—————-

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not really. Not in a place like this, where the air itself seemed bruised, saturated with smoke, perfume, and the faintest sour note of something metallic. Velvet booths sagged in the corners like tired hearts, washed in red light that flickered too often, as if the bulbs themselves pulsed with blood. Glasses passed from hand to hand, the liquid inside glinting too dark, too thick. Laughter bent low and sharp, curling under the music like whispers spoken straight into your ear. Everyone here knew what this place was. Everyone had chosen to be swallowed by it.

And you— you had sworn you wouldn’t.

But the hunger in your veins has a way of bending rules until they splinter. Ever since that night.  An alleyway, cold brick biting into your spine, a stranger’s mouth at your throat. You’ve been hollowed out by want. You remember it too clearly: the sting of teeth sliding in, the heat flooding your veins, the tilt of the world as venom burned through you. Sharp first, then drowning. Hot, then languid. You’d melted like wax in their hands, half-drunk, half-immortal, trembling with a life that didn’t feel like your own. It wasn’t supposed to feel good. But it did. And the craving clung to you like smoke.

So now you’re here. A fragile shape hunched on a cracked leather stool, trying to look smaller, safer, more indifferent than you feel. Your fingers toy with the sweating stem of a glass you haven’t touched. The condensation is slick and cold, beading across your skin, and it makes you shiver harder than the chill of the room. The scent rising from the drink is faint but unmistakable, copper curling sweet at the back of your throat, coaxing saliva to the edge of your tongue. Your throat tightens with the ache of it.

You pretend not to want. You pretend not to need.

But your pulse betrays you, drumming against the delicate bones of your chest. And prey, no matter how carefully it pretends, is always seen.

You feel them before you see them.

A shift, subtle, but enough to raise every hair along your neck. A prickle under the skin, like shadows baring teeth. The chatter around you dulls, not gone but distant, smothered beneath the thunder of your heartbeat. The room contracts. The air grows thin. You know, without turning, that their eyes are already fixed on you.

Two of them.

They move with that impossible kind of stillness, where motion itself is irrelevant, where the absence of movement is more dangerous than any sudden strike. Elle’s gaze lands first: heavy, storm-dark, pressing against you until you feel scraped raw from the inside out. Emily’s presence is softer only in comparison, silk wound tight around a garrote, her mouth curved like she’s already tasted the end of this story. Together, their hunger is patient, luxuriant. They savor the moment before the snare tightens.

When they smile, slow and calculated, you could swear the entire room exhales with them.

Emily notices first.

Her dark eyes catch yours in the mirror behind the bar, glinting in the bloody light. The curve of her mouth is not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer, something crueler for being both. Draped in black, she looks sharp and indolent all at once, as though she could devour you lazily, still smiling with her teeth red.

Beside her, Elle gleams lighter, though not gentler. Tawny hair catching the glow, laughter low and feline, her hand curling elegant around her glass. She tips her head toward Emily when she sees the line of her gaze.

“That one,” Emily murmurs. Her voice is soft, but it lands heavy, sinking into your chest. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. “New.”

Elle’s smile sharpens. Her eyes trace you deliberately, down to the pulse at your throat, the anxious curve of your fingers. It feels less like being seen than being stripped.

“She smells shy,” Elle croons, her tone warm, indulgent, almost kind. Almost. Beneath the music, her words ripple like teeth through water.

Your grip on the glass tightens. Your knuckles pale.

Emily tilts her head, studying you like art, uncertain whether to frame it or burn it. “No,” she says softly, no kindness in it. “Not shy. Hungry.”

The word hangs between you, heavy, and Elle hums as though savoring it, rolling it across her tongue. “Hungry,” she repeats, her gaze lingering too long on your throat. “Starved little thing, pretending she isn’t. Can’t you smell it, Emily?”

Emily’s lips twitch, but her eyes don’t leave you. “I can hear it.” Her finger taps the rim of her glass, slow, like a heartbeat. “Her pulse. Rabbit-quick.”

Their attention is a weight, invisible fangs pressing against your neck before they’ve touched you. The bar hums on. Voices, glass, perfume, and yet all you can feel is their focus, hot and sharp against your skin.

When they finally move, it feels like gravity tilts toward you. The air thickens, damp and sweet, as if every breath is syrup you might choke on.

“You look lost, cariño,” Elle says, sliding onto the stool beside you. The brush of her shoulder is subtle, but you jolt at the contact. She props her chin against her hand, smile curved soft as though she means to comfort. Her voice is syrup, gentle, dangerous. Softness turned trap.

Emily claims the other side without asking. She sprawls like the chair was built for her, an arm hooked casually over the back of yours. Her laugh is low, dry, like the scrape of a knife being tested.

“Lost?” Emily echoes, eyes glittering. “No. She came here for something. Didn’t you, pretty girl?”

The stem of your untouched glass trembles under your fingers. Your throat works. You nod. Small. Shaky.

They smile, both of them, teeth glinting in the low red light.

Elle hums, pleased, and lets her fingers brush against your wrist. The touch is feather-light, but it burns. You jolt, and she notices. She likes it.

“So polite,” she purrs. “She doesn’t even know how sweet she smells when she’s scared.”

Emily’s smile slices sharper. “She knows,” she corrects, her eyes on the rise and fall of your chest, the shine of sweat on your temple. “She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. She’s aching for it.”

“I’m not—” The words stumble out of you, ragged, fragile.

Elle interrupts you with a tender gesture, fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the brush of her skin almost reverent. “Shh,” she soothes. Her smile curves soft. “Don’t be shy, cariño. We’re only talking.”

Emily leans closer, her breath cool against your neck. Her lips don’t touch, but the threat of them is worse. Her smile is wicked, her whisper colder: “For now.”

Around you, the bar hums on, oblivious. But the air in your corner is different; it's thick, suffocating you with an uncomfortably strong metallic smell.

Your heart pounds, frantic, wild. And judging by the way their smiles spread, they can hear every beat.

It doesn’t take much.

A murmur from Elle, low and honey-thick, brushing the edges of your fear until it feels almost like comfort. A teasing bite of words from Emily, sharp enough to catch, mocking enough to sting. Between them, you move without realizing you’re moving. Your body obeying some pull older than thought. You follow them out of the bar like a fragile little deer walking willingly into headlights, soft-eyed and trembling, knowing on some level what waits there.

Their apartment is exactly what you expect. Sleek, shadow-drenched, the kind of place that doesn’t feel lived in so much as hunted from. Dark walls drink the candlelight, what little of it there is, until shadows pool thick in the corners. The air smells faintly of smoke and iron, sharp enough to make your tongue prickle. Every surface gleams too smooth, like skin stretched too tight. There are mirrors where you don’t expect them, catching fragments of yourself in strange angles, fractured.

You barely have time to draw breath before Emily has you pressed against the wall. The cold sears straight through your spine, hard enough to knock the air from your chest. Her arm cages your head, palm braced flat against the plaster, and for a heartbeat you wonder if you’ve been pinned or crucified.

“First time?” she asks. Her voice is low and rough, fraying at the edges. She’s close enough that you can smell her. Smoke, leather, and the copper tang of something fresher, clinging like perfume.

You nod. The motion is small, jerky, your pulse stuttering like a trapped bird.

Elle is slower. Gentler. She tilts your chin with two fingers, thumb grazing over the frantic flutter in your throat. The touch is deceptively soft, lingering, reverent even. And yet beneath it your skin prickles as though something sharper waits just beneath her flesh. You swear her nail drags too long against your pulse, thin as a scalpel’s kiss.

“Don’t be scared, baby,” Elle whispers. Her tone is syrup-smooth, sweet enough to rot your teeth. “It feels… good. Better than anything.”

Emily’s mouth curves cruel, teeth catching the candlelight. Her eyes glint like the flash of a blade. “Addictive,” she cuts in, not bothering to soften the truth. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? Couldn’t stop thinking about it after the first taste.”

The word taste lands heavy, thick with suggestion. You can almost feel her breath against the same place on your throat where another stranger once bit, the ghost of pain and pleasure lingering like a phantom limb.

Your silence betrays you. It curls between the three of you, thick, undeniable.

Emily leans closer, the space between you collapsing until you can feel her lips hover above your pulse. Her breath is cool, unhuman, like air drawn from a grave. For a moment, her mouth parts, not teeth yet, but the hint of them, glinting ivory and sharp. The skin at your neck tightens as though it already knows what’s coming.

Elle strokes your jaw with her thumb, gaze heavy and tender in a way that makes your stomach knot. “There, cariño,” she coos. Her voice is almost lullaby-soft, but her eyes are hungry, black wells swallowing light. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it.”

And beneath that tenderness, you notice it. Their bodies are too still. No rise of breath. No shift of muscle. Their stillness is worse than violence, a silence deeper than human. It feels like being cradled in the jaws of something that has learned the shape of love only to better bait its prey.

You can’t breathe. Not properly. The air is too thick, smoke, wax, copper. It coats your tongue until you’re swallowing it like syrup. The wall behind you feels alive, damp with your own heat where your back presses into it. Your pulse is so loud it doesn’t sound like yours anymore. More like a drum the whole room has tuned itself to.

And judging by the way their lips twitch, sharp and gleaming, they can hear it too.

They don’t waste time.

Emily seizes your wrists, slamming them above your head until your shoulders strain against the wall. The grip is iron, unyielding, as though her hands themselves are shackles. You can feel the tremor in your own muscles, not hers, because she doesn’t tremble. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

Her mouth grazes your throat, lips hot against the frantic flutter there. Her teeth scrape, testing. A shiver rolls down your spine, not entirely fear, not entirely want. And then—

She sinks in.

The puncture is sharp, brutal, tearing sound from your throat in a gasp. White-hot pain bursts, blinding, searing, but it lasts only a second before something worse floods in. Venom. Liquid fire, shooting fast through your veins, setting your blood alight. It burns, then chills, then turns molten, dragging you under in waves of delirium. Your vision blurs at the edges, tilting like the world itself is spinning around you.

Your knees buckle. You can’t hold yourself. Elle catches you easily, like she’s been waiting for this collapse, pulling you against her chest. Her lips are at your temple, brushing heat into your skin, her voice a low, syrupy murmur:

“That’s it, angel. Let go. Let her take what she wants.”

Emily growls into your throat, a guttural, animal sound, vibrating against your skin. Her sucking is violent, greedy, tearing a moan from you so raw you barely recognize it as your own. The wet sound of it is obscene, blood rushing past her lips in messy, hungry pulls. Warmth streaks down your neck, thick and sticky, dripping hot between your breasts.

And then Elle joins her.

Her mouth presses to your collarbone, tender at first, a kiss that might have been comforting if not for the sharpness that follows. Her fangs pierce, slower than Emily’s but no less merciless, sliding deep until your chest arches forward helplessly. The bite sends another surge of venom spiraling through you, different from Emily’s. Cooler , almost sweet at first, before it burns cold like ice cracking through your veins. Two different poisons colliding inside you, tearing you apart and sewing you back together in frantic stitches.

You sob. You laugh. You can’t tell the difference. Your body writhes between them, boneless and frantic, every nerve sparking like wire. It feels obscene, like being fucked open from the inside out, every vein turned into a channel for their hunger.

“Look at her,” Emily snarls, pulling back only long enough to lick at the blood spilling down your throat. Her tongue drags slow, possessive, before her teeth sink back in with a savage snap. “Dazed little slut. She likes it.” Her voice is wet, smeared with you.

Elle coos into your skin, faux-gentle, though blood smears her lips when she pulls back to look at you. “Of course she does.” Her thumb strokes your cheek, leaving a streak of red. “She’s our sweet little thing. Aren’t you, baby?”

You try to answer, but words slur, broken by the shuddering of your lungs. “Y-yes—”

The venom drags another sound from you, high and helpless, your head knocking back against the wall.

Emily’s laughter is a low snarl, cruel delight sparking in her eyes as she drinks again, harder, her jaw working with animal ferocity. The sound of her swallowing is wet, obscene, echoing in the small room. Elle’s hand slides down your side, nails grazing like claws, and she latches deeper into your collarbone, pulling until your ribs ache with the pressure.

The room tilts, spins, collapses into heat and pain and rapture. Your heartbeat feels enormous, thunderous, pounding against their mouths like it’s trying to escape. Every pull drags another rush of fire, another dizzy wave, until you can’t tell where your body ends and theirs begin.

You can’t breathe properly, the air thick with iron, with flesh and fear, with your own blood. It coats your tongue when you pant, metallic and sweet, until every inhale feels like drowning.

And still, you moan for them. And still, they drink.

Emily doesn’t just drink. She ravages. Her jaw locks against your throat, fangs sunk to the hilt, lips dragging wet and greedy over your skin. The sound is obscene, sloppy, like meat being torn from bone. Every pull makes your head snap back, spine bowing as though your body is being wrung out from the inside.

Hot blood floods her mouth, overflows. It spills down your neck in thick rivers, sliding between anything it can, dripping warm onto the floor in slow, syrupy drops. She doesn’t care. She lets it run, lets it paint her chin and chest, lapping at it only when it starts to slip too far. When she pulls back for air, her mouth is a ruin. Slick and red, fangs flashing as she snarls and plunges back in.

You moan, broken, every sound high and wet. The venom doesn’t just burn, it warps. Your veins feel too narrow, stretched until they might split. Each heartbeat is a hammer, a desperate pump that sends fire racing through every nerve. It’s unbearable. It’s exquisite. It feels like you’re being torn open and remade in the same breath.

Elle isn’t gentler, only different. She tears at you with slower cruelty, savoring. Her fangs drag across your collarbone, piercing deeper until the skin splits wider than it should, until blood wells up fast enough to spill into her waiting mouth. She hums low, indulgent, like a cat with cream. One hand holds you steady against her while the other claws lightly down your side, nails catching on your clothes, shredding fabric just to feel the skin beneath.

Her mouth is softer, wetter, messier. She suckles hard, pulling until the wound gapes wider, until hot blood gushes thick between her lips. It trickles over her chin, down the slope of your chest, and she doesn’t bother to wipe it. She smears it instead, dragging her cheek against your open shirt, leaving a sticky, red shine in her wake.

Your body is limp between them, helpless, twitching with every pull. Your eyes roll back. Heat gathers at the base of your spine, spreading out until you’re shaking with it. The high is suffocating. Floaty, euphoric, but edged with sharp pain that keeps you screaming instead of sighing. Your own blood tastes metallic at the back of your throat, sweet and wrong, making you gag and moan in the same breath.

“Listen to her,” Emily growls against your throat, voice ragged with hunger. She pulls back just long enough to drag her tongue up the torn flesh, gathering the blood before biting down again, harder, meaner. Blood spatters across her chin when she laughs. “Dazed little thing—she loves it. She’d let us hollow her out if we asked.”

Elle lifts her head, mouth shining dark, lips smeared and wet. She coos at you, faux-gentle, her tone sweet as sugar while her teeth drip your blood. “She’s ours, baby. Our sweet, messy little thing. Look at her… look at the way she’s shaking.”

You whimper, nodding, though it’s barely conscious. Every sound that escapes you is wet and broken. “Y-yes—yes, I—”

Elle laughs softly, pressing a kiss just beside the wound she’s made, her lips leaving a smear of red. “That’s right, angel. Bleed for us. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Your head tips back against the wall, vision swimming, body caught between collapse and surrender. Your pulse pounds so violently you think it might tear free of your veins, and they drink it down, swallowing you in messy, animal gulps.

Blood drips everywhere, your once white blouse drenched, the wall behind you streaked, the floor sticky beneath your feet. You are open, leaking, broken, and they are feasting.

And still, in the middle of it, Elle strokes your cheek like a lover. Emily growls into your throat like a predator. Their mouths are soaked in you, and their eyes glow black and bright.

They are killing you. They are worshipping you. And you don’t know the difference anymore.

They drag you to the bed.

Your legs barely work. The venom has turned them to trembling wires, every step jerky and uncoordinated. Emily doesn’t give you time to stumble; she shoves you down flat against the mattress, the sheets cool and rough beneath your overheated skin. The room, like the rest of the house,  reeks of wax and blood, metallic sweetness hanging heavy in the air, clinging in your throat until you gag on it.

Emily’s hand is under your skirt and between your thighs before you can catch your breath. Her fingers press hard against the damp heat of your panties, and when she pulls back, slick stains her hand. She laughs, sharp and cruel, her teeth still smeared red.

“Messy already,” she jeers. “Haven’t even touched you, and you’re dripping like this.”

Her mouth is wrong when she grins. Blood streaking across her chin, lips raw from feeding, her teeth shining wet. You can’t look at her without shivering, but you can’t look away either.

Elle kneels on the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under her weight. She strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, deceptively tender, her nails grazing just enough to sting. She’s smiling, soft and sweet as Emily yanks your panties aside and shoves two fingers into you without warning.

You cry out, body jolting.

“She can’t help it,” Elle murmurs, brushing her knuckles down your cheek. Her hand is sticky, tacky with blood, and it smears across your skin like paint. Her voice is low, indulgent, like she’s comforting a child. “Venom makes her needy. Poor little thing.”

Emily curls her fingers inside you, relentless. Each thrust is sharp, fast, obscene. Her palm grinds against you, slick spreading until you’re squirming helplessly beneath her. Her free hand grabs your hip, nails biting hard enough to bruise.

“She’s pathetic,” Emily hisses, fangs flashing wet in the candlelight. “Just a little blood-slut. She’ll let anyone feed from her, so long as she gets this high.”

Her words hit as hard as her fingers, each thrust pushing you further toward delirium. Your body arches off the mattress, a whimper breaking into a sob.

“Don’t be mean,” Elle scolds lightly. She’s still smiling, her mouth glossy with your blood when she leans down to kiss your jaw. The warmth of her lips feels tender, but the sticky smear she leaves behind is grotesque. “She’s ours now.”

You’re shaking, moaning, every nerve lit bright and raw. The venom surges in waves, each heartbeat sending fresh heat racing to your skin. You can feel your pulse pounding against the twin wounds at your throat and collarbone, each throb making fresh blood trickle down your chest.

Emily drives her fingers deeper, relentless. Then her mouth is on your throat again, teeth sinking into the already raw punctures. The bite is savage, punishing. You scream, the sound breaking as pleasure and agony collide, blood flooding hot across your skin. Emily drinks greedily, growling low against you, her jaw working in violent pulls.

The bed sheets soak beneath you, wet with a mix of blood and sweat. The smell is suffocating, copper, salt, musk, the sweetness of venom clinging thick in your lungs. Your own moans sound slurred, half-conscious, words dissolving into keening.

“I can’t—I can’t—” you gasp, shaking, eyes rolling back as the pressure builds too fast, too hard.

Emily snarls against your skin, her voice vibrating through your torn flesh. “Then cum for us. Cum like the desperate little slut you are.” Her fingers press harder, curling just right, ruthless in their rhythm.

Elle leans lower, tongue dragging slow across your collarbone, gathering the blood that’s still leaking there. She hums, pleased, then presses a kiss to the raw wound, leaving it wetter, messier. “That’s it, angel,” she croons, her tone so sweet it curdles. “Make a mess for us. Be good.”

Your orgasm rips through you violently, tearing sound from your throat until you scream. Your body convulses, every muscle drawn taut before shuddering apart. Blood still trickles from both bites, smearing down your chest and soaking the sheets as you thrash beneath their hands.

Emily doesn’t stop right away. She fucks you through it, her mouth still latched to your throat, until the edges of your vision blur and your body goes limp with overstimulation. Elle strokes your face the whole time, her palm leaving streaks of sticky red as though she’s smearing warpaint onto her favorite doll.

When you finally collapse, trembling and boneless, they pull back.

And that’s when you see them.

Their mouths are wrecked, slick and shining, lips stained crimson, teeth glinting through the blood. Their chins are wet, throats streaked, both of them wearing you like a feast. Emily’s eyes glitter with hunger, black and bright, her smirk ragged with gore. Elle’s smile is softer, almost loving, but her lips are coated with your blood when she presses a kiss to your forehead.

They look monstrous. Worshipful. Inhuman.