The Gluten-Free Freddy Fazbear's

It was a nice find for Vampires. Subtly fixed up, the smell of old wood and iron in the air of the dilapidated manor that sat outside of Charleston. Summerville was nice, unassuming, the southern charm did make your life harder. You had a week's worth of invites and gifts from the neighbors. One was apparently a werewolf according to Maekar, the patriarch loudly complaining about the smell of dog before he went down into his basement to troll internet forums. Mind you, his youngest boy frolicked around with an oversized beast of a werewolf, promoting 'supernatural unity'.

What did you know? You were a familiar, mortal, weak, and semi-useless.

Your 'master' was interesting. Certifiably insane. Tortured by visions. Most definitely struggling with alcohol abuse. Yes. His intake did not wean in the eternal afterlife, merely dulled the years as they passed. The others in the house would lament his drunken melancholy and biting insults.

You didn't mind. Much. Not for two years as his loyal mortal servant. To you, Daeron was drily witty, caring of his family, and had a tender unbeating heart. He meant well despite the vampiric affliction.

You tended to his messes, handwashed his linen blouses, and let him hold you as long as you didn't speak about it, and let Daeron lament the horrors and anguish of his eternal life until you had to go to the 'Blood Dealer' out in the sticks to get him some packs labeled .45 BAC. It was fine. He was supposed to turn you sooner or later. His family wasn't entirely atrocious besides Daeron's little brother Aerion.

Almost the entire Targaryen lineage was turned around the Norman Conquest. You'd finally dug enough in Valarr's library to find out that the family had a small kingdom of about twenty miles, or a thirty-two-kilometer radius. Fearing the loss of their small, remarkably shitty kingdom to the Normans, the Targaryen's weird bastard cousin Brynden made a pact with a creature from the darkest levels of hell and here they were today. 5 members of the family plus their cousin's wife.

Saxon princes who still acted as if they were royalty and lived in a dry-rotted mansion far enough from Charleston to not cause a stir.

You, the resident mortal, resided in your tiny bedroom close to Daeron's room for 'emergencies'. Emergencies weren't emergencies, he was needy and prone to bouts of laziness especially when the vampire was inebriated. Which was often, if not nearly every day. You checked your watch—it was getting dark, and the blonde would be awake soon. With a sigh you got up, sliding on sandals to pad across creaky wood. Portraits and strange art gathered over their overextended lifespans hung on the walls, freshly dusted.

You held a cup of blood and entered Daeron's room. Threadbare besides his extensive collection of tunics and loose blouse-y shirts. They were a pain in the ass to maintain. He had an objectively terrible woodcut of his family as the singular item of decor. On a desk sat stacks of parchment where he'd write out his strange dreams of prophecy— sent off to the council after he had completed retelling his visions. Your fingers tapped on his old coffin, patched together from years of moving across the world.

"Moon's coming out," you said, "Up, master."

He peered out, eyes reflecting as long fingers curled around the edge of the coffin. Daeron grumbled, "Splendid." Glowing eyes flicked up and Daeron's hand shot out to grab your cup, retreating into the gloom to slurp it up. You backed up as the coffin opened and Daeron clambered out. He could float, but didn't. Daeron was odd like that. He waved a hand to you, pale blue eyes refocused as you came into his line of sight. He was unfairly handsome with strong features, good height, and sandy blonde hair that curled loosely around his shoulders.

"I trust you got the new tunic washed?" He inquired, shrugging on the said 'new tunic'. You nodded at the same time he noted it was washed with a little nod. God, the tunic. It was horribly…mustard. Yellow and silken. He slipped over to one of the large wardrobes, slipping on a waistbelt and a long burgundy drape. Coat? You didn't know. Daeron murmured in old English as he pulled dark pants up his long legs.

"I need you to fix my hair," he said, running a hand over the messy waves and tangles.

Daeron did not have the luxury of a reflection. He made it clear he was glad for it. Your master tended to wallow in self-loathing. You could usually cheer him up with a distraction. He liked cat videos.

The undead prince slumped in a chair in front of an old vanity. You grabbed the horsehair brush and a little mister, body close to his as you gently tamed the locks. Daeron hummed and leaned into your form, voice soft, "You're delightfully warm."

"I know," you replied, working on an errant stray curl.

"Are we stocked on blood?" He asked, glancing up to you, the points of his fangs shining under candlelight.

"Went to the blood dealer earlier, you're all stocked. I swear you think I don't finish my lists," you remarked as you stepped back to observe his hair. Daeron let out a disapproving noise, his hand reaching out to pull you closer. You huffed in surprise, brow raised as his eyes studied your face.

"I know you finish your lists," he said lowly, pausing to blink before adding, "Your task is to keep me warm now, so don't step away from me unless I say otherwise." Daeron's large hand settled on your hip, giving it a half-hearted pat and squeeze.

"Yes, master," you said, putting the brush and mister on the vanity. His lips faintly tilted upwards as he hummed in satisfaction.

Daeron stood up abruptly, taking you with him. It was all inhumanly fast. You were on your feet, now the vampire had you scooped like some damsel on the cover of a gothic novel. How ironic. You shivered at the sudden feel of his chilly body.

"Let's sit on the porch, observe the stars. I don't do that nearly enough," he mused. You let him carry you like a ragdoll— Vampires could lift boulders if they wished. You blinked and looked up.

"Egg's werewolf friend is supposed to patch up the hole on the left side. The right side is fine," you explained.

Daeron's dark brows pinched as he rolled his eyes, "Great. The big peasant dog."

Ah. Dunk. He was quite helpful, you thought.

"I don't care, he smells like unwashed mange," Daeron said, lips turning into a fanged sneer. Right. He could read particularly loud thoughts of yours. You frowned but held your tongue, the man was rather stubborn.

He opened one of the doors to the upper-level porch, with old wood and columns, and a few chairs. He turned to the right. There was a worn wicker bench you'd gotten at a junk store with pillows nestled in the corner. A low table with a lone used ashtray sat in front of it. Aerion probably sat up here and plotted his takeover, or Maekar when he was sated after a nice argument on feudal wages online.

The sounds of cicadas and the oaks gently swishing filled the humid air. Daeron plopped down, manhandling you astride his lap. You sighed, tucking your head against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you as he inhaled your scent before resting his chin on the crown of your head. His eyes strayed to the starry sky, a quiet calm easing over his statuesque features.

"It is strange, the stars have never changed. No matter where I am, the moon waxes and wanes, the constellations shine. I used to stare up when I still could breathe, wondering what was up there. The heavens, cherubim and seraphim."

You traced his silk-covered chest, humming, "There are planets and stars. Nebulas and galaxies. Perhaps the heavens lie elsewhere."

Daeron hummed, "Perhaps. But I am to go below."

He tucked a finger below your chin. You looked up at Daeron, patient as his expression shifted with thought. He was plagued with entirely too much thinking and not enough answers. He exhaled, "You will be there too if I turn you."

"I know."

"Eternity is rather long, especially with me," the prince murmured.

He looked strangely vulnerable, pale blues drifting to the side as his lips twitched. You spoke softly, reassuring, "I've had two years to ponder undeath. I am no longer afraid. Especially by your side."

He huffed, pleasure in his tone, "You say that. You'll watch the world wither, wars, humanity endlessly repeating mistakes. I'll still be me, loathsome, fearful, drunk."

"That's fine, I can put up with your lamentations," you replied, shrugging.

"God. You're infuriating. How am I not to turn you when you're so eager?" He asked, fangs showing as a slight smile graced his earlier gloomy countenance.

He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. He didn't need to breathe, but Daeron mimicked mortal behaviors. He groaned, "You're my undoing, you'll make me step into the sun. A mortal has bewitched me."

Daeron spoke after a beat, mouth moving against your pulsing throat, "Fuck. You smell so good, I can almost taste it. Damn you, mortal."

You sucked in a breath. He'd come close before, but Daeron had never bitten you. He'd usually become very guilty and turn into a bat. Daeron's usual form of escape when he was distressed.

"You can do it," you said, "Bite me, it's fine."

You trusted him not to pull an Aerion and drain you dry as he did with his weekly familiar.

You pet his head, urging him gently. Daeron made a wounded noise. He huffed, "Quit it, you're making my fangs ache." You tightened your fingers into his sandy hair, chest heaving as you felt a low excitement at the prospect of providing for him. Daeron's hands tightened around your waist.

"The venom," he grit out.

Yes, yes, the venom in their saliva made feeding easier. A mild paralytic that induced euphoria. You hissed, "I know that." You wanted it now, the vision blooming in your mind.

The prince picked up on it, a gutted noise leaving his lips. Daeron's fangs scraped against the thin skin of your neck— a promise, a threat. Your blood rushed in your ears. You sighed in pleasure at the feeling of Daeron's teeth against your pulse point.

"Fine. Fine, you witch."

The way he panted and nuzzled your throat contrasted with the insult. You gasped at the feeling of his teeth puncturing your skin. Daeron whined, sucking greedily as you gaped. You moaned as you melted into him. Your limbs were useless, your hand falling from his hair.

The venom coursed through your bloodstream as Daeron swallowed with moans of pleasure. You blinked dumbly as a thick cottony haze swathed your mind. You twitched against him, body alight with sensitivity. He took a final sip and lapped at the wound, sealing the twin punctures.

He licked his lips, lashes fluttering against your skin as he moaned, "Divine, fucking divine." Daeron lapped again before kissing your neck. You whimpered weakly, your pupils pinpoints as your body processed the venom.

You ached now— from your mouth down to your other lips. Daeron grabbed your chin gently, eyes blown black from the feeding. His cock had grown full and thick, pressing against your clothed cunt. You mewled as he took in your venom-addled state.

"Ah, darling, you're in a right state," Daeron stated thinly.

You tried to nod, slurring, "Yesss."

"I can smell it, God, poor thing," he said, cupping your cheek, holding you as your eyes lolled at the intoxicating sound of his voice. You twitched again, your mind sticky sweet and uttering his name over and over and over.

Daeron picked up on that, eyes going unfocused before he blinked. His thumb stroked your cheek as you whined again. He leaned close, lips ghosting against yours as he spoke, "Let me take care of you. It's only right, you are my favorite little mortal."

He sealed his lips against yours, the iron tang of your blood on his tongue. He tilted your head for better access, tongue lazily lapping against yours. You shuddered helplessly, drooling as you kissed back— clumsy with the venom. Daeron's fangs brushed your swollen lips as he moaned indulgently, hips pressing up against you.

"My undoing," he rasped, tongue delving between your spit-slick lips. His large palms slid under your shirt, warmed by your own flesh. You felt fit to burst, arching into him, drooling as he rutted against you slowly. Daeron gasped when you rolled back.

You managed to slur, "Need you s'bad."

"Yes, fuck, I know dear," Daeron breathed.

His hands moved down to your jeans, popping the button and jerking them down your thighs as you rested against his lean frame, panting wetly against his throat. You inhaled at the feeling of your swollen cunt against the air. Daeron outright whined as the sharp smell of your arousal hit him, eyes closing for a moment.

Daeron shifted and untied his pants, shoving them down in jerky movements, one hand keeping you upright as the other freed his straining prick. He moaned and cursed in Saxon before sliding his cock against your slick folds.

You cried out into the night at the sensation, the tip of Daeron's cock rubbing your oversensitive clit. You squirmed in his grip, panting and whimpering as your intoxicated body throbbed with arousal.

"S'good, yes, oh-" you babbled.

"My perfect familiar," Daeron mumbled, "Soaked for me, smelling like a goddamn angel."

He kissed your slack lips again as he lined himself up to your weeping cunt. Daeron audibly swallowed as he eased into the heat, swearing and huffing. Tears pricked at his pretty eyes— sending another bolt of white-hot arousal pooling into your belly.

Daeron's prick eased into you with little resistance, the length stretching your pulsing walls as your fingers weakly brushed against him. He inhaled, head falling back onto the bench as he whimpered nonsense. You were panting as he settled deep within, your tender core clenching down.

Daeron gripped your hips as he blinked a few times. He thrust up into you with a slick noise, a whine high in his throat. You rubbed against him, trying to move, mind lost in his touch. He tightened his hands, voice strained, "Easy, easy, I've got it."

You went slack again— Daeron picking it up as he began to fuck you in quick movements. Each press of his cock sent sparks of pleasure up your spine. The prince was shameless in his ecstasy, moaning and carrying on as he laid haphazard kisses along your jaw and throat.

One of his ringed hands slipped down, thumb rubbing against your clit. You cried out, clenching down in reaction. Daeron's hips stuttered as he groaned, "That's it, fuck, tight, so tight." He thrust harder, friction growing with each strike of his cock deep within.

You trembled in pleasure, thighs twitching as he forced little cries of pleasure out of your lax lips. Your belly tightened, awash with heat as your mind filled with fog. Daeron whimpered against your neck as he fucked your pliant frame.

His lips sucked a tender mark into your throat, thumb swirling as you began to sweat— skin breaking out in damp gooseflesh. You keened in ecstasy, close to the edge.

"That's it, need it, need you love, come now, come on," Daeron begged, eyes wide and wet.

He swallowed back a wounded noise, voice urgent, "Let go love, want to feel you, let go, please." You gasped, pressing your face into Daeron's shoulder as you pleasure reached a breaking point. Your cries were muffled as you came, slick gushing around the prince's cock.

Daeron heaved at the feeling of your cunt pulsing, milking him as you writhed with each shock of pleasure. His thumb stopped moving and he shoved himself deep with a weak mewl of your name, mouth hanging open as he emptied within you.

You were still on a cloud as he tucked you close, whispering something in his old tongue against your hair. His hands trembled slightly as they tenderly slid up your flanks. The sound of the outdoors filled the space between your breaths evening out.

Daeron didn't bother to move, cock softening and slipping out, your mixed fluids dripping out. You shifted in discomfort, beginning to come back from the intense edge of the venom. The prince was like a contented cat, pressing kisses and nuzzling at you.

"That was possibly the best thing I've had in two centuries," he said, smirking.

"What happened two hundred years ago?" You asked, voice partially muffled from being squeezed against one happy vampire.

Daeron shrugged, "Beethoven's best string quartet."

You found yourself snickering, a little delirious and giddy from the whole experience. Daeron's brow furrowed, "String Quartet number 14 is his best work."

"I suppose if having sex with me holds up to that, then I'm doing well."

"Precisely," Daeron said. He stared out into the sky, stroking your hair as the euphoria settled into a quiet hum. You dozed a little, barely catching his sigh.

"I'll have to turn you, beloved."