#rough mdom

You note the sound of the crows cawing as they circle above you in the cloudy sky. It was strange; it was too quiet for New York as you cross the street. Cars may be parked along the side of the road, but there is not a single person out on the streets. 

Instead, you wander the road alone, hands shoved deep into the pockets of your coat as your stomach growls. 

‘Maybe it was a good thing no one was out,’ you think.

Ever since that night, it’s been difficult to look strangers in the eyes without that immense hunger that curled itself in your stomach. All you remember was that you were bleeding out, soulless, red eyes that you were pleading with to keep you alive flashed across your vision; if you recall, “the Drifter” is what the rumors called him. 

Ever since that night, you awoke with a hunger that never went away, roaming the streets with a newfound appetite for flesh. 

You’re a monster. 

Suppressing these feelings has led to your isolation, the only person in your corner being the Drifter himself, as he guided you through vampire-hood. 

He remembers the night all too well. It was classic: a full moon as he heard you screaming for help, alone in an alleyway. The scent of your blood overwhelming his senses, your cries harshly penetrating his ears like a loud screech. 

Surely he should’ve killed you right then and there. Maybe make you suffer a little before he takes you out of your misery. He was known for playing with his prey, according to one rumor, although that person seems to be mysteriously no longer with the living, unable to confirm. 

He couldn’t sink his teeth into you, not when your eyes pleaded with him so prettily. Your vision might’ve been blurred with tears, as your body fought hard to keep itself alive, but your [eye color] orbs that flickered with life and death shone rebellion. 

You’d do anything to stay alive. 

New York hasn’t been the same ever since the first maelstrom. Creatures of various mystical and enchanting forms haunt the streets, almost like out of a fairytale. But there was no prince charming or knight in shining armor to come save you; it was just the Drifter. 

Drifter prowls with his sharp claws, pointed teeth, and the smell of death that lingered around his being. He is the enigma that lurks in the shadows. He is the predator that city folks warn you about if you even dare to walk alone at night. They say you should carry silver jewelry in case you ever get pounced on by a werewolf, and that vampires can’t enter your home without an invitation. But what modern tales don’t warn you about is that the Drifter didn’t abide by any of those made-up rules, only creatures who wished to assimilate with mere humans. 

The Drifter can only be described as selfish, cruel, and bloodthirsty. Unfortunately for you, you’ve become his newest toy. 

He promised you that he’d be there for you in such trying times. It’s going to take some time for you to get used to your new vampiric urges, after all. You know it wasn’t wise for you to trust him, but what else can you do?

The Drifter is no man to be messed with.

You know that more than anyone. 

But who else can you turn to?

There was no one else who could relate to your animalistic cravings, to the looks of terror that flash across the faces of strangers on the streets, the overstimulation in the new strength of your senses. No one could relate, except for the Drifter. 

Over the past few weeks, your body has become fatigued and malnourished due to the promise you set for yourself. 

You can’t drink the blood of people, and you most certainly can’t kill someone. 

But God, you’re starving. 

The Drifter told you to meet him at the nearby apartment. He told you that he knew a way to satisfy your hunger. And out of desperation, you climb up those steps, never looking back, like the day you lost yourself. 

It’s better if you come here on your own accord. After being acquainted with the Drifter for about a month now, you knew better than to disobey him. 

Your mind plays out its cruelest and most wicked memories: you remember the Drifter hunched over the mangled body, the person’s intestines practically spilling out of them, their face completely mauled and unrecognizable. With the state of their body, they were most certainly pronounced dead. There’s a fog in your mind, wondering if your eyes were playing a sadistic trick. A hallucination, a delusion, any excuse that would comfort your soul.

 But it was all real; you watched the Drifter tear this person apart, horrific screams that still play in the back of your head, and the blood stains that have collected on the fabric of the Drifter’s wife-beater. 

The worst part of all is that you were made to watch. Your feet refused to run, and your eyes didn’t dare to look away. You were trapped in the passenger seat as the Drifter held his hands tight over the steering wheel, and his foot slammed the accelerator. 

Drifter would wipe his mouth, smearing the blood across his face, a poor attempt at cleaning himself up as he walks up to you. Your eyes shift down: there’s a trail of the stranger’s blood that tracks against the concrete as the Drifter’s intimidating figure looms over you. The intoxicating scent of iron floods your senses, but strangely enough, it doesn’t disgust you. Like catching a whiff of a freshly baked pie cooling down on a windowsill, it tempts you. The scent curls itself in your belly, comforting you from the emptiness, but not enough to appease the never-ending hunger. 

The feeling terrifies you. 

You flinch when you feel Drifter’s hand cupping your cheek, shutting your eyes instinctively, his long claws threatening to pierce the flesh. His hands are cold, lifeless. 

The blood covering his hands still feels warm.

“I like the deer in headlights look ya’ got going for ya’,” the Drifter comments, and despite not partaking in the Drifter’s violent attack, the blood that’s smudged across your cheek feels like it’s covering your hand. 

Opening your eyes again, you don’t say anything as your eyes quickly shift to the ground, unable to meet the glow of the Drifter’s red eyes. You gulp, your vision wavers as you catch sight of the corpse not too far behind the Drifter.

You could only imagine what he’d do to you.

That was what you thought to yourself that tragic night, and it’s what you think to yourself now as the door to the apartment swings open. 

“I told you,” you start, voice small and meek, “I don’t want to eat anyone!” 

You would’ve been angry, but just as the fire ignites, it burns out. Your passion was too strong for your frail body. 

“Aren’t ya’ hungry?” The Drifter asks. It would’ve been a simple question if it weren’t for the heavy, limp body tossed over his shoulder.

Like it weighs nothing. 

Your lip quivers, tears that well up in the corners of your eyes, but refuse to shed. 

The Drifter was the only one you could confide in about your fasting. Even if you weren’t complaining about the aching pain, in the silence you normally shared, he knew. 

He could hear it, the growls of your stomach that pleaded for the bloodshed.

“No!” You answered quickly, too quickly. 

Faux confidence and assurance that the Drifter senses. 

The Drifter drops the body at your feet.

“No!” You yell again, whether that was in response to his actions or your desperate attempt to cling to your remaining sanity, you aren’t sure. 

What you are sure about is the incredible smell that wafted throughout the small room.

You stumble back, shutting the door behind you, trapping yourself in the room. 

No one needed to see this. 

“Thas what I thought,” the Drifter teases you, bending over to pick the body back up. He leaves the room, carrying the body. 

You didn’t get a good look at the room, but you noted the furniture that had been thrown about, as if there had been a struggle. Like there had been life before you arrived. You don’t allow yourself to linger for long, not wanting to be left alone, so you follow in the direction you believe the Drifter has disappeared.

Like an obedient puppy. 

You hated him, yet a part of you craved for his validation more than the blood. 

You’re a monster, but worse of all, you’re pathetic. 

The door is left open for you; your presence is expected. The Drifter has laid the body down on the bed, the sheets that were made one last time stained with its owner’s crimson liquid. The stranger looks like the perfect dinner atop the white sheets, and the Drifter can only think the same as he looks down at your innocent yet honest expression.

You’re salivating. 

“What’s holdin’ ya’ back, dear?” The Drifter asks, approaching your figure and placing a hand on your mid-back, “You deserve this, so c’mon, dig in~.”

His voice is gruff, but you hear his words in a clear, crisp tone. You bite your lip, holding the Drifter’s words close to your heart, letting them echo throughout the chambers of your ribcage as your body moves on its own. 

Like a ghost, your body is weightless as it floats to the side of the bed. The Drifter helps you onto the bed as you straddle the corpse. Your fingers stumble over each button in anticipation, excitement; it courses through your blood, and you swear you can hear the sound of your pounding heart in your eardrums.

It’s funny, you could’ve sworn that thing stopped beating when you awoke in that alleyway. 

You remember the sound of Drifter’s rough voice validating the hunger, reassuring you. His words dripped in honey; maybe this is okay. Your mind goes blank, you don't need to think as your hands unbutton the person’s shirt on their own. 

Typically, it’s a prayer before every meal, but you don’t bother as your tongue glides over your top teeth. It is finally time to use your new fangs. With a sharp inhale, you sank your teeth into the newly revealed flesh of the stranger, instantly sucking up the liquids that poured from the lifeless body. 

“Adorable,” the Drifter compliments, your grasp tight on the collar of the corpse’s shirt, “so beautiful dripping in blood~..” 

He’s enamored, tucking away any hair that may have fallen into your face as you consume the forbidden fruit.

All the shattered pieces left of yourself are set at the front door; you’ll never go back to retrieve them with the Drifter’s hold on you. 

Your eyes nearly roll back into your head, the metallic taste blessing your taste buds as one of the Drifter’s hands crawls towards your hip, rubbing the precious area from outside your clothes.  

You haven’t even gotten to the main course yet. 

You pull away from the corpse’s neck with a heavy sigh, immediately delving back in once the air expands your lungs. You don’t pay any mind to the vital fluids that drip from your chin; instead, you continue to gulp down the juices that flow like a river. 

You’ve been hungry for so long now.

Lost in your feeding, the blood that still ran warm coating and comforting your insides, you don’t notice the Drifter’s hand that roams at the front of your pants, groping your crotch from outside the fabrics. 

The Drifter leans over your body, his chest touching your back, his mouth right next to your ear. He chuckles, his warm breath fanning the shell of your ear, as he feels how [wet/hard] you are as he slips his hands in the waistband of your pants. 

Your fangs sink deeper into the stranger’s neck, your moans muffled by the flesh you’re desperately sucking on, when the Drifter begins to grind his hard bulge up against your ass slowly. Your mind feels dizzy, and you begin to feel a bit overstimulated. This new taste and the sudden pleasurable sensation shouldn’t feel so good, but it’s a feeling your body didn’t know it craved as you subconsciously part your legs, allowing the Drifter to reach further. 

There’s a dreadful shiver that climbs up your spine, an iron grip on the collar of the body’s shirt as the Drifter coats his fingers in your precum, playing around with the fluids and smearing it up and down your [folds/shaft]. You hiss through the flesh, the sound of your gulps, and the slick between your thighs, causing your whole body to tremble in pleasure. 

You’re feeling way too good. 

It’s horrific. How can the hands that are [playing with your poor pussy/jerking off your poor cock] be the same ones that have snapped the limbs of victims in their futile escapes, that have torn flesh apart like it was paper? Hands that have stolen the lives of others, how can they bring your body so much euphoria? 

The Drifter’s movements are sloppy, like he has never tended to another person in a long time. 

“Can’t believe suckin’ on some blood bag’s got ya’ so [wet/hard],” the Drifter degrades. 

His demeaning comment causes a whine to rupture through your throat. The contrast of the Drifter’s unfaltering strokes [between your folds/on your cock] with his sharp claws threatening to puncture your skin. Your eyebrows scrunch together as your fangs separate from the flesh, moaning into the crevice between the victim’s neck and shoulder. 

With a whimper, you catch a peek of the Drifter’s wide, maniacal, and sinister grin, and it makes you let out an audible gulp. Swallowing any words that tried to croak past your lips, swallowing your bravery and disobedience, reminding you of the blood you had desperately gulped down.

You’re trembling in his grasp, a grimace on your features as the Drifter chuckles, a chuckle that shakes you to your core. 

“What? Cat got ya’ tongue?” Drifter asks, that frightful look in your glossy eyes, making his boner strain against his slacks. 

You shut your eyes tight, letting out a shuddering sigh by the way the Drifter [circled your clit with his fingers/tightened his grip around the girth of your cock]. A tear slips its way past your lashes, streaming down your cheek as the Drifter immediately laps it up. 

“Stop!” You cry, thrashing around in Drifter’s hold. His chest presses up against your back, using his full weight to keep you down, as the hand previously on your hip tangles into your hair, stuffing your face into the stranger’s neck.

Your sobs are muffled completely while a storm consumes your thoughts: when was the last time you were able to indulge in yourself like this? It’s been weeks, months, maybe even years. Your selfishness led to the death of a person the world will soon forget. 

You can lie here thinking about how this is all disrespectful, indecent, and improper: Instead of dancing on the grave of the dead, you’re allowing yourself to [get fingered/get a handjob] atop this corpse. The thought: it disgusts you, but what you know will haunt you forever is that there’s a small inkling of a feeling that you know you want more. 

You’re pulled away from your thoughts when you feel the Drifter’s lips ghost around the skin of your neck. 

“Please, no!” You cry, panic rising in your veins.

As if a lack of an invitation or permission has ever stopped the Drifter. He’s the unstoppable force that has torn all your walls down.

“Just wan’ a  lil’ taste is all,” the Drifter fails to reassure you, licking up the side of your neck, sucking the supple skin, “can’t help it, you just smell so good..” 

You bite back a response; you hate to admit it, but his mouth felt euphoric against your skin. The sound of your pulse by your neck drives the Drifter crazy, taking all of his self-restraint not to just pounce on you right then and there. 

Your body feels tense, even with the smoothing circles Drifter is applying [to your clit/to the head of your cock] with his fingers, or the warm sensation of his mouth latching onto your skin, leaving fresh hickies, marking you as his property. Everywhere his hand touched felt like a burn, branding your skin, and you wanted his hands off. But just like any burn, his touch provided your skin the soothing comfort it needed. He can't let go.

The realization hurts. 

Timidly, you crane your neck down and allow yourself to drown your moans into the neck of the victim. The taste of their blood bursts in your mouth instantly. The faucet in your eyes streams relentlessly, the bitter flavor of your tears slipping into the corner of your lips, and you savor the blend, biting down harder. 

“Atta [girl/boy], you keep suckin' ‘em,” the Drifter encourages, pulling on the person’s hair and revealing more of their flesh to you, causing it to rip apart from how tightly your teeth had been clenched.

Your combined strength in a brief tug-of-war makes it feel like something has finally landed in the pit of your stomach. 

You let out a small sniffle, blood, tears, and snot streaming down your ruined expression. Your mind refuses to comprehend just how fragile this person is; you don’t want to acknowledge how easily they broke. 

Instinctively, your lower half subconsciously begins to grind itself against the Drifter’s hand. It begs for release. The Drifter lazily [rubbing between your folds/stroking your cock], your body grows impatient. He’s so close to pushing you to the edge, if only he just [rubbed/stroked] you faster. 

This pleasure isn’t meant for you. 

You know you’ll never reach your orgasm at this rate. 

You whimper, grinding into his hand harder, desperate for your orgasm.

“I know, I know,” he coos, his pace torturous, drawn out, making sure you feel everything, “it feels good, doesn’t it, sugar~?” 

‘What does he know?’ You think to yourself. 

Does he know that because of him, your hands are permanently stained with the blood of others? Does he know of your sleepless nights due to the hunger keeping you up? And does he know that every day you mourn the pieces of you that die?

God, you’re so exhausted from these thoughts.

Your soul has grown weak, but this high is one you wish to ride out. You’ve never felt such fulfillment in a long time. 

“C’mon,” the Drifter starts, curling his fingers in your hair and pulling your head back, his threatening tone dripping with impatience, the sting in your scalp making you release the stranger. 

“You like it when I make ya’ pathetic [pussy/cock] feel good?” 

A sharp pain pulses up your spine from the harsh tug he has on the strands of your hair, wanting to shrink in on yourself under his deadly gaze.

“Mhm,” you whine, bottom lip quivering, “It feels amazing, please let me cum..”

A fatal chuckle erupts from the depths of the Drifter’s chest, withdrawing his hand from your pants, “I know, you’ve got ma’ hand soaked with your precum~.” 

Abruptly, he let go of your hair, and you collapsed. With weak arms pushing your body up, you look over to see him admiring his wet hand. 

And in one swift movement, the Drifter pulls down your pants and underwear, your bottom half completely bare.

He’s a deranged monster, nothing like the romantic vampires you can vividly reminisce about reading about in all your favorite literature. 

The Drifter isn’t gentle, loving, or caring. He acts on impulse, his animalistic instincts. You know all of this, but what scares you the most is getting a taste of just how good it can all feel. 

“You’re my favorite whore,” the Drifter reassures you, licking his lips like you’re a slab of meat, “you know that?”

That sick and twisted feeling forms an uncomfortable knot in your stomach, rubbing your thighs in anticipation. He’s driving you crazy every second he allows the cool air to brush against your sex; you need him to defile you now. 

“Please, ruin me for anyone else.”

Is that what you said? That voice doesn’t even sound like your own. It’s frail, and it’s weak from your endless cries. You're not even fully aware of what you're asking for; you're just saying things to fill the silence because it sounds good. You’re going to bite off more than you can chew. 

Nothing feels real. You’re not sure why Drifter is laughing so much; nothing is funny. Your head feels like it is submerged under water, and it’s difficult to make out or understand the next moments. Shifting in and out of reality as Drifter’s body shifts and rocks against your own. You only snap back into the present when the sudden intrusion of Drifter’s thick cock enters your hole. 

You scream, your nails digging into the arms of the corpse beneath you, leaving crimson lines in the pale flesh. Any ounce or fraction of the illusion of intimacy is shattered; no warmth or comfort is provided by the Drifter as your walls tightly clamp around his girth. His size has your head reeling, practically going limp, with only the Drifter’s large hands keeping your hips up. There’s no time for you to become accustomed to the new sensation when, instantly, the Drifter begins thrusting his cock in and out of your hole, his heavy balls slapping against your bottom half. 

You sob from the sting of your walls; every thrust feels like the Drifter is ripping you in half. Your body can barely handle him, your hole stretching itself beyond belief for the sheer size of his cock. The head of his dick abuses your [g-spot/p-spot], the intense and forbidden feeling knocking the breath out of you. You’re babbling nonsense as your eyes practically roll into the back of your head. 

You didn’t want this, right? 

You felt betrayed by your own body. Why is it that you feel your own [cunt/cock] getting wetter, dripping onto the sheets with each painful thrust of Drifter’s hips? The Drifter consumes your every being, having seen every side of you, from your insides and out. 

You can’t seem to recall how you ended up in this position. But somehow, you found solace in Drifter’s rough embrace, for all the suffering you’ve been put through; somehow, you feel like you’re finally being set free. 

The Drifter punishing your sweet hole with his cock is something your mind tricks you into believing you deserve. Weakly and subconsciously, you rub your hips against the Drifter’s crotch, the sound of his slick coating your walls and piercing your ears.

There’s consolation in the sweet scent of the gore right below your nose as the Drifter pounds into you, your nails still gripped tightly into the stranger’s supple flesh, and the pleasure buried deep inside your hole. 

Before you know it, every painful thrust suddenly loses all feeling, numb to the pleasure, and your face is blank and unfeeling. Your mind homes in on the knot that slowly starts to form in your stomach, the same stomach that gorged itself from the limp corpse you’re still straddling. Nothing can break your focus on each buck of the Drifter’s hips, your body begging for release. A lightning strike, a plague outbreak, or the next maelstrom cannot divert your attention. All your senses are consumed by the Drifter, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Your breathing feels intense and laborious, taking large gulps of fresh air between Drifter’s sloppy pounding. Moans continuously spill from your lips; you don’t pretend to be against the pleasure being forced upon you. 

Your hole twitches around the Drifter’s cock, your stomach fluttering around his massive size as it enters and leaves your hole. 

“Ya’ squeezin’ me like crazy, darling,” Drifter groans from above you through gritted teeth, his grip on your hips tightens, your frame appearing so small in his large claws, too much pressure, and he can break you.

It’s amusing to him just how weak you are, being able to manhandle your body back into his thick cock, his precum lubricating your walls. 

“Not gon last long,” the Drifter warns, and all of a sudden, all of the fear rushes back into your body. 

You’re not sure if you’ll last long either with the way the Drifter is fucking you. 

Your vision wavers: from between your legs, where you take sight of the Drifter’s cock rutting into your tight hole, his thick precum dripping onto the sheets. You look up, and you're instantly met with the lifeless face, the person you have been feeding from. 

Excitement fills your stomach, causing your intestines to tangle and tighten with knots. You feel yourself getting closer and closer to your release, your mind going blank, with a buzzing in your ears. 

There’s a distant calling of your name, but you don’t hear it, too absorbed in your own body, being overtaken by your orgasm as you bite down into the stranger’s neck one last time, sucking the nectar and muffling your loud cries. You swear you see white as with one final thrust, the Drifter coats your insides with his thick seed. 

In that moment, the Drifter is all you need. You belong to the Drifter, branded by his hickies and the bruises where he held onto you too tightly. 

At an agonizing pace, Drifter slips his cock out from between your walls, caressing your ass cheek as he watches his seed drip down from your hole. 

You pull away from the stranger’s neck, letting out a sigh of relief, taking a moment to gather yourself. 

That’s when you gasp, eyes widening as you stumble off the bed, bolting to the connected bathroom. The realization, the guilt, and the shame flooding your veins. Your legs are aching, but you manage to prop yourself on the bathroom sink, wanting to let out a hysterical cry, but your voice had died not too long ago. Gripping the edges of the mirror, nothing reflects back at you.

You’re mortified. 

You don’t even get the luxury of seeing the empty shell of the person you are now, a dead person walking. 

Bleeding out on the concrete, your path dissipating like a trail in the forest, yet your feet kept moving forward. You wonder to yourself why your heart kept beating, why the blood still ran through your veins, why you’re even alive. 

Maybe death would’ve treated you better.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

“Hey, sugar~, you feelin’ alright? Don’t worry, you did amazing, took me so well, and everything~. Could be a famous [actor/actress] with the performance you put on, haha! Oh, don’t give me that long face, makes me wanna eat you up~. Remember, nothin’ wrong with enjoyin’ dark themes in media, as long as you’re enjoyin’ them in a controlled and safe environment, like a fanfiction. No one gets hurt, and you can always take a step back. Drifter’s proud of ya’, darling~. Let’s get us both cleaned up so we can cuddle, yeah? Perfect.”