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âDespite everything Violet has put you through, the desire to prove your devotion excels above all.â
Tags: Vampire!au, vampire!Vi, obsessed!reader, mean!Vi, biting, blood, cunnilingus, angst (?), fingering.
The carriage ride had been hell. The driver, a sallow-cheeked man with one milky eye, had refused to travel the final mile up the winding, overgrown path to Blackwood Manor. You'd paid him double, then walked the rest, your boots sinking into the damp, rotting leaves that carpeted the grounds like a burial shroud. The estate loomed, a skeletal silhouette against a bruised violet sky. A single light burned in an upper window, a jaundiced eye watching your approach.
You hadn't knocked at the grand, oak-planked entrance. You hadn't needed to. The scullery door, rusted at its hinges, had been left unlocked. A small courtesy, or perhaps just an oversight born of centuries of absolute security from anyone who mattered.
The house inside held the chill of a mausoleum. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight piercing the grimy mullioned windows, swirling like confused spirits. Portraits of stern, long-dead ancestors watched you with painted eyes as you made your way upstairs, your fingers trailing over the cold, peeling wallpaper. Every creak of the floorboards under your feet was a gunshot in the suffocating silence.
You found her room easily. The door was ajar. It smelled of her. A phantom bouquet of night-blooming jasmine, expensive lye soap, and copper. Your stomach clenched with a hunger that had nothing to do with the three days you'd spent fasting.
Her bed was a massive, four-poster monstrosity of dark, carved wood, the curtains drawn around it like the seals on a tomb. You slipped out of your boots and your coat, letting them fall to the floor. Your dress, a simple serviceable grey, followed until you stood in your thin chemise, gooseflesh prickling your skin. You slid between the cold, damp sheets. They were coarse, scratchy against your bare legs, but they were hers. You closed your words, a prayer on your lips: let her want me. let her keep me.
Sleep took you in fits and starts, a fever dream of being chased and caught, of teeth and the cool, coppery wash of her blood on your tongue.
A gasp rips you from a dream. Your eyes fly open. The room is no longer empty. Violet stands by the fireplace, stock-still, her silhouette a slash of darkness against the dwindling embers. Her hair is undone, a wild mane of black cascading over her shoulders. The perfect lines of her eyeliner droopy and washed over. She hasn't fed. You can feel the frayed edges of her hunger in the very air. It thrums, a low, dangerous frequency that makes the teeth in your jaw ache.
You scramble to sit up, the sheet pooling in your lap, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs.
Her head tilts, a slow, predatory motion. "You."
Your name, stripped of all warmth, is just a confirmation of a nuisance. The single syllable lands like a stone in the pit of your stomach.
The command is absolute, etched in ice.
"I recall telling you," she cuts in, her voice dropping into a register that promises violence, "that our association was concluded. That your presence was no longer desired. Have you come to make me into a liar?"
Tears burn behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Crying would be an admission of weakness, a plea for a sympathy she does not possess. "I couldn't stay away."
"A common failing in mortals. Lack of control." She takes a step closer, and the room shrinks. The shadows cling to her, deepening the hollows of her cheeks, the dark circles beneath her eyes. She sneers, her fangs on full display.
"A moth drawn to the flame. And yet you seem to forget how easily wings get burned."
"I'm fine with getting burned," The words are a whisper, a prayer. You slide from the bed, the cool night air raising the fine hairs on your bare arms. You fall to your knees on the dusty floorboards, the impact jarring but welcome. A penance. "I am yours. My body, my blood, my life. It's all worthless without you."
She scoffs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Your life is worthless regardless. Your blood⊠it is a fleeting amusement. You are a meal. A cheap one. I have no appetite for scraps from the table."
The sting of her words is exquisite, a beautiful agony. Because they are a lie. You know they are a lie. You remember the taste of your own skin on her tongue, the way sheâd held you after, her possessive grip a brand against your flesh.
"I was more than a meal, and you know it," you dare to say, pushing closer to her. You hold out your wrist. The pulse there flutters, a tiny trapped bird beating against a cage of bone and skin. "You feasted on me before. Have you grown tired of the taste so soon?"
Her gaze darts to the throbbing dark vein at your wrist. You see itâthe flicker of want, the ancient, unending thirst battling with her pride. She is starving. You can see it in the translucent pallor of her skin, in the exhaustion etched around her eyes.
"It was a mistake," she snarls, but her voice has lost some of its edge. She is looking at your wrist now as if it holds the secrets of the universe. "A dalliance. I dined. I left. That is the natural order."
"Dine again," you breathe, shuffling forward. âWhen you came into my life, you ruined it. I cannot think about anything else. I canât breathe properly when I think how you might leave me. I know my life is less than yours, but it doesnât have to be. Drink from me; drink enough from me that you turn me into a devil just like you,â you pleaded, hands trembling."Take all of me. Devour me until there is nothing left."
A low growl rumbles in her chest. "You have no concept of what you ask. To turn a human is not a gift; it is a slow mutilation. I would be hollowing you out, carving out your pitiful little soul and leaving a hunger in its place that would make a famine feel like a feast. I would break every bone in your body and remake them in my own image."
"Do it. I wantâneed you to do it,â you weep, the words a gush of joyous relief. "Please, Vi. Break me."
You crawl the remaining distance and press your cheek against the hard, cold leather of her boot. You inhale the scent of earth and grave dirt and something uniquely her. You close your eyes. "Let me be your feast. Let me be the gluttonous meal youâve been dreaming of. I want to feel you rip me apart, eat your fill and then stuff your face deeper into my cunt for more."
Silence. It stretches, thick and suffocating. You fear she will simply kick you aside and leave. Then, you feel her boot shift, pressing slightly against your temple. A pressure that is both a warning and an anchor.
You lift your head. Her face is a mask of warring desires, fury warring with a desperate, bone-deep need.
You listen, squirming to your feet to level both of your faces. She still has to look down on you, always a looming reminder that she is better than you. Her fingers, long and pale, close around your offered wrist. Her touch is colder than death itself. She pulls you to closer with an inexorable strength that sends a thrill through you.
"You want this?" she whispers, her voice a venomous caress. "You want to be my sustenance? My meal for all eternity?"
"Yes." You say breathless.
You see the resolve in her eyes harden, like black ice. This is not seduction. This is predation. With a sharp, decisive tug, she brings your wrist to her lips. There is no tender kiss, no gentle press of teeth. It is a violent, puncturing agony. Her fangs sink deep, a clean, perfect violation of your flesh, and you cry out, a sound indecisive of pain and ecstasy.
The initial rush is electric. A flash of white-hot fire that races up your arm and detonates behind your eyes. Then comes the pull. It is a slow, deep suction, a hollowing sensation. You feel yourself draining away, not just the physical fluid but something essential, your very vitality, flowing from you into her. Your knees buckle, but her grip on your wrist is unbreakable, holding you upright. She is forcing you to watch your own execution.
She drinks, her throat working, a delicate flutter of motion at odds with the brutal act. You watch your own life's stain darken her lips, a ruby gloss. Her eyelids flutter closed, a sigh of unadulterated relief escaping her. The lines of hunger on her face soften, replaced by a terrifying peace. Her drinking gets sloppy. Some of your blood seeps from the corner of her lips, painting your arm with a deep red. She takes three more gulps, as itâs noticeable with the size of her puffed cheeks.
"There. Now you understand," she breathes, pulling back just enough to speak. She licks a stray drop of crimson from the corner of her mouth, completely ignoring the red mess on her bottom lip and chin. Her tongue is impossibly pink against her skin, a brief showing of human-likeness. You watch her swallow, your life passing down her throat. Her grip on your wrist tightens, her thumb pressing into your palm, a possessive caress that says mine. âYou have no idea what this is really doing to your body. How Iâve changed it.â she purrs, her gaze dropping to the apex of your thighs.
Her free hand slides from your shoulder, down your ribcage, her cool touch a brand even through the thin cotton of your chemise. Her fingers trace the curve of your hip, then ghost over the damp heat between your legs. The touch is so light, so fleeting, it makes you gasp.
"A poor substitute," she murmurs, her voice vibrating against your skin, "but a worthy appetizer."
She kneels before you. The sight is so profane it makes your head swim. Vi, the cruel, untouchable immortal, on her knees before a dying human. She lifts the hem of your chemise, her hands flat against your thighs, pushing the fabric up, up, until it bares you completely to her gaze. The cold air licks at your slick skin, and you shiver.
She looks up at you, her eyes twin pools of darkness holding a pinpoint of red light at their centers. She still has your blood on her chin. "I am going to eat this dripping, wet little part of you,â she says âand I am not going to stop until I have had my fill.â She doesn't wait for a response.
Her mouth is on you, a shocking cold and wet pressure. This is no tentative exploration. This is a gluttonous act of consumption. Her tongue is a firm, invasive blade, licking up the length of your slit and swirling around your quivering clit. She is tasting you, feasting on you as ravenously as she did your wrist. She is not making love to you; she is feeding. And you are a banquet.
Your hands fly to her hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands, not to guide her but to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation. You cry out as her fangs graze the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, a sharp, pricking tease that promises more, promises the final release.
"Please," you gasp, the word torn from your throat. "Please, Vi."
She hums against you, the vibration a deep, resonant thrum that shoots straight to your core. She eats you with a focused, terrifying intensity. Her lips seal around your clit, her tongue working in ruthless, steady circles. This is not about your pleasure; it is about her consumption. Yet the ripples of pleasure that course through you are undeniable, a byproduct of her voracious hunger. You are nothing more than a feast, and the sheer bliss of being devoured by her is enough to make you shudder. You can feel your slickness smeared across her cheeks and chin, mixing with the drying blood. The thought makes you dizzy with want.
She pushes one long finger inside you, then another. The stretch is immediate, a cool, insistent pressure against your overheated walls. She curls them just so, finding that spot that makes you see stars, that makes you buck your hips against her face. The heel of her hand grinds against the bone, a constant, possessive pressure. She is fucking you with her fingers, but it feels like she is carving a new space for herself within you, claiming you from the inside out. You are a carcass being hollowed out and she is the scavenger. Every stroke of her tongue is a declaration that she owns this part of you. Your entire body is tensing, winding tighter and tighter, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. The edges of your vision blur. Your breathing is ragged, shallow gasps. This is what it is to be unmade. This is the glorious, terrifying oblivion you have craved.
And just as you're about to hurtle over the edge, she pulls away.
The sudden absence of her mouth is a cold shock. You whimper at the loss, your hips still canting forward in a desperate, silent plea. She lifts, her head dangerously close to yours. She leans in until you both share the same air, and your eyes dilate at the smeared blood on her lower face. Now, itâs your blood and arousal smeared across it, around her cheeks, both her lips, and over majority of her chin. You knees buckle once you see the blood mixed with your release drip from her chin to her sternum, a drop slow and thick like molasses falling off a plate.
Her slender fingers rest at the hair above the meal between your legs, tracing a pattern between the tight curls.
Vi, her voice grainy, says, âYou are not cumming until I say so.â
Her command is a shock to your system, the coil in your belly winding even tighter in her absence.
Her glare stops you. A single movement from her slender fingers and your vision goes white, legs twitching from the sudden jolt of pleasure. Itâs too much but not nearly enough. She had been gentle the last few moments but now it is a punishment. âYou donât address me so informally. You understand, dear?â She asks, her fingers curling upwards into your body.
A sob, "Yes, I'm sorry, I understand. My lady."
âGood.â She pulls her fingers out of you, admiring the thick slick that strings from your pussy to her knuckles. She brings her fingers to her own lips, her gaze locked onto yours, and cleans them off with her tongue. Her eyes flutter closed, as if your taste on its own is the most exquisite ambrosia. A sigh escapes her; long, deep, filled with absolute want.
"You are wasted on the world," she breathes, her words a chilling compliment. "Such a succulent thing. But all this flesh," her other hand rests on your waist, fingers digging into the softness there, "is fragile. A temporary vessel for the truly delectable parts. You have to be prepared to carve it away. To get to the meal."
Her words make your body flush hot with a shameful, dark excitement. You are a slab of meat, something to be prepared and consumed. Nothing but the main course on a fine platter, presented for her pleasure.
Her gaze drops to your parted lips. She looks at your mouth as if she is a butcher eyeing a particularly choice cut. She leans in, her breath cool against your lips. It smells of iron and you. Her tongue traces the line of your bottom lip, a wet, possessive stripe.
It is a violent collision. Her lips are cold but possess an unnatural heat, a friction that burns. She doesn't ask for entry, she takes it. Her tongue plunges into your mouth, and you are instantly drowning in the taste of your own lifeblood, coppery and sharp and intoxicatingly her. She feeds it to you, forcing the metallic tang against your own tongue, making you swallow it down. Your body, so weakened from the feeding, shudders with the violation. It's a second violation. She has claimed your blood, and now she is claiming the memory of it, making you a participant in your own consumption.
A moan escapes your throat, muffled against her devouring mouth. Her hands are everywhere, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, dragging her nails down your back. It is a frenzy of claiming, of marking. She is leaving her scent, her essence, her very will upon you.
"You are hungry," she whispers against your lips, her own slick with your combined fluids and your blood. Her fingers return to the heat between your legs, but this time there is no preamble. She thrusts two fingers inside you with a brutal grace. You cry out, the sound lost in her devouring kiss. She scissors her fingers, stretching you, preparing the feast. "Your body is screaming for sustenance. Can you feel it? That hollow ache in your gut? That's the hunger."
You do. A deep, gnawing emptiness has taken root where the pleasure was building. It is a thirst that no water can quench, a hunger that no food can satisfy. Her fingers begin to move, a slow, deep rhythm that is at once a promise and a threat. Each stroke is a deliberate act of hollowing you out, making more room for the emptiness she has just described. Her thumb circles your clit, a slow, maddening pressure that keeps you balanced on a razor's edge of release without ever letting you fall.
"That's the start of the rot, my dear," she breathes, her voice a low, seductive murmur. "The decay of your mortal self. Embrace it."
Her pace quickens, her fingers plunging deeper, harder. The wet, sucking sounds of your body accepting her intrusion are obscene, a testament to your utter surrender. You are a thing to be used, a vessel for her pleasure and her hunger. The thought makes you dizzy with a dark, shameful joy.
"Tell me you feel it," she commands, her thumb pressing harder on your clit, a firm, possessive weight. "Tell me how much you need this."
"I need it," you gasp, the words torn from your throat. "I need you. Please, Viâmy lady. Please."
Her other hand leaves your breast and tangles in your hair, her grip tightening. She yanks your head to the side, baring the vulnerable column of your throat. Her teeth scrape against the sensitive skin, a teasing, terrifying promise. You can feel the ghost of her fangs, the potential for a final, perfect puncture.
"Do you want to feel my teeth here?" she purrs, her lips brushing against your pulse point. "Do you want me to sink them in and drain you dry?"
"Yes," you sob. "Yes, please."
She laughs, a dark, musical sound that vibrates through you. "Not yet. Not until you are truly empty. Until you are begging for the gift of damnation."
Her words are a fresh wave of agony and ecstasy. She is toying with you, drawing out your anticipation, savoring your desperation. She is a master of her craft, and you are her canvas, her medium, her masterpiece. You grind with the rhythm of her thrust into you, hips bucking with every lurch forward. Your cries are like hiccups, your lips pouty. You lick your lips, taste copper, and then bite your lower lip. The constant abuse of all your senses with your own life fluid makes your toes curl.
Violets traitorous eyes watch your eyelashes flutter, watch every sharp intake of breath you have from her doing. Then, her fangs hover over the pulse point of your neck once more, and you can hear her own ragged breathing despite the obscene squelch sound poisoning the air around you. She licks your skin, and your whole body tenses as you expect the bite, the final, perfect violation, but she pulls back again with a smug smirk.
"I want to see your face when you shatter for me," she growls, and that is the only warning you get before her mouth attacks yours again.
The copper tang is more pronounced now, a deep, metallic sea in which you're about to drown. She kisses you with renewed vigor, her lips and tongue a whirlwind of consumption. She isn't just tasting you; she's demanding that you taste yourself, that you taste your impending end. She is shoving her tongue down your throat, your own blood spilling onto your tastebuds. Her fingers inside you curl up again, hitting that spot deep within that turns your spine to liquid fire. Your climax roars through you like a physical force, a tidal wave of pure sensation that makes your entire body convulse. Your back arches off the bed, your toes curl so tightly they cramp, and a raw, ragged scream tears from your throat, muffled by her unforgiving kiss. Your pussy spasms around her fingers, a desperate clenching orgasm that seems to last an eternity. You feel a gush of warmth as you cum, a final offering of slickness for her to consume. Wave after wave of white-hot pleasure crashes over you, and in its wake, it leaves you hollowed out, trembling, and utterly spent.
Yet, Vi keeps devouring. Her fingers never let up, and angles them before she sticks a third finger in. You yelp, your head falling on hers, your forehead resting on her cheek. It doesnât last long though, as she continues to curl her fingers her head dips to your neck again, and her fangs puncture that pulse point sheâs been teasing. You mewl at the sudden loss of blood again, the pleasure and pain a nauseatingly beautiful cocktail. The flow of your blood isn't strong, just a deep, steady pull that draws more of the life out of you. Your consciousness begins to fray at the edges, the room blurring into a swirl of grey shapes and violet shadows.
Her lips, stained with a darker shade of red than before, part from your skin. She whispers, her words buzzing around you like flies around a carcass, "Can you taste it?"
She brings her free wrist, the one not buried inside your aching heat, to her own mouth. She bites down, sharp and quick, tearing a gash in her own pale flesh. Darker, richer blood, almost black in the dim light, wells up. Then, she presses that bleeding wrist against your lips.
"Drink," she commands, her voice a silken thread laced with iron. "Taste the sin."
You don't hesitate. You open your mouth, and the thick, cold liquid fills your senses. It's like swallowing liquid night, a taste so ancient and profound it reconfigures your entire understanding of flavor. It's earthy and metallic, like old coins and fresh-dug graves, with a strange, sweet aftertise that is both repulsive and utterly addictive. It coats your tongue, your throat, and you drink, your body convulsing with a mixture of revulsion and a craving that eclipses every other hunger you have ever known. This is the real feast. This is the flavor of damnation. Your blood had been a cheap appetizer; hers is the main course, the meal for which you will always hunger.
As you swallow, her other fingers inside you begin to piston with a brutal, relentless rhythm. Your body, betrayed and broken, responds with a spasm of pleasure that is so intense it borders on agony. You orgasm again, a sharp, violent peak, but it's different this time. The pleasure is tinged with the coppery taste of her eternal life, the cold fire of her blood burning through your veins. You feel the last vestiges of your mortality, your weak, pathetic human fears, being seared away, replaced by a single, all-consuming need: more.
The gash in her wrist closes, the flesh knitting together almost instantly. She pulls her hand away, leaving you gasping, a thin thread of her blood connecting her skin to your lip before it snaps. A dark smear stains your chin. You are no longer human.
"It will be easier now," Vi says, her crimson-stained lips twisting into a smile that is both triumphant and terribly, terribly hungry. The look in her eyes is no longer that of a predator with a cornered meal, but of a master chef eyeing a prime cut of meat, preparing to butcher it for a feast. You limp against her sides for a couple second, your consciousness fleeting away from you despite the will in your breathing heart. Vi doesnât get startled, she expected it.
When she hears the change in your breathing signaling you waking back up, she speaks. "You are empty now," she says, her fingers finally withdrawing from you. The sudden emptiness feels vast and cavernous. "Awaiting provisions. And I," she adds, her gaze sweeping over your trembling, sweat-slicked form, "am a ravenous thing."
You push yourself up, your arms trembling with a weakness that is both familiar and horrifyingly new. The world swims back into focus, but it is a different world. The dust motes no longer dance in the moonlight; they hover, each one a tiny, perfect sphere of light. The grain of the wooden floor is a detailed topographical map. The sound of your own blood, sluggish and cold, pumping through your new veins is a dull, distant thunder. And then you look at her.
She is⊠glorious. She isn't the beautiful monster you knew before; she is the only source of light and heat in a universe of cold, precise detail. The shadows are no longer clinging to her; they are bowing to her, bending in reverence. The faint, coppery scent of her is a symphony, a promise of endless, intoxicating nights. You don't need to see them to know her fangs are extended, her body humming with a dark, potent energy that calls to the fledgling darkness inside you. That emptiness she carved into you is no longer a void of hunger; it is a vessel, prepared for an eternal feast. That gnawing ache you feel now is not your own. You realize with a jolt that it is the echo of her hunger, an empathetic pang drawn from the blood bond between you.
"Violet," you breathe her name, the sound an unthinking prayer. The name itself feels like a sacrament on your tongue.
She moves, a fluid, effortless motion that is inhumanly fast, and she is kneeling again, not in supplication, but in position to begin carving her feast. Her hands are cool on your thighs, her touch possessive, proprietary. But you are too slow to realize what is happening, the blood-loss still affecting your new, fragile systems.
A sharp, sudden cold blossoms on your chest, just above your breast. You look down. A small, perfectly round bead of your own lifeblood, dark as a ruby in the moonlight, sits welling up from a tiny puncture. It is from the sharpened tip of her fingernail. She lifts her finger to her own lips, her eyes closing as she tastes the single, crimson jewel.
"Matured slightly," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. "A more complex vintage. Less fear, more⊠surrender."
The sight of her tasting you, of her analyzing your blood as if it were fine wine, sends a shudder through your entire body. You watch as the small wound on your chest begins to heal, the flesh already knitting itself together, the crimson bead receding back into your skin. The cold inside you deepens, but it is no longer a chill. It is a new state of being. It is a state of being hers.
"Thank you," you whisper, your voice a fragile thing. The words are insufficient, a flimsy bandage for a gaping wound of devotion. You surge forward, wrapping your arms around her neck, burying your face in the crook of her shoulder.
She is utterly, profoundly cold. Her body is not the temperature of a living being; it is the temperature of a stone kept in perpetual darkness. The cold seeps through your thin chemise, into your very bones, a chilling embrace that feels more real, more grounding than any warmth you have ever known. It feels like coming home. She is your tomb. Your salvation.
This is the moment, you think. The final, absolute proof of your creation. Your arms lock around her, a desperate, crushing embrace. She is your anchor in the sudden, terrifying sea of your new senses. You want to crawl inside her skin, to live in the hollow of her bones, to be so completely a part of her that there is no difference between where you end and she begins.
âThank you so much, my love,â you confess. Violet smirks, and kisses you with blood-stained lips on your forehead. Her fingers hold peace tangled in your tight, curly black hair, her glare sated boring into your dark brown eyes.
Your hold tightens as a sob builds in your chest, a convulsive, wracking thing. You bury your face deeper into her shoulder, muffling the sound against the cold, smooth skin of her neck. The sobs are not those of sorrow or regret, but of a terrible, overwhelming fulfillment. You have been remade in her image. You are hers. You will spend eternity at her side, worshipping her with a devotion that even she cannot comprehend. This is heaven. This is hell. This is everything.
She lets you cling to her for a long moment, a statue permitting a bird to rest upon its shoulder. Her hands are still at your sides, not returning your embrace, but not pushing you away either. It is a familiar indifference, but now, instead of stinging, it feels like a benediction. Her permission to worship is the only thing you have ever needed.
Finally, her grip shifts, her fingers pressing gently into your scalp, a silent command. You pull back, your face wet with tears you don't remember shedding. Your vision, preternaturally sharp, takes in every detail of her. The dusting of dried blood at the corner of her mouth. The faint, purple bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes. The way a single stray lock of her black hair falls over one perfect eyebrow. You commit it all to memory, to be replayed for centuries.
"There," she says, her voice a low, husky whisper. "That's better." Her thumb comes up to wipe a tear track from your cheek, her touch impossibly cold against your newly cooled skin. "None of that. We have eternity to fill with more interesting pursuits than mortal sentimentality."
You nod, trying to compose yourself, to be worthy of this gift she has bestowed upon you.
"My love..." you begin, your voice trembling. "What happens now?"
Her lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. "Now? Now you learn."
You follow her down the grand, decaying staircase, your bare feet silent on the cold stone. The world is no longer a muted palette of browns and greys. It is alive with textures you'd never perceived. The dust on the banister is not a uniform film but a galaxy of minuscule motes, each one a tiny, perfect world. The flickering candlelight in the hall doesn't just illuminate; it sculpts the shadows, turning them into dancing, malevolent creatures that bow in her presence.
