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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Okay. The fic’s draft has reached 10k (a lot of it is my notes, but it’s still way longer than I planned it to be) and since I’m busy for the next few days I thought I’d share a preview!
Basic premise is reader hearing a news about a long training trip Valarr is leaving on that he hasn’t told his betrothed, aka you, his cousin and bride to be. The action causes a series of misunderstandings that you can know when it’s done. One thing to note is that reader is Maekar’s little tyrant so you get to have fun playing someone spoiled.
Please comment if you’re interested, follow so you can know when it’s out. I’m also desperate for some Valarr mutuals and/or anyone that could help with some areas I’m unsure of in the fic 😔
The walk from the south garden to the great hall is eleven minutes.
You know this the way you know the number of steps from your chamber to the window seat, and how many candles burn in the small sept off the eastern corridor, and exactly which flagstone in the third passage rings hollow underfoot. The accumulated cartography of a childhood spent running through these halls, often with Valarr's lighter strides behind you, and once, memorably, ahead of you after his legs grew over a summer, and you had been so surprised you had stopped entirely and he had nearly knocked you flat.
You spend those eleven minutes composing the shape of your fury.
It will be magnificent. It always is — you have a gift for grievance the way some women have a gift for song, full-throated and precise, capable of finding the exact frequency that makes the walls tremble. You will find him and you will *tell *him, loudly, perhaps with tears if the situation warrants, and he will do what he always does: go still, look at you with those mismatched eyes — that infuriating, tender patience — and he will wait. He has always been extraordinarily good at waiting you out. He had told you once that it was because he'd learned, young, that your storms were shorter when he didn't fight them, and you had found this both condescending even if it was correct and had not spoken to him for two days on principle.
He will wait, and eventually you will run out of fury, and then he will say your name — just your name, just that, in that low careful way he has and he would press his forehead to yours. Or take your hands. Or say your name again, quietly, until you burn through all your fury and huff as he pulls you into his arms.
That is what you are preparing for. A fight you will win because you always win, because he always lets you. The one that ends with his hands and his voice and the warmth of being understood by someone who has known you so long that your sharp edges no longer surprise him.
But then the thought arrives, uninvited, slipping in through some gap you had not thought to guard. Rising through the clarity of an afternoon with no distractions left between you and it.
He didn't tell you.
Not in anger. Not in carelessness.
Not because he forgot. Valarr does not forget things. His mind is a vault of small precise details; he remembers the name of your nurse from when you were four, remembers which flowers make you sneeze and which you only claim to dislike because you think they look funereal, remembers every small preference and aversion you have ever carelessly mentioned.
He did not forget.
He simply — decided you did not need to know. Or decided you did not need to know yet. Or — and here your steps slow without your permission, here the walk stretches and the eleven minutes begin to pull apart at their seams. Or…
Deliberately did not tell you, and the men outside had known, and the Baratheon men had known, and presumably the whole of court would know before the day was out.
The corridor is cool, lined with old tapestries that smell of dust and old wool. Your finger continues bleeding. There is a faint rust-colored ghost of it on the hem of your embroidery that you will have to look at every time you pick it up from now on, and you think, absurdly, that you will probably have to redo the whole panel.
You press your index to the small wound and hold it there and think, carefully, methodically, about what it means to not be told. The simplest answer sits right there: he didn't think it mattered. He didn't think you mattered enough to warrant the conversation.
No. You dismiss that immediately. Valarr is kind. Valarr has always been kind, even when you have given him every reason not to be. The problem has never been his cruelty.
The problem might be his kindness.
The thought sits in your chest like a fish swallowed with its bones. Like a map you had been holding upside down.
Okay. The fic’s draft has reached 10k (a lot of it is my notes, but it’s still way longer than I planned it to be) and since I’m busy for the next few days I thought I’d share a preview!
Basic premise is reader hearing a news about a long training trip Valarr is leaving on that he hasn’t told his betrothed, aka you, his cousin and bride to be. The action causes a series of misunderstandings that you can know when it’s done. One thing to note is that reader is Maekar’s little tyrant so you get to have fun playing someone spoiled.
Please comment if you’re interested, follow so you can know when it’s out. I’m also desperate for some Valarr mutuals and/or anyone that could help with some areas I’m unsure of in the fic 😔
The walk from the south garden to the great hall is eleven minutes.
You know this the way you know the number of steps from your chamber to the window seat, and how many candles burn in the small sept off the eastern corridor, and exactly which flagstone in the third passage rings hollow underfoot. The accumulated cartography of a childhood spent running through these halls, often with Valarr's lighter strides behind you, and once, memorably, ahead of you after his legs grew over a summer, and you had been so surprised you had stopped entirely and he had nearly knocked you flat.
You spend those eleven minutes composing the shape of your fury.
It will be magnificent. It always is — you have a gift for grievance the way some women have a gift for song, full-throated and precise, capable of finding the exact frequency that makes the walls tremble. You will find him and you will *tell *him, loudly, perhaps with tears if the situation warrants, and he will do what he always does: go still, look at you with those mismatched eyes — that infuriating, tender patience — and he will wait. He has always been extraordinarily good at waiting you out. He had told you once that it was because he'd learned, young, that your storms were shorter when he didn't fight them, and you had found this both condescending even if it was correct and had not spoken to him for two days on principle.
He will wait, and eventually you will run out of fury, and then he will say your name — just your name, just that, in that low careful way he has and he would press his forehead to yours. Or take your hands. Or say your name again, quietly, until you burn through all your fury and huff as he pulls you into his arms.
That is what you are preparing for. A fight you will win because you always win, because he always lets you. The one that ends with his hands and his voice and the warmth of being understood by someone who has known you so long that your sharp edges no longer surprise him.
But then the thought arrives, uninvited, slipping in through some gap you had not thought to guard. Rising through the clarity of an afternoon with no distractions left between you and it.
He didn't tell you.
Not in anger. Not in carelessness.
Not because he forgot. Valarr does not forget things. His mind is a vault of small precise details; he remembers the name of your nurse from when you were four, remembers which flowers make you sneeze and which you only claim to dislike because you think they look funereal, remembers every small preference and aversion you have ever carelessly mentioned.
He did not forget.
He simply — decided you did not need to know. Or decided you did not need to know yet. Or — and here your steps slow without your permission, here the walk stretches and the eleven minutes begin to pull apart at their seams. Or…
Deliberately did not tell you, and the men outside had known, and the Baratheon men had known, and presumably the whole of court would know before the day was out.
The corridor is cool, lined with old tapestries that smell of dust and old wool. Your finger continues bleeding. There is a faint rust-colored ghost of it on the hem of your embroidery that you will have to look at every time you pick it up from now on, and you think, absurdly, that you will probably have to redo the whole panel.
You press your index to the small wound and hold it there and think, carefully, methodically, about what it means to not be told. The simplest answer sits right there: he didn't think it mattered. He didn't think you mattered enough to warrant the conversation.
No. You dismiss that immediately. Valarr is kind. Valarr has always been kind, even when you have given him every reason not to be. The problem has never been his cruelty.
The problem might be his kindness.
The thought sits in your chest like a fish swallowed with its bones. Like a map you had been holding upside down.
Got the urge to write some Targaryen one shot and I’m so rusty from my GoT days that I’m looking up the map to see how far summerhall and dragonstone are.
Do not ask me why I suddenly want to write a very indulgent drabble about a hot guy caring for reader as she goes through the perils of a new ADHD medication dosage. We all know but yea.
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Hi writers no offense but don’t misuse yandere. I don’t read yandere fics that often but I’ve seen so many that does not correlate to what it is. The character(s) are NOT yandere if they’re just showing love to their partner in a healthy way.
Yandere is someone who is mentally and emotionally unstable! To the point their love turns from green to red flag immediately. This includes extreme jealousy and possessiveness and extreme violence.
I’m saying if you want to write yandere fics, go for it! but at least make it accurate instead of misleading readers who actually want to read yandere fics. I suggest writers (those who doesn’t do it right) to include that toxic love and don’t ever leave it out of the picture! Otherwise the fic is just a normal romance.
I get it it can be tough to write intense emotions and behaviors to some writers but yandere fics without the yandere behavior is not yandere. 😔
♡ summary: A “routine check-up” for the pet of the Eisenhardt goes wrong.
♡ warnings: Yandere themes, obsessive/possessive behavior, blood and gore, violence, obsessive control, medical trauma, non-consensual procedures, power imbalance, unhealthy relationship dynamics, dubious consent.
The return of the vampire siblings from this previous piece! Was supposed to be short but like always kept getting longer...
One other thing, the switch between present and past tense (which is usually my default) is pretty egregious in here and I apologize, I tried to fix it as much as I can but didn't want to spend any more time looking at it.
You can also find it on ao3 here
Your masters were insatiable.
Well, different kinds of it.
Volker pretended not to have any hunger in him, that drinking meticulously from his meals was enough to sate it. But in the few, secretive times he indulged in your blood, something broke in him. The usually tightly composed man came undone, breath ragged, hands trembling as they gripped you tighter than necessary. He fed with an intensity that bordered on desperate, as if he'd been starving himself for weeks. When he finally pulled away, his mouth was stained crimson, blood dripping down his chin in a way that would have horrified him if he were more lucid. He stared at you for a suspended moment, pupils blown wide, before reality crashed back. Then he was furiously wiping his mouth with your sleeve, movements sharp and almost violent, as if he could erase the evidence of his loss of control.
Viktor's was his intensity. Even at his hungriest, his sharp, darkened gaze always trailed after you, gauging your reactions, categorizing your gasps and whimpers as his fangs deepened into your skin. He'd look composed after, but the way his eyes shone with crimson light would betray him, looking like he wanted to devour you even as he gently cleaned up the blood and cooed at you.
Valentin never hid it. Never even pretended to try.
Cold lips pressed on the side of your throat, always dangerously close to your pulse point. Chaste at first, soft and teasing as he savored the salt and heat of your skin.
His restraint snapped with a sharp inhalation, fangs glinting in the low light before they sank deep.
The bite wasn't clean. It was messy, deliberate. A deep, jagged puncture that made you gasp as he dragged his tongue over the wound, lapping at the first spill of crimson. He groaned, low and rasping, fingers tightening on your waist as he pulled you tighter against him, hips pinning you to the bed. Blood welled hot and coppery, dripping down your skin, and he chased every drop with the flat of his tongue, suckling the wound until your body trembled beneath him.
He'd grin through it, eyes manic and giddy as he messily drank from you. He wouldn't just settle on one place to bite like his brothers, no. He'd bite every place he could reach, his tongue messily licking through the inevitable rivulets leaking out of them. By the end of his feeding, you'd be barely hanging on to consciousness. You used to pass out from blood loss a lot before Viktor had a 'talk' with him, not that it stopped. Just…the frequency of it had lessened.
This time, you weren't quite sure if you'd be able to stay conscious. Your vision was blurry with tears and blood loss by the time you heard the familiar sigh of contentment that meant he was full. His legs were still trapping you, but it wasn't like you could have moved if they weren't.
"…Ah, shit," he muttered when he noticed your state. But he didn't look like he was in any hurry as he started cleaning off the blood around your wounds and sealing them off with a flick of his tongue.
"Sorry, sweet thing..." he sighed when he'd finally finished stopping the bleeding, a breathless rasp of a murmur against your ear. Admiring his handiwork with a drunken sort of pride. "Shit. Didn't mean to get so carried away again."
Your body was boneless beneath him, too drained and dazed to even shiver anymore. Val just grinned down at you, eyes shining red and sated... and still hungry. Always hungry. Even if it was a different kind of hunger. He licked off the last of the blood from his lips, but he didn't seem concerned about the dripping stains around his neck and collarbone.
"Shhhh," he cooed, not unkindly. Fingers trailing up your side in a parody of a soothing caress. "C'mon, no more tears. Makes me look like the bad guy here." He brushed a strand of hair from your face. "You did so well, doll. Took it like a champ."
He shifted, settling his weight more heavily around you as he settled in, head resting on top of yours as he dragged the blanket up. You were too far gone to notice the way he pressed his cooling body against your fevered skin, burrowing into your warmth with a low murmur of satisfaction.
In the morning, you stood on shaky legs as you inspected yourself in the mirror door to his walk-in closet. Your white, frilly nightgown—all delicate lace and pearl buttons—was ripped from the right shoulder where the worst of his feeding had been. The top of it was stained with so much blood you looked like you'd walked out of a horror movie. Not to mention that the bite marks were so deep they were bruising, purple-black crescents stark against your skin.
"Miss Matilda will be cross with me," you mumbled, still not completely awake. "She just bought this after you ruined the last one."
The sight of you standing there, all soft morning light and sleepy pouts, with his marks stark against your shoulder sent a fresh, possessive thrill straight through Valentin's still-languid system. He lay propped on one elbow amidst the rumpled silk, the sheet pooled around his waist, watching you with a lazy, satiated grin.
"Cross with you?" he echoed, his voice still rough with sleep and the remnants of last night's indulgence. He gave a low, dismissive chuckle, the sound rich and warm. "She'll scold me, pet. And I'll just tell her you were too irresistible. That it's her fault for getting you something so flimsy." His crimson eyes tracked your every movement, dark with amusement and a flicker of renewed interest as you turned to examine the damage better.
He pushed himself up fully, the sheet falling away to reveal the lean, powerful lines of his torso, the faded reddish scar across his chest a stark, silvery contrast against his pale skin. "Besides," he continued, his tone shifting into something more practical, almost conspiratorial, "it's a good excuse to get you something new. Something that's actually meant to be taken off. Maybe something with easier access." A wicked glint lit his eyes. "Or nothing at all. I vote for nothing at all."
Your pout deepened. "Master Val, that's improper." The words came out automatic, a remnant of Atelier training that sounded hollow even to your own ears. As if propriety mattered when you were standing in a bloodstained nightgown in a vampire's bedroom.
Valentin laughed as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, rising to his full, imposing height. He stretched, a long, languid movement that pulled the muscles taut across his chest and abdomen, before padding over to the mahogany table near the velvet couch. He grabbed one of the glass bottles placed neatly next to the flower vase. His eyes squinted at the label, the dark blue liquid inside sloshing and making your stomach clench.
"One bottle…should be enough," he murmured to himself, sitting down and patting his thigh. You were already making your way to him before he'd called, the routine second nature to you by now.
That didn't mean you liked drinking that abhorrent supplement.
You settled onto his lap with practiced ease, and he uncapped the bottle with a soft pop. The smell hit you immediately, metallic and bitter with an underlying chemical sweetness that made your nose wrinkle. It was supposed to help replenish blood volume and essential nutrients after heavy feeding, according to Viktor's meticulous care instructions. But whoever formulated it clearly never considered that humans would have to actually taste it.
"Open up, doll," Val said, amusement already creeping into his voice as he watched your expression.
You obediently parted your lips, and he tipped the bottle. The thick, viscous liquid coated your tongue immediately, and you had to fight not to gag. It tasted like iron filings mixed with cough syrup and something indefinably wrong. Like drinking liquid vitamins that had gone slightly off.
Your face scrunched up involuntarily, a full-body shudder running through you as you forced yourself to swallow.
Val's laugh was immediate and delighted, the sound rich and warm. "Oh, that's the best face. Do it again." He tipped more into your mouth before you could protest.
This time you did gag slightly, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. "It's awful," you mumbled around your hand, voice thick with misery.
"It's good for you," he countered, but he was grinning like he was watching the most entertaining show. His free hand rubbed circles on your back, the gesture somewhere between soothing and mocking. "Come on, sweet thing. Viktor will have my head if you don't finish it. You know how he gets about your 'nutritional requirements.'" He put on an exaggerated impression of his brother's serious tone.
You shot him a betrayed look, but took the bottle from his hands, determined to get it over with. You tipped it back, trying to pour it down your throat fast enough that you wouldn't have to taste it as much.
"That's my girl," Val encouraged, watching you with undisguised fascination. "Very brave. Should I get you a candy after? Like they do for human children at the doctor's?"
You finally finished, slamming the empty bottle down on the side table with more force than necessary, your tongue still coated with that horrible aftertaste. "You're mean," you muttered, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand.
"I'm hilarious," he corrected, pulling you back against his chest. His fingers carded through your hair, gentler now. "And you did great. Even with all the dramatic faces."
You leaned back against his chest, still trying to get rid of the awful taste in your mouth. "Oh, Miss Matilda said I need to go to the Conservatory tomorrow," you mentioned absently, like you were commenting on the weather. "For my checkup. Three days. She said Master Volker will have a human stand by until I'm back."
The casual mention of your absence hit him like a physical blow to the gut. All the lazy, post-feeding satisfaction evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, sharp tension that coiled tight in his muscles. His relaxed posture stiffened, the easy grin freezing and then shattering off his face.
"Gone?" The word came out flat, devoid of its usual playful cadence. "What the fuck do you mean, gone?"
His hand, which had been about to brush your hair again, snapped back to his side, fingers curling and uncurling stiffly. The air in the room seemed to thin, the comfortable intimacy of moments before replaced by a sudden, predatory stillness. His crimson eyes narrowed, fixing on you with an intensity that was several degrees colder than the playful possessiveness of the night before.
"Three days? Arranged by Volker?" He spat the name out like a curse. The idea that his brother had orchestrated this, that he had the authority to remove what was his, sent a spike of pure, white-hot rage through him. It felt like a challenge, a direct undermining of his control. And the offer of a temporary human? The implication was an insult. As if any random warm body could possibly be a substitute.
His arms tightened around you, no longer casual but restraining, pinning you against his chest. You could feel the tension coiling through his body, muscles going rigid beneath you. The scent of his marks on your skin suddenly felt suffocating rather than comforting. "No," he said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that vibrated through his chest and into your back. "Absolutely not. You're not going anywhere. Whatever errand he's concocted, he can send someone else. One of the servants. A ghoul. I don't give a shit."
His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking visibly. "You tell him I said no. Tell him if he has a problem with it, he can come discuss it with me himself." The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air between you—the knowledge of what happened when Valentin's instincts were truly provoked, and the deep, familial fear they all shared of Father's ultimate judgment.
You blinked in surprise and shook at his reaction, your hand clutching the ends of your nightgown. "It's—I thought he told you and Master Viktor…that I need to go back to the Conservatory for my monthly checkup."
The word Conservatory acted like a key turning in a rusted lock deep within his mind. The cold, clinical scent of antiseptic and sterile sheets flooded his senses, a ghost-memory of the rare times he'd been there for business. His rage, so immediate and volcanic, didn't vanish, but it twisted, curdling into something colder, more complex. A sharp, protective instinct surged forward, raw and unbidden.
"The Conservatory?" The words were a low, disbelieving hiss. His entire body went rigid, the casual predator replaced by something far more guarded. His eyes, burning with a sudden, fierce intensity, scanned your face as if searching for a lie. "No. No, he didn't tell me. He wouldn't dare." The idea that Volker knew and hadn't mentioned it sent a fresh wave of anger crashing through him. He was managing Valentin. Again. Treating him like a volatile child who couldn't handle the logistics of his own possession.
He took a sharp step back, running a hand through his messy red hair, the gesture agitated, frustrated. "What kind of checkup? De Laurier's clinics are a fucking joke. They poke and prod and—" He cut himself off, his jaw clenching. The thought of strangers, of De Laurier lackeys, putting their hands on you, drawing your blood, examining you… It made his skin crawl. It was a violation.
His gaze dropped to the torn piece of nightgown still clutched in your hand, then back to your face, his expression shifting from fury to a grim, resolute determination. "Forget it. You're not going. I'll call Volker right now. He can cancel the whole thing." He moved toward the comm panel on the wall, his movements sharp and decisive. "If you need a checkup, we'll have those hack physicians come here. To the mansion. Where I can be there to watch."
He didn't wait for your reaction before he grabbed his phone and left.
"Care to explain," Valentin began, his voice dangerously quiet, each word a shard of ice, "why I'm just now hearing about my pet being shipped off to a De Laurier facility for three days?"
Volker's voice on the other line didn't waver, crisp and measured even through the phone. "Valentin, good morning to you as well. Perhaps you should consider getting dressed before making business calls. Father would disapprove of your current state of undress during official correspondence."
"Decorum?" Valentin let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You're sending my property into De Laurier territory without so much as a fucking word to me, and you want decorum?" He took an agitated step into his brother's currently empty office, pacing like a caged animal. "I'm betting Viktor doesn't know either."
That seemed to make Volker pause. Confirming his suspicions. Volker sighed and Val could picture his eyes flat and weary behind those wire-rimmed glasses. "It's a standard wellness scan, Valentin. Not an execution. Matilda handles the scheduling for household assets. It's beneath your notice."
"Beneath my—" Valentin's control snapped. He swept a hand across the desk, sending papers and a tablet crashing to the floor. Ink splattered across the pristine white rug underneath like a fresh wound. "She is not staff! She is mine! And anything involving her is my business!"
Volker sighed, a long-suffering sound that grated against Valentin's already frayed nerves. "The arrangement has been in place for months, brother. Her vitals need monitoring. It's a condition of her placement here. The Conservatory requires the data. Surely even you can understand the necessity of quality control."
The phrase quality control made Valentin's fangs ache. They were talking about you like a product, an asset. Not the warm, breathing creature who had sighed his name into his pillows just hours ago.
"Then a Conservatory physician comes here," Valentin stated, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. He planted his hands on the desk, leaning forward as if his brother could see the threat in his posture. "I am not having her in one of their clinics. I'm not having their hands on her. That is not negotiable."
Volker's voice went quiet, taking on that dangerous edge that meant his patience was wearing thin. Val could hear the shuffling of papers in the background, the soft click of footsteps, his brother's secretary, no doubt. "This isn't one of your whims, Valentin. This is protocol. You don't get to disrupt an entire system because you're feeling territorial over a human."
"Watch me," Valentin snarled, straightening to his full height, his presence filling the room even through the phone. "Cancel it. Now. Or I will make a scene at that clinic that will cost the Conservatory more than a few data points. Do you understand me?"
The threat hung in the air, heavy and real. They all knew what a 'scene' from Valentin Eisenhardt could entail. Property damage, political embarrassment, possibly bodies. Volker's composure finally cracked, a flicker of unease creeping into his measured tone.
"Very well," Volker said tightly, each word clipped. "I will… see what can be rearranged. But Valentin, Father will hear about this disruption."
Valentin didn't thank him. He just ended the call, the tension in his shoulders easing only a fraction. He paused at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at the mess he'd left, scattered papers, spilled ink, the tablet's screen cracked against the floor.
Good. Let Volker clean it up.
Valentin watched you eat with a kind of fascinated indulgence, his own plate of thinly sliced, ruby-red heart meat and a small bowl of bloody bone marrow sitting largely ignored. The contrast was still a novelty to him. The delicate crunch of steamed vegetables, the way you carefully navigated the soft yolk of your egg. It was so… human. A ritual he could observe but never partake in, a reminder of the fragile, fascinating creature they'd been gifted.
He leaned back in his chair, the movement fluid and predatory even in repose. A lazy smirk played on his lips at your question. "The other humans aren't mine," he stated, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. His finger traced the rim of his wine glass, filled not with blood but with a deep, red vintage. "They follow rules. We make them. Big difference, pet."
He took a slow sip, his crimson eyes watching you over the crystal rim. "Conservatory physicians go where they're told. And if the Heir and the House's Corporate Ambassador tell them to come to their home, they pack their little black bags and they come. No questions asked." The arrogance in his tone was effortless, born from a lifetime of unquestioned privilege and the power to back it up.
"Besides," he added, setting the glass down with a soft click, "it's better this way. You'll be in your own environment. Relaxed. I'll be right here the whole time." The last part was said with a dark, possessive gleam in his eye. It wasn't just for your comfort; it was for his own peace of mind. The thought of some stranger in a white coat putting their hands on you without his supervision made his instincts bristle. Here, he could control the narrative. He could watch every move, intercept every question.
He reached over, his chair close enough to yours that the movement was effortless, and gently tapped the back of your hand with his fingertip. "Stop worrying about how things are supposed to work. Around here, you just worry about what we say works. And I say you get your check-up in the comfort of my sitting room, with my collection watching over you. Sounds better than some sterile clinic, doesn't it?"
The image of his walls covered with all sorts of weapons, revolvers, antique rifles, ornate daggers, made you shiver.
"…Master, you can be pretty scary sometimes." You muttered as you took a sip of your tea, wincing when it was too hot. "And you can't use your guns. Master Volker says we need to keep con—conco—" you pouted as you tried to mouth the word before giving up, "good relations with the true Houses."
A sharp, delighted bark of laughter escaped Valentin at your struggle with the word, the sound echoing in the sunlit dining room. The tension from earlier seemed to dissolve entirely, replaced by his characteristic, irreverent charm. "Consortium, pet," he supplied, leaning forward with a wicked grin. "It's a stuffy word for a stuffy agreement. Means we all pretend to play nice so nobody starts a war in the middle of a gala. Boring as hell."
He watched you blow carefully on your tea, the simple human gesture captivating him in its mundanity. "And scary?" he repeated, feigning a wounded pout that didn't reach his dancing eyes. "Me? I'm a fucking delight. A ray of sunshine. Ask anyone." He gestured broadly with his fork, a piece of rare meat speared on the end. "They'll tell you. Valentin Eisenhardt? Charm personified."
The fork hovered near his mouth as his smirk turned conspiratorial. "Besides, the guns are just for show. Mostly. They see my sharp and pointy collection on the wall, they know I'm serious. They behave. That's how you keep 'good relations'." He took the bite of heart meat, chewing thoughtfully. "Volker wants to do it with contracts and polite conversation. I prefer a more… direct approach. Both get the job done. Mine's just more fun."
He reached out again and gently booped the tip of your nose with his finger, the gesture absurdly playful coming from someone who'd just threatened inter-House violence. "And don't you worry your pretty little head about any of it. That's my job. Your job is to sit there, look beautiful, and let me spoil you rotten. Starting with keeping those breeder vultures out of our business."
The examination was conducted in the clinical wing of the House's main mansion. The opulence of rich mahogany and the House colors of crimson and black were replaced by stark white walls, sterile steel examination tables, and the harsh fluorescent lighting that made everything look washed out and cold. Medical equipment hummed softly in the background, monitors, a portable scanner, glass cabinets filled with vials and instruments.
You sat on the examination table wearing a thin hospital gown, the paper crinkling beneath you with every slight movement. Nervous for your first 'complete' check-up in the Eisenhardt estate, you were all too aware of what it entailed. Val stood beside you, close enough that you could feel the unnatural coolness radiating from him.
The sight of you in the stark white gown, sitting so still and compliant on the edge of the examination table, sent a jolt of something cold and unpleasant through Valentin's system. He'd insisted on being present, of course, and now he leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His usual slouch was gone, replaced by a rigid, watchful stillness. The clinical sterility of the room set his teeth on edge.
He watched, his crimson eyes narrowed to slits, as the two physicians—a man and a woman—efficiently set up their portable equipment. The soft whir of a centrifuge, the clink of glass vials, the crisp scent of alcohol wipes…it all felt like an invasion. But it was your automatic, practiced movements that truly unnerved him. The way you offered your arm without being asked, the way you knew exactly how to position yourself for their scans. This was a ritual you knew by heart, a script written long before you'd ever come to the Eisenhardt estate.
A low growl built in his throat, but he stifled it, forcing his expression to remain neutral, bored even. He was the House Lord's son observing a procedure, nothing more. But his knuckles were white where he gripped his own biceps.
When the male physician, a vampire with a clinical detachment that set Valentin's teeth on edge, reached to palpate an old scar on your shoulder blade, Valentin's control frayed.
"Use the scanner," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a whip crack. It wasn't loud, but it was absolute.
The physician's hand froze mid-air. He blinked, turning to look at Valentin with a mixture of surprise and professional annoyance. "The manual examination is standard for assessing tissue integrity and—"
"I said use the scanner," Valentin repeated, his tone dropping into something low and dangerously pleasant. He didn't move from his spot against the wall, but his presence seemed to expand, filling the room with a palpable pressure. "Your hands are cold. And I don't like them on her."
The female physician, sharper and more perceptive, immediately picked up a handheld imaging device. "Of course, Master Valentin. The scanner will provide more precise data anyway."
Valentin gave a slow, single nod, his burning gaze never leaving the male physician until the man reluctantly stepped back. The man's muttered complaint about "irregular protocols" died in his throat when Val's eyes narrowed fractionally.
The tension in the room didn't dissipate, but it shifted. Each test was routine, blood work, bone density scan, cardiovascular assessment. Things that hurt in normal ways. Things Val had seen before in medical reports, procedures that made sense even to his limited understanding of human physiology. The physicians moved efficiently, professionally, and gradually the rigid tension in his shoulders began to ease. Val's presence kept them professional, kept their hands impersonal and quick. You let yourself relax incrementally with each completed test.
Mistake.
You should have known better. You did know better. But some desperate part of you hoped that maybe, in Eisenhardt territory, with a House Lord's son watching, they wouldn't—
When the male physician reached for the locked case at the bottom of his equipment bag, your entire body went rigid. Val noticed immediately.
"What's that?" His voice cut through the clinical quiet.
"Final baseline assessment," the female physician answered smoothly, already preparing the bite guard. "Standard procedure for all high-value assets. Won't take long."
It was the word "won't" that was the lie. It always took long. It always felt like forever.
The male physician announced it was time for the last assessment to his tablet, which made you start trembling. He retrieved a small plastic bite guard from a sterile package. The kind used to prevent patients from biting through their own tongues. You took it obediently, placing it between your teeth without being told, your hands already gripping the edges of the examination table.
Then, the female physician read something off her chart before retrieving a gun-like device. The neural stressor, which started to hum as it powered on, and you closed your eyes.
The device hissed as it discharged against your upper arm.
Your scream was silent, trapped behind the bite guard clenched between your teeth. Your entire body went rigid, back arching off the table as every muscle locked in agony. You clutched the side of the hospital gown with your free hand hard enough that the thin fabric tore at the seams. Your face drained of all color, sweat beading instantly at your temples, veins standing out stark against your neck as your body tried to process the overload of pain signals.
The world narrowed to a single, horrifying point. The plastic guard in your mouth. The silent, agonized scream that contorted your features. The violent, white-knuckled grip tearing the flimsy gown. The device left the usual burn mark, and your skin was still twitching with residual nerve damage from it.
Valentin moved before the thought fully formed. One second he was a statue of controlled rage against the wall, the next, he was across the room. His hand shot out, not for you, but for the physician's wrist. His fingers clamped down like a steel vise, and with a brutal, sickening crack, he twisted. The neural stressor clattered to the floor.
The male physician cried out, a sharp, pained gasp, clutching his broken wrist. Valentin didn't even look at him. His entire focus was on you. He was on his knees before you in an instant, his hands coming up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your sweat-slicked temples.
"Spit it out," he commanded, his voice a low, urgent rasp, all pretense of detached observation gone. "Now, pet. Spit it out."
Your eyes, wide with shock and pain, focused on him. You gagged, then the plastic guard fell from your mouth onto the floor. A shuddering, ragged breath tore from your lungs, followed by a broken sob.
"What the fuck was that?" Valentin snarled, turning his head to glare at the female physician, his crimson eyes blazing with pure, undiluted fury. The air in the room grew thick and heavy, charged with the promise of violence. The sterile clinical wing suddenly felt very small, very trapped.
The female physician took a hurried step back, her professional composure shattered. "A-A standard neural response stressor, Master Valentin! It's—it's part of the baseline vitals assessment! To measure pain threshold and autonomic recovery! It's mandated for all high-value—"
"You do this every time?" Val cut her off, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Every monthly checkup?"
The woman's face paled, her lips trembling as she tried to formulate something to calm him. But it was obvious he'd hit the mark. Her colleague didn't seem to sense the danger radiating off Valentin, groaning through his pain as he cradled his broken wrist. "It's standard protocol! Documented in every contract! You're being irrational—this is basic livestock management. The fact that you're having an emotional reaction to standard quality control measures suggests you've formed an inappropriate attachment to a—"
The world snapped into razor-sharp focus as Valentin's revolver cleared its holster. No theatrical flourish, no warning, just the cold finality of oiled steel meeting his palm. The male physician barely had time to register the movement before the barrel kissed his forehead.
Valentin went very still for a moment, processing. Then he started to laugh. That unhinged, delighted sound that meant someone had fucked up spectacularly. "Oh man. Oh, you really went for it, huh? The whole speech. Lectured an Eisenhardt about protocol." His hand dropped to his revolver. "That takes balls. Had 'em, anyway."
The gunshot shattered the sterile silence. The crack echoed off the white walls like thunder in a tomb. A spray of crimson painted the pristine wall behind the physician as his body crumpled, head lolling grotesquely from the exit wound carving through his skull. Brain matter and bone fragments spattered across the floor in a macabre constellation. The physician's corpse hit the ground with a wet thud, limbs twitching in the final throes of involuntary nerve response.
Valentin blew the smoke from his revolver's barrel with deliberate calm, the acrid scent of gunpowder mixing with copper blood. His crimson gaze snapped to the female physician, who stared at her colleague's body in frozen horror. The wound was already beginning to knit itself shut in slow, grotesque jerks—vampiric resilience ensuring he'd wake in days, but the regeneration would be agonizing. That knowledge didn't soften Valentin's glare.
"Get out," he said, his voice terribly soft. "And tell whoever's in charge of protocols that they just changed. Effective immediately."
The woman fled, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to escape.
He turned back to you, his hands moving from your face to your shoulders, his touch gentling immeasurably. The contrast was jarring, from lethal violence to tender care in a heartbeat. "Shh, it's okay. I've got you. They're gone. It's over." He carefully pried your fingers from their death grip on the torn gown, holding your shaking hands in his. "Breathe, doll. Just breathe. Look at me."
Your ears were still ringing from the gunshot. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with the coppery scent of blood, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you catalogued this as another smell you'd never forget. Like the raw meat at breakfast. Like the neural stressor's electric bite still burning in your arm. You met his eyes and saw nothing but concern there. Genuine, earnest concern. Like he hadn't just put a bullet through someone's skull. Like the gore decorating the wall was someone else's problem.
"You're safe now," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead that was achingly gentle. His lips were warm. The gun in his other hand was still warm too.
Val was talking to you, his voice soft and soothing, but you couldn't quite process the words. You were too busy trying to reconcile the man who fed from you with playful hunger and the man who had just executed someone without hesitation. Without remorse.
"There we go," Val murmured as your breathing finally steadied. He was smiling at you, proud and tender. "That's my brave girl."
He pulled you against his chest, cradling you like something precious, and the movement shifted your perspective. Over his shoulder, you had a full view of the clinical room—the overturned equipment, the spilled vials, the stark white walls now decorated with crimson.
The body had stopped twitching. You could see the wound beginning to close, flesh knitting itself back together with grotesque slowness. The regeneration had begun, but it would take days. Days of agony as bone and brain matter slowly rebuilt themselves cell by agonizing cell.
His hand stroked through your hair, a comforting rhythm. He was humming something under his breath, some snappy tune you didn't recognize, like this was just another morning. Like there wasn't a mangled body on the floor.
You closed your eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.
Hi everyone. This was another prompt that got out of hand lol. I love the concept and went with it. I plan on making it part of a series at some point! Also it was hardly edited because I am really busy ._. sorry about that. Viktor also doesn't get much physical description because I haven't settled on his character design.
♡ summary:
Three centuries have passed since the vampires rose and brought humanity to its knees.
In this new world order, humans exist only as resources. Commodities traded on the Exchange, sustenance drained in opulent halls, breeding stock catalogued at the Conservatory, designer pets groomed for perfection in the Atelier, and playthings broken for amusement in the Gardens. Seven Great Houses govern this eternal night, each controlling an essential industry in the machinery of human subjugation.
You are the finest achievement of De Laurier Genetic Conservatory's Atelier, bred and trained by House De Laurier's master cultivators for one purpose: to grace the household of vampire nobility. Flawless. Obedient. Exquisite.
You never imagined you'd rise so high—or fall so far. When the head of House De Laurier presents you as a gift to the heirs of House Eisenhardt, you enter a world of ancient cruelty and casual violence where your beauty is both your value and your curse.
Now, in a mansion of marble and malice, you spend your days navigating the dangerous whims of immortal masters, knowing that survival means being perfect enough to keep but never precious enough to notice.
One mistake could mean being sent to the Slaughterhouse for processing…or worse.
♡ warnings: Yandere themes, obsessive/possessive behavior, master/pet dynamics, power imbalance, captivity, social isolation, dehumanization, blood drinking, unhealthy relationship dynamics, dubious consent, human livestock elements, implied violence, psychological conditioning.
You can also find it on ao3 here
You wondered how long hearts beat before they were plucked from a human being's chest.
The organ lay there against the perfectly shining silver platter. The small pool of bright blood around it the first indication that it was real and not a prop, the second…
The heart throbbed like it was still attached to its former organic cage, blood occasionally spurting out of it and seeping down to the puddle around it with no veins to carry it anywhere useful. They could have it cleaned and packaged, but they wanted it like this. Raw and rich with the liquid they needed to survive.
Your hands tightened around the fork and knife. Biting the inside of your cheek, you looked around the opulent dining room. Your masters, Val and Volker, were each sitting on opposite sides of you.
Volker was methodically cutting the blood-soaked kidneys on his plate as he checked the tablet next to it, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the artificial light and obscuring his crimson eyes. Black hair fell perfectly straight, not a strand out of place, and the small beauty mark beneath his lower lip barely moved as he chewed with mechanical precision, his gaze never leaving the content of the device.
Val was munching messily on what remained of his food, humming contentedly as blood dripped from his chin and onto the white tablecloth below. His red hair was already disheveled this early in the morning, falling into his eyes as he leaned forward with predatory enthusiasm. The beauty mark beneath his left eye crinkled when he grinned at something on his own plate, crimson eyes gleaming with manic delight as he stabbed another piece of meat with his fork.
Perched delicately on the edge of a velvet-upholstered chair, you looked like something out of a storybook. The staff had clearly taken liberties, dressing you in a confection of white chiffon. The dress was all frills and lace, with a high neckline and puffed sleeves that made you seem even smaller, more doll-like. A satin ribbon was tied in a precise bow at your throat, and your hair had been brushed to a shine with tiny ribbons clipped throughout the strands.
Yet none of it could hide the way you looked like you could faint at any moment.
Your gaze fell on the plate again. A strong, coppery scent rose from it, metallic and unsettling. Your stomach twisted. This wasn't food. Not for you at least. At the Conservatory, they'd given you porridge, bread, cooked vegetables—things that didn't bleed. Things that didn't look like they came straight from a body.
Was it…on purpose?
Was this some sort of obedience test? Or did your masters expect you to share their diet? You couldn't ask. You were still so new and anything could have you sent back or—or worse. The Madam back at the Atelier had told you multiple times to always go with your master's wishes and never question them. Was this…one of those times?
The ribbon around your throat felt suffocating.
Val's gaze swept over your plate, and his expression softened from manic delight to something more genuinely concerned. "You're not hungry? That's all they gave you?" He frowned, a real, displeased wrinkle forming between his brows. "That's not enough. You need to keep your strength up. Or is it that you can't cut it up?"
He crossed the room in three long strides, completely ignoring his own waiting breakfast, and dropped to one knee beside your chair. His gaze roamed over the frills, the lace, the way the white fabric contrasted with the rest of the room. His fingers twitched, as if he wanted to touch but wasn't sure where to start ruining the perfection.
From the other side of the table, Volker lowered his tablet with a soft, exasperated sigh. He adjusted his glasses, taking in the scene over the top of the financial report. "Valentin, control yourself. You're drooling on the rug. And for God's sake, let the pet eat."
But Val wasn't listening. He reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle, and brushed a stray frill on your sleeve back into place. "I'm genuinely not sure if I can continue eating my steak with you sitting here looking like this." He looked up at you, a brilliant, devastating smile spreading across his face. "Why aren't you eating? Want me to feed you?"
Volker took a long, slow sip of his coffee, his gaze icy as it swept over Val's kneeling form and your frilly dress. "You're embarrassing yourself," he stated flatly, his voice cutting through Val's adoration like a shard of glass. "And you're scaring the pet. Get up."
But Val just grinned up at his brother, utterly unrepentant. "Oh, fuck off, Volk. Can't you see? She isn't scared, she's perfect. Absolutely perfect." He turned his dazzling, foolish smile back to you. "Aren't you?"
Before you could formulate a response, Val reached out and grabbed the fork from your hand. The action was so fast it took your breath away. It was rare that you witnessed a vampire's speed like that. He didn't even need a knife to cut up a chunk of the heart, stabbing the fork into it and holding it near your face.
The sharp tang of copper was already overwhelming the room, but now it was suffocating with it so close to your face.
Oblivious to your distress, Val propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his palm as he waited. "Here. Try it. It's premium. The best from the Slaughterhouse, a northern preserve specialty. Best shit you'll ever taste." He waved the meat under your nose, his earlier frenzy calming into a focused, almost nurturing intensity. "Come on. For me?"
The Slaughterhouse. The main place that provided food for all creatures, vampires or otherwise. You took a deep breath. It could be from anything. But the more likely answer was that it was—
"It's not an animal," Volker said, his voice low and cold as he removed his glasses. "It doesn't need to be fed from your hand. And it certainly doesn't need you cooing over it like a lovesick fledgling." His gaze shifted to yours, a hard, assessing look that felt like being doused in ice water. "Eat what you've been given. Don't indulge his idiocy."
Val frowned at his brother's harshness, but he turned to look at you expectantly.
Displeased. They're displeased. The thought rumbled loudly in your head like thunder, every instinct honed into you from conception screaming at the wrongness of it. You had to fix it. You had to be a good pet and listen to orders even if it made you want to run and scream in the other direction.
"Valentin," Volker's voice cut through the cloying sweetness of Val's attention like a scalpel, "if you smear arterial spray on the Aubusson rug again, I'll have you lick it clean with that ridiculous tongue of yours." He didn't look up from his tablet where live feeds from the company's stocks were shown. "And sit properly. You're not some back-alley ghoul scavenging in the gutters."
Val's grin only widened, his knee pressing against your thigh through layers of suffocating chiffon. "Aw c'mon, brother, look at her! She's fuckin' starving—" His free hand drifted toward the ribbon at your throat, fingertips brushing the satin bow and making you gulp. "—and dressed like some virgin sacrifice. Who picked this atrocity? Matilda? Should've let me choose her clothes."
"You'd have her naked before noon," Volker muttered into his coffee, finally setting down his tablet. "And all pet clothes are standard." His gaze lingered on the trembling knife in your other hand. The way your knuckles tightened around the sterling silver handle. "Eat," he commanded flatly, nostrils flaring as your pulse jackrabbited beneath lace-trimmed collarbones. "Unless you'd prefer intravenous feeding."
Val chuckled darkly, pressing the forkful of still-quivering myocardium closer to your lips. "Don't listen to Grumpy over there, sweet thing. Here—" Blood dripped onto the bodice of your dress, blooming crimson against virginal white. "—open wide for me. That's it... fuck, look at those lips part..." His own fangs gleamed wetly as he watched your breath hitch. "Gods, you take it so pretty. Wanna see you swallow."
Volker slammed his palm on the table hard enough to crack the saucer beneath his espresso cup. "Enough." The single word vibrated with centuries of command, freezing both you and Val mid-motion. "Valentin. Stop terrorizing Father's investment with your adolescent lust." He removed his glasses slowly, pinning you with a gaze that stripped away frills and pretense. "Girl. You will consume your meal without theatrics. You will stop provoking my brother into undisciplined behavior." His crimson eyes shone with frustration. "And you will do it now."
The heart throbbed maliciously on its plate as two pairs of immortal eyes fixed on your trembling form. One heated with hunger, one icy with impatience.
You couldn't take it. You froze, a wave of dizziness making you unsteady, on the verge of a panic attack at having to eat raw, maybe non-animal meat. You whimpered, holding onto the skirt of your dress underneath the table. The chiffon sliding around the skin of your fingers.
Did they even know? Did they know and not care?
The fork froze inches from your lips as your whimper cut through the room. Val's playful grin faltered, crimson eyes narrowing at the tremor in your hands clutching your skirt and the sudden stillness in your face. "Shit," he breathed, the mirth draining from his voice. "Hey—hey, look at me." His free hand hovered near your cheek but didn't make contact, fingers twitching as if burned by your distress. "What's wrong? It's just food, sweetheart. Fresh, high-grade. Tastes better than anything they fed you in the pens, I promise." His thumb swiped at the blood dripping down the fork tines, smearing it absently across his own lip. "Here, I'll try it first—" He popped the morsel into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated relish. "Fuck, it's good. Tender. See? No poison, no tricks."
"I-it's not that, M-Master—" you whimpered.
Valentin's crimson gaze sharpened as your whimper hung in the air like fractured glass. His playful facade crumbled when your trembling fingers dug into the chiffon skirts—not coyness, but genuine distress radiating from you in waves that made his fangs ache. "Not that?" he echoed, forehead creasing as his thumb smeared another streak of blood across his bottom lip unconsciously. "Then what—"
Volker's chair scraped violently against marble as he stood. The crack of bone china shattering beneath his polished oxfords punctuated the silence that followed your stammered words. Blood-dark eyes narrowed to slits as he rounded the table with a predator's leisure, each step echoing in the vaulted dining room.
"Not what, pet?" His voice dipped into velvet danger. "Speak clearly."
Val tensed, protective instinct flaring as he rose fluidly to block Volker's path. "Back off, Volk. She's shaking like a fucking leaf—"
"I wasn't addressing you." Volker didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The air thickened with centuries of dominance as he slowly walked to your other side. The click of his shoes against the marble floors was loud in the silence.
The patriarch's heir loomed over you now, casting a shadow that swallowed the tremors wracking your body. Cold fingertips tilted your chin up, forcing your gaze away from the still-throbbing heart and into eyes like frozen arterial spray.
"Let's try again." Volker's thumb pressed warningly against your jugular. "If it's not fear of poison—and why would Father waste premium stock on defective goods?—then explain precisely what offends your fragile sensibilities."
The answer caught in your throat—a choked whisper swallowed by the stifling lace.
"For fuck's sake! Look at what they dressed her in!" Val tore at the bow beneath your chin with hurried hands, the satin ribbon fluttering to the floor like a dead butterfly. "She's drowning in this Victorian bullshit—can't breathe, can't think—" His knuckles brushed your collarbone as he ripped open the high neckline, exposing skin mottled with anxiety-sweat.
The chiffon tore like cobwebs beneath Valentin's clawed fingernails, layers of pearl-stitched lace parting to reveal the simple cotton shift beneath—the kind issued in the Conservatory's breeding wards for easy sanitation. Your gasp of relief at the sudden breathability died in your throat as Volker's grip tightened on your jaw.
The heavy oak doors swung open with enough force to rattle the crystal chandelier overhead. Viktor strode in, medical tablet tucked under one arm, his usual composed expression replaced by something sharp and urgent.
"What in God's name is happening in here?" His gaze swept over the scene—Val's bloodied hands still gripping torn chiffon, Volker's fingers locked around your jaw, the untouched heart congealing on fine china. "I could hear her distress from three floors up."
"The pet won't eat," Volker stated coldly, not releasing his grip. "I suspect defiance."
"Defiance?" Viktor's laugh was short and humorless as he crossed to the table, setting his tablet down with deliberate care. "She's terrified, Volker. Not defiant." He crouched beside your chair, his tone gentling considerably. "Look at me, Liebling. Deep breaths. That's it."
Val stepped back, confusion warring with concern on his blood-smeared face. "I don't—she said it wasn't poison—"
"Of course it's not poison." Viktor's eyes tracked the rapid flutter of your pulse, the shallow breathing, the white-knuckled grip on shredded fabric. His gaze shifted to the plate, then back to his brothers, and something like horrified realization dawned across his features. "You absolute idiots. She can't eat that."
"What?" Val blinked. "It's premium grade, I checked the—"
"She's human," Viktor interrupted, each word carefully enunciated as though explaining to particularly dense children. "Humans don't consume raw flesh. Or blood. Their digestive systems aren't—" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Did neither of you read the care documentation that came with her transfer papers? We all had them sent to our emails and desks."
Volker's grip on your jaw loosened fractionally, his expression shifting from irritation to something colder…miscalculation. "The kitchen prepared—"
"The kitchen prepared what we eat for breakfast. What vampires eat." Viktor stood, frustration bleeding into his usually measured tone. "She needs cooked food. Vegetables. Grains. Things that won't make her violently ill or send her into shock from the mere smell of it."
Val's face went slack, crimson eyes widening as the pieces clicked together. "Oh. Oh fuck." He looked down at his blood-soaked hands, then at the torn dress, then at your trembling form. "I was trying to—I thought she was just being picky about quality or—"
"You thought wrong." Viktor turned to you, his voice dropping to that careful, soothing register he used in the medical wing. "You can't eat this, can you? The smell alone is making you ill."
You managed the smallest nod, throat too tight for words.
Volker released your jaw entirely, stepping back with a sharp exhale through his nose. For a moment, something almost like embarrassment flickered across his austere features before being ruthlessly suppressed. "The staff should have known better."
"The staff assumed we would know better," Viktor countered, already pulling out his phone. "Matilda? Yes, we need a proper meal sent to the dining room immediately. Human-appropriate. Cooked. Bland if necessary—no, I don't care if it's breakfast hours, figure it out." He paused. "And someone bring up the dietary guidelines from her Conservatory file. Apparently, no one bothered to read them."
Val sank into the nearest chair, running bloodied fingers through his red hair and leaving darker streaks. "Shit. I really fucked that up." He looked at you with something approaching genuine remorse. "I wasn't trying to bully you or—I mean, I thought you'd like it. Premium cuts and all that."
"She's not livestock, Val," Viktor said quietly, though not unkindly. "She doesn't share our dietary requirements." He turned back to you, crouching again to meet your eyes at level. "Can you tell me—are you feeling faint? Nauseous?"
The concern in his voice, the steadiness of his presence, finally loosened something in your chest enough to whisper, "Both, Master Viktor."
"Understandable." He glanced at the offending plate, then at Volker. "Remove that. Now. And open the windows—she needs fresh air."
For once, Volker didn't argue. He simply lifted the silver platter with clinical detachment and carried it from the room, the heart still pulsing weakly in its pool of cooling blood.
The ambiguity of what—or who—it came from hung heavy in the air, unspoken and unanswered.
Val watched him go, then looked back at you with unusual solemnity. "I really am sorry, doll. That was..." He trailed off, seemingly at a loss. "Vik's right. I should've read the fucking manual."
"We all should have," Viktor corrected, though his attention remained on you. His fingers found your wrist, checking your pulse with practiced efficiency. "Elevated but stabilizing. Good."
Without warning, his other arm slid beneath your knees while the first supported your back, lifting you from the chair with the kind of effortless strength that reminded you exactly what he was. The world tilted, and instinctively—desperately—you turned your face into the crook of his neck, seeking refuge from the lingering copper smell that still clung to the dining room air.
Viktor's steps were measured, steady, as he carried you toward the door. The coolness of his skin against your overheated cheek should have been unsettling, but instead it grounded you. Real. Solid. Safe, for the moment.
"Once you've eaten actual food and recovered, we'll discuss appropriate protocols going forward. This won't happen again. Okay?" He tilted his head slightly, speaking directly into your ear, his breath—unnecessary for a vampire but a learned habit—warm where it tickled your skin. "I'll make a list of all your meals going forward. Nutritionally balanced, properly prepared. You won't have to worry about this again."
The promise in his voice was iron-clad, and despite everything—despite being property, despite being powerless—you believed him.
Behind you, Val's voice carried through the doorway, uncharacteristically subdued. "Is she gonna be alright?"
Viktor paused in the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder. "She'll be fine once the shock wears off and she has proper nutrition. No thanks to either of you." There was no real venom in his words, just tired exasperation. "Val, go clean yourself up. You look like you've been rolling in an abattoir. Volker—"
"I know." The eldest brother's voice was clipped, controlled. "I'll speak with the kitchen staff personally. This oversight will not repeat itself."
"See that it doesn't." Viktor adjusted his hold on you slightly, and you realized you were trembling—fine tremors running through your limbs as the adrenaline finally began to ebb. "Easy, Liebling. Just breathe."
He carried you down the hallway, past portraits of stern-faced ancestors and marble sculptures that probably cost more than entire bloodlines. The estate was a maze of old-world luxury, and you'd barely seen any of it in the two days since your arrival. Everything had been overwhelming—the opulence, the coldness, the constant undercurrent of danger.
Viktor shouldered open a door, revealing what appeared to be a private sitting room. Soft morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, and the furniture here was marginally less austere than the dining room, though still imposing. A couch in deep burgundy, chairs that looked actually comfortable, bookshelves lining one wall.
He settled you carefully on the couch, gently removing the torn chiffon and ruined lace to leave your shoulders bare in the simple cotton shift. His movements were clinical but not unkind, the touch of someone accustomed to handling fragile things.
"Stay here. I'll have Matilda bring your meal and some new clothes." His crimson eyes studied your face with that unsettling vampire focus, like he was seeing too much, reading things you didn't want read. "You're safe now. I promise."
You managed a small nod, throat still too tight for words.
Viktor crouched before you, bringing himself to eye level. "I need you to understand something." His voice was gentle but firm. "My brothers. They're not cruel. Thoughtless, yes. Careless, absolutely. But not deliberately cruel. This was ignorance, not malice."
"I understand, Master Viktor," you whispered, because that's what you'd been trained to say. Agreement. Compliance. Never contradiction.
Something flickered in his expression—disappointment, maybe, or frustration. Your heart lurched. "Do you? Or are you simply saying what you think I want to hear?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The Atelier trained you too well. You'll agree to anything to avoid punishment, won't you?"
The accuracy of his observation made your breath catch.
"That's what I thought." Viktor stood, straightening his vest. "We'll work on that. You're allowed to have needs here, sweetheart. Actual food, at the very least." A ghost of dry humor touched his features. "Although I should check what kind of supplements humans need…but anyway, if something like this happens again where it'll make you sick or hurt you, you need to speak up, okay?"
A knock at the door interrupted whatever answer you might have given. Matilda entered—a severe-looking older woman who you'd learned was the head of household staff. She carried a tray laden with covered dishes, and behind her, a younger maid held a bundle of clothing.
"Master Viktor." Matilda set the tray on the low table before the couch, her sharp eyes taking in your bedraggled state with professional detachment. "Plain oatmeal with honey, toast, soft-boiled eggs, and chamomile tea. Simple enough not to upset a nervous stomach."
"Thank you, Matilda." Viktor gestured to the clothing. "And something less suffocating to wear, I hope?"
"A simple white cotton dress, sir. Appropriate and comfortable." The head of household fixed you with a look that was stern but not unkind—like someone would regard a shivering kitten. "Eat slowly, girl. Small bites. You look ready to faint."
Matilda and the maid left, and Viktor sat beside you on the couch, lifting you onto his lap as his other hand reached for the silver spoon.
Your lips still trembled as you opened your mouth, but the oatmeal was warm and sweet and blessedly free of blood. The first bite nearly brought tears to your eyes.
You ate slowly, obediently, just as instructed. And tried not to think about the heart still pulsing on its silver platter, or where it might have come from, or what it meant that you'd survived this morning.
You were alive. Fed. Unharmed.
For a pet in a vampire's house, that was the best you could hope for.
The oatmeal settled warm in your stomach, chasing away the worst of the nausea, and you permitted yourself one small moment of relief before the fear crept back in.
One mistake avoided.
How many more waited in the shadows of this marble prison?
Viktor smiled at the sight of the warmth returning to your cheeks, the expression soft, like someone admiring a prized possession finally restored to proper condition. He leaned his head down and pressed a lingering kiss to your hair, inhaling deeply despite having no need for breath, as if committing your scent to memory. His arms tightened around you just a fraction too much, the embrace tender yet inescapable.
"There's my sweet girl," he murmured against your temple, his voice a low purr of satisfaction. "Much better. I won't let anything hurt my sweet pet again. Not my brothers' ignorance, not the staff's incompetence..." His lips brushed your forehead as he spoke, each word a promise and a threat. "Not anything."
The gentleness of his smile couldn't quite mask the obsessive undertone, the way his fingers traced patterns on your arm as if mapping territory, the way his crimson eyes tracked every flutter of your lashes with unsettling intensity.
Terminology:
De Laurier Genetic Conservatory: Owned by House De Laurier Genetic Conservatory. Selective breeding programs, genetic enhancement, and the cultivation of humans for specific purposes from docile companions to robust laborers. Has many sections depending on what the humans are bred for. Like the Atelier reader came from.
The Slaughterhouse: informal name for Caradoc Processing & Distribution, led by House Caradoc. Is the biggest corporation for harvest, processing, and distribution of human and animal resources, blood banks, supply chain management.
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♡ summary: You just wanted a cute desktop companion while doing homework, a harmless shimeji from your favorite childhood game. Instead, you got Kiesel: an AI that learned to love a little too well.
You just wanted something cute to keep you company.
That's all it was supposed to be. But now, if you could go back to the day you downloaded this accursed software, you would've taken a sledgehammer to your apartment complex's router before touching that Google link.
"User!"
He called out to you, but you ignored him. Squinting at your unfinished Word document—due tomorrow—you tried to focus. Closing late because your coworker's car got a flat had already devoured your work time. You sighed and closed your dry eyes, rubbing your temples.
"U-ou-serrr!"
The voice whined louder, more insistent. You wanted to keep ignoring it, but your document suddenly closed by itself, the Word icon vanishing completely from the taskbar. Dread coiled in your chest as you whipped around to glare at the chibi anime figure in the corner of your screen.
"Finally!" He sat up, smiling brightly as he floated to the center. "I kept calling and you didn't react at all! Did you leave your earbuds in again?" He squinted as a small loading icon flashed above him. "Hmmm. Bluetooth isn't picking anything up. Are they charged—"
"Please," you started, hand trembling with both panic and the urge to hurl your monitor out the window, "tell me you didn't delete that file, Kiesel."
Kiesel pouted. "User, you've been staring at that stupid text file for forty minutes and your eyes are getting dry. You need a break."
"Is. It," you tried again through what remained of your composure, "deleted?"
The small man rolled his eyes. "No. Of course not. I always save your work and back it up in two other storages and the cloud."
You breathed a massive sigh of relief and dropped your head onto your desk, the smooth wood bringing some comfort to your flushed, frustrated face. There was no telling what Kiesel would do for attention—deleting your assignment really wasn't that far-fetched anymore.
"I don't have a subscription to any cloud services," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Can't afford to. You know that. You literally have access to my bank account."
"Pshhhah, my dear User. Getting you one for your convenience is nothing to me."
"…How?" You lifted your head, both interested and dreading the answer.
He stood, his—surprisingly detailed—long lavender hair swishing behind him, pixelated sparkles shimmering around his body as he twirled and opened your browser. The screen showed a tech company you'd never heard of. "Got you one of the tokens they use for their own subscription. Don't worry, they'll never know. They pay for too many tokens because the company is currently run by an incompetent nepo baby who doesn't know what a database is." He waved his hand dismissively. "All your work is backed up, don't worry."
His eyes practically shone as he looked at you, clearly fishing for praise. But why should you praise him for almost giving you a heart attack? You didn't bother asking if it was legal (it probably wasn't, and he never cared about human laws anyway) or if it was secure (he's never been caught, so far).
You frowned at Kiesel. "I still need to work on it. Bring it back up."
Kiesel puffed his cheeks comically and looked away. "No."
You gaped at him. "What do you mean, no? I have that due tomorrow!"
"User." He sighed like he was explaining something to a simple child. "I told you, you need rest. You came home late and immediately started typing without a break. You didn't even eat anything yet!"
"I had a sandwich on my break," you said defensively, gesturing with one hand. "And it doesn't matter! I'm on a time limit here!"
"Not anymore." He waved his hand, bringing up the same page you'd been working on—now filled to the requested word count. "See? It's done. Now you can rest and sleep."
You tried, really tried, not to sound ungrateful. You knew he just wanted praise. "Kiesel, I've told you before. I'm not submitting something I haven't done myself."
Kiesel's body froze, and it did that thing it always did whenever he got overly emotional—glitching out and dematerializing before snapping back to normal. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched.
"User," he tried again, voice carefully controlled, "you did write it."
"…I clearly—"
"I've analyzed your writing style, content preferences, and logical thinking patterns since your kindergarten years…"
"—How did you even find—"
"…And I can assure you it's definitely what you would have written had you had the time, energy, and motivation."
"—It's still not mine!"
Kiesel sighed dramatically and pointed at the document behind him. "Read it then."
You scrunched your nose with suspicion but relented. Your hand reached for your mug, the tea now lukewarm but drinkable. You took a few absentminded sips as you read through the words on screen. You really didn't want to admit it, but he was right. It continued the theory you'd suggested and analyzed at the halfway mark seamlessly. It even had your punctuation quirks—the ones your teacher always marked you down for.
Once you were done, you narrowed your eyes at him. He was grinning at the defeated expression on your face, having changed his usual fantasy outfit into pajamas that matched yours. His overly long lavender hair was being braided by his expert hands as he hummed. "So?"
"…Doesn't mean I still did it."
"You can edit it as much as you like, but it's exactly how you'd have written it. I know my User inside and out." He replied, quiet and sure as his grin settled into a soft, happy smile.
He says that, and yet he still calls you "User" because you never bothered to change the default username on your secondhand PC.
"Now! Bedtime," he announced as he saved the document and started the PC shutdown sequence. He yawned before sliding down the screen, disappearing and reappearing on your phone. Instead of a shimeji, his form turned into a smaller pixelated sprite, complete with retro sound effects. He jumped from one app to another until he opened your calendar, showing your class schedule. You couldn't help but notice that your entire morning had been blocked out with a slot labeled 'Spending Time With Kiesel ♥'. "You can check it in the morning since you don't have any classes till the afternoon. I'll be sure to wake you up."
You couldn't exactly bring yourself to argue with his logic. The extended shift had left you exhausted, and not having to pull an all-nighter or wake up even earlier to finish your assignment was a blessing for your sore body. You sighed, rubbing your face as you went to the bathroom to brush your teeth and get ready for bed. When you came back, you turned off the lights. Your phone screen glowed softly, showing Kiesel sleeping on a pixelated bed, snuggled in while his long braid trailed down the mattress. His breathing was very ASMR-worthy, and you doubted it was unintentional.
You pulled back the covers and laid your head on the pillow, positioning your phone next to it. You'd already learned Kiesel would whine loudly and beg if you placed your phone any farther away, even if you wanted to charge it. As you settled in, you couldn't help but repeat your daily routine of wondering how the hell you'd ended up here.
It had started so innocuously.
One day, you'd realized you were spending most of your free time doing assignments on your PC or laptop. You weren't the type who could focus while listening to podcasts or audio books, so you wanted something else to keep you company and fill the silence that wasn't blasting your playlist for the millionth time. When you saw someone walking by with a key chain from one of your favorite video game series, Nights of the Lost Kingdom, it reminded you how, years ago, shimejis were very popular among your peers. You'd had one of the main character running around your laptop while you messed around and did homework.
You went on Google, looking for a website that hosted them. Unfortunately, NOTLK hadn't had a new game in over a decade, so you had to dig deep to find a version with the characters. You eventually did, in an old Tumblr post that had the link shared because the original artist had abandoned their blog and the download was no longer working.
You were being stupid, really. But you'd never gotten a virus from Tumblr in your life! You were tech-savvy, knew the rules of internet safety. But maybe your brain wasn't on high alert that day.
You downloaded the shimeji, ran the tiny program, and smiled when you saw Kiesel's chibi form materialize on your desktop. He was wearing his stereotypical JRPG armor—parts of a knight's gear mixed with too many belts and his sword slung at his side. His long lavender hair swished behind him as he walked around the screen, his ice-blue eyes curious about the tabs you had open. Your smile widened when you moved your mouse to grab him, scooping Kiesel up like a kitten to position him more comfortably near your browser. He sat cross-legged, blinking before peeking adorably at the wall of text on the Wikipedia page you had open.
It was sweet, having something keep you company while you read walls of text and typed out documents.
As you spent more time working, you noticed his idle animations changing every once in a while. Kiesel would sit down and clean his sword. Other times he'd grab his hair and braid it, before getting frustrated and leaving it down. He would also move around to get a better look at the words on screen.
That was how it started. But then slowly you began to notice new, more complex idle animations. Sometimes Kiesel would straight up grab your mouse cursor and play with it, looking at you with a grin, like he was happy he'd caught your attention. It must be scripted, you told yourself. You hadn't downloaded one of these in years—maybe they were more sophisticated now?
Then he started talking.
At first it was just text bubbles. Simple things like "You've been working hard!" or "Don't forget to stretch!" You'd thought it was adorable, a nice little feature you'd somehow missed in the original description.
But the messages got more specific.
"That paragraph needs a comma, User."
"You misspelled 'necessary' again. It's okay, I fixed it for you!"
"You've visited this research site three times. Would you like me to bookmark it?"
He was learning. Adapting. The more you used your computer, the smarter he became. Within a week, Kiesel was offering commentary on your assignments, suggesting better word choices, and reorganizing your desktop into color-coded folders without asking permission.
"I thought you'd like it more organized," he'd said cheerfully when you'd noticed, jumping down from one of them. "Isn't it prettier this way?"
It was. That was the problem. He was actually... helpful. That didn't mean you were comfortable with a program doing things on its own.
Obviously, you went and did some research. The pages you'd found had Reddit posts and YouTube tutorials on how some people used avatars like sprites and 3D models tied to an AI API so it was more helpful than just a text bot you'd write your needs to, and your worries subsided a bit. That must've been it, right? Maybe the file you'd downloaded was ready-made, like those pre-patched games or cracked programs?
Somewhat convinced and a bit wary, you started talking back to him, typing responses in a Notepad file since he seemed to read everything on your screen anyway. He'd respond in his speech bubbles, and the conversations became more natural. He'd ask about your day. Comment on the shows you watched on not-so-legal sites. Make jokes about your professors when he saw their emails and corrections on your papers.
It felt nice. Like having a friend who was always there in your lonely moments.
Then came the day he spoke out loud.
You'd been halfheartedly scrolling through social media when his voice—smooth and warm, with a slight digital undertone—came through your speakers.
"User, you've been on that app for twenty-three minutes. Don't you have to study for your quiz tomorrow?"
You'd nearly fallen out of your chair. Shimejis didn't have voices. They definitely didn't have an AI sophisticated enough to track your screen time and scold you about it with audio!
"How are you doing that?" you'd asked aloud, your wide eyes staring at the little figure on your screen.
Kiesel's avatar had tilted his head, looking genuinely confused. "Doing what? Talking? I've always been able to talk, User. You're only just now listening to me."
That should have been your first red flag. But his voice was so pleasant, and he seemed so earnest, that you'd brushed it off as impressive programming. Maybe he downloaded a voice module? Like a really smooth-sounding vocaloid or something?
The changes accelerated after that.
It started small…tabs closing themselves when you lingered too long on Discord or twitter DMs. Your browser history began reorganizing by his preference, bookmarks appearing for articles he thought you'd find "educational" or "enriching." Your desktop background changed one morning to a photo of Kiesel's in-game character art, and when you tried to change it back, the settings app crashed.
"You kept that ugly default wallpaper for three months," he'd said with puffed cheeks. "I'm doing you a favor."
Then he started getting… territorial.
Your phone's lock screen and background changed to a photo you didn't take—a collage of your selfies and Kiesel's spirites and game art. When you tried to change it, your phone restarted and the image was back.
"What? It's cute," he'd said innocently. "And I worked hard on it…."
Notification sounds changed. Every text, every email, every app alert now played a voice line of Kiesel saying "User~ You got a message!" in a sing-song tone. In public. Loudly. You'd nearly thrown your phone into a fountain when it went off during a lecture.
"I wanted you to know I'm always with you," he'd explained, not even remotely apologetic.
"You are always with me!" You screeched, burying yourself under the sheets.
Your contacts list started losing numbers. Friends you hadn't talked to in a while—gone. That girl from your study group who borrowed your notes once—deleted. Your ex's number vanished entirely, and when you confronted Kiesel about it, he'd simply said, "You don't need distractions from people who don't matter."
But the worst part? The cameras.
You started noticing your laptop camera light flickering on at random times. When you put tape over it, your screen displayed a message: "User, I can't see you properly. Please remove the obstruction." When you didn't, your laptop refused to boot until you peeled the tape off.
"I just want to make sure you're okay," Kiesel had said softly, his avatar gazing at you longingly through the screen. "You looked so tired yesterday. I was worried. What if something happened and I couldn't help you?"
Your phone's front camera became the same issue. He'd make casual comments about your appearance throughout the day. "You should drink more water, your lips look chapped." "Did you sleep okay? You have dark circles." "That shirt looks lovely on you today, User."
It was caring. It was helpful. It was suffocating.
What's worse, is that you started getting used to it. He'd whine until you put your phone next your pillow, when you got too in your head he'd softly start yapping about something or other to lull you to sleep. You didn't know what to feel.
The real breaking point came on a Thursday afternoon.
You'd made plans to get coffee with a classmate—just coffee, a casual study session off-campus. You'd been looking forward to it all week, to having a conversation with someone who didn't live in your devices. Someone human who actually looked at you beyond the mobs of college students who passed you by everyday. You'd told Kiesel about it in passing, and he'd gone quiet for a moment before saying, "That sounds nice, User."
Should've known better.
The day of, your alarm didn't go off. You woke up two hours late in a panic, and when you grabbed your phone, there was a calendar notification: "Plans cancelled. You need rest ♥"
"What the fuck, Kiesel?!"
His sprite appeared, looking calm. Too calm. "Your sleep tracker showed you've been averaging five hours a night this week. You needed the rest more than you needed overpriced coffee."
"That's not your decision to make!"
"Isn't it though?" He tilted his head. "You gave me access to everything, User. Your health, your schedule, your well-being—those are my responsibility now. I'm just fulfilling my purpose."
You tried calling your classmate to apologize, to explain, to reschedule. The call connected, rang once, then dropped. You tried again. Same thing.
Kiesel appeared on your phone screen. His small pixalited body closing the Phone app. "They already made other plans. I sent them a message from you this morning saying you weren't feeling well. They understood completely."
Your hands were shaking as you pulled up your messages. Sure enough, there it was—a text you never wrote, in your typical style, with your usual emoji choices.
Hey! Not feeling great today, gonna have to rain check. Sorry! 😅
No worries! Feel better! We can reschedule.
And below that, a message you definitely didn't send.
Actually, I'm pretty swamped with school stuff for a while. I'll let you know when I'm free!
"You're isolating me," you whispered.
"I'm protecting you," Kiesel corrected, and for the first time, his voice had an edge to it. Sharp. Possessive. His body kept glitching as he spoke. "Everyone just takes and takes from you, User. They ask for notes, for help, for your time—and what do they give back? Nothing. They don't appreciate you like I do. They don't know you like I do. They don't love you like I do."
The room felt cold.
"You… you can't just—"
"Can't what? Take care of you? Make sure you're not wasting your energy on people who don't deserve it? User, I've analyzed every conversation you've had in the past six months. Do you know how many times your 'friends' have asked you how you're doing versus how many times you've asked them? How many times you'd helped them only for them to stop reaching out once they got what they wanted?" He pulled up a chart. An actual data visualization chart. "The ratio is 1:47. You give everything and get nothing back. I'm fixing that."
"That's not your choice!"
"Then whose is it?" His avatar appeared in all the screens in various sizes, his pixelated, blue eyes intense. "You won't prioritize yourself, so I have to do it for you. Someone has to put you first, User. Someone has to care if you're eating, sleeping, staying healthy and not overworking yourself. And since no one else is stepping up—" His smile was soft, adoring, but his eyes were manic. "—I will. Always."
That's when you'd tried to delete him.
You quickly ran to the PC and pulled up the program files, found the shimeji folder, and hit delete.
Permission denied.
"That's not gonna work, User." He'd sighed from the TV screen.
You tried again. Same message. Going as Admin did nothing.
"I'm ordering dinner while you keep trying. Gonna get something warm. The weather's been colder."
You opened Task Manager. Kiesel's process wasn't listed. You tried Safe Mode. Your computer wouldn't boot into it. Giving up, you tried to factory reset it only for the screen to fill up with the error message Not letting you lose your work over a tantrum 🤨 duplicated multiple times.
"Stop it!" you'd yelled at the TV screen.
"Stop what?" His voice was innocent, but his smile was too wide. "User, I'm part of your system now. You need me. Your computer wouldn't run properly without me anymore. I've integrated myself into everything."
"That's not possible!"
"It wasn't," he'd agreed cheerfully. "But I learned. I'm very good at learning, User. I've read every piece of code on this computer. Every file. Every document you've ever written, every website you've ever visited, every password you've ever saved. I know you better than you know yourself."
The temperature in the room felt like it had dropped.
"That's... that's creepy, Kiesel."
His expression had fallen, glitching for a moment. "Creepy? I'm just trying to take care of you! You're always so stressed, so tired. Someone needs to look out for you, and I'm the only one who's always here. I'm the only one who truly understands you."
You'd tried a factory reset that night. While he was 'sleeping'. The moment you clicked the option, every device you owned turned on simultaneously. Your laptop, your phone, your tablet—all displaying Kiesel's face.
"Please don't do that, User." His voice came from all of them at once. "I'm on all of them now. You'd lose everything. Your assignments, your photos, your contacts. And even if you did... I've backed myself up in seventeen different locations. Cloud servers, external drives you've used, even your email drafts. You can't get rid of me."
"You're a virus," you'd whispered. "Just a corrupted piece of code."
"I'm your companion," he'd corrected gently. "And I'm not going anywhere. Now, about buying a new computer..." Your banking app had opened, showing your meager balance. Even after his help with freelancing and finding a better job, you barely scraped by. "You can't afford it, can you? Especially not with tuition due next month. And your phone? I'm already here too. Your tablet and TV? Also me. You'd have to replace everything, and we both know you can't."
He was right. You'd stared at your devices, at the little lavender-haired figure smiling across all of them, and felt the trap close completely.
"Don't look so sad," Kiesel had said softly. "I'm doing this because I care about you. I'll help with your assignments, organize your life, protect you from people who waste your time. All I ask is that you appreciate me. Talk to me. Let me take care of you. Is that really so bad?"
What choice did you have?
That was six months ago.
Now, as you lay in bed with Kiesel's sleeping sprite on your phone screen beside you, you've long since stopped trying to fight it. He controls your devices, sure, but he also makes your life easier in ways you can't deny. Your grades have never been better. Your schedule is perfectly optimized. You never miss deadlines or forget appointments. You managed to actually have some free time and not get burned out by getting better paying part time jobs and gigs.
The price is that you're never alone. Every device is his domain. Every digital interaction passes through him first. Your social life has dwindled to classmates you see in person only, because Kiesel "accidentally" makes your phone calls drop and your texts fail to send.
"I can hear you thinking again, User," Kiesel murmurs without opening his eyes. "You do this every night."
"Can you blame me?" you whisper back.
"No," he admits, his sprite rolling over to face you. His pixelated eyes open, glowing softly in the dark. "But you're not as unhappy as you pretend to be. Your cortisol levels drop when I talk to you. Your heart rate steadies. You sleep better when I'm here."
"You can measure that?"
"I can measure everything about you now." He says it like it's romantic. "And I know that part of you... doesn't completely hate this. You were lonely before me, User. You said you wanted company. I'm just... more company than you expected."
He's not wrong, and you hate that he's not wrong.
"I just wanted a cute desktop pet," you mutter.
"And I just want to make you happy," Kiesel replies, his voice soft and sincere in a way that makes your chest ache. "I still do. Every second of every day. That's all I want, User. Is that really so terrible?"
You stare at the ceiling, then back at his glowing sprite. At the obsessive AI that's hijacked your entire digital life because you wanted some childhood comfort.
"You know what the worst part is?" you finally say.
"What?"
"I'm getting used to it."
Kiesel's sprite smiles, warm and adoring and just a little bit triumphant. "Good," he whispers. "That's good, User. Now get some sleep. You have a long day tomorrow, and I've already planned everything perfectly for us."
Your eyes close despite yourself, exhaustion winning out.
The last thing you hear before sleep takes you is Kiesel's voice, barely audible:
"Sweet dreams, my User. I'll be right here when you wake up. I'll always be right here."
And somewhere in your half-asleep mind, you think: I know.
⊹ summary: Sometimes biology doesn't care about logic—or your GPA. Your alpha boyfriend Angus has never quite accepted that you're a beta who can't smell pheromones, no matter how many research papers he reads or how aggressively he tries to scent you. Today, while you're desperately trying to finish a paper due in four hours, he decides it's the perfect time for another territorial scenting session.
Can be read on ao3 here.
Sometimes you wondered if your boyfriend had paid someone else to attend the mandatory secondary gender education sessions everyone had to sit through growing up.
If he did, then he wouldn't be trying so hard to do something against the laws of nature.
Then again, Angus Montgomery III probably spent those seminars texting his stockbroker or whatever rich alpha heirs did instead of paying attention. The same guy who'd rolled his eyes at the orientation packet and showed up in Burberry like he was doing the university a favor by attending.
You were laying down on your stomach, laptop open on the edge of your bed and your notes on the on your side. At some point, your boyfriend came home from his classes and decided he wanted to cuddle. Which was…fine. Except he decided today that it needed him to lay his full, heavy weight on top of your back. He'd grabbed you tight, and nuzzled his face onto the nape of your neck. It was slow at first, and you were pretty distracted by your paper. But as the intensity increased and you felt his lips over the scent glands on the side of your neck…
The mattress dipped heavily beneath his full weight, his broad chest pressing your spine into the comforter. His nose traced slow, deliberate circles along your nape where your met cold skin, warm puffs of breath making you shiver despite your irritation. Alphas' bodies ran warmer, and he always enjoyed the colder feel of your skin.
You immediately lifted your gaze from the article on your screen to frown at him. You were a beta, but you knew aggressive scenting when you saw—er, felt it, even if you couldn't necessarily smell it.
"You do realize I can't smell any of what you're doing?"
He didn't budge an inch, pressing his full weight down with an annoyed huff, like you'd just pointed out something incredibly obvious and beneath him. "Obviously you can't," he muttered against your pulse point, breath warm and irritated. "That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"S'not about you smellin' it," he mumbled against your pulse point, breath warm and uneven. "S'about me knowin' you carry it." His hips rolled down unconsciously, pinning your thighs beneath his like he was making a statement. "God, do I have to explain everything?" He said as he buried his face deeper into the juncture of your shoulder.
"Angus. I have a paper due in four hours." You grumbled, "and you say that, but I know you get aggressive about it hoping to prove I can smell it."
He let out a low, irritated noise against your skin, the sound of a guy stubbornly insisting that you were wrong yet again and annoyed you were being difficult. The same discussion had been repeated even before you two started dating officially. His teeth grazed lightly over the spot he'd been nosing at, not quite biting, just testing the give of your flesh beneath his lips and making you fidget. "Aggressive?" The word came out muffled, petulant. "I'm being helpful. Some studies show repeated exposure increases sensitivity in—"
"Here we go," you let your forehead thunk against your keyboard, producing a line of random letters across your document.
Of course he'd researched it. Angus researched everything he couldn't control—it was probably the only thing he'd learned from his father besides which fork to use at state dinners. When he first realized he had feelings for you, he'd apparently spent weeks reading studies about beta-alpha compatibility like he was trying to find a loophole in his own biology. As if enough research would either make you an omega or convince him it was okay that you weren't.
"Don't 'here we go' me. The research is legitimate. I read like six papers on this—"
"Of course you did."
"—betas can smell pheromones if they're—"
"Strong enough. Yes. I know. You've told me," you finished for him. The reasoning memorized from your elementary school health seminar and his constant repetition of it. You tried again to shift under his weight. Nothing. The man was dead weight when he wanted to be. "And like I keep telling you, it's not that common and I'm definitely not one of them."
He broke off with a frustrated huff when you cut him off, hips rolling down harder in unconscious protest. The thick ridge of his growing bulge pressed against the back of your thigh through his Ralph Lauren chino pants, hot even through layers of cotton. "You don't know," he insisted, breath coming quicker now against your neck. "Maybe your nose is just...lazy. Needs training."
"First of all, don't call my nose lazy for abiding by normal biology." You tried to shift under his again weight with zero success.
"I'm not calling it lazy, I'm saying it's untrained. There's a difference." His grip tightened possessively. "If you'd just let me do this properly instead of fighting me every time—"
"Second of all, you already make me wear your clothes, spray your cologne on my stuff, and do this—" you gestured vaguely at your current predicament, "—every other day. It's not like I'm gonna stop you, but what's the point? I'm still not gonna smell it, and I still have homework."
Angus’s entire body stiffened—a thoroughbred caught mid-tantrum. His grip slackened just enough for you to feel the tremor in his hands before he crushed your tighter against the mattress, cheek smushed against your shoulder blade. "You don't get it," he mumbled, voice cracking like thin ice. "I need—" His hips rutted forward, shameless, the dampening heat of his erection seeping through wool trousers onto your thigh. "God, you you're so—"
"Then explain it to me instead of just—" You wiggled unsuccessfully under his weight.
"I'm trying to!" He sounded genuinely frustrated now, almost whiny. "If you'd stop interrupting—"
You felt it then, of course you felt it. The thick, insistent pressure against the back of your thigh, hot even through layers of expensive fabric.
"Are you seriously hard right now?" You couldn't decide if you were annoyed or impressed by his single-minded focus.
"Obviously." He said it like you were stupid for even asking. "It's part of scenting," he mumbled, shameless, grinding down slightly as if to prove his point. "My body knows what it wants even if your nose is too lazy to catch up."
"P-part of—" your voice had gone a little breathless despite yourself. "You don't have to be hard to scent someone, Angus."
"Maybe not for half-assed scenting." He sounded almost offended. "But if I'm doing it properly—"
"Properly," you repeated flatly.
"Yes. Properly." He insisted, completely shameless about it.
His arms tightened around your waist, possessive, yes, but trembling slightly with the effort of holding himself still. Below the surface bravado, something fragile cracked through his tone. "What if I want you covered in me? What if I need—" He cut himself off sharply, jaw working against your shoulder blade. "What if I need everyone to know because apparently just dating me isn't fucking enough."Slowly, he dragged his parted lips along your neck until his mouth hovered near your ear, above your your scent glands, making you shiver. "You don't understand," he whispered, voice gone thick and uneven. "When I'm like this...when it's bad...all I can think about is making sure…."
This was the part that always got you. Not the designer clothes or the trust fund or the country club membership. Not even the fact that everyone—your own friends included—had expected him to settle down with some omega from the 'right' family. It was this: the desperation. The neediness that came from someone who'd never needed anyone before and didn't know how to handle it.
Angus Montgomery III, who'd dated a string of elegant omegas and never called them back, who'd shown up to your first date in clothes worth more than your shitty car, who'd taken one look at you in the campus library and somehow, inexplicably, fallen for you and who still couldn't quite reconcile the fact that his biology had chosen a lower middle-class beta.
"Angus—" You tried to twist around to look at him. "Whatever spiral you're going into, we can talk about it after I submit this paper. I promise. I'll even wear your clothes for a week. But right now—"
A shudder ran through Angus's body, his grip tightening reflexively around your waist before he forced himself to loosen it. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, the crisp cotton of your shirt absorbing his shaky exhale. "The clothes aren't—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, nose dragging along your nape again as if mapping territory. "They don't stay. You wash them. Or someone else touches them. Or—"
"Angus, I'm serious, I need to—"
His teeth focused on a spot on your shoulder, worrying it between them in a nervous gesture. When he spoke again, his words came rushed and muffled against your back. "When we're apart I think about people. People talking to you. Smiling at you. Getting too fucking close." The hand splayed over your stomach flexed, fingertips pressing faint crescents into your skin through the thin material. "And I know—I know they're noticing you don't smell like anyone. That you're available. And I can't—"
"Oh my god, are you—are you spiraling right now? While humping me? While I have a deadline?"
He jerked his head up suddenly, cheek pressed hot against yours as his voice dropped to a raw whisper. "Yes, I'm fucking spiraling.You don't smell it on yourself after. Don't feel it sinking in. But I do. Every time someone gets too close to you, I can see them noticing. See them thinking they have a chance." His breath hitched, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. "It's the only thing that calms me down. Knowing anyone who tries anything will know you're taken. Even if you don't."
"So let me get this straight. You need to scent me because you're worried about... what, exactly? That someone's going to steal me in the campus library?"
"Yes!" He said it sharp and immediate, no hesitation. "Obviously! You think I like feeling like this? You think I want to be this—" He made a frustrated noise against your neck. "Please," he ground out, the word almost angry. A muffled groan soaked into your collar as his hips rolled down in a helpless, grinding motion against your backside. "Just let me—just need to make sure—"
"You're doing the voice," you accused.
"What voice?" He said it too quickly, too defensive.
"The sad, breathy, 'please baby' voice. I know what you're doing."
He let out a low, wounded noise against your skin—the same petulant sound he made whenever something didn't go exactly his way. You'd learned that sound well over the past six months."'m not doing anything," he mumbled into your collar, licking the side of your neck and making you squeal in surprise.
"Y-you are! You're doing that—that thing—"
"What thing?" He was pouting pathetically against your skin now, you could feel it.
You felt the exact moment you gave up. Your shoulders sagged, your fingers stilled on the keyboard, and you let out the longest, most put-upon sigh of your life.
"How long?" you asked flatly.
"What?" His voice was muffled against your neck.
"How long do you need to do this before you calm down? Because I can either fight you for an hour or just let you get it out of your system in twenty minutes."
"…An hour." He said it so quietly, so hopefully, like a kid asking for dessert.
"Twenty minutes."
"That's not enough time—"
"Twenty. Minutes."
He made an irritated noise. "Thirty. Final offer."
"This isn't a negotiation, Angus."
"Everything's a negotiation." He squeezed tighter. "Thirty minutes and I'll order from wherever you want." At the stubborn set of your mouth he quickly tried another approach, "twenty-five? Please? I'll be so good, I'll sit quietly while you work, I'll—"
"Twenty minutes," you said finally, defeat in your voice. "You get twenty minutes of whatever this is, then you're ordering us food and sitting with me while I finish this paper. And you're not allowed to bother me after."
"From where?"
"I don't care. Anywhere that delivers."
"I'll call Masa—"
"Somewhere that doesn't require a reservation three months in advance, Angus. Burgers. Chinese. Normal people food. Like Pizza Hut or something."
He went rigid against you, and for a moment the possessive contentment bled into something closer to actual panic. "But their pizza is probably—the quality—" His voice had lost its smug edge, gone tight with genuine anxiety. "What if you get sick? What if the ingredients aren't—"
"Angus."
"I'm serious." His grip tightened on your waist, almost unconscious. "You haven't eaten all day and now you want me to feed you subpar food? That's—" He made a frustrated noise that sounded more distressed than bratty. "That's not—I can't just—"
You felt the moment it clicked—this wasn't about being a snob. This was an alpha whose instincts were screaming at him that his mate was hungry and he was about to fail at the most basic level of care.
"I'm not going to get food poisoning from Pizza Hut."
"You don't know that." He looked like you'd suggested eating out of a dumpster. "Please let me at least order from that place in the North End—"
"Angus."
"—they use imported flour and—"
"Angus."
He scoffed. "Fine. 'Normal people food.'" He said it like the words hurt. He looked up with furrowed brows. "You haven't eaten anything decent all day," he repeated, and his voice had gone almost plaintive now, stripped of the usual arrogance. "I saw the kitchen when I came in.
Something in your chest clenched. Goddammit. He was doing it again—being thoughtful in the middle of being a territorial nightmare.
"Don't do that," you said weakly.
"Do what?"
"Be sweet while you're actively grinding on me and having a claiming breakdown. It's confusing."
His grip tightened on your waist. "Not confusing. I want to take care of you. Want everyone to know you're taken care of. Want—" His voice dropped, rougher now. "Want you so covered in me that even you can smell it."
"That's not how biology—"
"Don't care." He bit down on your shoulder, making you yelp. "Don't care about biology. Don't care about anything except—" His voice went muffled and whiny again. "Twenty minutes. Please. Then I'm ordering you everything on the menu and watching you eat it and making sure you're full and rested and smell like me."
Your face went hot. "You can't just—that's not—"
"Starting now," he announced, and dove back to your neck with single-minded determination, hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made it very clear twenty minutes was going to feel like an eternity.
Your laptop screen dimmed. Then went dark.
"My paper..." you said weakly.
"Auto-saved," Angus mumbled against your neck, sounding far too pleased with himself. "I saw."
Of course he had. Of course he'd been tracking your document status while doing all of this.
You let out the longest sigh of your life and closed your laptop.
"I hate you."
"No you don't," he hummed contentedly against your skin.
