub slow circles over your groin, and you whimper as the motion applies rough, consistent friction to your clit. “S’been awhile for me, but I’m a quick learner.”
You gawk at him as he sinks to his knees. It was one thing to see someone as legendarily dangerous as he is, another to survive your first two encounters with him. Another thing entirely to ‘seduce’ him, or whatever you’ve managed to do, then watch him come undone to your clumsy ministrations. And now he is hunching down so he can slide his hands under your tunic, and you can barely believe your eyes.
“O-Oh my god.” You ought to say something a little more composed. Maybe a witty remark on the novelty of having a monster undressing you. Instead, you’re a mess of shock and arousal. “You’re serious.”
He snorts as his hands close around your belt, deftly flicking it open without any trouble. “Reckon it’d be a cruel joke t’stop now. But .” He looks you up and down. “Might need t’give you a little height.”
You could object, but it would be solely on principle; even kneeling would place him barely below eye-level with you. So you let him drag over an abandoned, overturned mine cart, and do your best to not look too excited as you hoist yourself on top of it and sit down. The change of height is not enormous, but it’s enough that your feet do not touch the ground and the vampire is closer to his target when he sinks to his knees in front of you. It’s exhilarating to watch, and his hands are huge against your legs as they massage and squeeze your thighs, yet it’s the sight of him spreading his knees for a lower kneel and hunching so he can drag his teeth up your inner thigh that truly makes you lightheaded. His teeth shouldn’t be doing so much for you, but here you are, soaking your underwear at the sight of them.
“What does it feel like,” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say, “getting bit?”
He raises an eyebrow at you, clearly not sure where you’re going with this. In his defense, neither do you. “I wouldn’t be the one to ask,” he says, “but I s’pose it depends.”
“Depends?”
“On whether they die before the venom kicks in. Which is… most of the time.”
You frown. “Vampires don’t have venom.”
He grunts. “Old ones do.”
This isn’t sexy talk, you’re sure of it, but he has yanked open your belt enough to loosen your trousers, and you haven’t stopped salivating at the sight of him on his knees for you. So maybe you are both still into it. “But it’s not like you need it.”
“It ain’t for killin’, hunter. It’s for keepin’ you enchanted with me.”
“Enchanted,” you echo, confused. “It’s… magic venom?”
“Nothin’ so, ah, delicate.” He licks his lips, drawing your attention back to that tongue of his. “But it makes the experience good for you.”
You pause. Your brain is struggling to keep up, but his tone makes his euphemism more than obvious. “... ‘Makes it good’.”
He tilts his head. “That’s what I said.”
“How good?”
He raises an eyebrow. “... Very.”
You hesitate. One hundred thousand thoughts are roaming around your head, directionless yet harmonious in their motivations. You’re already so, so deep in this shit. If he wanted to hurt you, or drain you of your blood, then he could have done so already. He would have done so already. This might be your one chance to experience a vampire bite without fearing for your life.
And the venom only sweetens – no, seals – the deal. You doubt even your burgeoning enjoyment of mild pain and fear could muscle through teeth like his, but if there’s some chemical influence smoothing over the worst of it…
Oh, god, you’re really about to do this. Then again, you passed the point of no return a long time ago. This cannot possibly doom you more than you already are.
“You can bite me,” you decide aloud. “But only if it’s a place nobody would see. Deal?”
His eyes widen, grip tightening on your thighs. “I can?” he echoes, his tone already changing to something darker. Less human.
You squirm in place. “I know what I said earlier, but…” You swallow. You can’t believe what you’re saying, but you would never forgive yourself for missing the opportunity. “… Look, as long as it’s somewhere people wouldn’t easily see–”
You yelp in surprise as, with one hard tug, the vampire yanks your trousers and underwear down together. The move leaves you completely exposed to him, the night air on your bare legs and groin making you shiver. The instinctive urge to pinch your thighs together out of embarrassment is squashed when the vampire’s enormous hands pry your legs apart.
“ Sweetheart,” He snarls, eyes huge and teeth bared in the most hungry, manic grin you’ve seen from him. Rough hands squeeze your ass, making you whine. “Ain’t you just music t’my ears.”
Before you can say another word, he leans in and sinks his teeth into your upper thigh.
It’s effortless, the way his fangs carve through your flesh and sink into the fat of your leg, and his mouth is so enormous that he nearly closes around your entire thigh. It’s not the worst pain you have experienced, not by a long shot, but it still hurts. A lot. Enough to make you gasp and curse and cling to his shoulders, muscles flexing uselessly against his grip. You are unable to tear your eyes away from the drops of blood oozing around his lips, simultaneously entranced and horrified. The source of pain existing so close to your arousal is crossing too many wires, making you unsure where the pain stops and the pleasure begins. Maybe this was one too many lines to cross. You’ve indulged him, and yourself, too much.
Then it hits.
Slowly, then suddenly, the pain melts and sinks into your arousal, somehow both amplified and pleasantly numbed at the same time. Your skin prickles with heat, almost too hot to be comfortable, and all your nerve endings simultaneously feel neglected and hypersensitive. The bite still hurts, but you aren’t afraid anymore. You hardly realize you’re panting until a drop of drool spills from your lips and down your chin.
His eyes dart up to meet yours as a low growl reverberates through his mouth and against your skin, and a whimper slips out of you before you can stop it. When he finally pulls away from your leg, his teeth and lips are dark and shiny in the moonlight. You can tell that you have lost some blood, but not enough to make you lightheaded or dizzy. Then his long, broad tongue slides out to run over your wound, and you moan at the stimulation. Your mind is still clear, but the broiling need under your skin is so intense that denying it would be agony. You need more. Anything he will give you.
“Please,” you whine, burying both hands in his hair. It’s long enough that you can grab two fistfuls of it, clinging for dear life. “Please.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Batting your legs further apart, he retracts his claws on his right hand just so he can swipe his thumb up your slit. Before you can get out another word, he finds your clit and begins to rub slow circles, gentle but relentless. You’re so sensitive that you almost come apart right there, arching your back as you cry out and grind helplessly against his hand.
“Look at you,” he pants, running his tongue over his teeth to savor the taste of your blood. “Marked by me, beggin’ for me. Pretty little hunter bein’ defiled by a monster.”
You can barely think, let alone speak, but you nod desperately.
“How’s it feelin’, sweetheart? Worth it?”
He must know how hard it is for you to make any coherent sounds right now, but you try your best. “More,” you whisper. “Give me more. Anything. Please.”
The vampire groans, and you’re captivated by the sight of his long tongue snaking out again to lick his lips. “ Greedy little thing.” He angles his head down so he’s directly between your legs, and you jolt in alarm as you feel something cool and wet teasing against your entrance. You realize what it is just as that tongue plunges inside of you, deeper than you could have expected and wide enough to fill you up.
You yell as he grips your hips with both hands, yanking them to the right angle so he can get as deep as possible. A slurred mess of curses escapes your lips; you can't say anything else when his nose is crushed against your groin and the venom is still making your nerves more sensitive than ever before. He is utterly merciless, fucking you on his tongue without any buildup, growling as his claws dig into your hips and ass. The feeling of the muscle moving and twisting inside of you is as foreign as it is incredible. All you can do is grip his hair like a lifeline.
“My clit,” you whimper, and he angles his nose away so he can reach the sensitive nub, grinding the pad of his thumb against it in a way that makes you cry out and rock your hips into his face and hand.
Quick learner, he called himself. Understatement of the ages.
Unsurprisingly, you don’t last long. You try to warn him, but with his tongue and hand working you so well, you can barely catch your breath enough to speak. His tongue writhes inside of you, pressing against your sensitive spots until you’re seeing stars. “I’m–” you moan, before your orgasm crashes into you like a tsunami. Your thighs clamp around his head, your entire body trembles, and you let out a wordless wail as he works you through your climax, prolonging your pleasure for as long as he can.
It’s not until you’ve completely come down from your orgasm that you push weakly at his head, your body so raw that his touches are almost painful. He obliges, tongue sliding out of you with a wet, obscene sound. When he pulls back, he has the audacity to lick his lips , and you bury your face in your hands.
“Oh my god,” you mumble into your palms, knees trembling. When you dare to look out through your fingers again, he hasn’t stood up or vanished or given you a crude look. Instead, he is admiring the bite on your leg as well as the darkening bruises that his grip has left on your hips. You don’t know if the venom is still in your system, but you don’t feel feverish or needy anymore, so you decide not to dwell on it. Instead, you find yourself at a loss for words at the vampire’s expression: his appraisal reeks first and foremost of pride, but there is a sort of possessive fondness underneath it. It’s not human, but it isn’t frightening either.
It’s over as quickly as you notice it. He stands to his full height, watching with a quiet amusement as you hop off the mine cart and pull up your pants. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, hunter,” he says, sounding surprisingly composed given the mess you’ve made of his beard. “Or ‘more than business’, as y’so diplomatically put it.”
“Y-Yeah, I…” You falter, suddenly unsure of what to say. When you meet his eyes, you get the idea that he is in a similar conundrum. You can’t help but wonder when the last time was that he let a hunter leave his presence alive. Are you particularly clever, or just very lucky? Or is he going to change his mind the second you turn around?
It occurs to you that you never even asked his name.
“Go on.” He nods in the direction of the town as he adjusts his own disheveled clothes, finding his hat on the ground nearby and placing it atop his head. “We’re good here. Get goin’.”
“Right. Cool.” You’re relieved by his straightforward tone; snatching your lantern and patting yourself down to make sure everything else is in place, you turn back towards the town and take a full three steps before stopping. Your stomach twists, like the very prospect of what you’re about to do makes you uneasy.
Instead of listening to your own nerves, you look over your shoulder and ask, “see you around?”
He raises an eyebrow at you, confusion and surprise coloring his face before he recognizes your signoff. A faint grin crosses his face, stretching from ear to ear, giving you one last thrill before he disappears into the woods.
“If I’m lucky.”