#drifter x reader

The Doorman

Doorman: I find myself becoming fond of you. That's dangerous. You: (chuckles) Why? Doorman: I may…have to keep you inside the Baroness. You: Not my idea of a first date but…I'll allow it. Doorman: Delightful with a poor sense of judgement. You are enticing. ////

You:…… Doorman: Is there something wrong? You: Hm? Doorman: You keep staring at me. You: It's your eyes. Doorman: My…eyes? You: They're bright and blue and just so…mesmerizing. Doorman: Bright you say?...Interesting. You: Was that rude? Doorman: No. I'm becoming quite fond of your odd compliments.

(I think that the brightness of The Doorman's eyes isn't really visible to most even other supernatural beings, so he's genuinely shocked that Reader sees it.)

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Doorman: It's quite a pleasant surprise to see you at the ritual. You: And it's quite a pleasant surprise to see you taking a break for once, I was about to alert a union for you. Doorman: I can assure you, I'm not being taken advantage of. But your concern is much appreciated. You: Someone's gotta look out for you. Doorman: (Smirks) I believe that would be my line.

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Doorman: Darling… You: Dearie…did you like the flowers? Doorman: I adore all of your gifts of affection, however… You: Oh no… Doorman: I would much prefer it if you were the one delivering them. You:……People have been complaining about the pigeons, haven't they? Doorman: Quite.

Silver

Silver: There's a high price on your head, dollface, and don't think for a second you're gonna use the ritual as cover from me. You: Aww, and here I thought we'd patch things up just for the ritual. Silver: I never forget a slight. You: Really? You don't seem the type to a hold a grudge. Silver: Let me correct myself…I never forget a slight from you. ////

You: You're not still mad are you? Silver: That you tied me up with my own bolas? No, I'm pissed! You: In my defense, you made it very easy. I'm starting to think you like being tied up. Silver: After this ritual, I'm going to maul you and any animal that comes to help. You: If you can catch me.

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You: I'm curious. How do you usually find me? Silver: Simple. I've got a really good nose so I just sniff out the coyote smell that's suspiciously close to a strip mall in Washington. You: Well that's not fair. Washington has a lot of coyotes…probably. Silver: Inside of a shoe store though? You:……I should invest in some cologne or perfume. Silver: Oh yeah, cause smelling like a lavender scented squirrel is a better idea.

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Silver: So who was the loser I caught you with? You: Loser? Silver: Yeah, the sap that couldn't run from me fast enough when I found you. You: Aww, is the puppy jealous? Silver: Nope. They're not enough of your type for me to be jealous. You: Maybe I changed. Silver: You'd never settle for someone that couldn't keep up with you, dollface.

Mina

Mina: Your little animal friends keep growling at me. It's rude. You: Yeah, I don't if you remember but you're a walking corpse. It ain't natural as far as they're concerned. Mina: Well, tell them that if they growl again, I'll turn them into a coat. You: Mina, sweetie, try as you might, you couldn't even skin a fly…but I'll tell them to try and be a little nicer to you. ////

Mina: You know, you'd be much cuter if you didn't smell like you bathed with pigeons. You: Pigeons are actually the cleanest this side of the Mississippi. Definitely cleaner than prissy baby bats. Mina: (scoffs while blushing) You…annoy me. You: I'd annoy you less if you didn't try to be a smart ass every five seconds. //// You: I'm not gonna have to worry about some evil ex coming to hunt me down for flirting with you am I? Mina: (Rich girl laugh) Oh trust me, I'm not seeing anyone. You: And your parents? Someone like you doesn't get their snobbiness from nowhere. Mina: Even if my parents had a say, I'm the vampire and they're not. You: Yeah, that's all I needed to hear. ////

Mina: You know when I become the Viscount of New York, I'll be needing a companion. Maybe I can even share the dark gift with you. You: I mean, I'll be your companion but I like being able to walk in the sun. Besides, I think my patron would prefer if I stayed mortal. Mina: Hm. You'll change your mind once we're married. You: Once we're married? You're quite presumptuous, aren't you? Mina: When I want something, I take it. And I'll be making sure that you walk down the aisle.

The Drifter (Yandere tw)

Drifter: Well, well, do my eyes deceive me? Or is that my little red rabbit? You: (eye roll) Drifter: Come now. Don't act like you don't know me. I still see my teeth marks on your gullet. You: I shouldn't be surprised that a potential bloodbath summoned someone like you. Drifter: (Evil laugh, sniffs the air) You have new friends. You: I guess that's the only thing I can thank you for. Drifter: How many of them you think I gotta tear through to get to you again, red rabbit?

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You: Why are you following my birds? Drifter: Cause I know they'll lead me back to you, red rabbit? You: And you want to find me because…. Drifter: I like looking at ya. You: Well that's…unfortunate to hear.

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Drifter: You like my gift, cher? You: Did you just ask me if I liked the bloody earrings you left me? Drifter: It matched yo little birdie's coat. You: It still had an ear attached to it. Drifter: I ain't hearing no 'no'. //// Drifter: Don't worry, red rabbit, I'll make sure not a single hair on that head is harmed. You: By everyone else or by you? Drifter: (Evil laugh) You: Yeah that's what I figured.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ཐིཋྀ Your back presses up against the wall, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as you hug your [weapon] close to your chest, curling your body to be as small as possible. All of your comrades have fallen, and you were the last alive, fleeing the scene using a nearby zip line, but not without leaving unscathed.

It’s hard to focus on what course of action you have to take when nearly all your health is gone, your healing items are all used up, your stamina is depleted, and you’re far away from your base. You could only pray that the enemy wouldn’t find you.

And if they did, you could only hope they would show you mercy. 

It would still be a long while until your comrades were able to respawn, so you decide to stay where you are now. It’s better to wait for all your cooldowns to come back in case you run into an inescapable and inevitable fight. Given the nature of the entire battle, your life is too crucial to take any reckless action. 

A few seconds have passed, and your labored breathing has finally calmed down enough for you to take a peek around the wall, making sure the coast is clear before you book it back to base. 

Clutching your [weapon] as you’re about to step out of the alley, an enemy cuts your path short as you nearly bump into them, not just any enemy, but The Doorman. 

His piercing blue eyes, which seem to resemble the heavens, peer right into your soul, but remembering how ruthless he was fighting against your teammates, you know he is nothing compared to an angel. 

“Fancy seeing you here, [Name],” he charmingly greets you, giving you a pleasing grin, his sweet greeting contradicting the gun he was aiming right at you. 

“Hello, Doorman,” you greet back, holding your arms up in surrender as you take a step back. 

Your heart beat picks back up, the calm moment you had was short-lived as panic crept back into your body. Every step back you take is another confident stride forward that the Doorman takes. 

“It’s a shame your team has left you alone, my dear,” the Doorman fake mourns, a subtle smugness you can’t miss dripping from his tone. 

Your back suddenly hits the wall, cornered, dread fills your veins as the realization processes in your head: you found yourself at a dead end. 

“You killed them all,” you spit out, eyebrows knit together as the Doorman’s words torment your mind. 

He was toying with you like a predator does with its prey. 

“Oh yeah,” the Doorman chuckles, leaning in close, close enough for you to feel his breath fan against the shell of your ear, “well, I’m sure your team wouldn’t mind if we kept you company until they come back.” 

You swallow thickly, replaying his words carefully through your mind. Oddly enough, comfort washes over your form when the Doorman stashes his gun away. 

You are at ease; perhaps he doesn’t want to pose any threat to you. 

That’s when your eyes widen, “What do you mean by ‘we’?” 

The Doorman doesn’t respond to you; instead, a door opens from behind you as the Doorman pushes you through it, knocking the wind out of you as your back meets a hard chest, dropping your [weapon] in the process.

“Well, hello to you, too, darling,” a rugged voice speaks from behind you, holding you by your shoulders. You look down to see his long, clawed fingernails digging into the fabric of your clothing. 

Instantly, it clicked in your head just whose hands they belong to as you sheepishly turn your head. A shiver runs down your spine as Drifter’s red orbs practically size you up.

“Hi,” you meekly shudder out, standing in fear like a deer in headlights, knowing you were squished between two powerful and demonic men. 

“You know you in our territory, yeah?” Drifter asks you, using one large hand to play with a strand of your hair. 

You’re shaking now; they can do anything they want; the fact that you’re not bleeding out and limp on the ground was a surprise; a death that never came was torture. 

“Please, I just want to go back to my base,” you plead, quivering, looking down to see Drifter’s hands move down to your waist, still holding you in place. 

“I promise you, [Name],” the Doorman begins, stepping forward but not entering the door he had placed down, reaching out to you to caress your cheek, “you’re safer here with us compared to being caught by anyone else on our team.” 

Your heart continues to race; you aren’t sure if you can trust the Doorman or Drifter, for that matter. Though despite the hold Drifter has on your waist, you admit his touch felt oddly gentle. You notice the Doorman’s hand embracing your cheek while his other hand goes to rub the top of your head. Maybe they are being truthful.

Still, there’s an inkling of concern hidden away inside, “What is it that you both want?” 

There’s a chuckle that erupts from behind you. Drifter rubs your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder, “We’ve seen the way you been looking at us, [Name].” 

 “What?!” You shout, flailing around in Drifter’s hold, wanting to escape before you’re humiliated to death by the two attractive men. 

When did they get so hot? 

“Oh, you make it so painfully obvious, [Name],” the Doorman teases, pinching your cheek and making you grumble at the touch. “Oh, don’t make that face, I’m actually quite flattered.” 

The Doorman reassures you, the grin never leaving his lips, “I’ll have you know that your wandering eyes are one of my favorite things about you.” 

You’re taken aback; you know deep down, somewhere in the back of your head, there is a voice that was telling you that it was wrong to be flirting with the enemies when there are more important matters to be attending to. But there is a louder, passionate, and hungrier voice screaming within you, knowing you want this much more than performing the ritual: to be stuck between Broadway and Greenwich, to be helplessly sandwiched between the Doorman and Drifter. 

A much-needed truce. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you try to deny, casting your eyes to the floor, unable to stop the small smile sneaking its way onto your face, feeling shy underneath the intensity of the Doorman’s tall stature. 

You’re suddenly spun around, now facing the Drifter, “Well, I know the type of person you are, when you spot somethin’ you want you’ll always be cravin’ for it.” 

Drifter smirks, licking over his top teeth, flashing his fangs at you, “So why don't cha’ come over ‘ere and kiss me.”  

And with a surge of confidence, you grab the collar of Drifter’s shirt, smashing your lips into his in a hungry and heated kiss, his stubble tickling your face, Drifter’s deep, musky scent surrounding you, his tongue delving into your mouth and savoring your taste. His hand grasps the back of your head, deepening the kiss as your lips move in rhythm. Playfully, you bite into his bottom lip, pulling lightly at the flesh as you suck on it, the groan that emits from Drifter’s throat pleasing your ears and making your knees weak. 

A new set of hands begins to peel your bottoms off your hot skin, you jump, breaking the kiss as you turn your head to look behind you. 

“We unfortunately have to make this quick, lovely,” Doorman responds, removing your undergarments and folding them into a neat pile atop your bottoms on the ground, “but don’t worry, I’ll be sure to prep you well, so just pay attention to Drifter, okay?” 

The Doorman’s high cheekbones, the ones dusted in freckles and in a pink hue, as he admires your half-naked form, is a sight you wish to capture for eternity. 

You could only imagine what other parts of him are sprinkled in those adorable freckles.

“Okay,” you acknowledge, smiling at him, and assuring him that you have given your consent. 

“Good [girl/boy],” the Doorman praises, kissing one of your ass cheeks. 

Before you could respond, Drifter interrupts your moment with Doorman by attacking your neck with kisses and harsh sucks. You mewl loudly, reaching up to lock your fingers in his long, black hair, knocking the newsboy cap off his head. His fangs ghost across your skin, reminding Drifter just how soft and fragile you are in his hold; he really can just sink his teeth into you if he wasn’t careful. 

But with the Doorman busy between your legs, making sure to keep the barbaric man in check. Speaking of which, the Doorman has removed his pristine, white gloves- gingerly sucking on his middle and forefinger, completely covering the muscles with his saliva, lubricating them as much as possible for your entrance. He slips one finger into your hole, curling his fingers while he stretches out the rim for another digit, while his other hand strokes up the back of your thigh. 

You are lost in the different stimulations; they’re vicious with each action, Drifter switching to the other side of your neck, leaving hickies and lovebites in his path, groping your chest from outside your fabrics with his large hands. If only he could just tear all the clothing off your body. The Doorman’s treatment of your body is different, gently fingering you as opposed to Drifter’s rough manhandling of you. He isn’t careful in adding a third finger into your tight hole because he’s afraid of how fragile you are; no, he’s cautious because you are the most precious and interesting thing to him. 

“Love how soft ya’ feel,” Drifter practically growls out, hands now slipping underneath the fabrics as he pinches your nipples, sinisterly twisting the buds, his lust fueled by your whimpers. 

“You’re taking it so well, [Name] dear,” the Doorman coos, thrusting his fingers in and out of you as his other hand fondles your bare ass cheek, marveling at the jiggle of the flesh. 

There is nothing more euphoric than being ruined by two powerful beings, fighting for your attention, yearning for you. You’re like the main character to one of Paige’s eroticas stories she’s mentioned, funnily enough, you know she wouldn’t believe the very position you caught yourself in. 

Abruptly and in sync, the Doorman slips his fingers out of your hole while Drifter pulls away from your ravaged neck. There’s a breathless sigh that you all share until the Doorman suddenly spins you around. The man who was lovingly stretching you out with his delicate fingers, praising you with his smooth voice, his gaze holding an intense and fiery hunger. 

If it weren’t for the Doorman’s self-restraint, he would’ve consumed you. That can be a fantasy the Doorman can indulge in another time, for now, he needs to treat you with tender care and affection. 

Unlike the Doorman, Drifter wanted to break you, his rough hands finding purchase on your hips as he pushed his strained bulge against your bottom half, bending you over. The Doorman holds onto your chin, tilting your head up as you stare up at him through your lashes. 

“Is this okay, darling?” The Doorman asks you once more, making sure you haven’t changed your mind. 

“Yes, please,” you beg, enthusiastically grinding your bare ass against Drifter, who practically growls at your teasing, “I want this.”  

Drifter haphazardly unzips the fly of his pants, slipping his thick cock out from his briefs, the head of his member a raging pink that contrasts against his pale, ghoulish skin with a thick vein trailing up the side. The Doorman is much more patient with you, slowly slipping his pants and boxers off until his cock slaps against his stomach. The Doorman’s cock is longer compared to Drifter’s, curving upwards, his tip equally as pink and dripping precum.

Your mouth salivates at the sight; you need to feel them, you need them to fill you to the brim with their cum. Drifter circles your hole with his cock, coating the outside with thick precum: his way of prepping you, almost like he cares about you. 

With that thickness and his action, the sweetness of the act feels misplaced, knowing how selfish and reckless that vampire normally was, but you know it’s futile; his thickness is going to make your legs sore no matter what. 

“Can’t wait to fuck the lights outta ya’,” Drifter comments, massaging and pulling your ass cheek to the side, adoring the way your hole puckers around nothing. 

Your hands clutch at the bottom of the Doorman’s coat to keep you steady. He brushes and taps the head of his cock against your lips in anticipation, smearing the clear liquid leaking from his cock over your lips. 

“You look astonishing bent over for us, dear,” the Doorman sighs, his hand once again resting on top of your head. There’s a tenderness in his touch as he cherishes the position you were all in. 

Before you can thank the Doorman, Drifter’s patience has finally snapped, pushing his cock into you in one swift motion. Your body lurches forward, moaning loudly as your grip on the Doorman’s coat tightens. 

“Fuck, feels so good,” Drifter hisses, enjoying the tight squeeze you have around his cock.

He pulls out just to quickly shove himself back in, grinning and laughing maniacally by the way your ass slapped against his pelvis. 

You’re practically hypnotizing him by the way your body is reacting to his aggressive ministrations. 

The Doorman pushes the hair that fell across your face to the side, and he gawks at you, your beauty surpassing the artwork displayed at the Baroness.

He relishes all your expressions as Drifter pounds into you, “Take your time, sweetheart,” he comforts. 

Although the Doorman’s hard cock aches for the chasm of your throat, he admits he is just as content watching you getting fucked on Drifter’s cock. He removes one of your hands from his coat, moving it towards the length of his cock as you instinctively wrap your fingers around him. 

Your resilience makes it seem like you were made for this. 

With each snap of Drifter’s hips, his cock reaches deep in the depths of your hole. Your hole aches as it stretches for the Drifter’s unbelievable size, his nails leaving crescent shapes into your soft flesh as his heavy balls slap against you with each harsh thrust. Your body rocks forward, the motion assisting your hand that was leisurely pumping the Doorman’s cock. 

You find the rhythm in the relentless pace Drifter had set, trusting his tenacious grip on your form as you leave a small kiss on the Doorman’s tip. You can’t neglect him any further. Tentatively, you lower your mouth around the head of the Doorman’s cock, sucking on it as you bob your head lower, taking in more of his shaft down your throat. You keep your throat relaxed, even if every time Drifter slides his cock out, he just slams it back into your hole, forcing you to take the Doorman’s cock even further in your mouth. 

One of the Doorman’s hands reaches under your chin, touching your neck and feeling how his cock bulges inside your throat. He shivers as the ridges of your throat expand from his length. He is quite impressed by the work of your mouth. Your mouth that skillfully wets the Doorman’s cock, sucking him and licking up his length as you begin to push your hips against the Drifter, meeting up with his thrusts. 

A pleased chuckle meets your ears, the Doorman resting his other hand atop your head as you continue to slurp around his cock. 

“Naughty [girl/boy], [Name],” the Doorman teases, his booming voice turning you on further as he guides your head down onto him, beginning to thrust his cock down your throat in time with the bobbing of your head, “I wasn’t aware of how much of a slut you were; taking two cocks with ease~.” 

You moan in response, sending vibrations up the shaft of Doorman’s dick, your hole clamping around Drifter. The Doorman’s cock twitches in your mouth, groaning as he keeps a tight grip on the back of your head. 

You feel as helpless as you did each time you found yourself a hotel guest at the Baroness. 

“Hole’s so tight~,” the Drifter breathes sharply, his heightened sense of smell drinking up your pathetic sounds and addicting scent.

You shriek from the harsh slap across your ass cheek, the sting of pain blossoming as the Drifter kneads the flesh with his usual blood-stained hands; the ones that, no matter how many times he washed them, wouldn’t be able to erase the hundreds of lives he’s stolen. 

“Ohoho~, that make ya’ heart beat fasta’~?” He draws out. 

You can’t answer, not when drool begins to seep past the corner of your lips; trying your best to swallow, but with your lips wrapped around the Doorman’s cock, your attempts were useless. 

Everything felt like it was spinning as you put full faith and trust in Drifter to keep you upright, splitting you on the girth of his cock while precum gathers around his shaft. The control the Doorman and Drifter had over you felt exhilarating, your mouth and hole being abused by their cocks while your whole team was still dead. 

All you could do was greedily accept the pleasure being offered on a silver platter, the ripples of the Doorman’s portals creating a magical and surreal scene. At the same time, your body ran feverishly as the contrasting crisp air of New York brushed your body. 

“Fuck,” the Drifter growls past his teeth, giving your ass another slap, the sound echoing, “yer insides feel like heaven.” 

Your jaw goes slack, taking all your willpower to focus on slurping around the Doorman’s cock through the ruthlessness of the Drifter’s thrusts. 

“Tell us how good it feels, my dear,” the Doorman encourages, slipping his cock out from between your lips and letting you breathe, replacing your mouth with his hand as he quickly pumps his cock. 

“It feels so good,” you stutter, your words being interrupted by the Drifter’s powerful thrusts ruining you, “I love it when you use me~.” 

The sound of shared laughter plays in your ears, one with fondness and the other filled with madness. 

“How amusing,” the Doorman teases, jerking himself off as he stares lovingly into your eyes, “look how quickly you pounce for an opportunity like this~.” 

You hum in response, sticking your tongue out as you lick and sucked at the tip of the Doorman’s cock.

Pulling your mouth off the Doorman’s cock, you scream as Drifter’s nails begin to dig into the flesh of your ass, leaving red scratch marks in its path. 

”Scream for me,” the Drifter yells, slapping your ass, the skin of it rippling as small amounts of blood drip down your cheeks from the scratches Drifter inflicted on you, “say ya’ want more!”

You break down, sobbing and pleading as eternal night consumes your senses, “Please, harder! Both of you, please fill me with your cum!”

Your vision blurs as the Drifter pounds into you harder, your helpless body being ravaged by the Doorman and Drifter. The Doorman shoves his cock back into your mouth, his tip instantly hitting the back of your throat, fucking your throat and matching his thrusts with the Drifter. Your body felt sore, the heels of your feet digging into the ground to keep yourself balanced, overpowered by the extreme pleasure washing over you like intense waves. 

Your mind is hazed over, taking every thrust of their cocks, every praise and degrading sentence telling you how much of a good little slut you are, pushing you closer and closer to your orgasm. 

There was no announcement, no warning; instead, the Drifter slams his cock inside of you in a sloppy and animalistic pace, heavy balls slapping against you, until finally growling as he bottoms out inside you. In sync, the Doorman’s seed shoots across your taste buds as you cum from Drifter’s last thrust. 

The Doorman lets out a pleased sigh, removing himself from your mouth as you instinctively swallow his load, his taste overwhelming your mouth.

Lying your tongue out, showing him that you swallowed every last drop of his cum, “You’re exquisite, [Name] dear.” 

You whine in response to the loss of pleasure when Drifter finally slips his cock from your hole. Standing up straight with the help of the Doorman, you let out a small huff as you feel Drifter’s cum ooze out of you. 

Turning around, you’re met with Drifter’s charming smile- or as charming a smile as he could muster with his monstrous fangs as he held your chin, “I’ll see you ‘round, sugar.” 

And with that, you’re suddenly pulled out from between the doorway and into the Doorman’s embrace. The door shuts itself instantly as you’re back in the alleyway you were originally hiding in. 

“That hooligan has no manners,” the Doorman scoffs, not attempting to hide his annoyance with the hobo vampire by rolling his eyes. 

His intense blue orbs shift back to you, his sour mood switching the moment his eyes meet yours, and his eyes immediately filling with warmth, “Let me clean you up, darling~.” 

“Okay,” you agree, still a bit out of breath from your earlier rendezvous. 

On wobbly legs, the Doorman guides your hands to the brick wall of the alleyway. You’re confused for a moment until you feel the Doorman’s cold hands spread your legs apart. 

Oh. 

You whimper at the sudden prod of his tongue, lapping up at the juices that spilled from your hole. He spreads your cheeks open with his hands, the flesh of your ass burning underneath his palms, his tongue delving into every crevice, cleaning you up, and savoring the taste of you and the Drifter across his taste buds. 

Once satisfied with his work, the Doorman pulls away, licking his lips, “Let’s get you clothed now, shall we?” 

He insists on helping you get dressed, the small domestic act making your heart flutter. When your underwear and bottoms are on, he adjusts the fabrics of your top, fanning off any dust that may be on it. 

There’s a dusting of pink across the Doorman’s freckled cheeks, taking you in, “You’re beautiful.” 

You sheepishly thanked him, suddenly feeling shy despite everything, “You’re quite charming yourself.”

Taken aback, the Doorman’s mouth hung agape briefly in surprise at the compliment until he grinned, “How sweet of you.” 

A grin overtakes your lips, too, basking in the wholesome moment.

“Do you have any healing amenities on you?” He asks. 

You checked your pockets; surely all your items were off their cooldowns, and luckily for you, they were! 

Quickly healing yourself, letting out a sigh of relief now that the scratches have lost their sting, you’re sure that eventually the rest of your health will come back up passively. 

“It’s still dangerous out there, so I’ll be escorting you personally back to your base,” the Doorman states, holding his arm out for you. 

“Are you sure?” You ask, bashfully interlocking your arm with his. 

“Of course, my dear,” the Doorman chuckles, “unlike that vermin, I am a gentleman.” 

Your nose crinkles in a chuckle of your own, hoping that maybe this can happen again. 

🌙 He's homeless and hasn't had a home since the colonies were still a thing. He's a wanderer, never in the same place for more than a few days so he doesn't bring too much attention towards himself. That being said, he finds a good deal of comfort in your home. It actually feels nice to sleep in an actual bed for once - granted, you make him shower first before he lays down.

🌙 He's not a fan of strong scents, often saying that the modern world smells a whole lot worse than the times of old with the perfumes and scented lotions and toxic factories. He craves your natural scent, loving the smell of you so much he'll lose himself to your sheets when you aren't home. You've learned to not wear any scents when he comes around.

🌙 He often leaves for a couple of weeks at a time here and there. You were worried at first, but it's yet another quirk that Drifter has. When he comes back, it's always the same man but with different clothes and a new set of stories- And some gifts for you, their origins something you don't want to know about.

🌙 Speaking of returning, he fucking sucks at announcing himself when he is back inside of your apartment. You can't count how many times you walk through your home only to jump and scream at a large and dark figure in the shadows of your bedroom. He gets a kick out of it though.

🌙 Because of his vampiric nature, any "dates" have to be after the sun sets. They often involve long walks in the night whether they're in parks or through the woods where there's barely any people around. The less people around, the better.

🌙 Drifter actually asks to feed from you which shocked you the first time. You'd expected him to just take, but you were shocked when he purred the question in your ear while kissing at your neck. He actually makes you comfortable when he feeds; Laying you down, propping your neck and head up on some pillows, biting into you slowly so it hurts less.

🌙 You gave him a pleasant shock when he came back one time to see your whole apartment had been refitted with blackout curtains, especially the bedroom. He was actually a little touched that you would go through the trouble for him so he wouldn't have to sleep in a closet or your bathtub to avoid the sun.

🌙 He's careful with his claws around you, being sure not to dig his black nails too deep. He's not a fan of bringing you any harm if he can't help it. You pretend like you don't notice it, but you're touched by his actions.

🌙 When you end up cutting yourself by accident or knicking your finger with a knife while cooking, Drifter likes to lick the blood from the wound. He says he'd hate to let such sweet tasting blood go to waste, but the reality is that he's stopping the bleeding with his saliva. You don't understand the whole vampire thing, but you know that's what he's doing.

🌙 Horrible with the whole jealousy thing, especially if it's around another vampire. Drifter doesn't do the whole lay low thing like all of the other vampires do, obviously, or he wouldn't have those massive talons on his hands amongst other things. Because he doesn't hide it, the poor soul who was just harassing you for a hookup is now about to wet themselves at the sight of him all tall and broad and evil-looking.

🌙 He found himself stunned when he returned at another occassion to see you had patched one of his favorite jackets he had left behind from where it was torn at the shoulders. Such a small gesture for a monster like him made him feel strangely human once again.

🌙 He doesn't really talk about his life before he was turned, often saying it was a depressing time for him. He prefers not to bring up times when he was human, often getting cold and harsh when the topic is brought up.

🌙 He may act like he's not listening or he doesn't care, but Drifter actually remembers all of the little details about you. He's the type to seem like he doesn't care, but in reality, he really does. A lot. And you're one of the few humans he actually doesn't feel the need to snuff out.

🌙 It's best if you don't have lit candles in your apartment. You've come to figure out that he has a horrible fear of fires, the reason you still don't know about. He won't enter unless you put every single flame out. He's very suspicious about wax and oil warmers, not understanding how they actually work.

🌙 Kissing Drifter is something of its own category. He kisses like it's the last time he'll see you, and the horrifying part is that you never know if that's true. He kisses like he's starving, like if he lets go then you'll fade from existence, like you're suddenly the only thing in his world that's right. The red glow in his eyes often dims to the point where you can almost see his natural eyes, but you can never make out the color.

🌙 He's a sucker for having his back scratched. He won't ever admit it, his "pride" too loud, but he's not very subtle when he wants you to scratch his back. Always shirtless, always with his back to you, and when you playfully ignore him he lets out a deep grunt to get your attention.

🌙 Speaking of Drifter being shirtless, he totally has a dad bod. He's tall and lumbering and a force to be reckoned with, all with bad posture like he fell off a five story building and a gut. You would think he would be warm, but he's not unless he's fed well. When he is, he's honestly the best thing to cuddle up to: Soft yet firm and very warm.

🌙 You've been with him long enough to know that something in him changed. He's not the same vicious monster you met one night, but he's now something else entirely. He's still not a good man, that's for sure, but you seemed to have brought something out of him that hasn't been seen in centuries.

SFW

- First of all do not expect him to settle down. Like I'm sure this a given but I mean. He'll kinda just be gone for like 6 months then come back at the dead of night knocking on your window with that dumbass grin of his.

- He loves freaking you out, its kind of his whole gimmick. For someone so brutal he at least had a good sense of humor, well, it was funny to him at least. He's also surprisingly knowledgeable, but if you ever ask him to expand on something he'll probably just respond with a "Nah, I'm good."

- Anyways your "dates" would consist of him randomly appearing in your house and then proceeding to make himself at home. Didn't really matter if you were busy or not he was essentially like a massive house cat. You could be dead asleep and then hear something sifting through your fridge, after the 5th time it happens you just grow used to it. He doesn't actually take you on dates because. Well. He's the drifter. You might be able to go to some seedy bar and get a couple cheap drinks with him though.

- You will be suffocating in his grasp when you two sleep by the way. There's not a chance in hell he's giving you any way to worm out of his grasp, so you'll be stuck with him curled around you until he wants to get up.

- If you live away from the city and still get your food "naturally", he'll happily hunt for you and get you whatever animal you're thinking of cooking tonight. Will come back occasionally with a dismembered limb or some human organ and tease you about it much to your dismay.

- "What's the matter cher? A lil' extra protein ain't hurt nobody."

- His love for you is akin to the love you'd feel towards a pet. Not in a weird sexual way but as in; he knows you'll die before him/how short a human's life is so there's really no point in getting too attached to you. When you die he'll probably get that weird feeling you get when you accidentally swallow an air bubble then it gets stuck and slowly and uncomfortably travels down your throat. Not exactly sad, but he definitely isn't pleased either. He'll be thinking about you when he's ripping apart some poor sap, maybe seeing your eye color reflected in theirs, seeing similar blemishes on them, etc.

fake ass idgafer i saw you giving a fuck

NSFW

- Mating press is his fav position. I'm not taking any criticism.

- Easy access to your neck, gets to be deep as hell in you AND it's perfect to keep you from squirming or running away.

- If you don't like it, doggy style is his second fav imo. Again, easy access to your neck, easy to keep you down, its easier to drag you back against him too.

- Loves anything to do with cum. Likes using his hands to hold your head tight against his pelvis as he fucks his cum down your throat. He can settle with marking your face too but that's a bit of a waste isn't it? And if you have a pussy don't worry about getting pregnant because he shoots blanks, you can be filled to your hearts content!

- Blood kink but are we surprised. Loves leaving scratches on you, those claws weren't just for show! He teeters on the edge of any of his cuts being actually harmful, he might trace around an artery with his claws but he won't touch it (for now). If you have a uterus then period sex is a given too, you don't even have to ask him to eat you out he's already hauling you towards the nearest flat surface.

- Bites you and marks you wherever the hell he wants even if it's inconvenient to you. You'll end up looking like you got mauled by a bear by the end of the night. Fucking you while he feeds on you is one of the main reasons he loves you so much!

- He WILL take you in semi public places if you give him the okay. He's damn good at sneaking around in the shadows so what's wrong with sharing a quick fuck with his lover in the back of a dingy alleyway right behind a busy street? His hands are always big enough to cover your mouth anyways, not that he really cares about being caught though.

- Doesn't really do aftercare, he'll take a bath with you if you insist but he prefers to either get up and leave or to bask in your combined post coital bliss. It's a rare moment of "vulnerability" for him when he does cuddle with you; so don't get overly sappy with him afterwards or he'll get grumbly and maybe stick his nails a little too deep into your skin.

drifter finds your scent comforting, always has. he describes it as warm and 'full of life', metaphorically and physically. you're sure if you asked him to explain further, he'd just describe the scent of blood to you. still, you take it as a compliment. a man like him, who's boiled his life down to the thrill of the chase, still finding things to be soft about. you're flattered, truly.

he swears your scent changes based on your mood. that's why he's so adamant on making sure you have the best time with him. but sometimes, he catches you at the wrong moment. you try for him, you really do. it's rare for him to stick around for more than a day or two, and when he does, you are practically attached at the hip to him. he doesn't mind, really. he's aware of his… behavior. the problem is, he's a stubborn old dog. he calls himself 'drifter' for a reason. he never intended to stay too long, even if you had him wrapped around your finger.

it's that very thing that gets to you. it had been a rough couple of weeks, and all you really craved was a soft touch, something gentle. what a shame it was, your partner was out prowling patrons knows where, getting his fill of blood.

you curl up in your bed, pulling a pillow close to your chest as some sort of hollow comfort. it feels a bit pathetic, but you do your best to fill the void drifter has left in any way you can. you face the window, watching lights flicker, the smoke rising from buildings. a melancholy air settles over the cursed apple— which is what you tell yourself to make you feel better. yes, it must be all of new york that's moody, not just you. it does little the soothe the ache in your heart, unfortunately.

however, before you can get comfortable enough to brood, your view of the city gets obstructed by a large figure. you raise your head, before realizing just who it is. you groan as the man grins.

you wanted to see drifter. but, at the same time, it suddenly felt sickening. you craved his touch again, but irritation caught up faster than relief or happiness did. before you can shoo him away like some crow, he opens your window from the outside. you can tell he was about to say some snarky, maybe a little too nasty comment, but he pauses when he sees your frown.

"what's wrong? do i still got blood on me?" he looks down at his shirt, and wipes his mouth. yes, he still has blood on him. he always has blood on him. but that's not what you were frowning at.

all you find you can muster is a pathetic, childish little "go away."

he looks at you like a dog who's just be told to go home when there's food out. then, he laughs, finally stepping into your apartment and onto your bed.

"ain't no way you're tellin' me that," he chuckles, looking down at you. but when you don't smile, he deflates a little. "really?"

you feel your throat stiffen, and your eyes burn. you mentally berate yourself for this.— why are you about to cry? at what? what he said, or him showing up? you wanted him here, dammit. he showed up at the exact time, and yet— you do your best to hide it, simply pouting at the man. but of course he notices, he always does. for how much time he spends apart from you, he can never find it in himself to ignore any signs you give him, good or bad.

"awh, cher," drifter murmurs, reaching out to you with those big hands, still bloody. you jerk your head away, closing your eyes tightly. "c'mon… don't be like that."

but you, to his dismay, continue to be exactly like that. you shuffle further away from him on the bed, clutching the pillow to your chest for emotional support. you don't dare to look at him. this breaks his heart more than you know.

you can feel him staring at you, before you hear fabric rustling as he sits down. he doesn't say anything else, staying almost deathly quiet, as if you were a timid little mouse who would run away at any sound. after a few minutes of your defiance, you open an eye and look over. he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes haven't left your form yet. he gives you a concerned look, one that's almost uncanny for a man like him.

you don't say anything. neither does he. he's unsure if you're ready to talk, and wonders if you'll just turn your head again if he tries to speak. after another moment of silence, he figures he might as well try.

"i've clearly done somethin' to upset you, so…" he takes a chance and scootches just a little closer, "… mind tellin' me what it is?"

you feel like it should be obvious. but when you stare at him for a little while longer, he doesn't continue. he only raises his eyebrows, prompting you to speak.

there's a million ways you want to phrase it; 'you're never around', 'i wish you were here more often', 'why can't you spend more time with me?', but all you can choke out is—

"you left me."

drifter's eyes widen, and he reaches out, a flicker of something passing through his eyes— reflection?— before he stops himself. he's being surprisingly mindful. and it's clear he doesn't know exactly what to say.

"i— oh, darlin'…" he finally speaks, but it gives you nothing to work with. it's clear he's struggling with words; which was funny to you, it felt like he always knew what to say.

when words fail him, he turns to touch. he pushes himself closer once more, placing a large hand on your knee. he sucks in a breath, like he's waiting for an adverse reaction. when all you do is sniffle and look into his eyes, he relaxes a little.

"look, i'm sorry," he mutters, as if those words took a great deal of effort to speak. you narrow your eyes at him and he is quick to defend himself, "i didn't know— i didn't think that it'd be such a… a problem?"

his tone does little to make you feel any better. he sounds unsure of himself, like he was reading from a script that he didn't know how to act out yet. you furrow your brows and place your hand on his wrist, wrapping your fingers around it. he squeezes your knee gently, as if to say he doesn't want to let go, before reluctantly letting go. he sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"what i meant to say is… oh, i don't know," he admits defeat finally, deflating a little. "i didn't think about it."

that lessens the blow for you. just a little. at least he admitted to it. but you still find yourself at a loss for words. sure, you had gotten an explanation, but you felt like it wasn't enough. a little voice inside of you called you selfish, but the louder voice told you it was okay to feel that way. you weren't the one who left him alone for weeks at a time.

so, what do you do? you pout. it may not be the most mature response, but to be fair, what he's been doing isn't exactly mature either. drifter scoffs; once again, he didn't mean to, and he tries to catch himself. it turns into a half-laugh, one you can't tell if it's genuine, or if he's nervous.

"how about this," he starts again, leaning forward a little bit, hoping to catch your gaze. "you tell me how i can make it up to you."

"you could stick around more." your response is immediate and blunt. he expected this, of course.

still, he found it a bit of a hard ask to deliver on. you both know why. his nature is to wander, his existence had been whittled down to hunger for so long, his pallette ever expanding.

he doesn't hide his reaction. his eyebrows furrow and he lowers his head, but he doesn't protest. he gives a reluctant sigh— which does little to quell the pit in your stomach—, before nodding.

"i know—" he cuts himself off, pursing his lips. he sucks in a breath, before he tears his gaze away from you, finally. "i'll try."

the answer is not good enough. he knows this too. he is too ashamed to say it out loud, but he knows this will not do.

"i don't want you to try," you turn towards him fully, finally reaching for him. you place a firm hand on his shoulder, one that does little to comfort the sudden doubt he holds. not that you meant to comfort him. "i want to see you more. i want to be around you more. i want to fall asleep with you and wake up to you."

you squeeze his shoulder, and he looks back up at you.

"i'm sick of just pretending that it doesn't hurt when you're gone for so long," the words were flowing now. a mediocre response like 'i'll try' was enough to flip the switch, and now you couldn't help but spill out the word stew in your brain. "'cause telling myself you'll come back doesn't work that much anymore. i know you do come back, but—"

and you choke. you feel a tightening in your throat as tears prick your eyes once more.

"it's not enough."

drifter's body loosens for a second, as he raises his head. he doesn't know what to say. your words hurt— it's been a long time since he's felt like this. since he's had to really commit himself to one thing, one person. connection was something that was long gone, he thought. specifically with the living, with someone so warm and full of life. he knew he wasn't an honest man, especially in undeath, and yet he selfishly found himself looking for something to hold onto. he had done so without realizing what kind of effect it had on you. and only now did he realize the consequences that followed.

his heart squeezes, and he finds himself floundering, reaching up to cup your cheeks, fingers twitching when he remembers the way you acted just seconds prior. but he wants to hold you. he doesn't like it when you cry, after all. your smell loses the warmth and vitality he adored so much.

before he can even come to a conclusion, his hands cup your cheeks. large, cold, and metallic smelling hands. his thumbs catch your tears almost instinctively, and through the blur you can almost make out a near distraught look on his face. you don't pull away this time, your hand meekly letting go of his shoulder.

"i'm sorry," he says rather softly. quietly, even. "i didn't know. i wasn't thinkin' right— when am i ever thinkin' right when it comes to you?" he tries to lighten the mood with that little comment, but his voice drips with a vulnerability you have never heard.

it makes your stomach turn— or maybe it's butterflies?—, and yet you can't bring yourself to pull away. this is what you wanted, and you'll be damned if you squander an opportunity like this. he holds you so gently, cradles your face like you're the most delicate thing he's met. you can tell he wants to do more, but is too hesitant that he himself may make it worse.

he relaxes a little when you dont pull away, some weight lifting off his chest. when you leaned into him, his heart stuttered, like he was a flustered middleschooler who was holding hands with his crush for the very first time. your reaction surprises him, but his own shocks him more. perhaps it was the previous context that made this feeling heavier, one realization followed by another.

he liked this.

a lot.

suddenly it barely made sense as to why he had spent so much time away from you. maybe new york wasn't too bad? there was certainly an abundance of food here, from all sorts of places. it was fine dining for him. and it'd be enough if you were here with him, right?

drifter looks down at you, before lifting his heads to cup your head, fingers threading through your hair. his touch is gentle, and you swear you can feel a slight tremor. you'd question it, or even tease him, but you can't get the words out. you can barely organize your thoughts.

it's nice to be held like this again, even if he smelled like blood and sweat and smog. it may have been an unpleasant smell, but it was something you missed, too. every little thing was. you cant help but take a deep breath, allowing his scent to settle in your lungs. he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest; he knows what you're doing. it's the same thing he's done to you every time he's had the chance.

one of his hands falls away from your head, moving to your back, stroking up and down slowly. his hands, for once, feel oddly warm. you don't question it, at the very least, they aren't soaked in blood. its a comfort you weren't expecting, especially from a man as cold as him. but it seems that you have struck a chord within him. one that has not been plucked in at the very least a decade— or maybe a century?

the silence between you is comfortable. not oppressive like your demeanor had been before. drifter wants to speak, his mind is starting to run a million miles per minute, words piling up. but he doesn't. at the same time, he doesn't know what to say. this isn't the end of the discussion, he knows that, he just doesn't want to ruin the moment. you're so comfortable, with your tears cooling over your cheeks and your little sniffles as you try to regain your composure in his arms, why would he want to move onto the next part? he'd rather wait until you're ready.

and after a couple seconds, ready you are. you slowly pull away from his chest, lifting your head and straightening your back. he reluctantly lets go, his hands dropping to his sides.

"you could… do more of this, too," you gesture vaguely between the two of you, smiling just a little. "a good cuddle is nice every now and then…"

"oh, darlin'…" he drawls, grinning childishly. "that wasn't exactly a cuddle, but… i wouldn't mind doin' that more often."

you both share a laugh, before you tilt your head to the side.

"y'know, a couple date nights would be nice, too," you hint.

he seems stunned for a moment, before blinking away his confusion. "you and me got different…. appetites. you know that, right?"

you nod.

"so… you just want me to invite you out to go huntin' with me?"

"no!" you huff, fake pouting this time. "real date nights, drifter. like… like dinner and a movie—"

"—now i ain't exactly got money, cher—"

"you kill so many people and you don't look for their wallets? at all?"

drifter pauses. you pause. he looks away like he's thinking. once upon a time, he did take any and all cash he could find on a person, but that was in his younger days as a vampire. now, it really didn't matter to him. what use did money have to him? he didn't need much, just a good meal and a place to stay. but for you, well, maybe it was time to start searching bodies once he had gotten his fill.

you can see the light bulb go off. hell, you can hear it. you can't help but give him a smug little smile as he nods slowly.

"i ain't had much of a reason to go lookin' for their wallets 'til now, i suppose," he hums, sitting back and scratching at his scruff.

"well, you better start," you keep up this bratty bit, just for a little, "'cause now i'd like to see some fine dining in the future."

"fine dining?"

he's stunned, now. his jaw drops like the concept is new to him. or like he knows what follows.

you nod.

"the kind where i gotta dress up all fancy like?"

you nod again.

he deflates, looking kind of like a puppy who came in from the rain. "does it mean i gotta shave…?"

you shake your head, and he lights up like a christmas tree.

"maybe i can handle a couple of rich folk and fancy food for you then… as long as you let me get some dessert after?"

you raise your eyebrow, giving him a questioning look. "are you implying—"

"blood, cher. i mean blood. you know how tasteless most food is to me out here. so… if you could look the other way while i grab a bite or two…"

well, it's a start. you close your eyes and nod in agreement.

Now not that I don’t think he wouldn’t mess around with someone whose good or otherwise holds a moral high ground against him, but it would not be healthy in the slightest. It would be the single most catastrophic relationship ever that is probably built on a lot of pent up sexual frustration and hatred for the other person with each side trying to convince the other of their ‘way’ being right. Drifter is absolutely trying to break their partner mentally and emotionally so they cave and maybe will even intentionally setup situations where either option is horrible, and involves killing someone but a choice still has to be made. No matter which choice is made, he will remind his partner constantly about it, and how it is their fault, they killed, they went against their moral conduct and… doesn’t that just feel so nice? To let go for once? Didn’t it feel nice?

Worst partner ever in this scenario -49209029403/10

On the other hand if you’re more neutral in regards to his nature, it can work well, you see each other every once in awhile, you don’t necessarily encourage any bad behavior in one another. Although Drifter does try to convince you every once awhile, but he’s not as pressed about it, he understands it’s ‘not your thing’, so long as you don’t get on his case for what he does he doesn’t try to get you involved. Try being the keyword, he still tracks in blood at where ever it is you’re meeting, and he will want to talk to you about an interesting kill or fight he had while he’s been traveling and he will want you to listen to every last detail. This is actually probably the healthiest version of relationship he can get close to having. (DoorDrift ship I feel works best for this man so well, because while Doorman is more neutral on killing in his current day to day, he doesn’t care that his partner still does it, so long as they stay safe.)

In the middle ground of scenarios where you both have similar murderous intent, it’s a situation where anyone on the outside looking in sees it as a horrible horrible relationship in such a way that you are both perfect for each other and literally no one else, because getting anyone or anything else involved would be a crime against humanity. You’re both terrible people, but at least you’re terrible together and not with some other poor fool. (as with scenario A where Drifter is someone whose a good person) You do however both encourage some really bad traits in one another. Drifter actively endorses jealousy and possessiveness, but it’s not a one way street, it goes both ways.

He wants his partner to get angry and upset that he was speaking a little too sweetly to that bartender, he wants to see you drag them behind the alley and threaten, maim, or even kill them, even better if you make sure he’s present to watch or instead you take out your frustrations with him directly and tell him off for doing that. He loves it. It’s like proof to him that you are fighting for your claim on him. There’s something animalistic about it that ignites in him when he sees you’ve got a jealousy streak and you’re dragging that person at the bar who was flirting with him into a dumpster fire to watch them burn alive.

It’s romantic.

Of course you’re free to do the same to him as well, he’s more than willing and ready to prove that he will fight for his claim as your partner too. He’s not even really mad about it, he’s more eager than anything else when some person on the street came up to you and started chatting you up, and you gave them a playful smile when they asked for your number. You’ll find the next day the call you get from the number only plays the sound of labored pained and muffled breathing before the call cuts out. Drifter greets you the next day and will make some off-hand comment about apologizing for the call being cut short.

The actual day to day with him in any of these scenarios is dependent on if you are traveling with him or not. As his name implies he doesn’t stay in one place for long, so either you move with him or you stay where you are and he’ll stop by once every few months, sometimes more, sometimes less, depends on his mood. Otherwise be ready to answer a lot of unknown numbers from your phone where he’ll give you general updates about what he’s up to, ask about you and what not. If he’s gone for a particularly long while when he comes back he’ll stick around longer than usual to makeup for lost time. Take note this is another aspect of himself he’s unwilling to change, he just doesn’t like to settle anywhere so don’t expect him to, either follow him around or don’t those are your options.

If you are traveling with him expect a lot of sleeping around in uncomfortable places, he is a literal murder hobo and will just sleep on the streets if that’s where he ends up for the night. Of course though if you’re offering to buy cheap motels and what not he doesn’t mind mooching off you and getting to stay in a bed for the day.

He smells. Point blank, he often goes long stretches without showering, so hope that it rains in the night, otherwise you will have to buy a place to stay at for the night to convince him to shower. Or if he’s visiting you after being out for a few months he can use your bathroom. It’s not that he’s unwilling necessarily, he’s just more so used to it roughing it, and he’d rather save his own bit of pocket money he steals from his victims on drinks at some seedy bar.

He doesn’t care what you really are, human, Ixian, ghost, vampire, or whatever else, but if you are on the more mortal side of things where your lifespan is pretty short, or has a very finite end in comparison to himself, he may offer to turn you. He only ever asks once or twice and then never brings it up again. Kind of just comes to realize you intend on being here for a good time, not a long time, and it does upset him a little but he gets over it quickly. He does respect whatever decision you make, and whenever you inevitable die he will be upset. Not that anyone could really tell, he’ll still act the same more or less the same. But there’s moments where something someone says reminds him of you, or he sees something in passing that you liked and he gets all quiet. I think if you’ve lived long enough to get into your old age (like around 80-90+ years where you could go any one of these days now.), he may even offer to have the pleasure of killing you himself. He takes it as a great honor and act of love if you do let him.

Gifts from him are a little random at first, small weird trinkets he gives you that just reminded him of you. Once he gets to know you better they become more targeted towards your interests just don’t question him on where he got them, or do if you want to hear about who he murdered because they had that nice bag of that character you liked on them. If you’re a vampire or other similar creature where you require meat or blood to sustain yourself he may also ‘bring home dinner’ for you.

Date nights vary if you travel with him or not, if you are with him, then the only place he really offers is a shady bar, it’s the one place he isn’t getting dress coded at too harshly and he can afford. Otherwise if you want to go to like some rundown diner late at night, you can. However he doesn’t really see the point if you both can’t/don’t eat regular food, but sure if you want for a night you two can pretend like you’re just a normal couple out on an impromptu evening date. If you’re murderous like him, he may try to find something more personal and ‘fun’ for you both to do together. He’ll find some poor soul to torture, or find an isolated group of people to hunt down, you just leave the details all to him.

If you don’t travel with him, then he’s down for whatever you want to do at your home. Although he does sort of see your place as where he really relaxes for once, so honestly he doesn’t want to really go out when he’s visiting you. He will if you ask, but he’ll grumble about it and prefer you both sit at home and be lazy together.

NSFW

He’s shameless horny with you, and he’s a very physical touch type of person. He likes to always have an arm draped around you, a hand playing with your hair, or if you have earrings, piercings, or other jewelry like a necklace he loves to mess and twirl them with his claws. It will quickly devolve into his hand starting to travel under your shirt or into your pants so he can grab at your thighs. He wants to place his head in the crook of your neck so he can inhale your scent and give you a few ‘love bites’(These are not gentle, he will break skin and take a little sip here and there.) Which is another thing he has a scent kink, his nose is really sensitive to smells and if you haven’t seen each other in awhile the first thing he does is bring you in for a hug so he can get a good whiff of your scent. Likes to rub himself up against you as well to ‘mark you’ with his scent too. Be careful (Or don’t) but he this can and will devolve into dry humping. He will raid your dirty laundry for underwear that smells of you and you will never see it again. (He gets too excited and rips it up.)

In bed I feel he mostly actually falls as being a switch rather than being purely dominant, however it takes awhile before he’d be willing to bottom for you. It’s not even really a thing about trust, it’s more so about proving you are cut out to top for him. Show him you’re strong enough to hurt him, make him whine and beg for you, grab his hair and tell him how you want things to go down and then you can top him. Otherwise you are relegated to bottom duty, and pray you have the fortitude to withstand being his bottom. Every sexual encounter will leave you bruised, aching, bitten and drained. However if there is one singular morally correct thing that Drifter ascribes to is that he’s big on consent. It’s not fun for him if his partner doesn’t enthusiastically enjoy what he’s doing. (I think he’d be fine with consensual non-consent, but he prefers if you are actively enjoying whatever pain he’s inflicting on you.) In either scenario he doesn’t really care, but he has a bit more pride for you if you manage to top him, or as a bottom you can take a lot of physical pain to the extent that he doesn’t have to ‘hold himself back’.

He cannot unfortunately finger you unless you actively want him to tear your insides out with his claws, which he isn’t entirely against if you really wanted that, but I’m assuming most would not of course. However he does prefer to give head rather than receive it, not that he doesn’t mind when you offer, he just prefers when he has you pried open for him and you’re squirming around him, or you have your hands buried in his hair and you’re face fucking him. He just likes that he gets to be up and close and personal to you, and most importantly the smell of your sex is the strongest there and nothing else gets him off quite as well as that.

If you are a period haver, as we all know vampires and periods are the holy grail of fan-fiction smut literature; he is all over you during your time of month. Who needs pads when you have him to eat you out? He’s very through with these things, and honestly if you’ve found him in a good mood and he isn’t too far from your location if you are going long distance with him, you might be able to convince him to come back home early just so he can have you during your period.

It's the type of magic that has a smell. Sweet and sickly, the rotting flesh of a hare picked apart by birds. It's burrowed deep in your brain — not an advanced spell, but an experienced caster: someone who could take you out before you realised what was happening.

You know you're uninjured because nobody has tried to kill you yet.

You've had dealings with vampires before. Well, dealings is over-stating it, but you're familiar enough, moreso than you'd like. A second cousin who vanished for 15 years and reappeared suddenly, unchanged. Whispers of territories alien to you yet inextricable from your hometown. Grapevine warnings to be careful on the walk home tonight.

Clearly, this wisdom hasn't done you a lick of good. Wood panels and oil paintings swim in and out of your periphery with each clunking step. Your chaperones (you think there are two) exchange brief words you can't grasp onto.

You come to an abrupt stop, and you feel your brain rock in your skull. A series of clicks, heavy movement; you're removed from your captor's shoulder, your body ragdolling as you're jostled around.

Your head clears as you cross threshhold of the room, but not fast enough for you to react meaningfully. You hit the ground hard, breath knocked clean from your lungs. Your vision sharpens so quickly that you swap out the confusion charm for a headache. As your shock subsides, you push yourself up onto an elbow, panting slightly, just in time to catch a glimpse of the people who brough you here. Two dark-haired women, similarly tall, though one is much broader. They're both sharply dressed even if the getup is a little dated. They're already out of the room, the lither woman ready to shut the door behind her. She pauses to watch you come back to your senses, and the corner of her mouth quirks.

"The Lady of the Manor asks that you keep the mess to a minimum," she says, louder than you're ready for, her voice laden with sarcastic obligation. She pauses and looks at you, breaking into a smirk full of sharp teeth, "Not that I think that'll stop you."

The door slams shut behind her.

You're left puzzling the request. Do they think you're planning to wreck the place? You're not even sure where you are.

It takes you some time to come back to yourself. You lie back down on the floor, staring at an ornate ceiling, waiting for your breathing to even out. You can faintly hear jazz playing from far end of the room, a ward against unbearable silence. You aren't ready to confront your circumstances.

After a while, you sit up, resting your arms on your knees and taking in your surroundings. You're in the foyer of a small library: rows of bookshelves engulf you on all sides, some climbing the walls, many more freestanding before you as the room opens out on either side. Oil lamps flank grandiose oak doors and spatter the spaces between bookcases, lit not by fuel but by magic, tiny orbs luminescing within the glass and casting fragmented light across the floor. They only grace the atrium; the carpet stretches a hundred feet into obscurity between the shelves, and appears once again in moonlight against the far wall. You can make out the protruding outline of a desk against a towering window.

Opposite you, a low table, and what you think is a chaise longue — it occurs to you that you've never seen one in person before. It looks comfortable. Someone has left you a carafe of water.

Your body protests through clicking joints and aching muscles as you push yourself to your feet. You're still wearing your coat, shoulders dewy from the rain. You pat yourself down, checking your pockets and finding them empty. You shrug the coat off, already feeling stifled, and throw it over the arm of the chair. You hope the damp wrecks the upholstery.

Panic hasn't set in yet, and it feels as though the spell may have tided you over into resignation, if you're not still under its influence. You wrack your brain. You can remember setting off home from work earlier this evening, stepping out into evening showers, locking up with the spare key and sliding it under the door. You'd been the last to leave the office by an hour, determined to finish up your accounts and give yourself an easy day tomorrow… and then there's nothing. A hazy recollection of noise and movement, an impossibly long hallway, and now you're trapped.

You try the doors. They're locked — no surprise there — but there's something more curious about them. They shimmer faintly, almost pulsing, breathing with the arcane. When you pull the handles they're stuck fast, not even a rattle in the hinges, unnaturally still and immovable. You may as well be trying to open a wall.

Tears prick your eyes. You don't know anyone or have anything that would warrant being targeted like this. That doesn't mean much: beyond chatter and brief encounters, you can't claim to understand vampiric heirarchies. The only thing you're sure of is that they have no qualms about killing anyone, no concern for social or legal ramifications: and yet here you are, not dead.

Your heart picks up a little as the soothing influence of the spell and the music begin to wane. You take a seat on the chaise, trying to calm down, but only find yourself more nervous, and moreover self-conscious about it. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your face in them. You're trapped, completely trapped, in a room not only locked but warded. You don't even know how to pick a lock, and they've sealed the door like you're a fucking djinn.

You take a few steadying breaths and close your eyes.

You startle awake to the sound of bubbly scratching. Your hackles are raised, until the room falls quiet and you realise it's the record running out its course. At least you can't have been asleep too long. Silence hangs heavy in the air: it feels colder without the ambiance.

The moon is still high, visible above rows of bookshelves. It's not quite full: you forget the term for it, waxing something-or-another. Whatever it's called, it means a thinner veil and stronger magic.

You're not proficient with spellcasting, though equally, you're not inept. You've learnt a few parlour tricks, little things to make your life easier. You wonder now if you could pick up anything while you're held here. You're not naïve enough to believe you could break through the door, but maybe there's something in the tomes you can use to defend yourself if - when - your captors return.

You peruse the shelves visible in the lamplight, humming absently along with the gramophone. As far as you can tell, there's no staunch organisation to them: occasionally you'll come across collections of authors or topics, pulled and studied and returned haphazardly. You find clusters of history, natural sciences, hunting field guides and encyclopaedias, and eventually — a volume on practical magicks.

It's old. Seemingly untouched in decades, a cloud of papery residue billows at you as you turn the hardcover. You cough and wave away dust, holding the book at arms' length as you flip through it and make your way back to the sofa. The tune that picks up on the record player is low and slow, one you recognise from the bar near your office. You pour yourself a glass of water and try to imagine it's whiskey.

You struggle to parse the chapter titles, outdated and technical language alien to you. You leaf through the volume in the hopes that you might be able to decipher a diagram or two, maybe pick up something usable. You've no idea how long you'll be here, you may as well refine your casting. You tap your fingers along the spine of the book as you scan over alchemical glyphs.

Your mouth goes dry.

A chill creeps down your spine as you eye up the narrow gap between bookcases where the carpet disappears. Moonlight paints the very tops of the bookshelves but the bowels of the library are impossibly dark, unfathomably deep.

It could just be an enchantment, or even a ghost — somehow, deep in your gut, you know neither is the case. You exhale slowly, carefully; close the book and set it down on the table. The carafe rattles.

It takes less effort than you think to move the chaise longue. You pull it in short bursts, adjusting your angle as you go, and manage to get it up against the wall fairly quickly. The cushions sink as you step onto it, costing you some height as you reach over the lip of a mounted lamp. Retrieving the light is a delicate operation: you risk it extinguishing if you touch it, and your attempts to coax it into your hand are like trying to catch a grasshopper. You tamp down the urge to grab at it and after a painful couple of minutes of fishing around, you manage to extract the little ball of light and maneuvre it into cupped palms. It dulls significantly as it settles, but you're not about to try again. The foyer is already darker than you're comfortable with.

You're taken aback by how nothing it feels: the tiny star hovers an inch above your hands and your brain tells you it should be warm, but it's not emitting any heat. It responds dramatically to the slightest movement, and you find yourself facing the new obstacle of stepping down from the chair without snuffing it out. You shift your weight on one leg and try not to shake too much as you descend carefully, narrowly maintaining your balance as one foot then the other hits the floor.

Once again you find yourself staring into meandering darkness. The music crackles incessantly.

"Hello?" You call out into the void. Your voice doesn't carry, muffled by the shelves, and you try a little louder, "Is anyone here?"

No-one responds.

You swallow your dread and cross the threshold.

Every nerve in your body screams for you to go back. The darkness is total, your makeshift torch doing very little, casting a faint glow on the books maybe a foot in front of you — it's enough to stop you bumping into anything, and nothing more. It bobs precariously in your hands, threatening to vanish with every step. The floor layout is unintuitive: walls of books appear suddenly before you, steering you in odd directions as you attempt to follow the noise.

You barely dare to breathe. You pad as softly as you can, certain there's something waiting for you around every corner. The moon is lost beyond towering shelves, your only guide now being the flame you're holding, and it's dying out as you press forward. You're sure the path is getting narrower — your elbow hits something and you jump at a chain of muffled thuds, books collapsing on each other. The light in your hands quivers. You creep closer to the music.

Another corner and the floor before you is streaked with silver, slivers of a night sky spilling from the gaps in the shelves. You're drawing on an exit, but it couldn't feel further from an escape.

You step out into an alcove. A bay window casts cold light on cushions; below it, an ornate but aged rug, scattered papers, books stacked as high as your waist. Most are caked in what must be decades of dust, a couple look they've been moved recently. The air is musty, but the smell of fresh tobacco cuts through.

The gramophone is balanced on a chair that looks too fragile to support it, needle dancing over shellac, absurd in its inanity. Your pulse races, your muscles seize, but you force yourself to approach. Your fingers twitch with tension and your candleflame flutters.

There's a book lying open on the seating below the window. Your heart is in your throat; you tread carefully but not carefully enough — the toe of your boot hits a box of records on the floor with a scratchy thunk and you lose your footing. You scramble to stay upright, but it's too late to save your torch. It flickers, extinguishes, and in that last flash of light you catch a glimpse of some animal flayed open on the pages, organs bared, pinned, meticulously labelled.

The hairs on your neck prickle. Your breath catches.

"I know you're here," you whisper. You wanted to shout it, to hold your ground to whoever is haunting you, but it escapes you as a terrified hiss, barely audible under the ambient piano.

You swallow the lump in your throat, turn slowly, cold sweat coating your palms as you clench your hands into fists. Your foot catches on something — books, boxes — you feel like you're moving through treacle.

Beyond the nook, beyond the safety of moonlight, the room stretches before you. It is utterly, despairingly dark.

You search the void, vision blurry with anxious tears. Deep within the shadows, carmine eyes stare back.

"I was wonderin' when you'd get curious."

You bolt.

There's nowhere for you to go but back into a labyrinth. You crash into solid wood, your hands finding little purchase as you fight to stay on your feet and feel for direction. Moonlight dashes the ground in front of you like shards of glass, but as you turn the corner, your vision fails you. Urgency wars with vigilance, you can't see anything but you have to move fast. You feel along shelves, cursing your lack of foresight that you can't remember how you made it this deep into the room. Close behind, you hear coarse, growling laughter.

You don't waste time mapping a route, you take whatever path opens up. You're searching for the middle aisle, which should be straightforward but for the winding layout of the floor, deliberately obtuse even if you weren't navigating in pitch darkness.

Your outstretched hand meets resistance. You reach either side of you and find the same barriers: heavy hardcovers that shift against your touch but nonetheless encase you on all sides. You reach up, try to find enough purchase to scale the structure, but there's nothing to hold onto — your fingers slip from the dusty lip of the shelf, you can't haul yourself high enough to find your footing. You stumble back, half-breathless, disoriented. You need to backtrack. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard you swear you can hear it.

You can hear it.

Incessant tapping in an aisle parallel to you, knives on wood, timed perfectly to your heartbeat. It's getting louder… closer.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. You stifle your breathing, turn what you hope is a 180, try to move quietly as you hurry away. You're rapidly disoriented; what initially sounds to be behind you seems to come from all sides, adjacent, above, never more than a few feet away. You turn corners blindly, feeling along the walls, bracing for dead ends that never come. Panic rises in your throat. You're being herded.

You force yourself to stop, to make some sense of where you're going. You feel the shelves, lean in, peering past where you assume gaps are and scanning for any hint of light. Frustration gets the better of you: you shove a row of books through the shelf, grimacing at the sound of them hitting the floor. You can't make out anything beyond them, and you pivot, repeating the routine with the books behind you. Still no sign of the way out, but —

The tapping stops. You hold your breath. You've thrown off your trail.

You turn to look over your shoulder, squinting into the darkness. There, you see it: a haphazard array of hardcovers, faintly silhouetted in moonlight.

You take off. The path isn't clear but it's your best bet. You steady yourself against the pillar of a bookshelf and swing yourself towards it, and, mercifully, the floor opens up. You scramble as you turn into the foyer; your eyes sting as you emerge from the darkness — you blink it away and focus on your hands, beelining the double doors, trying to conjure some force that you hope against all hope will be able to penetrate the barrier. Your palms glow faintly, lilac then blue then green, feeble whispers of magic too unstable to manifest. Your boots pound against the floor, you pray you don't slip on the carpet; and behind you there's nothing, no footsteps nor breathing, only the silent persuit of a seasoned predator.

Ragged breathing burns your chest as you close the distance to your escape. Your hands ache, your knuckles locked and numb and all for a bare spark of anything. Your arms are outstretched, ready to launch yourself at the doors.

You don't need to. Something — someone crashes into you from behind, knocking you off your feet. The lever of an ornate door handle hurtles towards your face and you throw your arms up instinctively. Talons dig into your shoulder; metal connects with your temple; your hands, still prickling with a soft glow, meet wood: iridescence ripples across the doors, and in an instant you're sent careening backwards by a force like magnetic repulsion. Your assailant loses their grip on you — you stumble frantically and fail to keep your balance. The room tilts. You hit the floor.

You raise a hand to your forehead and it comes away wet. Stars fill your vision. You reach out and feel for the table, pulling yourself breathlessly onto your knees, your head swimming.

You aren't granted much respite. A clawed hand encircles your waist, tearing through your shirt. You shout, panic, grabbing blindly in front of you; the carafe topples and water spills across the table. Your palms slides across the surface with a sickening squeal; in your frantic scrambling you manage to grab hold of something, but it doesn't save you from being dragged backwards and off your feet.

"I appreciate you givin' some chase." It's a gravelly voice, close to your ear. "There I was thinkin' tonight would be dull..."

You're wailing objections, curses, kicking against the floor as you're pulled up off your feet. You grab at your midsection with your free hand, crushed against the body of your captor, struggling to breathe. The air tastes of smoke and whiskey and grave dirt and metal.

A hand grips the back of your head, stilling you, wrenching you to one side and baring your throat. Your pulse hammers through muscle, twitching against taut skin; he nuzzles you, stubble scratching against your flesh. Your breath comes in short whimpers.

His tongue — hungry, wet, inhumanly cool — drags against the side of your face, against the sticky half-dry ichor of your injury. You squeeze your eyes shut.

"There's magic in you," he hums, "it's in your blood, cher. You're brimming wit' it."

"I'm not —" you stammer, "I don't have any — I'm not magic, I don't even –"

"Ohh, it's not yours," he cuts you off. You feel his laugh rumble through your back, "I saw those pathetic attempts at casting… Sweet, though, you really thought you were gonna break yourself outta here. I love a fighter."

You groan as claws anchor into your stomach.

"Someone's tryin' to keep you alive… We'll see how that works out. "

Teeth sink into your throat. You howl and struggle but you're held fast: he bites harder, slicing easily through muscle and veins. Blood wells from the incision, tracks paths over your skin and soaks into the collar of your shirt. He's taking you in: you feel him inhale, content, growling approval — claws bury deep into you, into the soft fat of your stomach, the flesh of your jaw, anchoring you in place. The sudden rush of blood through your veins, sharp and fast and wrong, knocks you sick.

You fight to stay alert as your vision spots. Your limbs are heavy but unrestrained — you sluggishly fumble the object you're holding, battling the numb buzz creeping down your arm to get a decent grip on it. Dizziness clouds your brain. You take a breath and swing.

The sound that bursts from you is desperate and reckless, the scream of a wounded animal that refuses to die; and the tumbler connects with your captor's face, exploding on impact. Be it shock or pain, his grip on you relents for a fraction of a second — teeth rip out of you as he snarls in surprise, giving you your window to kick and wrench yourself away. You tear yourself from his arms, blinded by adrenaline, the impact on your knees as you hit the floor throwing you off-balance.

Immediately, you have a new problem. Blood gushes from the gaping hole in your neck: your hands fly up to stop the flow and quickly your arms are coated red. Your palm stings as glass splinters shift under your skin. You stagger deleriously, gasping, and finally get a look at the monster.

If the man standing before you was ever human, it was a very long time ago. He straightens up, panting, caught off guard by your abrupt show of defiance, and immediately you're compelled to take a step back. It's not that he's big, you've met plenty of big guys — the woman who carried you here was big. This is something else: the imposing presence of him is total. Everything around him seems to shrink, you swear the room gets darker the longer you watch him.

You realise you've fucked up — hungry is one thing, hungry and pissed is worse. You stare, wide-eyed, as he pulls two inches of glass out of his face. Even as your vision doubles, you can tell — his blood is darker, more viscous than anything natural. His shoulders heave, he rounds on you, and you brace yourself for another attack. Instead, his face splits into a ravenous grin.

"You really are a fighter, ain' you." He brushes the heel of his palm across his mouth, slick with your lifeblood, and sizes you up and down. There's a gleam in his eye as he gestures at you with the glass shard. "You got more to worry about than a little bleedin'."

You try to say something — your voice falls flat, frothing like sea foam in your throat. You squint through blurry vision, following the motion downwards: a fresh surge of blood gushes from you, streaming between your fingers; you cough, coating your mouth in the taste of iron and salt. You double over, loosing your footing. Deep inside you, something shifts.

At first, all you see is red. Your clothes cling to you, your arms are wet as you raise one to wipe your mouth; the heady smell of it makes you gag and you feel it drip from your lip. You blink away tears, swallow the heat in your mouth, bring the world back into focus.

A wail rises from you before you can stop it. Your shirt hangs in tatters, drenched, exposing chasmic lacerations across your stomach. Flesh and fat and muscle split like they've been cut with a knife, and something soft is bulging from the wounds. You forget your throat: your trembling hands move to your protruding organs.

The contact triggers another sickening wave of movement inside you and suddenly you're holding a slithering tangle of viscera, dizzy from the sensation of touching something that shouldn't be touched. Your legs give out and you collapse, barely bracing yourself in time to avoid crushing your intestines.

You lean on one elbow, you other hand desperately gripping your stomach as your insides pulse and herniate. You're trying very hard not to breathe too deep when a boot connects with your shoulder, kicking you onto your back. Your grip tightens reflexively, soft tissue twisting in your grasp: you howl, but the sound is cut short by thick heat pooling in the back of your mouth.

Even with your eyes pressed shut, you sense the light cut out as he looms over you.

"I never met anyone so eager to get started."

His weight rests on your hips, pinning you to the floor; your body jerks, you choke, blood wells and spills from the corners of your mouth. Your other hand moves to protect your midsection — he catches your wrist and holds it out of the way, drinking in the sight of your ravaged stomach. Your pleas die in your throat and you succeed only in further choking yourself. You're met with a chuckle.

"I ain' in any rush to kill you. We've barely got to know each other, after all… we're gonna take things nice and slow."

The same claws that split you open tenderly feel the incisions. Fingers press into the wound, moving under flesh, digging through the soft meat of you. You're still holding your entrails and more spill out as he probes within you, feeling your wounds from the inside, cleaving fat from muscle. Heat seeps from your middle, pooling under the small of your back and soaking into the carpet.

He's being careful not to butcher you, but force of will can't spare you from just how sharp his hands are. You kick at the floor, attempting to push yourself away, but you can't contend with the grotesque sensation of your insides jostling against each other. His knuckles slide over the slick surfaces of your organs and claws tear dizzyingly through subcutaneous fat. You groan and tense, and his grip on your arm tightens, breaking skin. Blood runs fresh down your elbow.

Your mind languishes and your vision is hazy, but you're not passing out. He's getting more aggressive, more reckless: no longer content teasing you, his hand buries in your abdomen, entering one gash and emerging from another, claws protruding through ragged flesh. All you can manage is a groan, half-forced from you by pressure on your lungs.

Your head slumps to one side, and in a moment of clarity, you catch his expression. He's bearing over you, a savage grin splitting his face, giddy at the sight of you. His tongue runs over vicious teeth, stained red and slick. The way he breathes is measured, controlled, but his hands twitch where he's gripping you like he's about to break your arm. In a swift motion he releases your wrist and plants his hand on your face — a finger hooks into the corner of your mouth, another narrowly misses your eye, knives into delicate flesh, holding you down as he rips through your stomach. Your body lurches violently and you howl, flailing in a mad bid to break free. You dont have the strength nor the leverage to throw a punch but you try regardless: your open palm connects with his jaw and it takes you a second to process that what you're touching is a mouthful of impossibly sharp, animal fangs.

You only drag him deeper into the reverie. A hand is poised over the open cavity of your torso, the talon of a vulture ready to bury into you, but he pivots, intrigued by this act of resistance. He cocks his head at you and your fingers twitch over jagged edges. His laugh is so low it's almost a purr.

"You're just desperate to bleed for me, ain' you."

He releases your face, leaving behind a mesh of scratches. There's a roll of cool breath over your palm which is almost soothing, followed by a hungry tongue dragging down your wrist.

Claws plunge into your abdomen, ripping through parts of you that have never felt pain before. You scream but you can't find the air for it: your chest convulses, your throat strains, the noise you make is bubbly and gasping.

"You just keep breathin', cher, and I'll leave your lungs alone. Don't want you givin' up too early. Sound good?"

He's grasping something inside you. The sensation is utterly nauseating, but it's nothing compared to when he starts pulling. There's a sound like wet paper tearing, your insides tighten like they're trying to hold everything in place; you feel snapping and bursting as connective tissue fails and blood vessels rupture. The intricate systems within you won't part so readily: everything moves and shifts and clings together in extraction.

For all you've heard and felt, for the cloying smell of iron and ocean, so much has been out of your sight. But you're looking at your entrails now: the undulant mass dragged from your abdomen, a deep crimson indistinguishable from the hands holding it, slick and slippery and crushed into stillness. It's still part of you, still fires off a disorienting pain response as teeth sink into living tissue and tear it apart. Your vision blurs, streaked with red that spills like paint back into you.

He leans back, resting on your legs, pulling your insides with him as he feasts on your body. Organs snap and disentangle, collapsing onto each other and spilling from your abdomen. Bitterness coats your mouth. He grasps your side, pulling you into a painful arch while the other hand unravels a spool of viscera from deep within you. Your head drags along saturated carpet, your hair catches, you cough and fluids run hot up your face, flooding your orifices. Your eyes burn. Your hand flies to your mouth, panicked and imprecise, pawing at your airways to stop yourself suffocating as if that'll do you any good.

It seems to catch his attention. You hear him swallow whatever part of you he's on now, panting gently, giving you some overdue and meaningless respite from the assault. Your chest tightens as you gasp for air.

"Gettin' harder, is it?"

He withdraws from you. You feel his weight shift as he sets you down, moving off your hips. A hand hooks under the collar of your shirt, pulling you upright onto your knees. What remains of your insides writhe and slink from your abdomen.

With nothing left in your torso to support them, your lungs sag and strain in your chest, dragging painfully on your throat. His fingers slide back into you, under your ribcage, the only part of you yet untouched, and your breathing stutters. You're choking from the inside.

He's supporting your head, one hand snaked around the back of your neck, teasing into your matted hair, and he's watching you carefully and expectantly. A mouthful of blood rolls from you, rich and sour. You can still taste it, can still feel tears cut through it and meet under your chin. You're still not fucking dead.

Claws twists inside you, tearing spongy tissue, crushing the air from your lungs. Your heart pulses lethargically, though you don't have time to process what that means as his hand closes around it, disconnecting you from it so fast you feel the jolt of snapping tendons through your back.

Stillness sits heavy in your chest. Your eyelids droop and you fall slack, ready for this to be over. The echo of your final breath sits in your throat.

You wait to black out. You keep waiting.

You will your eyes open. You're staring at a man tied to you by ribbons of half-congealed blood and viscera, holding your beating heart in his hand as it twitches sluggishly. He's preoccupied watching it languish like a dying bird as you feel your blood stagnate in the parts of you that remain attached. You flinch slightly, disoriented by your inability to make any noise.

His eyes dart to you. A split second of surprise crosses his face, but it's abruptly replaced by a measure of glee that would make you nauseous if that was still possible. He releases you, lets your body give out and collapse. You hit the floor at an awkward angle, the shock of it resonating in your bones; ribs protrude, entrails tumble from the chasm of your body and spatter the carpet like roadkill.

The point of a talon traces a line up the side of your neck; your throat quivers as you whimper silently. You can sense him looming over you: you're shaking your head, squeezing your eyes shut, begging to be spared the sight of it but he's grabbing your jaw with the full force of his palm and demanding your attention.

"I don't think they're gonna let you die, cher." His voice is low and gravelly and excited and far, far too close.

Wet patters hit your face. It's slow, the first drops of rain announcing an impending storm. Warmth touches between your eyes, following the path of your lashline; it clings to your brows, pools in the shell of your ear, the corner of your mouth, in the crevices of fingers holding you still. You steal a look through red-tinged vision.

Threads of muscle split and fray, weeping silken lifeblood onto you as he tears into the flesh of your heart. It's dense and full, bursting like a ripe nectarine in his grip as he pulls it apart with his teeth. His grip on your face tenses in rapture.

A minute passes, or ten, or sixty. Longer than you've had any right to last. There's no sign that you're fading.

He lets up on your face and drags an affectionate hand down your throat, thumbing the ragged, tacky edges of the wound he left in you. You wince; you try to move to touch it and you're surprised to get as close as you do before your hand flops pathetically against the floor.

"Better hope whatever they've juiced you up with'll patch you up," he muses. He takes a hold of your arm and runs a claw down the seam of your wrist. Skin splits, and what oozes from the wound is already dull and viscid, "Otherwise the blood just sorta… sits there. It's no fun."

He leans in and sinks his teeth into your wrist, and this time his mouth is warm with your stolen body heat. Your veins scream at the effort of it, your body perishing while you remain animate within. He bites harder, and you hear the crack as your bones splinter. It's hard to tell if you can feel them break.

When he finally lets go of you, you sort of miss it. He gets up and stands over you, running a hand down his face, and you meet the same eyes that met yours in the bowels of the library what feels like a lifetime ago.

"Rest up, cher. We can chat again later."