#f5fest

You can use multiple prompts a day and it’ll count for all the days! In fact, if you’re short on time or motivation, I recommend pairing a fruit and a flower for each day so you only have to make 14.

This is a pretty chill event—if you wanna draw or some other form of art other than writing, that’s cool too!

Despite being halfway about erotic fruit, you don’t need to write smut or even make it sexual in any form. But you can if you’d like!

You can use whatever meanings of the prompts that you’d like! For example, for the prompt dragon fruit, you can use it as symbolism since there’s a tough exterior you have to get through to get to the soft insides—you get bonus points for the actual fruit being in the text, though! 

On the other hand, the flowers can be used in several ways as well. Lily of the valley, for example. It represents things like purity and humility, so you can use it that way. It’s also often used in bridal bouquets, so you can use it for a wedding fic! On top of both of those things, it’s beautiful, but also dangerous. All of these are valid to use!

Just make sure you interpret each prompt in a unique way.

If you need help with ideas, feel free to send an ask in!

If you use AI we hunt you for sport.

Tag things like NSFW, Non-con, and graphic violence pleaaasee

You can start posting early if you’d like, but I’ll be reblogging from the #F5Fest tag during February! 

PROMPT LIST -

Blackberries/Raspberries

Wolfsbane

Pineapple

Gardenia

Oranges/Tangerines

Aster

Strawberry

Jasmine

Pomegranate

Bog-Rosemary

Pear

Petunia 

Grape

Hyacinth

Lychee

Rose

Plums/Peaches/Nectarines

Chamomile

Apples 

Buttercup

Papaya

Orchid

Cherry

Poppy

Dragon Fruit

Foxglove

Fig

You’ve prided yourself on having nearly perfect self-control since you were turned.

​

You needed it, after all; in your line of work, things would go south very quickly if you couldn’t handle being around blood. So you managed, feeding mostly on the occasional blood bag—working around other non-humans had its benefits, primarily that they understood what you needed and had ways of getting it that didn’t involve you biting others or nearly starving yourself waiting—and keeping yourself satiated enough that you could be drenched in blood and manage to keep your fangs in. More human than monster.

​

Recently, though, that control has been…. Tested.

​

From the moment you first met Kyle, you knew the scent of his blood was going to be an issue. When you’d walked into the room he was in, you had felt your fangs slipping out purely from the smell. It was the first time you’d met a werewolf, and you hadn’t expected…. That. Hadn’t known it would be the most enticing thing you’d encountered in your many years of life, or that it would test the control that you usually maintained nearly effortlessly.

​

His blood smelled warm and inviting. It’s something like cinnamon and oranges—sweet with a hint of spice, fruity, and mouth-watering.

​

He didn’t even realize, had just greeted you with a smile that somehow only served to make your hunger even worse. It had taken every ounce of willpower within you to force your fangs to recede back into your gums. You’d met Soap after that, found out he was a werewolf as well, and the scent didn’t cause such a reaction. It was good, of course, appetizing, but not the same way. Not in that way that made you feel like you were newly turned in bloodlust again. Which meant it was just him. For whatever reason, Kyle’s blood just sang to you.

​

Since then, you’d gotten a bit better at hiding it, even if it still caused you far more trouble than anything you’d ever experienced before. You had to feed more often than before, resorting to draining small animals like rats so your increased hunger wasn’t noticed. It worked, though, and you could do your job and carry on casual conversations without worrying you’d lunge at him and sink your teeth into his neck.

​

The ability to interact with him came with its own downside, though, which was that besides having incredibly tempting blood, he was also far more charming than he had any right to be.

​

Always checking in, even if it was in subtle ways—’all good?’ thrown over top of a bloody mess, when he knew you hadn’t fed in a while. Bringing you water and food when you were too buried in work to bother getting it yourself. He snarked at you—at everyone, really—but was always careful not to cross the line into being mean, and could take it as well as he gave it.

​

And his smile. Fuck, his smile. You could drown in it and die happy.

​

By the time you realized you were falling, you were in far too deep to fix it.

​

In hindsight, it probably shouldn’t have been surprising when it all came to a head the same way your difficulties had begun—with his blood and your hunger for it and him combining with a series of mistakes. And the thing that made you snap was something laughably simple. A handful of blackberries.

​

You were usually so careful about your feeding, about making sure you drank frequently enough to ignore it, but due to circumstances out of your control, you hadn’t been able to in much longer than you liked.

​

First, it was a mission going on for long enough that you’d run out of your supply of blood bags. You couldn’t feed on fallen enemies, because dead or dying blood made you violently ill. Technically, you could pull one aside before killing them, but besides it being difficult to catch one alone, it felt immature, somehow, to be overcome by your needs enough to have to stop everything you were doing to feed. At that moment, your pride was greater than your thirst. That was mistake number one.

​

Kyle had tried to help, tone gentling as he checked in—in that way he always did that made your heart flutter. Not condescending, not doubting your strength, just worried—on you. The soft ‘you gonna be alright?’ that rang in your ears and the hand on your shoulder that might as well have been made of fire.

​

He wasn’t the only one who checked in—you distinctly remember a few jokes at your expense from Soap that you’d forced out a laugh to. You had seen Ghost’s eyes flicker between your face and whatever mess of blood was in front of you, eyeing the way your tongue darted out to lick at your lips. But you’re so far gone for him that Kyle’s reactions are the ones that stood out the most.

​

You didn’t tell him how he was just making your hunger worse by being so close. After all, you’d be done soon enough and be able to feed. You could hold out a little longer.

​

Only you hadn’t been able to feed once you’d gotten back due to a storage mistake causing the blood bags you had stored to go bad. There was mistake number two. It wasn’t any huge loss—you only kept a few on hand at a time—but it came at the worst possible time. Replacement bags would be there within the next few days, but with how long you’d already gone without, it might as well have been a year.

​

It’s the middle of the night, and you’re bracing yourself against the wall in the common room when Kyle comes in. You smell him before you see him, the warmth of his blood hitting your nose as his footsteps approach. He should be asleep. You don’t need sleep, not in the same way, but he needs the rest, especially with a full moon approaching.

​

“Hey, Fangs,” he calls out, and you lift your head just slightly from where your forehead is pressed against the wall.

​

The name isn’t something unusual, and he isn’t the only one who uses it, but it almost always makes your heart race coming from him. The thirst has caused your heartbeat to slow, though, and your body can’t manage even such a common reaction. His eyes are fixed on your face, focused specifically on your mouth. If you weren’t a vampire, it’d make you blush, but not only do you know he’s worrying about your lack of feeding, you currently don’t have enough blood in your system to blush.

​

“Don’t tell me I look like shit,” the words escape before you can stop them, a slight lisp to them due to your fangs extending out of your control, “because I already know.”

​

He laughs, though it sounds a little too concerned—nervous, even—for it to be fully humorous, and shakes his hand, reaching over to rub your back lightly. Your nostrils flare as he gets closer, the scent of his blood filling your senses more intensely. “Not what I was going to say,” he says. Every step he takes towards you echoes in your head, the scent and sound of it dizzying, “wanted to know how you’re holding up.”

​

You’re pretty sure your mouth is watering.

​

He doesn’t know what he does to you. Has no idea how being around him like this sends you back to the time when you had just been turned. Aching canines, searing thirst that burnt your throat, and the deeply unsettling feeling that you needed someone to sink your teeth into. Not for the first time, you curse being what you are. You don’t agonize over it anymore—at least, you don’t think you do—but the all-consuming shame of being so governed by your own desires and instincts was like liquid fire in your veins.

​

You were more than that hunger, more than a monster or simple animal, but it was hard to remember that when you were like this.

​

A slight shake of your head is the only movement you make, and even that is lethargic from lack of blood as you try to calm your breathing. “I’ll be okay. Getting blood bags tomorrow.”

​

A blatant lie. Sure, you’d be getting blood tomorrow—as long as no other issues arose, god forbid—but ‘okay’ was not even close to accurate. You felt like you were slowly going insane, and the worst part was every time someone got too close, you could barely resist the urge to snarl at them, to bare your teeth and try to draw their blood. You’d growled at a few people, actually, much to your immense embarrassment.

​

But you didn’t say any of that. Because he had bigger things to worry about. He’d told you before about the ache his body went through in the days before the full moon as it prepared to transform. Hunger taking over him, not unlike yours but far less monstrous. You hadn’t seen him the day of, but you had seen the scratches left afterwards.

​

Mercifully, he steps back, moving away to get himself something to eat. His hand lingers on your shoulder for a moment longer, though. “That’s something, at least. Tell me if you need anything, yeah?”

​

“…Yeah. ‘Course.”

​

No. Absolutely not.

​

When Kyle finally leaves your side fully, you feel a wave of relief wash over you and a burst of aching in your chest at the same time. You slump forward against the wall slightly and hope he doesn’t notice how your legs go weak.

A fruity scent fills the air. It’s subtle, but your senses are dialed up so much from your turning that you notice it immediately.  Not fruity like his blood, more tart than sweet, but it blends well with the scent of him, and you can’t help but look over. Keeping your eyes on his hands, not letting them trail up to his face because you know they’ll stick on his neck.

Blackberries. He’s eating them a few feet away from you.

​

You don’t really eat food anymore. You can tolerate small amounts without issue, though larger quantities make you ill, but it doesn’t do anything to sustain you or ward off your hunger, so you don’t—except as a social thing, as you’d accept bits and pieces if it was offered to you by a friend. Despite that, the scent of his blood mixing with the fruit, twisting together into something so delicious, makes desire explode in your stomach as it fills your senses.

​

One of your hands comes up to clamp over your nose, trying to block the assault on your self-control, trying to ignore the cravings travelling through each body part you have by squeezing your eyes shut as well. It doesn’t work very well, but it makes the scent more muted, at least.

​

“Fangs?” The name comes again, sounding even more concerned than before when he takes in your current state, “what’s going on?”

​

You shake your head, unable to muster a verbal response. When your name—your actual name—leaves his lips, though, you manage to force your eyes open and look over at his face and immediately regret it.

​

The juice of the fruit coats his mouth, vibrant purple but red-tinted in the light and mixing there with a few little bits of the blackberry itself that stick to his lips like clumps of blood. He’s eating too neatly for it to be on his chest or, god forbid, spilling down to his throat. Small mercies, because you’re not sure you’d be able to handle seeing that. As it is, it looks too similar to what you want. What you’ve wanted since you met him. You feel another pang of hunger in your stomach, your throat so dry that forming words seems impossible. You want him. To bite and drain him, to kiss him senseless, to fuck him. You aren’t sure which is stronger—your hunger or your desire.

​

Before you can lose control completely, you lift an arm to your mouth, sinking your teeth into your own skin in an attempt to ward off the cravings. A bit of your own blood—dead, so you have to fight the urge to gag at the taste of rot and decay—spills into your mouth. It eases the ache in your teeth to bite something, but it does nothing to fill your hunger. If anything, losing some of what’s left in your body makes it even worse.

​

He’s on his feet the moment he catches the scent of your blood in the air. At another time, your heart would flutter from how quickly he rushes to your side.

​

Concern is flashing in his eyes when he reaches for you, fingers grabbing your chin and tugging you closer. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.” His voice isn’t quite stern, but some mix of concern and disapproval.  His shoulders are tense beneath the weight of the upcoming full moon as his thumb presses at your bottom lip—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you part your lips, fangs leaving your arm.

​

“I’m gonna hurt you,” you spit out before you can stop yourself, voice coming out harsher than you intended. You don’t mean to snap at him, but you’re beyond control now, “if you don’t back up.”

​

The words would be easy to take as a threat, but it’s so much deeper than that. It’s a warning and a plea all in one. Because you will. For all your intent not to be a monster, to be more than your instincts, your hunger is getting the best of you now. You’re puppeted by it in a way you’ve been trying to avoid for so long.

​

You know he can smell your blood. Most of his senses aren’t quite as good as yours, but his sense of smell is close, especially this close to a full moon. But he isn’t hungry, not like you are. He isn’t consumed by it. And that just makes you hate your instincts even more.

​

“You’re starving,” Kyle says, voice low as his thumb stays pressed to the same spot. The world shrinks down to his finger stroking over your lips that have been bitten to bleeding, “when’s the last time you went this long between feedings?”

​

There’s a long pause as you think. You know what he’s really asking—whether you’re accustomed to hunger enough to control yourself. Whether someone getting a paper cut is going to result in getting their throat ripped out. In all honesty, you don’t have a good answer. You haven’t gotten this close to snapping since you were first turned.

​

“Not a good sign that you don’t have an answer. Gotta be a way to get some blood into you now, yeah?”

​

You can’t focus on what he’s saying. Your lips part. Just slightly, but it’s enough that your teeth brush his thumb and you inhale, shaking and unsteady. It would be so easy. “Not without biting someone,” you mutter around his finger, fixated on the way his eyes flicker up to meet yours until your gaze drags down to his throat, watching him swallow.

​

This time, the silence stretches—neither of you moving, both hardly breathing.

​

“Could bite me,” he says it casually, like telling you the weather. As though the words don’t make your world tilt on its axis. His thumb presses up, the pad of it against the point of your fang. Not enough to break the skin, but enough that you know you could with such a small amount of effort.

​

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, sounding more hysterical than humorous. “Don’t joke about that.”

​

He shakes his head, his other hand coming up to your jaw as well, fingers splaying over your cheek with his other thumb below your chin. Holding you in place so you can’t run. You nearly laugh at the thought—does he really think you have the strength to leave when what you’ve wanted all this time is so close?

​

His thumb presses up harder, and finally, the skin breaks, blood beading up on his fingertip. “I’m not joking,” his voice has dropped to a whisper. Your tongue swipes over it before you can stop yourself. You just can’t resist.

​

The sound that leaves you at the taste is some humiliating cross between a whimper and a moan. It tastes exactly like it smells—warmth, comfort, and sweetness all in one incredible package. Like him. You could swoon if you weren’t so overcome by hunger.

​

“Don’t,” you repeat, trying to will yourself to pull away from the finger in your mouth and the flavor of his blood. But he keeps you still, jerking his thumb across your teeth so you leave a gash on it and more blood spills into your mouth, “I-I can’t. I don’t feed on people and I especially can’t feed on you, because I’ve wanted you for so long and if I finally get it then I’m gonna lose my mind—”

You realize you’ve said too much a second later when his eyes widen. But when you try to backtrack, babbling apologies leaving your lips, he moves his thumb out of your mouth—you try not to dwell on the pathetically yearning sound that leaves you at the loss—to press his palm to your lips and silence you. 

When you obediently fall silent, he moves the hand away to cup your other cheek as well instead. There’s a hunger in his eyes you haven’t seen before, but it’s one that you understand deeply because it’s the same thing you’re feeling now. The same thing you’ve struggled with for so long. The deep brown of his eyes is more like molten lava as he stares at you. Face to face. Monster to monster.

“You want me?” he repeats, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes or how it dissolves into a fit of laughter. 

“Are you serious?” you manage to get out between laughter, shaking your head like he’s said something ridiculous, because he has. You bring your hands up, placing them over his on your cheeks. Intertwining your fingers, holding on to him desperately, “I’ve spent every day since we met trying not to bite you or kiss you or both at the same time. You seriously haven’t noticed?”

His response is low, more of a breath than a sentence. “You haven’t noticed, either,” he says, grumbling as his thumbs stroke over your cheeks, smearing blood on your face in a way that makes you shiver.

Oh.

You open your mouth but pause as his words process in your brain and your eyes go wide, the breath leaving your lungs in a sudden gust. You can’t blush right now, but you feel the small amount of blood in your body valiantly attempting to surge up to your cheeks.

“You…”

“Yeah,” he interrupts. A smile tugs at his lips as he continues to stare at you with those warm, hungry eyes that make you feel like he’d eat you alive if he could, “you too?”

Words seem impossible, so you just nod, fangs digging into your bottom lip. Neither of you move. Neither of you do anything to break the sudden tension between you that feels so thick it’s suffocating. Then, as your lips part to say something, he suddenly lunges forward and his mouth is on yours.

Everything stops for a moment. You freeze, and then it’s over far too quickly. 

Kyle pulls back, staring at you with his eyes wide like he can’t believe this is really happening, and inhales. Shaking. Unsteady.  “Is this—Can I—“

You don’t let him finish. Your fingers curl into fists around the front of his shirt and you tug him back against your lips. He melts into it, hands coming up over your shoulder blades to hold you close, and he doesn’t complain when your fangs scrape against and cut his bottom lip. The blood spills into your mouth and you can’t help the moan that leaves you at the taste. 

It isn’t slow or soft. It’s a desperate, passionate, needing thing, all teeth and tongue and blood. Your hands hover over his back, unsure if you can touch, but then he moans. Instantly, all thoughts disappear from your mind, and you’re gripping at the back of his shirt as he pushes you up against the wall with effortless strength that makes your knees weak.

“Bite me,” he breathes out against your lips when he parts from your mouth to gasp in air. You aren’t proud of how you chase after his lips, “feed on me. You need it.”

The I want it goes unsaid, but you can hear it in the space between you all the same.

And god, you want it too. But if you feed on him properly, with your fangs in his wrist—or, god forbid, his neck—you don’t know that you’ll be able to hold yourself back. Even knowing your desire is shared doesn’t help your shame over your hunger. The idea of him seeing you being a monster is too much to handle. You’ve been in control so long you aren’t sure you know how to give it up.

“I can’t,” you say, fingers still curled into fists around the back of his shirt, eyes still fixed on that cut on his bottom lip which is steadily leaking blood. Even this—drinking from his thumb, from his lips—feels like too much, but you can’t help that one vice. “I don’t—I don’t want you to see me like that. I’m not a monster, but I’ll look like one.”

You  turn your gaze to the floor and wait. For him to pull away, tell you the moment is ruined. Or, worse—for him to look at you with those gorgeous eyes filled with pity instead of hunger. Somewhere in your brain, logically, you know him well enough to know he isn’t that kind of person. Trying to convince your emotional brain of that is a lot harder.

But he’s just quiet for a long, painful moment. Then, in that  voice of his, sweet, concerned, and low. Quiet, but close enough that he might as well be yelling, considering how it rings in your ears, “Oh, doll…”

That name is new. Your breath stutters out at the same time as your heart does the same, fluttering in a way that makes your chest feel tight. Shamefully, tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes at how sweet his voice is, even when faced with your complete honesty about your monstrous appetite.

“S’not something you need to worry about,” he says as his thumb strokes over your cheek. It’s stopped bleeding now. That makes this all… marginally easier. Your thirst for his blood hasn’t been replaced with your hunger for him, but it gives you something else to focus on, “you need this. You need to feed. It doesn’t make you a monster.”

God help you, you can feel tears starting to run down your cheeks. The slightest reassurance and you’re crying. “I know I’m not. I-I know that. But I’m… I’m a messy eater. And I’m too hungry to control myself. I’ll act like one.” Your voice comes out far weaker than you want it to, your carefully crafted control fraying at the edges. 

Two of his fingers press to the sides of your jaw, leading you to meet his eyes again. There isn’t pity, like you’d feared. Instead, the hunger that was in them before has intensified. You’re still pressed to the wall, but his grip has loosened, so you’re leaning against him, your foreheads pressed together.

“You know how hard it is to be around you this close to the full moon?” he asks, his low voice turning from a gentle, comforting thing to something more heated. He waits for the slightest shake of your head before he continues, “I think about you all the time, fangs. Want you. Always wanted you. Especially when I turn. Think about biting you, marking you up. Attacking anyone who gets close.”

You open your mouth, no sound coming out, and then close it again as you stare at him dumbly, the admission struggling to process in your brain. His next words just make it worse. “If hunger means you’re a monster, what does that make me?”

If you’re being honest, you hadn’t really thought about the fact that he might have his own ‘monstrous’ desires. Sure, you knew he wasn’t human, just like you, but you’d always  thought of his hungers as being more…. Normal. They still don’t seem so bad, but that just makes you more confused. 

Maybe he has a point. You feel dizzy from hunger and desire mixing together with confusion in your head. “I just… I’ve never actually…” You swallow, trying to ease the dryness in your throat, “directly from a person, I mean. I guess I just… I don't trust myself.”

“I trust you. Always have.”

You don’t have an answer for that. 

It would be easier if you didn’t care so much. It would be easier if he didn’t care so much. You could just push him away. Run off to lick your wounds in private and be done with it. But you know he’d at the very least worry himself half to death—maybe even follow you—and you can’t bring yourself to make him worry about you more than he already is. 

Kyle watches you, patient, and you also can’t help but wish he was a little meaner about all of this. If he was more forceful about making you drink from him, you could give in and let him take the blame for whatever happened. Instead, he’s pushing you to do what he knows you need, but he’s forcing the choice into your hands. 

“If you can’t trust yourself,” he whispers, tilting his head up and to the side to expose the skin of his throat, letting your eyes be drawn to the steady—if a bit quicker than normal—pulse below the skin, “just trust me.”

When he puts it like that, offering himself up so beautifully, you don’t know how you could ever be expected to resist.

You know you should bite his wrist rather than jumping straight into this intimacy, but you can’t help it. You press forward, burying your face against the crook of his neck, and breathe in the scent of his blood as your tongue pokes out between your lips to lick over his pulse. He shudders, a hand going to your back and pressing against the small of it to hold you close. 

He opens his mouth, the beginning of another set of words urging you to take what you need barely leaving him before it’s cut off with a sharp gasp when your fangs pierce his skin, the sound melting into a low groan. He sounds as good as he tastes, which is saying a lot. 

Thick, warm blood spills into your mouth and you swirl your tongue in it. It’s like nothing you’ve ever done before. You can feel every beat of his heart like it’s your own as you clumsily try to make it feel even half as good for him as it does for you—it isn’t something you’re entirely sure how to do, but intention seems to be half the battle, because he’s moaning, head falling back to bare his throat even more as his fingers grip at your hair and his eyes flutter shut. 

Every time you suck, pulling more blood into your mouth, his whole body jerks slightly against yours. “That’s it, doll,” he rasps out, and this time you feel warmth rising to your cheeks when you hear the name, now that there’s blood in your system. 

One of his hands stays tangled into your hair while the other slides down from your back to grip your hip, holding you against him. Just like you’d warned him, it’s a messy affair. Blood runs down your chin, soaking into both your shirt and his, but neither of you seem to mind. You could drown in this, in him, and at this moment, it feels like nothing would make you happier. 

With no small amount of difficulty, you force your mouth off of his neck. Your chest heaves with each uneven breath as you try to get yourself back under control. It’s not an easy feat. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to bury your face back in his neck and keep drinking his blood.

His eyes open just slightly, only half-lidded, and the look in them almost makes you bite him again immediately. Dazed, pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black. Gaze fixed entirely on you, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. 

You wonder if you look the same. You can feel blood beginning to dry on your chin, so you know you’re a mess. The idea that your desire shows just as clearly makes you look away.

“Better?” His voice is rough and hoarse—from desire, your mind supplies, making you lick your fangs that are still covered in his blood, because of you—as your eyes flicker down to the bite mark on his throat that’s still leaking blood that’s soaking into the collar of his shirt. It isn’t a bad wound due to how careful you forced yourself to be, but it still had to be deep enough to make him bleed. 

Your mouth opens and closes twice before you manage to form words. “Enough that I can wait until tomorrow,” you say, leaning in to run your tongue over the fang marks before you can stop yourself. He shivers, grip tightening on your hair as you clean up after yourself and try to soothe any lingering pain at the same time.

Kyle relaxes against you as you lick his throat, but the moment you try to pull away, his grip on your hip tightens to hold you in place. 

Both of you are well aware that you could get away with ease if you wanted to, but you don’t.

“Don’t,” he breathes, hand sliding from your hair down to your jaw, fingers trailing against and lingering on your cheek as they move. Your breath hitches and you lean into his hand, just slightly, as he makes you look up at him, “I want you to drink as much as you need. Not how much you think you should.”

You swallow the mouthful of blood you’ve licked off of him, licking the remnants of it off your lips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a pause. His fingers tighten on your jaw—not enough to be painful, but his grip is firm. “I get the feeling you aren’t gonna accept it if I just tell you not to worry about it,” he says dryly, leaning in closer to your face like he’s going to kiss you again, “would you feel better if I bit you first?”

Your thoughts stutter to a complete stop, some combination of how close his face is and his words causing your entire brain to short circuit. 

As your fingers begin to pick at a seam on your pants, you manage to croak out a little, confused ‘huh?’, deliberately avoiding his gaze. You look at the wall, at his neck—which you’re quickly smart enough to look away from, lest you forget how to act—and down at yourself. Anything to avoid his eyes.

He doesn’t respond to your confusion at first, chuckling. Instead, he leans down, pressing his face against your throat. His teeth, sharper than a human’s—though duller than your own fangs—brush your skin as he speaks. “Could show you that it feels good. If you want that.”

And god help you, because you blurt out exactly what’s on your mind before you can stop yourself, your mouth working faster than your brain. “I want you,” you blurt out, cheeks flushing a soft shade of pink, and then quickly attempt to backtrack to fix the slip, “I-I  mean… that. I want that. For you to bite me.”

Mercifully, he doesn’t comment on the—Freudian, your brain unhelpfully reminds you—slip. He smiles against your skin, licking at it not dissimilarly to how you’d done to him. You’re pretty sure he murmurs something along the lines of ‘relax, fangs’, but your brain isn’t working well enough to fully process it. Then his teeth sink into the sensitive flesh of your neck, and everything seems to go white. 

Pleasure radiates out from the bite. Not deep enough to make you bleed, because that would undo some of his work in getting you fed, but deep enough that you can feel every sharp tooth pressing into your skin.

Your knees buckle, but he’s quick to wrap his arms around your waist, hoisting you up and pressing you back against the wall, groaning as your legs wrap around his waist instinctively. His hips push against yours. Just slightly, but enough for you to feel every inch of him and how he’s getting hard. From biting you or from being biting and the promise of it happening again, you aren’t sure which. 

Your legs tighten around his waist, anchoring yourself against him as you feel your own arousal beginning to grow between your thighs. Moans escape you before you can stop them, your head falling back against the wall with a thud that you pray anyone still awake can’t hear.

When Kyle pulls back, that dazed, hungry look has returned to his eyes, and you can see yourself in them, just enough that you can tell you look like a mess. Your supernatural senses mean you can make out the details. The way hair is sticking to your forehead from sweat, the way your chest heaves as you arch against his body. 

You look disheveled, but more than anything, you look hungry. For something much more than just his blood. 

“Can I bite?” You’re the one to ask this time, pushing yourself off the wall so you can cling to his body, face buried against the crook of his neck and breathing him in. The scent of his blood has taken a spicy note, the hint of cinnamon intensified from his arousal. 

His hand goes to the back of your head and you hear his breathing hitch and then stutter out. “‘Course, doll. Take what you want.” He sounds almost as desperate as you feel, and the sound has the heat pooling in your gut growing warmer.

When your fangs pierce his neck—just above your previous bite mark—this time, he doesn’t even try to hide his reaction. His fingers tangle into your hair, pulling at it with each suck. You savor his blood this time, now that you’re more convinced he isn’t going to change his mind. His pleasure and arousal twist together with the natural taste of his blood, giving it a depth of flavor that’s as irresistible as he is. 

It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

When you feel his cock stirring to full hardness, you can’t help but slip a hand down between your bodies, hesitating where his hips meet yours. Your hand hovers over the tent in his pants, but he takes initiative before you can talk yourself out of it. His fingers wrap around your wrist, gently tugging your hand forward until it presses against him and he gasps and the sound means you’re so desperately, incredibly turned on that you’re sure he can feel it. 

“Told you. Take what you want,” he breathes out, one hand still tangled in your hair, holding you against his throat while the other leaves your wrist to linger at the waist of your pants. Hovering there for a moment too long before he inhales shakily and continues, “okay if I do the same?” 

The idea of him wanting you renders you almost as speechless as the mouth full of blood does, so you just nod, frantic as you pull more blood into your mouth. Your tongue presses against the first set of fang marks left in his skin, coaxing just a bit more blood out of it.

His hand slides into your pants once they’re unzipped, not bothering to pull them down and instead just pressing his fingers beneath the waist of your underwear. He strokes circles against your pelvic bone, reminds you softly to breathe. Drives you crazy in a way that means you can no longer tell whether it’s purposeful or not. 

You hold your breath, rubbing him over his pants and squeezing your eyes shut as you wait for it. For the moment of contact you’ve been imagining in the dark of solitary, late nights for months. 

And then the world seems to explode into a tangle of sensation. 

His fingers find you and you cry out so loud that his blood spills out of your mouth and soaks both of you in it. Your hands still as he rubs against you, too lost in the pleasure to focus on what you’re doing. If you were thinking straight, you’d balk at how you’re leaving him hanging, but when he starts to talk, nothing else seems to matter.

“That’s it, love. I’ve got you,” he whispers, pushing your head down to urge you to take more of his blood as he slowly takes you apart with his fingers, his hand sliding down to rub against your entrance.

Your fingers fumble with his belt, struggling to get it off in the haze of pleasure as you continue to suck on his neck. Satisfied that you’re drinking again, he untangles his fingers from your hair so he can help you undo his pants and shove them down to expose his cock. A rush of heat goes through you at the sight of him, hard, aching, and already leaking.

The whole thing feels like a wet dream you’ve had a million times before. Your hands down each other’s pants, your teeth in his neck. But somehow, the reality is better than anything you could’ve ever made up in your head. 

Wrapping your fingers around him, you begin to stroke in time with how he touches you, fangs never leaving his throat because you can’t bear to stop—both because he’s clearly enjoying it and because you’re pretty sure if you don’t have something to bite down on, you’ll wake everyone up. 

His pace doesn’t slow or stutter even as yours does, but he lingers at your hole, fingers teasing against it, but not pushing inside just yet. “Is this okay?” He asks, voice soft but shaking with the struggle of keeping his tone even.

You nod eagerly, pushing your hips against his hand. You part from his throat, blood running down your chin, but stay close enough that you can lick and suck at the bite marks even though your fangs have retracted. 

It’s a wonder he hasn’t gotten lightheaded from the blood loss—then again, maybe he is, and is just hiding it so you don’t stop, either for pleasure or a desire to make sure you’re fed—but you’re full. Pleasantly so, the warmth of his blood seeming to buzz in your veins, giving your cheeks a pleasant warmth from arousal.

The moment his fingers push inside of you—wet with some of your own arousal, but still a harsh push that you find yourself liking the sting of—a loud, gasping moan leaves you that you’re quick to muffle by sucking on the bite marks. His fingers return to your hair, stroking it as he softly hushes you.

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you, doll,” he soothes, a groan leaving him as you continue to stroke him, trying to match his pace even as your brain feels like it’s melting from pleasure, “that feel good?”

“Uh-huh,” the affirmation is barely a hum, not anything close to words because you’re that far gone. 

Your hand speeds up around his cock, trying to get him anywhere close to the level of undone he’s made you, twisting your palm around it and focusing on the head. He moans out, louder than any of his previous sounds, and satisfaction curls in your stomach. It’s leaking in your hand, precum dripping out between your fingers. 

Almost retaliatory, his fingers curl inside of you as he thrusts them. When he hits a certain spot inside of you, it takes everything inside of you not to sob.

“Right there,” You gasp sharply, the rhythm of your stroking faltering as your body goes rigid, legs tightening around his waist to hold his body against yours.

“Yeah?” He sounds far too amused despite the need in his voice, chuckling breathlessly. It’s almost like he’s making fun of you as his fingers push harder inside of you, “right there? That where you want it?”

You can’t manage more than a whimper, sucking more blood from his neck to wipe the smug look off his face.

It works, his look of amusement melting into something more  desperate, his fingers sliding down from your head to curl around the back of your shirt. Pushing your body against his so his cock presses between your thighs, precum soaking into your underwear as he grinds against you.

Your hand slides down to the base of his cock, feeling the bulge growing there, and you squeeze it lightly to force a cry out of him. It’s probably uncomfortable, his knot expanding with nothing around it, so you bring both of your hands down. One stays wrapped around the knot, squeezing down on it just enough to ease the ache he probably feels, while the other takes up stroking him.

“Oh—“ he gasps, sending a surge of heat through you as his composure cracks completely. His eyes flutter shut, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“That feel good?” you repeat his words back at him, aiming for a grin, but it shakes at the edges. You can’t quite manage to make your face look anything except desperately, painfully needy. 

You can feel a ball of heat building in your stomach, curling up and feeling like it's going to explode with just a bit more pressure.

Kyle’s knot is pulsing in your hand, so you know he’s right there with you. Desperate. Just needing a bit more.

Your lips finally leave his neck so you can surge forward, your lips clashing together in a wanting kiss. His tongue pushes into your mouth, and you both moan as he tastes his own blood.

“Gonna taste you next time,” he promises, swallowing the moan you let out at the thought of there being a next time, of him wanting you beyond just once, “f-fuck, fangs, I’m gonna—“

His hand twists, a third finger pushing inside of you and shoving against where you’re sensitive alongside the others, and your vision seems to white out as you cry out his name. 

“Gaz—G-gah—Kyle!”

The groan he lets out as he follows you over the edge is downright sinful, almost as much as the feeling of his cum splattering against you, soaking into your underwear. 

You can barely see his face when it happens, your vision blurred and your ears ringing from the force of your orgasm. But you can feel how his knot pulses in your hand, expanding between your fingers, trying to find something to lock itself inside of.

When you finally come back to your senses, you’ve been lowered to the ground. Your legs are still around his waist, but you’re no longer holding yourself up in the air, and he’s stroking your hair, softly hushing you. You’re leaned against his chest, ear over his heartbeat, which is erratic as he pants.

His neck isn’t bleeding anymore, two sets of fang marks staying as evidence of what you did. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft as he looks down at you. There’s a clear tiredness in his eyes—probably some combination of blood loss and the aftermath of his orgasm.

“Hey,” you repeat back to him, keeping your head against his chest even as you glance up at him, “that was…”

You trail off. There isn’t exactly a word to explain it, not fully. Incredible is too small of a word. Intense doesn’t accurately portray how much you’ve fantasized about it. Everything I’ve ever wanted comes the closest. 

He chuckles tiredly, cradling your head and leaning down to kiss the top of it. His breathing is beginning to even out, but his heartbeat is still quick. “I know. I meant what I said, you know. About wanting you.”

Your heart flutters, and you nuzzle your cheek against his chest. The pleasant fullness of his blood in your veins is still there, and your entire body feels warm in a way bagged blood doesn’t cause.

“Me too,” you admit, bringing a hand up to trace circles against his chest over his shirt. You can’t stop yourself from asking, voice quiet, “how long?”

“….A while.”

A smile tugs at your lips and you let it, no longer having to try and hide your fangs. “Me too,” you repeat, shivering from the cool air even as you press yourself to the warmth of his body. He’s far warmer than you due to you being undead, so it's easy to relax into him.

Never in all your dreams and fantasies had you ever considered he could actually feel the same.  And yet, here he was—confirming everything you’d wanted but hadn’t allowed yourself to hope for.

Your breathing slows, heart beating steadily in your chest because of his blood. In a way, the beating of your heart is his in this moment. 

It seemed fitting. Your heart was his in every other way, after all.

He stretches out, groaning, and your head snaps up at the sound of his discomfort, frowning as you consider where in the moon cycle you are. His upcoming transformation, combined with blood loss, are obviously weighing heavily on him.

“Is it bad?” You murmur, wrapping your arms around one of his, practically hanging off of it as you glance up at him, “‘m sorry. I took too much.”

One of his hands presses to your back, rubbing it lightly as he leans down to bury his face in your hair. The sigh that leaves him is heavy, exhaustion weighing heavily on him even as he shoots you a smile. “S’okay, doll. I wanted you to. I’m good.”

He yawns as he kisses the top of your head, but you pull away, looking down to fix both of your clothes. Tucking him back into his pants, re-zipping your pants, and redoing his belt. 

Your clothes are still stained, but you can live with that for now. The reminder of what you did together makes you shiver with the thought of it. 

“You need to get some sleep,” you mutter against his chest as he lets out another yawn. You’re aiming for stern, but affection softens the words at their attempted sharp edges. 

Rather than responding, he gets to his feet and pulls you with him, lifting you bridal style. You yelp, wrapping your arms around his neck to cling to him as you’re lifted into the air. Trying to glare up at him—playfully—backfires, though, because he’s looking down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. 

“Come with me?” He offers up. Not telling, not demanding. Just asking. Offering. Leaving the choice up to you, like always.