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Vampire hunting is a tricky business. Its front of heroism and grandeur and mysticism, along with the conflation between the hunters and the church, serve two purposes: encouraging people to take up the trade, and making it seem more imposing to civilians and monsters alike. You have seen vampires who flee at the mere sight of a hunter, and if that is not a telltale sign of your influence, you don’t know what is.
At the end of the day, however, your work is neither brilliantly heroic nor based in spirituality. It is a straightforwardly demanding and gruesome affair. Not always difficult, but always demanding – if not physically, then psychologically. You’ve killed vampires who begged to be spared, or who you’d spoken to as humans only weeks before you killed them. You’ve narrowly avoided death dozens of times, saved only by your wit and your level head. It isn’t a matter of conviction, or bravery, but of blending the perfect cocktail of skill and craftiness. Knowing that your opponent will always be stronger than you, and figuring out how to tip the odds to circumvent that grim reality. A stubborn streak certainly helps.
It’s that mindset that has kept you alive, as your track record finally nudges you out of rookie status to be a fully-fledged member of the Order. Though this has been a goal of yours for months now, you don’t revel in it as much as some. You are still trapped within the confines of a silly seniority battle – just another rung up the ladder. To be honest, you don’t care about the title so much as not being talked down to anymore. That and you want more opportunities, more supplies, more means to keep people safe; now that you’ve got them, it’s back to business.
You are not ruthless – at least, you don’t think so. Not as much as you could be. Vampire hunters scarcely work with law enforcement, their methods and movements more similar to vigilantes than city guards. You hand out the vervain that your church grows in its gardens, you give crucifix necklaces to people who need them, you keep your eyes and ears open and your guard up, but you don’t seek out the supernaturals who keep to themselves. Your job is to keep people safe, not to spread paranoia or unease. Loath as some hunters might be to admit it, not every non-human entity is hellbent on the destruction of every human life they encounter.
The fact that you’re alive at all right now is proof of that.
Of course you cannot get him out of your mind; then again, you would be lying if you said you were trying your hardest to forget the ancient vampire who spared your life. Even if the initial nature of the meeting was… tense, there is no doubt in your mind that you enjoyed it, and that you cannot be bothered to regret what you did. You kept your end of the deal and did not say a word to the Order about your encounter, and in the days since, you have not seen him anywhere. The bite on your thigh has healed nicely, and you’ve noticed no side effects from the venom.
Still, you swear to stay cautious if you see him again. Vampires are your enemy in every sense, an apex predator higher on the food chain and happy to show it. While you have always known that there are some vampires who do not bother humans, you had never met one who would turn down an opportunity to kill a hunter. Compounded with how big and powerful the monster was, it is impossible to forget him. Let alone… everything else.
You do your best to stay focused on your work and not dwell on the endless what-ifs. You may never see him again; there is no point speculating, let alone hoping. You never even learned his name.
Nine days after your promotion, your work takes you to the edge of the city, trailing behind a man with squared shoulders, puffed chest, and long, confident strides. Willem Jansen, a local banker, came from enough money that he can afford a house with a modest piece of property for personal use. You remember seeing him around the town quite some time ago; he was always reclusive and nervous back then, with a bit of a hunch and a thin voice. You thought little of it at the time – you weren’t about to judge someone for having chronic anxiety in a world where the dead hunt the living – but his quiet nature meant you rarely interacted with him besides polite nods or brief greetings at the bank.
Then he disappeared for a year, alleging some sort of business trip, and came back acting very, very, differently. Even the nature of his walk – solitary, cocky, self-assured – is different. In the few times you have seen him since, he has avoided eye contact with you, never attended church, and only wandered out after dark. A bit of inquiry at the bank informed you that he has cut his hours down to only a few days per week, but will arrive at an obscenely early hour and not leave until after nightfall: nearly a 14-hour shift this time of year.
All that, and the fact that nobody has seen his wife Annika or adult son Michael in weeks, has left you with more than enough excuses to perform a little wellness check. You are armed to the teeth as always, your steps steady and cautious as you trail behind Jansen. A year is not particularly old for a vampire, but it is old enough to overcome the most easily-exploitable weaknesses seen in ‘newborns’. You will need to be wary; a vampire who is confident enough to kill his own family and stay in his old town of residence is either incredibly stupid or incredibly strong, but there is no way to tell which until you confront him.
As you make your way down the gravel path, you keep a long distance from him and swing your lantern with a whimsical carelessness. You occasionally pause to watch a bat fly overhead, or to inspect the house numbers, implying a hapless evening stroll or a somewhat-lost guest. Of course, a good look at your uniform would alert any vampire that they are in danger, but Jansen has not so much as glanced over his shoulder in the time you have been following him. So far, everything is smooth sailing.
Your suspect walks straight to his home, and you wait roughly three minutes before you saunter down the gravel path and approach the handsome two-story house. The signs are plain as day: every window has thick red curtains drawn despite it being well past sundown and the property’s treeline offering plenty of privacy. The plants surrounding the house have been either ripped from the earth or abandoned, growing thick and tangled along the edges of the pathway. Finally, just at the doorway, you smell it: the faint coppery smell of blood accompanied by a sharper, more unpleasant stench. Bleach.
It’s well past time for you to be taking chances. You won’t kick down the door, not until you have undeniable proof of vampires, but you draw your revolver and let it hang by your side, just in case. Then, taking a deep breath, you knock twice and take two generous steps back.
There is a long, pregnant pause. Then the door opens, without any notable click of a lock being released. They left it open.
A young man who you can only assume to be Michael stands in the doorway, standing eerily still. He is dressed finely, almost like he is about to go out on the town despite the late hour. He is strikingly beautiful and well-groomed at first glance, but is so pale that he looks sickly.
“Are you lost?” He asks, and his eyes catch the light of the lantern like the eyes of a wolf.
You force your face to remain neutral as he glares at you, realization slowly dawning on his face as he recognizes your uniform. Looking past Jansen’s son you see a tidy main floor, lit by candlelight, well-decorated with more dedication to personal taste than modern trends. A bedroom door hangs open in the back, and the dining table is coated in a fine layer of dust.
Sitting at the table are Jansen and a woman who you can only assume to be his wife. When they stare at you, their eyes glow in the light of the lantern.
Fuck.
“Actually.” You lift your chin. “I think I’m exactly where I need to be.”
You expect him to slam the door in your face; instead, he bares his sharp canines and lunges straight for you. Hastily backstepping, you lift your revolver and shoot him in the stomach before he reaches you. He falls back with a horrible shriek as Jansen and his wife Annika come flying out of the doorway, spitting and snarling. Annika charges you headon; you swing your lantern to crack against the side of her head just as Jansen grabs your arm and tugs you off your feet. You go down, only to roll and stand with a stake in hand. When you run at Annika, she recovers faster than you expected, and your stake only finds her shoulder instead of her chest. Enough to hurt, not enough to kill.
This is bad. You expected one mature vampire, not three. Brandishing your crucifix necklace sends Jansen reeling back before he can grab your throat, but then Michael rises to his feet, shaky but recovering faster than you expected. It distracts you for less than a moment, but it’s just enough for Annika to grab you, pinning your arms to your side so that Jansen can punch you in the stomach. Once, twice, each knocking the wind out of you in rapid succession. You stomp on your captor’s foot to free yourself and shoot Jansen in the leg, only to turn around and have Michael smash his forehead against yours. You stumble, seeing stars, unable to defend yourself from being grabbed and thrown against the wall of the house.
You crumple to a pile, head throbbing and stomach aching. When you rise to your feet, Jansen is already there, trapping your wrists to the wall as snarling in your face. His skin is still seared from the crucifix, leg bleeding from the silver, but his eyes are bright and alert.
“And here I thought we had to be worried about you people.” He sneers, canines long and sharp, as his family looks on behind him. “I thought we’d have to leave. Get the church off our trail. What a joke.”
You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die. You try to kick at him, but his knee hits your stomach first, causing you to gasp and fall limp in his grip. Terror grips your chest, but you force your voice to stay steady. You can’t give them the satisfaction of knowing how afraid you are.
“Kill me. More will come,” you mumble. “You won’t– won’t get away with this.”
Annika laughs, even as dark blood oozes from her shoulder. “Poor dear. We already have.” She steps forward so that her husband can keep your wrists pinned, then she tears open your uniform’s prim collar with one sharp tug. The laces break and you wince as the cool air hits your neck, all three vampires staring openly at your skin.
“We’ll share,” Jansen announces.
“Let me go first,” his son complains. “The fucker shot me.”
The wind changes directions. You smell something in the air, something sharp and unlike blood or bleach. Smokey and potent.
“It’s been four days since your father had a drink.” Annika puts a hand on her son’s arm. “Let him.”
It takes a moment for you to realize what it is.
“He’ll take more than his share if he’s that hungry.”
Whiskey.
A bat chirps overhead, and as you look up, you see it diving directly down towards Annika. She turns in the direction and frowns. “What in th–”
Then the bat transforms into an enormous, humanoid form, just before he slams into Annika and sends her flying across the yard, through a fence, lost in the overgrown gardens.
You recognize the long dark coat and wide-brimmed hat immediately, and think you must have hit your head harder than you thought. Then he lifts his head to look at you and you glimpse corpselike skin, sharp cheekbones, amber eyes, and a hideous maw filled with rows of uneven teeth.
“You,” you whisper, as the two remaining family members shriek in unified outrage.
Michael, snarling in equal parts fear and fury, lunges for the newcomer without hesitating. The vampire sidesteps and parries the frantic swiping, batting the strikes aside before finding an opening. Flexing his claws, he takes a sudden step forward, and tears his claws across the length of Michael’s stomach.
It’s almost too quick to follow, but you watch as the move sends a spray of blood and viscera across the ground. Michael howls in pain and collapses to the ground as he is eviscerated, his last moments spent twitching and shuddering in a pool of his own insides.
You take your opportunity, lifting your foot as high as you can to kick Jansen square in the stomach and wriggle free of his grip. Jansen snarls and falls back, and the newcomer is there to meet him – but instead of ripping his head off or gutting him, the monster’s jaw opens with a horrible grinding sound, and he bites down on Jansen’s neck. Jansen screams, clawing and kicking at him and knocking off his hat in the process, but it’s no use. You watch, horrified, as you realize that your savior is drinking the blood of another vampire.
Instead of stopping him, you snap your attention toward the sound of Annika emerging from the broken fence. Despite still being dazed, you thumb back the safety of the revolver and shoot. She dodges the fatal blow but still takes the bullet in the hip, causing her to fall to her knees with a blood-curdling cry.
The time you bought your savior is just barely enough; the gigantic vampire has had his fill from Jansen, throwing the limp and lifeless corpse aside as he turns to the last member of the family. Annika charges him, clawing at the places her husband’s wild flailing broke the skin – but with her injuries, she’s not fast enough to stop a huge boot from meeting her chest. She lands on her back, and her vocal protest is cut short as the vampire stalks up to her, grabs her shoulder, and throws her forward as his other hand comes down to meet her.
You flinch as his fingers sink deep into her chest, close around her heart, and rip it clean from her body. As if unsure if that will confirm the kill, he tosses the organ aside, forgets the gaping hole in her chest, and stands up so that he can stomp down on her neck. The crunch of her spine is audible, even from where you’re standing.
Then comes silence, save the distant humming of insects.
The adrenaline slowly seeps out of your system, and you wipe your bloody nose on your glove as you try to catch your breath. The ancient vampire turns to look at you, eyes bright, hands and mouth and neck coated in the dark, dull blood of the Jansens. You knew he was powerful; the last time you met, you saw him tear another vampire’s head from his shoulders. But that was next to nothing compared to what he has dished out in front of you tonight. You aren’t sure if the tremble in your exhausted muscles is fear, or something far more condemnable.
“... Hunter.” His voice, rich and raspy and potent, sinks under your skin like the heat from a fire, or the tip of a blade. He reaches up like he means to grab something on his head, only to pause and paw wildly at the empty air. He frowns, then looks down to see his hat on the ground. With something resembling sheepishness, he reaches down and picks it up, settles it firmly on his head, then tips the brim to you. There is an air of something resembling caution – not for his safety, but aimed at you, like you are a skittish animal. He thinks he has scared you so badly that you’ll unload your revolver into his chest.
There is no denying that the way he looks at you is too cool, too vicious, to let you completely relax. He isn’t human, and hasn’t been for longer than some civilizations have existed. But that doesn’t mean he intends to hurt you. It doesn’t mean he can read your mind.
Do you thank him? Ask him why he is here? Run away while he seems content to stare at you?
“I… I thought there was only one,” you try to say with something resembling pride, but it comes out reedy and nervous. Still, it does the trick; his shoulders minutely relax, even as the sound of his jaw shifting back into place makes you shiver. You even turn your back to him to head inside the house; you need to actually inspect the lair if you intend to have a full report of the situation for your superiors. “I would’ve had it handled.”
“Never said you wouldn’t,” he says as he follows you. When you glance back at him, he’s lifted one of his hands to eye level, observing the way the blood and chunks of viscera drip from the curl of his claws. His gaze snaps back to meet yours, and you find that your throat is suddenly dry. “But I like gettin’ my hands dirty.”
“... I can see that.” Your brain still lagging behind after everything that has happened, and nearly dying has a way of crippling your verbosity, but stepping inside the house and away from the mangled corpses helps clear your mind. “So you do this a lot. Kill other vampires.”
“Humans kill their own. Maybe I’m just returnin’ to my old roots.”
“Sure.” You cross your arms, but don’t completely turn your back to him. Just in case. “But you’re the first vampire I’ve crossed who did anything like that . Let alone eating them.”
As he follows you inside, he tilts his head and lets a faint smile ghosts over split, bloody lips. “‘N you’re the first hunter who didn’t shoot me first ‘n make conversation second. I’d say that’s a much more compellin’ tale.”
The two sets of hideous, uneven teeth glint in the candlelight, infuriatingly distracting. Your left thigh suddenly feels tender in the place he bit you, even though the wound is more than healed at this point. You ought to smack yourself in the face.
Pull yourself together, you would hiss under your breath, if you weren’t certain he would hear it. You turn on your heel to face him fully. “I doubt a bullet would put you down. It’d be a waste of silver.”
“Mighty kind of you.” The vampire’s tone is not mocking, or even smarmy; if anything, he almost sounds genuinely appreciative of your ‘courtesy’. “Suppose that makes black sheep out of both of us.”
For some reason, his remark is enough to make you smile. You force it down; no need for him to know quite how much you like the sound of his voice. “So what now? Are you going to threaten me again?”
The corners of his ghastly, snakelike mouth curl upwards. “Would y’like me to?”
Your ears redden as you open your mouth, then snap it shut again. You remember what you told yourself: to keep your guard up around this one, no matter what. A history of one nice chat and one even nicer round of ‘business’ does not mean that you can expect your luck to strike twice. Realistically, you should have run the moment that he killed the last Jansen (or even sooner, let them tear each other apart).
And yet you are starting to feel that he might be up to nothing more malicious than teasing you.
“Um,” you manage, very helpfully.
The vampire pauses, looking earnestly perplexed. “It weren’t a real question, hunter.”
“Oh.” You feel your ears turn bright red.
He must notice your delayed, stilted reaction, but he does not draw attention to it just yet. Instead he rolls his shoulders back, eyes glued to you as he rubs his jaw. “I’ve no intention of givin’ you another scare.”
“… Really?” Something resembling disappointment wells up in your chest, and you furiously ignore it.
“Not yet, anyway,” he muses. “If I were t’kill you, or turn y’sour on me, then I’d’ve had a fine bit of trouble dealin’ with that lot myself.”
His tone is difficult to read, edging away from anything you can quickly pin down. The closest you can think of is ‘nostalgic’. Despite that, his words seem much clearer, and you’re stunned by his proposition. Not offended, or even initially opposed, just… stunned. “That makes it sound like you want a truce.”
He snorts. “Yer funny. No hunter up in my business is gonna get an ounce of goodwill from me. ‘N I expect the same in return.” He rolls his shoulders a second time, causing his shirt to strain over his chest and stomach. You notice it far, far more than you ought to. “But every rule’s got an exception, don’t it?”
You swallow. He certainly has you pinned as someone who makes exceptions. “You’re… you’re suggesting a ceasefire. Just the two of us.”
“I’m sayin’ I’d much prefer leavin’ you alive, sweetheart. ‘N I’d like it if the sentiment was mutual.”
Again you are stunned. If you didn’t know better, you might say this is a poor attempt to establish some kind of friendship. At the very least, he thinks your little obfuscation of the truth that you committed nine days ago can go a step further: he wants you to conspire with what should be your mortal enemy. Or is he offering to act as a double agent?
Do you even want him dead? You’ve not heard of any recent vampire attacks on humans that resemble his apparent fondness for brutality. Twice he has killed vampires in front of you, and once he has explicitly saved your life. His proposal is not actually asking much; it’s not like you could kill him yourself, unless you were unbelievably lucky or took half the barracks to help you.
Besides, there are other benefits to staying in each other’s good graces. If only you could find a way to mention it without compromising your pride.
You take a deep breath, squaring your shoulders and tilting your head up. “I took on this job to protect people. If you’re not terrorizing the countryside, then I have no reason to want you dead.”
“Is that so?” He tilts his head and takes a step forward. You ignore your prey instinct telling you to back away, standing your ground as he looms over your short frame. “‘Cause I keep hearin’ some washed-out nonsense ‘bout holy conviction and principles from your people.” His voice takes on an amused edge. “Don’t tell me that your Order’s developed nuance while I wasn’t lookin’.”
“I’m not speaking for them. This is just between you and me, like you said.” You lift your chin, and his gaze flicks from your eyes to your exposed neck. It makes you feel a little more vulnerable, but also emboldened. You are still afraid of him, but deep down, you know without a doubt that you aren’t about to be hurt. “And I agree. It’s a… well, it might not be a good idea, but it makes sense for now.”
He snorts, amused by your phrasing. “Then we’ve got ourselves a deal.”
“Yes.”
“An allegiance.”
“Sure.”
He gives a faint smile. “Partners in crime.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“So it’d be untoward for me t’ask why you’ve been starin’ at me so.”
“I–” you start to say, when his question sinks in and you choke on your words. “I-I, um.”
“And it’d be untoward,” he murmurs, taking another step forward and staring unabashedly at your mouth, “if I said I’m not above a little fraternizin’ during a diplomatic exchange.”
You freeze. Of course you’ve been looking at him, but you did not realize you were being so obvious. “N-No. It wouldn’t.” You swallow nervously. “You didn’t strike me as a… as a…”
“… A monster of good breeding,” he finishes dryly, not without humor, and you have to bite back a laugh.
“You just made it pretty clear that you were a fraternizer the first time. That’s all.”
“‘First time’,” he echoes, tilting his head. “Implyin’ there’s more to come.”
Fuck. You try to keep a casual stance, but your fingers are still shaking from the last recesses of adrenaline, and your face is hot as coals as his enormous hand lifts to cup the side of your neck. His thumb presses gently over the artery, and your breath catches in your throat.
“I’ve… I’ve been thinking about it.” You hate how nervous you sound, yet at the same time, you could cringe at the honesty that comes pouring out of your mouth: “If I saw you at the tavern again, I would’ve… well…”
“Tell me,” the vampire presses, his voice a deep rumble as he looms over you with a curious blend of power and pretense. Despite the blood he smears against your skin as his fingers stroke your neck, he still seems intent on exercising restraint. Like a polite suitor instead of a touchy, gorey symbol of all that is unholy. Again you feel hypnotized, caught by the way his tone and words contrast the vicious hunger in his eyes and the brutality he has shown. How gratuitous he was with his violence, all directly in front of you.
Like he was putting on a display for you. Meaning to impress you in the only way a monster knew how.
Your chest tightens at the sudden, unbidden thought. Of course it couldn’t be true. Could it?
“I would’ve asked you.” You meet his gaze, and despite your skin prickling with fear, you know it is only surface-deep. You’re in no real peril right now, but the shine of his fangs and claws is enough to keep you on edge. It’s thrilling, just like saying the words you’ve been dying to tell him for nine days: “if… you had any other tricks up your sleeve. I mean, in your diplomatic repertoire.”
“Ah.” He grins. “It’s a good practice. Assessin’ the enemy’s capacity for, ah, sophisticated negotiations.”
He’s messing around. You’re about to laugh again, when he bares his teeth in a low, animalistic hiss.
“I’m a sucker for a fine-tuned wit, sweet thing. ‘N let this be the only time I don’t want you runnin’ your mouth. But I’m a simple monster at heart. I like simple language.” He uses his hold on you to tilt your face, studying you with an intensity that makes your knees weak. Like you are something worth scrutiny, admiration, every ounce of his attention.
You swallow, which makes the hand at your neck feel more insistent. Your pulse quickens madly against his fingers, and you know without a shadow of a doubt that he can feel it. Maybe he can hear your blood roaring in your ears. “What do you mean?”
He hunches his back to lean in until he is close enough that, even in the dim light, you can make out the individual hairs of his beard. “I mean that we can bat around ‘bout consummatin’ this fine arrangement of ours. Or. I could offer to have you right here ‘n now.”
His bluntness leaves you winded. Even if you hoped he would ask, and you were working up to it anyway, it has the same effect. Unlike last time, there is no pretense of bargaining for your freedom. He is asking for no reason other than celebrating a successful bit of diplomacy, and because he wants you, and because he knows that you want him too.
It is not forbidden for hunters to sate their physical needs, but any more than the barest minimum is often frowned upon. Considered a vice. Such opinions feed a culture of temperance and shame: two things this vampire seems completely unfamiliar with. With nothing but words and chaste touches, he threatens to rip open your floodgates with his bare hands. And you’d let him, without question.
You realize that you’ve been staring in wide-eyed silence for a moment too long, because the vampire rolls his eyes and keeps going: “Fine. I’ll go even simpler.” He leans in further, lips almost brushing your ear as he whispers: “Let me fuck you, hunter.”
He starts to pull back, but you don’t let him. Cursing under your breath, you reach up, grab his face in both hands, and yank him down as hard as you can to crush your lips against his.
It’s strange and awkward, kissing him. Some things feel familiar enough: the scratch of his beard against your chin, the soft pliancy of his lips, the hard huff of surprise against your mouth, your nose bumping his. The rest – the cool temperature, the deadness of his skin under your hands, the sheer size of his mouth far beyond any human comparison, and the coppery yet strangely-sweet taste of vampire blood on his mouth – are totally alien. The way he kisses you back is inexperienced but eager, letting you guide the kiss while still pressing forward and taking as much as he can. It makes you feel important, powerful even, while never able to forget the sheer magnitude of your lover. You’re caught between patiently teaching him exactly what you like, and letting him ravage you like a wild animal.
His musings about being, as he said, unconventionally attractive, seem to have some truth; he lacks the grace and smooth transitions of an experienced lover, trusting you to take the lead at first. But the moment you grip his dark hair and swipe your tongue against the seam of his lips, the vampire’s restraint seems to evaporate. You gasp as his tongue – that long, prehensile anomaly – plunges into your mouth, past your teeth, coiling against your own tongue and nearly sliding down your throat.
You aren’t ready for it; you cough, once, and the tongue retracts enough to let you breathe before pushing in again. It’s not nearly as large as the last thing he shoved into your mouth, but the similarities are not lost on you – especially not when you rub your own tongue against the underside of his, prompting a low groan from him. His hands are not idle, exploring your sides and back and hips, loosening laces and tugging at buttons wherever he finds them. It’s all you can do to cling to him as his tongue explores your mouth, and by the time he pulls away, you are drooling and panting, and your hands in his hair have knocked his hat off again.
He starts to back away, giving you space to recover, but you don’t let him; you pull him back down for another kiss, releasing his hair so you can shove at his coat. Understanding your intentions immediately, he shrugs the garment off of his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. He moves for your clothes next, but your impatience spurs you on; breaking the kiss, you give the collar of his plain gray shirt a hard pull. Whatever buttons do not surrender to your attack are instead popped right off as you yank it open. If the vampire cares, he makes no mention of it as you finally get a look at him.
His clothes did nothing to bulk him up; he is just as big when half-undressed, slabs of hard muscle cushioned under a hearty layer of fat and thick body hair. You slide your hands up his broad chest, your fingertips finding warped and hairless slivers of skin from old, puckered scars. Even in the dim light you can see them: bullets, fire, blades, all finding purchase somewhere on his body but never enough to put him down. Do even the most gruesome scars fade once the decades tick into the centuries? Or are you finding a millennium of battles under your fingers, more stories than some kingdoms bear?
“Wow,” you mumble, almost feeling starstruck. The vampire – your vampire – looks surprised at your admiration, but pleasantly so. Almost shyly. Like it’s still a shock every time you blatantly confess your attraction to him. The moment almost verges on soft , but he veers you away from that territory as quickly as you glimpse it by settling his hands back on your sides.
“I don’t mean t’toot my own horn.” He ducks down to kiss you again, smiling against your mouth like a cocky bastard. “But we’ll want someplace a lil’ more hospitable than a table.”
Your face cannot possibly get any redder than it is, but you nod in agreement and glance back toward the interior of the empty house. “Bedroom…?” you suggest.
“It’ll do.” No further explanation needed, he steps back and gestures grandly for you to lead the way, in a manner that would be gentlemanly if he weren’t staring down at you like a piece of meat the entire time.
“After you,” he purrs, and you walk through the tidy house to the nearest bedroom. If you were with anyone else, finding a bed inside the home of a family you’d just killed might be ghoulish, but with his gaze boring into your back, you cannot be compelled to care. The second you reach the bed, your vampire’s politeness is dropped in favor of slamming the front door shut and closing the distance to you, rolling up his sleeves to bare his thick, hairy forearms in the process. The feeling of being stalked by a beast of prey arises in your stomach again, equal parts fear and arousal. When you take a step back, your calves hit the bed’s floorboard, ‘trapping’ you as he looms over you once again.
“Your turn.” He slides his hand up the front of your uniform, then pauses. He frowns at the remaining latches and laces, his salacious look melting into bewilderment. “How in the…”
You let out a nervous laugh. “Just let me do it.”
He relents, finally taking his hands off of you so that you can fumble with your clothes. They’re tight and layered, cotton and leather and a chain shirt all meant to keep you safe before anything else, sturdy and nearly impossible to loosen during wear. You appreciate them, but they’re inconvenient at a time like this, and you find yourself glancing nervously at the unlocked front door as you hurry through your undressing.
Your vampire notices. “S’just us,” he says, like he’s trying to soothe you, even as he stares you down with ravenous anticipation. Every time an article of clothing drops to the ground, his pupils get a little larger and his breathing grows heavier. Taking in every inch of you like a fine wine, savoring the moment, just barely patient enough to keep his hands to himself until you’re in nothing but a thin shirt and your breeches. Before you can touch those, his patience has run out, and he abruptly drops to one knee so that his mouth can find your neck without an ungodly amount of hunching. Huge, clawed hands squeeze your upper thighs, and you gasp as he sucks a mark against the junction of your neck and shoulder. The flats of his teeth scrape against your bare skin, and the memory of those same teeth in your thigh makes more heat pool in your stomach.
“Fuck,” you whisper as you tilt your chin up to give him more room. “A-Are you going to bite me?”
Your vampire groans at your words, like the mere suggestion is enough to undo him. “If you’d like it.” He runs his tongue over the hickey he left you, making you shiver. “But based on how y’looked at me th’last time I bit ya… maybe that’s not a question I need t’ask.”
He’s right, embarrassingly so, and you bite your lip in a blend of nerves and excitement. “I thought you’d already eaten.”
He grins against your skin. “Not every bite’s for drinkin’.”
Right a second time; of course you know what a love bite is, but getting one from a vampire is far more daunting – especially a vampire like him. You will have to explain it away, say that the Jansens managed to bite you before you kicked them off. Even if there is no real blood loss, and you don’t have to wonder about the long-term effects of the venom, there is no doubt that it will hurt. The mark will be terrible, plain evidence of his effect on you.
The thought should frighten you; instead, it strikes you with a fresh wave of arousal that makes you pinch your thighs together and wince. Surely there’s no better way to consummate a ceasefire than this monster, this abomination, the enemy , to stake some kind of animalistic claim on you.
You put your hands on his face and push, just enough for him to get the hint and lean back to look at you. Meeting his eyes, you nod once. “Do it.” Then you add, just to indulge you both, “something to remember you by.”
Exactly as you hoped, his expression shifts dramatically, turning darker and hungrier before your eyes. One massive hand settles on your stomach and shoves hard, enough to send you back onto the bed. You curse in surprise, and just as your back hits the quilts, your vampire is crawling on top of you, looking more feral and monstrous than ever before.
Unarmored, on your back, unarmed. You’ve never been more vulnerable to him. A tiny whine escapes you, and the last ounce of his restraint snaps like a taut thread. He shoves your shirt up to your collarbones, unhinges his jaw with a sickening crack , and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your stomach.
You cry out, clawing at the quilts for a handhold as two rows of teeth pierce your skin. It is not as deep or intense as the last time he bit you, but it’s far from gentle. He grips your hips as he draws back, makes eye contact, and drags his tongue over the wound to lap up the drops of blood. He licks his lips and you tremble from head to toe, thighs clenching in a failed attempt to ground yourself.
Your vampire’s eyes are wide and dark, his expression utterly filthy. “Keep squirmin’ like that ‘n I’ll have a hard time keepin’ a rein on myself, sweetpea.” One hand dips between your legs, feeling the heat at your crotch and applying just enough friction to make you hiss. “Not that you’d complain.”
It’s hard to speak, harder than ever, but you manage to lift your chin and retort, still holding onto a scrap of your dignity, “you know, I thought you’d go for my neck.”
He tilts his head, the hand on your hips tightening slightly from uncontrolled excitement. “Rules from last time don’t apply?”
For a moment, you’re floored by his attentiveness. If you were being reasonable, you would stick to the rules you laid out the first time: no biting where people might see. But after fighting three grown vampires…
You shrug, still trying to seem nonchalant and in control. “It was a hard fight. I’m bound to– to have some close calls.” His hand is still hovering over your crotch, so with your blush spreading to your neck, you spread your legs to accommodate it. You’ll be nearly doing the splits to fit him fully between your legs, but you decide you can live with that. “Hunters get bit all the time. It happens.”
It seems impossible for his smile to stretch any wider, but it does, the skin at the corners of his ghastly maw ready to tear. “Ain’t we just a rotten influence on each other,” he says, before pulling the collar of your shirt down enough so that he can bite down directly over his hickey, between your neck and shoulder.
“Speak for your– aah! ” Pain shoots from your neck through your chest and shoulders. His mouth is enormous , so much so that his lower canines scrape well below your collarbone. It’ll look less like the kiss of a vampire, and more you were attacked by a shark. But you can’t think about that, not when he is growling against your skin and his fingers have crept down the front of your pants to stroke you during the bite.
You can’t stay still or quiet; you moan, back arching off the bed as you try to roll your hips against his hand while still held in place by the bite. Pain and pleasure coil together until they are inseparable, and by the time his tongue is caressing the bite, you’re even more desperate than before.
“You like that, don’t you?” He murmurs, his breath cool against your damaged skin.
“Fuck,” you whine. “Yes, yes, more , please, don't stop now…”
“Haven’t stopped thinkin' about it since we first parted ways, I reckon. Been wonderin’ how it’d feel. Wonderin’ if I’d treat you right.”
You look down in time to see him opening his belt, and your mouth is already watering. “Yes, yes, so stop teasing and show me.”
“You’ll take whatever I give you, sweetheart?”
“A-Anything.”
“You trust me?”
The last question makes you pause. His voice is so warm and salacious that it leaves you dizzy, but you can tell without looking that he is no longer smiling. The juxtaposition is only intensified when a chaste kiss on your jaw is accompanied by his hands on your waistband, tugging your pants down to your knees so you can kick them off the rest of the way. His line of questions are dirty talk first and foremost, you know that, but something about the rich timber of his voice keeps you hooked on every word. This is important to him, in his own monstrous way. Special, even. Your vampire wants your trust, for better and for worse.
You cannot trust him. You shouldn’t. And yet. “I trust you.”
After one more kiss to your jaw, he pulls back. “I’ll make good on that,” he murmurs, then before you can say a word, he puts both hands on your hips and effortlessly flips you onto your front.
You yelp in surprise as you’re spun in place, and he doesn’t stop there; he manhandles you without pause until your knees are planted on the bed, ass in the air and face against the mattress. As you try to prop yourself up on your elbows, you feel his breath between your legs a moment before his tongue starts lapping at your clit. Your second shout melts into a moan as he tastes you, and despite the compromising position, you do your best to grind against his face before he pulls away with a dark little laugh.
With your cheek against the quilts, you can only see him out of the corner of your eye as he discards his pants and kneels directly behind you, fully erect. Huge, calloused hands slide up the backs of your thighs, claws nearly catching on the soft skin. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he takes your ass in both hands and spreads you, staring at your exposed body with a sort of carnivorous reverence. Monstrous yet worshipful. Your face burns.
“Hold it open,” he orders in a low, strained voice. Like his composure is only going to last a few more moments, so he is making the best of it while he has it. You reach back with both hands, planting your cheek more firmly against the bed, and spread your ass so that he can bat your legs further apart and line himself up.
When he first nudges against your slit, you gasp with trepidation and a sudden flush of fear. Your vampire notices, and places a hand on the small of your back. “Still good?”
You nod; trapped between appreciating his concern, fearing it won’t fit, and begging him to try anyway, you doubt you could say anything intelligible.
Fortunately, he gets the gist of it. “Breathe. We’ll go slow,” he promises, just before the head presses inside of you.
It’s already enough to stretch. The cool temperature and sheer size punch the breath out of you. You do your best to obey him and take deep breaths, though you have to let go of your ass with one hand just to grip the quilts underneath you. “Fuck,” you whine, trembling even as you do your best to relax your muscles. “It’s so– so big…”
You get a low groan in reply, but your vampire is true to his word and takes it slowly, rocking his hips to press deeper into your pussy in small movements. He doesn’t want to break you, even if you can tell by his dark, wild-eyed expression that he would like nothing more than to bury himself to the hilt.
And he probably could break you; he’s barely halfway there and you already feel so, so full, far thicker and longer than anything you’ve even considered trying to fit inside of you. His hand on your thigh dips in front of your legs to rub small circles against your clit, soothing the initial discomfort with a wave of pleasure as he keeps easing inside, bit by bit.
A few centimeters before his hips are flush against yours, you feel him nudge against your cervix. You reach back frantically to smack at his arm, and he stills immediately as you catch your breath.
“I-I’m full,” you gasp. You don’t know how else to say that he is simply too big for you.
Your vampire, not missing a beat, eases out of you to slide in again, stopping at the same point, gripping your hips with both hands. “Good .” The word is hissed out through his teeth, punctuated by a low groan as he fills you up. With each slow thrust he fills you up, never enough to be painful while still leaving you so full you can barely breathe. “How’s it feel, hunter?”
You can hear his veneer of civility tearing open again, can feel it as his gentle thrusts begin to quicken, each one knocking the breath out of you. He’s staring directly at your face, eager for your answer, and somehow that undoes you just as much as everything else.
“It’s good,” you moan, gasping for air. “Keep– keep going.”
“Good– fuckin’ tight , shit.” he growls again, the bed rocking as he fucks you. “If I’d known you’d be so good for me, I’d’ve had you in that tavern the night we met.”
His filthy mouth gets to you. The mental image it conjures – him pressing you against the wall of the dingy little bathroom, gloved fingers shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet, both of you frantically chasing your release with no concern for dignity – sinks under your skin and makes you squirm. “God,” you whimper, unable to stop looking over your shoulder. “Please. Next time.”
He laughs breathlessly, his grip on your thighs tight enough to bruise. “Oh, sweet thing. ‘M certain we can make that happen.”
You ought to be more careful; you still have to walk home after this, still have to keep all of this a secret, and you don’t truly know what he is capable of. Though he might want to draw this out, maybe make you beg for it, he is obviously having a hard enough time controlling himself as is. But the barely-suppressed ferocity in his eyes entices you, tempts you, as it has from the beginning. You want to know just what he could do, if he let go of his own leash. What he’d do to you if he knew you would like it.
So you arch your back as much as you can, lifting your ass even higher than before. “C-C’mon, fuck me like you mean it.” As if he needs any more incentive, you do your best to clench around his dick and spread your thighs for him. “Please.”
The reaction is immediate: he bares his fangs in a vicious snarl, pupils huge as he leans forward, the sudden new angle making everything more intense. You gasp and clutch the bed with both hands as he pulls your head up by your hair, growling through his teeth.
“Say that again.” You’ve never heard his voice so deep, borderline guttural, as far from human as it’s ever been. “Tell me.”
You don’t have to think about it. “Fuck me like you mean i–”
The last word plummets into a cry of pain as your vampire’s teeth plunge into the unbitten side of your neck, at the same time his hips snap forward to fill you to the brim. He holds you in place with his bite, like a predator pinning its prey, as he fucks you harder and faster than before, seeming to hit every sensitive spot inside of you. When he releases the bite, leaving sloppy kisses and strokes of his tongue over the wound, his weight bearing down on your back keeps you trapped in place. You act on instinct; you reach back to grab a fistful of his hair and crush his mouth and nose against your neck again, and he moans greedily against your skin.
“Is this,” he growls, his shallow thrusts keeping you stuffed full, “meaning it enough for you?”
You try to talk, but the only things coming out of your mouth are garbled curses and a line of drool collecting on the quilt under your face. You’ve never been so overwhelmed, your mind dragged down by the pain and pleasure that wind tighter and tighter in your abdomen. The vampire chuckles darkly, teeth scraping your skin but not piercing it again, and you cry out as he picks up the pace again, hips snapping forward as you clench desperately around him.
It might be embarrassing, being this close this quickly, but you don’t care. Each breath you take is punctuated by a helpless moan as you squeeze a hand beneath your body to dip between your legs. “You’re gonna make me–”
You start in surprise as he smacks your hand away from your clit, but before you can protest, his own hand is there again. The rough callus makes the friction all the more intense, and you realize with a jolt of pleasure that you’re completely at his mercy. And you love it.
“Do it,” he snarls, and that winding tension inside of you finally snaps. You writhe and tremble underneath him as you come, moaning helplessly with each breath. Your vampire doesn’t stop, only slows his thrusts as he watches you fall apart beneath him. It feels like it lasts half an age; by the time you come down, you’re lightheaded and boneless in his arms.
Pulling out of you completely, your vampire takes your hips and rolls you onto your back. He has to spread your thighs with his hands to make room for himself between them, your pose borderline gymnastic by the time he is close enough to grind against your cunt. One of his hands lifts to take your chin, cradling your cheek as he meets your eyes. “Did you come for me, sweetheart?”
The fog in your brain has cleared enough by now, and even if you feel less vulnerable on your back, the visual experience is completely different. You could see him before, but only by craning your neck; like this, you can easily take in how huge he is, the way his brutal claws prick at the delicate skin of your inner thighs, the way his chest heaves with each breath as he stares at you hungrily.
You nod, still catching your breath, and the way his eyes light up at your confession makes a curious cocktail of arousal and fondness in your stomach. You don’t dwell on it, instead reaching down enough to take his dick in your hand and line it up with your pussy. “Don’t tell me you’re going to stop.”
“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it.” The vampire’s voice is so deep that it seems to resonate in your very bones. “Hold onto me.”
You oblige, even if all you can reach are his forearms, and he immediately shifts his hands to grab your ass and back and sit you up. Your confusion mounts to alarm as he scoops you up, lifting both of you off the bed. He takes a step to the left and another forward, and suddenly your back is against the wallpaper and you are trapped between him and the wall. He fixes you with a wild grin, has the audacity to wink, and then buries himself inside of you in one hard thrust.
You cry out, still sensitive from your orgasm, and your blunt fingernails rake down his forearms. It isn’t nearly enough to draw blood, but you feel the muscles jump under your attack as you leave harsh white lines against his skin.
“S-Sorry–” You stammer, but the vampire’s grin does not waver. His teeth shine wickedly in the low light.
“Darlin’,” he growls, as a slow roll of his hips makes you whine. The angle is not quite so intense as before, less likely to hit to deep, but the position leaves you all but impaled on him, again completely at his mercy. “Don’t tell me I don’t get t’keep a few marks of my own after this?”
Your eyes widen at the suggestion – no, the request – to scratch him. To leave him with proof of you, just like he has done to your thighs and neck and stomach. He wants to remember this, even if nobody else sees, and it only comes to mind when his coat chafes against the welts. He wants to remember you .
“I can do that,” you pant as you grip his forearms again and dig your heels into his back. When you clench around him, determined to feel every inch, he lets out a rough groan and jerks forward, filling you to the brim. You tip your head back and moan something resembling a confirmation, and that is all the encouragement he needs to start fucking you in earnest.
“That’s it,” he purrs, before hunching down enough to crush his lips against yours. His tongue invades your mouth as you moan in tandem with him, letting the tongue explore your mouth and the back of your throat while doing your best to suck on it. Your cries of pleasure are muffled by the intrusion as he digs his claws into your ass; when you retaliate by scratching at his forearms like a wild animal, he snarls in equal parts pain and approval and quickens his thrusts.
When he finally frees your mouth, you’re able to see his face again, and your vampire looks positively debauched. His long hair hangs in his face, his mouth and fangs are smeared with your blood, and his expression is nothing short of feral. “Next time,” he hisses, snaking his tongue over his teeth to taste your blood again. “I’ll drink from you when you're like this. See if you scream when the venom’s in you.”
You remember how it felt after he drank your blood, the way the venom made every one of your nerves hypersensitive to his touch, and your breath catches in your throat. “Next time,” you echo. “Is that– fuck – is that a promise?”
“It’s an oath.” He groans as he grinds into you, making you whine as he draws out your mutual. “I ain’t done makin’ you unholy , hunter. I’ll have you any time you let me. Won’t be able to walk by th’time I’m done with you.”
You whimper, eyes wide, and he picks up the pace again. He isn’t done talking, his breaths ragged around each phrase. “Gorgeous. Gorgeous. Look how well you’re takin’ my cock.”
You’re not sure if the command is literal, but you obey: you look down, and you can see a bump in your belly emerge every time he fills you up. When you press a hand to your stomach, you can feel it.
“F-Fuck,” you gasp, and your vampire’s laugh is punctuated by a deep, urgent groan. He must be close, you realize with a jolt, and you won’t be far behind him. Without thinking, you release his arm to tear your nails down his chest, scoring white lines down his pectorals. The low growl you get in return is utterly filthy , edged with a possessiveness that makes your head spin. And in the moment, you want it more than anything. You want to be his.
“That’s good,” he grunts. “I’m close. I’m–”
“Come inside,” you blurt out, interrupting him without thinking. “Please.”
His eyebrows lift for a moment before a dark, almost manic grin spreads across his face. He doesn’t make you beg for it, or ask a second time; his self-control is in pieces on the floor, and you cling for dear life as he bruises your ass with his grip and fucks you like a wild animal.
He snarls into your ear, a mantra of mine and good and expletives you’ve never even heard before, his thrusts so quick and deep that you fear he might split you in half, before he finally slows with a full-body shudder, hissing through his teeth as he comes deep inside of you. It’s more than you expected, longer than you thought possible, and the sensation is enough to tip you over the edge a second time. Your nails dig into his arms as you are struck by wave after wave of pleasure, clenching around his dick until it finally subsides.
Neither of you move for a long moment, still clutching each other as you catch your breath. You ought to feel filthy, used, exhausted, and maybe a little afraid of the monster holding you above the floor, but the deep satisfaction in your stomach is difficult to ignore. More than anything, you’re just sore and tired. Maybe cramping a bit.
When your vampire finally pulls out of you, you wince at the sudden emptiness, already missing the full feeling he gave you moments ago as his seed drips freely from your slit. He sets you down as you untangle your limbs from him, and your legs feel like jelly; they nearly give out underneath you, causing you to curse and flail for a moment before he catches you.
“Careful,” he chides, sounding so smug that you want to smack him. Instead, you scowl and take a deep breath, able to stand on two very shaky legs without too much of his help.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” you retort, focusing on straightening up your hair and your shirt. You expect to look up and see him staring at you with that predator-like, rapt attention he always seems to serve you. What you don’t expect is for him to cup your cheek with one hand, tilt your head up, and press a kiss to your mouth. It’s not chaste, but still feels short and sweet in comparison to what he has just done to you. You lift your hands to his face, fingers brushing over the ruined surface of his cheeks, and he draws back with an unreadable expression.
“Reckon that about wraps up the negotiations,” he says coyly, making you snort out a little laugh.
“You’re hilarious,” you retort, your voice coming out fonder than you meant it to. Hm. Luckily you are distracted by the reddening welts you left on his chest, and slide your fingers up where you scratched him.
He lets out a low hiss through his teeth, though you suspect it is more for your amusement than out of any real pain. “Can y’walk?”
“Oh, now you’re concerned about that.”
He chuckles as he starts to button up his shirt. “I might get in a lil’ trouble if I have t’carry you home, is all.”
You decide that he needn’t know about the slight cramping in your stomach. “I’ll manage. Just toss me my stuff…” You pause, blushing as you add, “and something to, um, clean up with.”
The bastard does not stop grinning as he hunts down a towel for you and you start redressing. By the time you have cleaned up the worst of the mess, his smile has softened into something more appreciative, like he’s appraising his own work as he pulls his pants back on and adjusts his belt. It’s difficult for you to read him; all of his gentler moments are framed by an edge of danger and possessiveness that muddies your insight. It is easy to tell where his nature ends and his manners begin, but impossible to tell which part matters more. Which half of him is ‘real’ and which is hanging on with a tenuous grip. Is he a man with the potential to be a horrific monster, or a horrific monster who likes to pretend it is a man?
And will the wrong answer send you to an early grave?
You could dwell on it for hours. Instead, you fix your collar and sigh in relief as you finish lacing your gloves. A mirror on the other side of the bed informs you that you look… presentable. Passable. Enough to scrape by any scrutiny from your superiors after you tell them that you narrowly survived a fight with three adult vampires.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you once more, hunter…”
Your vampire startles you out of your thoughts, and you turn to see him standing at the doorway as he finishes his thought: “... but it’s well past dark. Y’oughta be headin’ back before they start t’worry.”
“Right.” He is telling the truth; it’s not concern that makes him speak, just practicality. “It’d be a bad start to the ceasefire if the Order found you.”
“I ain’t particularly keen on it, no.” His claws flexing at his sides betray a sliver of dishonesty to his words: he might like tearing some hunters to shreds very much, but he feels no need to remind you of that. Again, the contrast between his careful politeness and his real nature leaves you dizzy, and before you can even consider if you want to address it, your vampire has mimed another tip of his hat. “Stay alive, sweetheart.”
“You too– or.” You shake your head. “Whatever. Don’t die again.”
He chuckles at your stumbling platitudes, before he turns his back to you and walks out, leaving the door open behind him. You watch from the bedroom as he picks his hat and coat up off the floor, dusts them off, and exits the house to head for the nearest treeline.
This time, you don’t need to ask if you’ll see him again.