🍃🌬️

The book called him "The Lord of Blackwood", a vampire of immense age and power, who had withdrawn from the world centuries ago. The description was vague, but it mentioned something about eyes that held the weight of eternity.

So, you decided to test the waters the next morning. Approaching an old woman who ran an antique shop, her knowledge of the town's history was as vast as you could dream of. You walked into the shop under the guise of 'shopping'.

She looks up from polishing a silver locket. "Can I help you, dear?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about Blackwood Manor just outside of town? The history seems so fascinating."

Her friendly demeanor vanishes instantly, putting down the locket so sharply you were afraid she might've broken it.

"We don't ask questions like that here."

Over the next week, you ask others — the postman, the baker, the farmer on the edge of town — and their answers were always the same. A nervous glance, a hurried change of subject with intelligible mumbling, or a warning not to speak his name here.

But of course, you didn't listen. They knew you wouldn't. They even started planning a funeral in your name without your knowledge.

You decided to pack a small bag that weekend, full of a change of clothes, a lantern, a notebook, and some fruit. You take the old path leading out of town, the dirt road almost completely covered by long-term abandonment. The woods are dense and quiet, the canopy thick enough to block out most of the moonlight, and the air grows colder.

After an hour of aching steps, you push aside a final, low-hanging branch. And there it stood before you. A monolith of dark stone against the dark blue sky, all sharp angles and towering spires. It wasn't as ominous and scary-looking as you thought.

No light shone against the windows, and the path to the front door was overgrown with thorny vines that snagged your clothes as you pushed forward. The massive, iron-branded door looked like it hadn't been opened in forever.

You take a deep breath and raise your hand, your knuckles hesitating for just a second before connecting to the metal. The knock echoed into the silence behind the door, and for a long moment, there was nothing. You hoped you didn't walk all this way for nothing.

But then the door groaned inward on its own, the sound a deep, weary sigh. It hadn't been locked. You then pushed with all your might, the heavy door moving inch by agonizing inch until there was just enough space for you to slip through.

The air inside was still and cold, carrying the scent of old dust, dried herbs, and something metallic, maybe blood or iron.

The grand foyer was vast, and the moonlight from the open door sliced through the darkness. It fell across portraits in gilded frames — faces from centuries past; their eyes seemed to follow you as you descended into the castle. Your lantern aids your vision, glinting off a suit of armor as you pass by, a marble statue, then a collection of ancient-looking urns.

"Hello? I'm looking for the one they call... Michael?"

Your voice doesn't echo, but is swallowed by the immense silence. You take another few cautious steps forward, your heart beating loudly in your eardrums.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the grand staircase. It was tall, impossibly so, and moved with a silence that was more unnerving than any kind of footstep. His voice is smooth as velvet, yet cold as it suddenly spoke from behind you. "You have a great deal of nerve coming here. Or a death wish. Which is it?"

You spin around quickly, the fire in your lantern highlighting his features, sharp and pale. You nearly drop the damn thing. "I was looking for you—"

"Why?" His voice sounded more like an order than a question as he took a step closer. You felt your blood run cold, and your voice trembled slightly.

"Because... the books. The stories. They couldn't all be wrong. I had to see for myself."

A faint, cold smile touches his lips. "See what? If the monster under the bed is real? You risk your life for a child's curiosity."

"Not exactly from a child's curiosity, but a scholar's. I've studied your kind, and I believe there's more to you than the stories of monsters."

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh that doesn't reach his eyes; his voice is full of mockery. "A scholar. How quaint. And what do your 'studies' tell you I am?" He circles you slowly, and the air grows colder with his proximity. He smelled faintly of wine and old wood, acquainted by faint ash.

You swallow hard as you try to keep your head upright, keeping eye contact as he passes by. "They tell me you value truth, given your own collections and studies. I thought maybe you'd appreciate someone who actually wants to learn, rather than just scream and run at the sight of you."

He stops his circling, now standing directly in front of you. "Appreciate? You think I crave the company of morals?"

"No, but I'd assume a life without interaction would be rather lonely." You try to shrug and laugh, but he continues to stare at you with an unreadable expression. Only continuing the conversation when you fixed your face. He reaches out to touch you, but gently taps at the cover of the notebook sticking out of your bag.

"Your book is full of little fairytales."

You lift your chin, "It's not a book of fairytales. It's full of records with history you left behind. I know you're not the mindless beasts people make you out to be."

"You think you can trace all my steps through history?"

"No, but I could with your firsthand account."

He turns and walks toward the grand staircase, his back to you. "Firsthand account?" He glances over his shoulder. "You want an interview with a vampire?" (haha get it?)

You stay in the same spot, but your voice elevates slightly. "I told you. I'm a scholar. I want to understand."

He turns around and moves back towards you. A slight, genuine smile — the first one you've seen — curves his lips. He stops an arm's length away, his head tilted. "Understanding is a dangerous thing to seek from you. Knowledge has a price."

"I'm willing to pay it."

The weeks turned into months, and your visits to Blackwood Manor became a nightly ritual. The intimidating foyer soon felt familiar, the shadows less threatening, and they were now clean from age and dust, thanks to you.

Michael's library became your home. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books you were sure existed in places you couldn't bear to think of, and he would watch you — sometimes for hours — as you pored over ancient texts you could barely read yet.

He leaned against the bookshelf, using his nail to pick the human flesh from his teeth, clothes still slightly blood-stained from his hunting. But he did clean up the best that he could, out of respect for you. He didn't want to scare you away just yet.

"Your fascination with the Venetian plague is... odd."

"It's all the eyewitness accounts." You mutter, not looking up from the fragile pages. "I mean, you lived through it. What was it really like?"

"Messy. You humans are so terribly fragile."

"You were a human once. Weren't you?" The silence that followed your question was deafening, aside from the soft crackle of the grand fireplace.

He pushed off the bookshelf, his movements slower than usual.

He walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames before resting his back against the stone. "Yes. I was. A very, very long time ago." He paused for a moment, as if it was difficult to remember how life was before his transformation.

You closed the book fully in your lap, giving him your full attention. "Do you miss it?"

He lets out a short, sharp breath, almost a laugh. "The sickness, the fragility, the inevitable decay? No."

He pauses, his gaze now at the expensive rug beneath him. "But.. I do miss the sun. Cherishing the days well-lived. I used to get the best sleep.

And I do miss the family I had."

He pushed away from the mantle, turning to face you fully, but the vulnerability in his voice was now gone. "But don't romanticize it. What I am now," he gestures vaguely around the vast library. "This is freedom. Of a sort."

You stand up, taking a tentative step toward him. "Sounds lonely."

His eyes narrow, but there's no real anger to them. "Lonely is a human concept. I would say that we're patient."

"You've been patient for centuries. That's a long time to be alone."

"Who said I was alone?"

You give him a knowing look, your arms crossing over your chest, and he chuckles. "You ask a lot of questions under the ruse of a 'scholar'."

"You keep inviting me back. So you must not mind them too much."

A slow smile finally touches his lips. "I don't." He glances toward the tall library windows. "It's nearly dawn. You should stay. The spare room is yours, as always."

He turns and walks toward the door, his cape whispering against the cold stone floor. He pauses at the threshold for a moment, bidding you goodnight before the heavy door clicks shut.

The next few nights progressed this way. Your conversations linger later, the topics drifting from history to philosophy, and then to the small absurd details of your moral life that seem to fascinate him somehow.

Tonight, you find him not in the library, but in a solarium you'd never noticed before, full of meticulously preserved plants that should've died a long time ago. You never thought of him as having a green thumb. "A habit from another life," he says. Some routines were harder to shed than others, but it didn't make him any less admirable. You reach out to touch one of the leaves he was catering to, your fingers brushing against his as your thumb traces over the petal.

He doesn't pull his hand away; instead, he turns his hand, his cool fingers lightly tracing the line of your wrist. "Your pulse is fast. Even after all these months, are you still afraid of me?"

"No. Not afraid."

"Then what is it?"

His dark eyes hold yours, and you could feel your breath catch. You couldn't find the words to describe how you felt. Let alone a vampire. But you knew that wasn't how you saw him anymore. He wasn't dangerous, nor a monster. He's gentle, kind, more than any human could be.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can hear it, you know. The shift in your heartbeat."

"Does it bother you, Michael?"

The space between you vanishes, and he closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that's so soft, it almost feels airy. His lips were curious against yours, a taste so sweet, you could easily fall addicted to the drug of him.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts his cold skin. His breath ghosts against your lips before deepening the kiss. His other hand slides to the small of your back, pressing you flush against the unyielding coolness of his body, which never seemed to warm against yours. He didn't mind your warmth, though. You felt like sunshine against his skin, inviting him with want and endless curiosity.

In a fluid motion, he lifts you into his arms, and the castle blurs for a moment as he carries you from the solarium through the corridors.

He lays you down upon the vast expanse of his bed, the black silk sheets slippery beneath you as they ground you from your slight dizziness. The room is lit only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the left side of his bedroom.

He kneels over, caging you in, his dark eyes burning with undeniable hunger and desire. A look both thrilling and terrifying.

"Are you sure you want this with me? Truly."

You reach up, your fingers tracing over the sharp line of his jaw, tucking stray strands of hair behind his ear. "I've never wanted anything more."

A low groan rumbles in his chest as he lowers himself to kiss you again, peppering soft kisses downward as his lips find the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath catches as he sucks on the dip of your collarbone. A soft moan escapes you as his mouth finds a sensitive spot against your sternum, your back arching off the silk sheets.

He pulls back slightly, his breathing unsteady — something you thought was impossible with him. And you could feel the tension coiled in his body. His fangs, which you've only seen in glimpses, are a subtle pressure against the skin of your stomach as he kisses his way lower.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the simple fabric of your dress higher, exposing you to the room's chilling air. He moves down your body with a reverence that steals your breath more than you thought. His lips brush against the inside of your thigh as your fingers tangle in the smooth sheets.

It seems like forever before his tongue dances on the fabric over your clit, clear with intention as you feel his fingers hesitantly pulling against the waistband over your panties.

You become breathless, your hips lifting in silent invitation. "Michael, you're teasing. Please."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly, deliberately, slides them down your legs. The air feels sharp against your core, now soaked with arousal. He lowers his head again, his tongue tracing wet circles against your slit. The sensation was almost too much. You could feel his teeth as he suckled and kissed on your bundle of nerves, and his cold breath ghosts over you, making you shudder slightly.

You cry out as his slender tongue slowly fucks your entrance, tasting you with the focus of a connoisseur, each thrust and flick and kiss a slow, aching torture. A string of pleas falls from your lips as he groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

His fingers join his mouth, a finger sliding inside you in a way that brings spots to your vision, the dual sensation overwhelming the heat building in your stomach. He looks up to watch your sweet reactions, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "Is this what you thought would happen when you knocked on my door, scholar? To come apart on my tongue? Is this what you wanted?"

You can only manage a frantic nod, your hands fisting in his dark hair. "D-Don't stop."

His pace quickens, his tongue circling your clit relentlessly while his fingers curl inside you. Your orgasm washes over you unbearably fast, and you feel his fangs brush against your inner thigh, a sharp threat amidst the bliss. Your vision grows white, and your body trembles uncontrollably against the silk.

He gentles his movements, drawing out the last shudders of your release with a soft, lingering kiss over the same spot as your inner thigh.

He moves back up your body and hovers above you, his gaze dark as he brushes a damp curl from your forehead. His touch is tender as he kisses you, the taste of your orgasm still fresh on his tongue. His bulge presses against your thigh, so undeniably hard and prominent, even through his trousers.

You reach between you, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his pants.

He guides himself to your entrance once you free him, the tip of his dick a slick, hot pressure against you. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper as his slow thrust steals the air from your lungs. He stills, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours. You couldn't contain the small pants falling from your lips; it felt like he was splitting you open, and he hadn't even moved yet.

He begins to move, each thrust a rolling movement that pulls your mouth agape, a silent scream as he kisses your cervix. His lips find your neck again, his tongue tracing the frantic pulse there. "You smell so sweet. Practically screaming for me, sweetheart."

You tilt your head back, baring your throat to him in absolute surrender, and it seemed like all of his control frayed at the edges, deteriorating with every moan against his ear.

Then a sharp, sudden pain of his fangs piercing your skin is eclipsed instantly by a wave of euphoria. It became a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, a dizzying rush that syncs perfectly with the fast rhythm of his hips. His mouth is sealed against your throat, a low, continuous moan vibrating through you as he drinks you in.

Your body instinctively jerks against him, your hands flying to his abdomen, but he captures your wrists, pinning them to your chest as he fucks you senseless.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax and take what I give you."

The dual sensations of the intimate fullness of his dick moving within yours and the deep, pulling ecstasy of the bite bring you to your orgasm simultaneously. It is a silent, yet hot convulsion of pleasure, lasting longer than usual as he follows closely behind you.

He holds you there for a moment, his body draped over yours before letting your wrists go, lapping gently at the small wounds on your neck. You drift into an exhausted sleep as you wrap your arms around him, the taste of metal and dizziness on your tongue.

You wake to the soft kisses on your cheek, the curtains now closed as they concealed the grey light of pre-dawn light filtering slightly at the edges. His voice is a low murmur next to your ear, his arm a heavy weight across your waist. "Good morning. Or what passes for morning here."

"Did I pass out?"

A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest. "You did. I may have done too much."

You shift slightly, feeling a pleasant ache in your muscles and the faint mark on your neck. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's the price I'm willing to pay."

The book called him "The Lord of Blackwood", a vampire of immense age and power, who had withdrawn from the world centuries ago. The description was vague, but it mentioned something about eyes that held the weight of eternity.

So, you decided to test the waters the next morning. Approaching an old woman who ran an antique shop, her knowledge of the town's history was as vast as you could dream of. You walked into the shop under the guise of 'shopping'.

She looks up from polishing a silver locket. "Can I help you, dear?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about Blackwood Manor just outside of town? The history seems so fascinating."

Her friendly demeanor vanishes instantly, putting down the locket so sharply you were afraid she might've broken it.

"We don't ask questions like that here."

Over the next week, you ask others — the postman, the baker, the farmer on the edge of town — and their answers were always the same. A nervous glance, a hurried change of subject with intelligible mumbling, or a warning not to speak his name here.

But of course, you didn't listen. They knew you wouldn't. They even started planning a funeral in your name without your knowledge.

You decided to pack a small bag that weekend, full of a change of clothes, a lantern, a notebook, and some fruit. You take the old path leading out of town, the dirt road almost completely covered by long-term abandonment. The woods are dense and quiet, the canopy thick enough to block out most of the moonlight, and the air grows colder.

After an hour of aching steps, you push aside a final, low-hanging branch. And there it stood before you. A monolith of dark stone against the dark blue sky, all sharp angles and towering spires. It wasn't as ominous and scary-looking as you thought.

No light shone against the windows, and the path to the front door was overgrown with thorny vines that snagged your clothes as you pushed forward. The massive, iron-branded door looked like it hadn't been opened in forever.

You take a deep breath and raise your hand, your knuckles hesitating for just a second before connecting to the metal. The knock echoed into the silence behind the door, and for a long moment, there was nothing. You hoped you didn't walk all this way for nothing.

But then the door groaned inward on its own, the sound a deep, weary sigh. It hadn't been locked. You then pushed with all your might, the heavy door moving inch by agonizing inch until there was just enough space for you to slip through.

The air inside was still and cold, carrying the scent of old dust, dried herbs, and something metallic, maybe blood or iron.

The grand foyer was vast, and the moonlight from the open door sliced through the darkness. It fell across portraits in gilded frames — faces from centuries past; their eyes seemed to follow you as you descended into the castle. Your lantern aids your vision, glinting off a suit of armor as you pass by, a marble statue, then a collection of ancient-looking urns.

"Hello? I'm looking for the one they call... Michael?"

Your voice doesn't echo, but is swallowed by the immense silence. You take another few cautious steps forward, your heart beating loudly in your eardrums.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the grand staircase. It was tall, impossibly so, and moved with a silence that was more unnerving than any kind of footstep. His voice is smooth as velvet, yet cold as it suddenly spoke from behind you. "You have a great deal of nerve coming here. Or a death wish. Which is it?"

You spin around quickly, the fire in your lantern highlighting his features, sharp and pale. You nearly drop the damn thing. "I was looking for you—"

"Why?" His voice sounded more like an order than a question as he took a step closer. You felt your blood run cold, and your voice trembled slightly.

"Because... the books. The stories. They couldn't all be wrong. I had to see for myself."

A faint, cold smile touches his lips. "See what? If the monster under the bed is real? You risk your life for a child's curiosity."

"Not exactly from a child's curiosity, but a scholar's. I've studied your kind, and I believe there's more to you than the stories of monsters."

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh that doesn't reach his eyes; his voice is full of mockery. "A scholar. How quaint. And what do your 'studies' tell you I am?" He circles you slowly, and the air grows colder with his proximity. He smelled faintly of wine and old wood, acquainted by faint ash.

You swallow hard as you try to keep your head upright, keeping eye contact as he passes by. "They tell me you value truth, given your own collections and studies. I thought maybe you'd appreciate someone who actually wants to learn, rather than just scream and run at the sight of you."

He stops his circling, now standing directly in front of you. "Appreciate? You think I crave the company of morals?"

"No, but I'd assume a life without interaction would be rather lonely." You try to shrug and laugh, but he continues to stare at you with an unreadable expression. Only continuing the conversation when you fixed your face. He reaches out to touch you, but gently taps at the cover of the notebook sticking out of your bag.

"Your book is full of little fairytales."

You lift your chin, "It's not a book of fairytales. It's full of records with history you left behind. I know you're not the mindless beasts people make you out to be."

"You think you can trace all my steps through history?"

"No, but I could with your firsthand account."

He turns and walks toward the grand staircase, his back to you. "Firsthand account?" He glances over his shoulder. "You want an interview with a vampire?" (haha get it?)

You stay in the same spot, but your voice elevates slightly. "I told you. I'm a scholar. I want to understand."

He turns around and moves back towards you. A slight, genuine smile — the first one you've seen — curves his lips. He stops an arm's length away, his head tilted. "Understanding is a dangerous thing to seek from you. Knowledge has a price."

"I'm willing to pay it."

The weeks turned into months, and your visits to Blackwood Manor became a nightly ritual. The intimidating foyer soon felt familiar, the shadows less threatening, and they were now clean from age and dust, thanks to you.

Michael's library became your home. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books you were sure existed in places you couldn't bear to think of, and he would watch you — sometimes for hours — as you pored over ancient texts you could barely read yet.

He leaned against the bookshelf, using his nail to pick the human flesh from his teeth, clothes still slightly blood-stained from his hunting. But he did clean up the best that he could, out of respect for you. He didn't want to scare you away just yet.

"Your fascination with the Venetian plague is... odd."

"It's all the eyewitness accounts." You mutter, not looking up from the fragile pages. "I mean, you lived through it. What was it really like?"

"Messy. You humans are so terribly fragile."

"You were a human once. Weren't you?" The silence that followed your question was deafening, aside from the soft crackle of the grand fireplace.

He pushed off the bookshelf, his movements slower than usual.

He walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames before resting his back against the stone. "Yes. I was. A very, very long time ago." He paused for a moment, as if it was difficult to remember how life was before his transformation.

You closed the book fully in your lap, giving him your full attention. "Do you miss it?"

He lets out a short, sharp breath, almost a laugh. "The sickness, the fragility, the inevitable decay? No."

He pauses, his gaze now at the expensive rug beneath him. "But.. I do miss the sun. Cherishing the days well-lived. I used to get the best sleep.

And I do miss the family I had."

He pushed away from the mantle, turning to face you fully, but the vulnerability in his voice was now gone. "But don't romanticize it. What I am now," he gestures vaguely around the vast library. "This is freedom. Of a sort."

You stand up, taking a tentative step toward him. "Sounds lonely."

His eyes narrow, but there's no real anger to them. "Lonely is a human concept. I would say that we're patient."

"You've been patient for centuries. That's a long time to be alone."

"Who said I was alone?"

You give him a knowing look, your arms crossing over your chest, and he chuckles. "You ask a lot of questions under the ruse of a 'scholar'."

"You keep inviting me back. So you must not mind them too much."

A slow smile finally touches his lips. "I don't." He glances toward the tall library windows. "It's nearly dawn. You should stay. The spare room is yours, as always."

He turns and walks toward the door, his cape whispering against the cold stone floor. He pauses at the threshold for a moment, bidding you goodnight before the heavy door clicks shut.

The next few nights progressed this way. Your conversations linger later, the topics drifting from history to philosophy, and then to the small absurd details of your moral life that seem to fascinate him somehow.

Tonight, you find him not in the library, but in a solarium you'd never noticed before, full of meticulously preserved plants that should've died a long time ago. You never thought of him as having a green thumb. "A habit from another life," he says. Some routines were harder to shed than others, but it didn't make him any less admirable. You reach out to touch one of the leaves he was catering to, your fingers brushing against his as your thumb traces over the petal.

He doesn't pull his hand away; instead, he turns his hand, his cool fingers lightly tracing the line of your wrist. "Your pulse is fast. Even after all these months, are you still afraid of me?"

"No. Not afraid."

"Then what is it?"

His dark eyes hold yours, and you could feel your breath catch. You couldn't find the words to describe how you felt. Let alone a vampire. But you knew that wasn't how you saw him anymore. He wasn't dangerous, nor a monster. He's gentle, kind, more than any human could be.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can hear it, you know. The shift in your heartbeat."

"Does it bother you, Michael?"

The space between you vanishes, and he closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that's so soft, it almost feels airy. His lips were curious against yours, a taste so sweet, you could easily fall addicted to the drug of him.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts his cold skin. His breath ghosts against your lips before deepening the kiss. His other hand slides to the small of your back, pressing you flush against the unyielding coolness of his body, which never seemed to warm against yours. He didn't mind your warmth, though. You felt like sunshine against his skin, inviting him with want and endless curiosity.

In a fluid motion, he lifts you into his arms, and the castle blurs for a moment as he carries you from the solarium through the corridors.

He lays you down upon the vast expanse of his bed, the black silk sheets slippery beneath you as they ground you from your slight dizziness. The room is lit only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the left side of his bedroom.

He kneels over, caging you in, his dark eyes burning with undeniable hunger and desire. A look both thrilling and terrifying.

"Are you sure you want this with me? Truly."

You reach up, your fingers tracing over the sharp line of his jaw, tucking stray strands of hair behind his ear. "I've never wanted anything more."

A low groan rumbles in his chest as he lowers himself to kiss you again, peppering soft kisses downward as his lips find the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath catches as he sucks on the dip of your collarbone. A soft moan escapes you as his mouth finds a sensitive spot against your sternum, your back arching off the silk sheets.

He pulls back slightly, his breathing unsteady — something you thought was impossible with him. And you could feel the tension coiled in his body. His fangs, which you've only seen in glimpses, are a subtle pressure against the skin of your stomach as he kisses his way lower.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the simple fabric of your dress higher, exposing you to the room's chilling air. He moves down your body with a reverence that steals your breath more than you thought. His lips brush against the inside of your thigh as your fingers tangle in the smooth sheets.

It seems like forever before his tongue dances on the fabric over your clit, clear with intention as you feel his fingers hesitantly pulling against the waistband over your panties.

You become breathless, your hips lifting in silent invitation. "Michael, you're teasing. Please."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly, deliberately, slides them down your legs. The air feels sharp against your core, now soaked with arousal. He lowers his head again, his tongue tracing wet circles against your slit. The sensation was almost too much. You could feel his teeth as he suckled and kissed on your bundle of nerves, and his cold breath ghosts over you, making you shudder slightly.

You cry out as his slender tongue slowly fucks your entrance, tasting you with the focus of a connoisseur, each thrust and flick and kiss a slow, aching torture. A string of pleas falls from your lips as he groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

His fingers join his mouth, a finger sliding inside you in a way that brings spots to your vision, the dual sensation overwhelming the heat building in your stomach. He looks up to watch your sweet reactions, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "Is this what you thought would happen when you knocked on my door, scholar? To come apart on my tongue? Is this what you wanted?"

You can only manage a frantic nod, your hands fisting in his dark hair. "D-Don't stop."

His pace quickens, his tongue circling your clit relentlessly while his fingers curl inside you. Your orgasm washes over you unbearably fast, and you feel his fangs brush against your inner thigh, a sharp threat amidst the bliss. Your vision grows white, and your body trembles uncontrollably against the silk.

He gentles his movements, drawing out the last shudders of your release with a soft, lingering kiss over the same spot as your inner thigh.

He moves back up your body and hovers above you, his gaze dark as he brushes a damp curl from your forehead. His touch is tender as he kisses you, the taste of your orgasm still fresh on his tongue. His bulge presses against your thigh, so undeniably hard and prominent, even through his trousers.

You reach between you, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his pants.

He guides himself to your entrance once you free him, the tip of his dick a slick, hot pressure against you. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper as his slow thrust steals the air from your lungs. He stills, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours. You couldn't contain the small pants falling from your lips; it felt like he was splitting you open, and he hadn't even moved yet.

He begins to move, each thrust a rolling movement that pulls your mouth agape, a silent scream as he kisses your cervix. His lips find your neck again, his tongue tracing the frantic pulse there. "You smell so sweet. Practically screaming for me, sweetheart."

You tilt your head back, baring your throat to him in absolute surrender, and it seemed like all of his control frayed at the edges, deteriorating with every moan against his ear.

Then a sharp, sudden pain of his fangs piercing your skin is eclipsed instantly by a wave of euphoria. It became a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, a dizzying rush that syncs perfectly with the fast rhythm of his hips. His mouth is sealed against your throat, a low, continuous moan vibrating through you as he drinks you in.

Your body instinctively jerks against him, your hands flying to his abdomen, but he captures your wrists, pinning them to your chest as he fucks you senseless.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax and take what I give you."

The dual sensations of the intimate fullness of his dick moving within yours and the deep, pulling ecstasy of the bite bring you to your orgasm simultaneously. It is a silent, yet hot convulsion of pleasure, lasting longer than usual as he follows closely behind you.

He holds you there for a moment, his body draped over yours before letting your wrists go, lapping gently at the small wounds on your neck. You drift into an exhausted sleep as you wrap your arms around him, the taste of metal and dizziness on your tongue.

You wake to the soft kisses on your cheek, the curtains now closed as they concealed the grey light of pre-dawn light filtering slightly at the edges. His voice is a low murmur next to your ear, his arm a heavy weight across your waist. "Good morning. Or what passes for morning here."

"Did I pass out?"

A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest. "You did. I may have done too much."

You shift slightly, feeling a pleasant ache in your muscles and the faint mark on your neck. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's the price I'm willing to pay."

Usually, you wouldn't have a problem with it. You were friends with all of Michael's brothers, not close necessarily, but cordial enough for you to get used to the Jackson charm that all of his siblings exuded onto you. Plus, Jackie was always friendly. That was just who he was.

Soft-spoken, charming, quick to laugh, quick to touch. And, like you said, you normally didn't mind. But something started to feel off. Maybe it was the way his hand lingered around your waist as he gently pulled you closer to tell you a joke, or the way he said your name — warm and teasing — just enough to make your face warm.

Jackie nudged you playfully, laughing at something you barely heard, and you smiled politely. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "See? Told ya you'd have a good time hanging with me. You're not as shy as Mike makes you out to be."

His voice was a friendly, teasing murmur, and his hand lingered on your knee. He gave it a light, playful squeeze that lasted a second too long.

“Nah,” you let out a small chuckle. You try to move away, but his grip on you tightens. Any father and your dress would’ve gone up.

And your dress was rather short. A yellow fitted dress with thigh high boots covering most of the bare skin, except the sliver of your mid thigh. You inhale sharply under his gaze. “I think I’m pretty shy, Sig.”

There was a pause. And his eyes scan you.

"You're real cute, y'know that?"

Your eyes instinctively darted across the room, searching for a familiar silhouette. You found him immediately. Michael was leaning against the doorframe, a glass of water in hand. But he wasn't drinking. The glass had been full since you sat down.

He was perfectly still, his gaze fixed on Jackie's hand on your knee. The relaxed smile he had all evening was now gone, replaced by tight-lipped stillness. Jackie followed your gaze, then chuckled low in his throat. "Ah, don't worry bout him. Big bad Mikey's just protective. Issa brother thing; he’ll be alright."

Jackie's hand slid from your knee to your thigh, and you couldn't help but tense, his touch lingering as he leaned even closer to whisper something in your ear.

But before Jackie could finish his sentence, a shadow fell over the two of you. Michael was suddenly there, having crossed the room faster than you could blink. He stepped between you. "Hey," he said softly, eyes on you. "Come here."

Jackie let out a short, incredulous laugh, leaning back against the cushions. "Man, what? She just chillin'. You jealous or somethin'?"

Michael smacks his teeth. "Ain't nobody worried about you, Jackie." He pointed at you, his voice now sharp with irritation at the thought of repeating himself. "You. Come here."

His hand, warm and firm, closed around your upper arm. It wasn't rough, but it was undeniably firm, leaving no room for argument. Not that you were going to anyway.

He guided you from the sofa through the crowded room. A path seemed to clear for him, the energy of the party dimming slightly in his wake. He led you into the empty, dimly lit kitchen. The sound of the party now became a distant murmur. He finally released your arm, turning to face you.

He ran a hand over his face, the earlier tension still evident in his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... manhandle you."

He leaned back against the kitchen counter while you stayed still, mindlessly twiddling your thumbs as your gaze stuck to your shoes below. "I just didn't like his hands all up on you like that." His voice was low with frustration. And after a few seconds of tension, he pushed himself off the counter, closing the small distance between you. His fingers gently brushed your hip where Jackie's hand had been.

"You're just not his to touch like that."

The possessive tone in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and the air in the kitchen felt thick. His thumb stroked a slow, soothing circle against your side, his eyes slightly lidded as he gazed into yours. "You understand what I'm saying?"

You quickly nodded, your eyes lowering as you traced circles on his clothed chest. "Mike, I didn't mean to —"

"I'm not mad at you, baby. Look at me." His hand moved from your hip to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You know who you're coming home with, right? Exactly. So what makes you think I'd be jealous of Jackie out of all people?"

Regardless of whether it was rhetorical or not, you stayed silent, shrugging your shoulders. And he couldn't help but laugh; a low chuckle vibrated through his chest and into yours. He pulled you in close, his chin resting on the top of your head. Then pulled back just enough to look down at you, his expression softening into tenderness. His thumb brushed a stray curl from your face, his touch impossibly gentle after the sharp intensity of the last few minutes.

"Come on, sweet girl." His voice was a soft murmur. "I wanna take you home."

──── ⌢ ✦ ⌢ ────

You had no idea what happened from the ride from Encino to your shared estate, but all traces of the softness from the kitchen were gone, and the jealousy had boiled over.

His hands gripped your hips, his fingers dug into your skin, coaxing out your desperate whines as his mouth latched onto your abused clit.

The master suite was dark, lit only by a single lamp that cast long, dramatic shadows over the two of you. The large ornate mirror he'd angled reflected the scene on the bed back at you. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you firmly in place as his tongue fucked you through another orgasm with relentless intensity.

"You see that, mama? You're so pretty. Mine to taste. All of you."

A desperate, broken sound escaped you as you tried to squirm away from the oversensitivity, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders, but to no avail.

"Michael, please — I can't anymore.. 's too much —"

He pulled back just enough to speak again, his lips glistening with your arousal, his voice dark and low. "Shh, just trying to prove a point, angel."

Before you could reply, his hands flipped you over onto your stomach with a surprising, fluid strength. The cool duvet was a shock against your heated skin as he positioned you on your knees. One hand spread your thighs apart while the other pressed on your spine, deepening your arch. You couldn't even imagine the mirror's visual. Your arousal is on full display for him, giving him two different angles of comparison.

"Fuck, you made a mess, baby. And you're shaking... Did I do that?"

His voice dripped with faux sympathy. You could barely nod; he fucked you so hard with just his tongue that you hardly had the capacity to register his words. But he knew the answer; he did this on purpose. He loved breaking you off just to prove the point that no one could make you feel like this, regardless of who it was. No man could make you come apart in his hands the same way you did with Michael.

Michael altered your chemistry when it came to your sexual pleasure. Everything surrounding the matter only pointed back to him. You'd only imagine him touching you, tasting you, worshiping you to the point where you couldn't even get remotely close if it wasn't Michael himself overwhelming you with the pleasure only he was capable of giving you. And he knew that. He took pride in it.

He shoved his own underwear off with a relieved sigh, his dick pressed so achingly hard against your clit, he was worried you'd cum again just from the pressure. But he didn't wait to find out. He stretched you out deliciously, pushing into you with a single, deep thrust that stole the air from your lungs. His large hands gripped your hips like vices, his pace punishing from the start.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the quiet room, punctuated by your choked, muffled moans against the pillow.

Poor you, leaving a wet spot on the pillowcase, coating the fabric with spit and tears that couldn't seem to relent, along with Michael's anguish. He's become so caught up in the feeling of your sweet pussy clenching around him that he hasn't realized that you had already come around him seconds ago. Either that, or he didn't seem to care.

He leaned over your back, his chest pressed against you, his mouth close to your ear. "Here, baby, look in the mirror. Look — fuck... Look at me taking what's mine."

Your eyes, hazy with overwhelming pleasure, met his intense haze in the reflection. His eyes were glossed over, and his head fell back. His moans were music to your ears, growing louder and higher in octave as he felt his first orgasm creep in closer than he anticipated.

His rhythm became even more frantic, driven by lingering possession and desperation. "Tell me who you belong to."

The words were a struggle, forced out between sniffles and ragged breaths. "You... Always will be yours, Michael."

He pulled you upright against his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to watch the mirror. The change in position made his thrusts deep and jarring, making you see stars. "Such a sweet girl. So damn pretty. Keep your eyes on me. Mhmm, there we go."

He trailed his arm over you, inching down as his middle finger drew circles on your puffy clit, the sensation mingled with his voice in your ear. Your orgasm crashed over you with a violence that left you trembling and limp in his arms. He held you through it, his own release following with a loud moan of your name.

He stayed buried inside of you for a moment, your shared release spilling out of you and onto both of your thighs. His breathing was harsh against your neck, his body trembling with aftershocks of his climax. He slowly lowered you onto the bed, his body still covering yours.

He then rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were facing each other. The intensity in his eyes had softened, replaced by a sated warmth.

His thumb traced a line of your jaw, his touch reverent as his lips softly kiss away your tears. "Didn't mean to make you cry, baby."

You shrug, "It's alright. You were trying to prove a point."

He then sits up on his elbow, leaning over you as he tucks a strand of messy hair behind your ear. "You’re right," he muttered. "Y'know what that is?"

۶۟ৎ he's the gentlest guy you've ever talked to, and his favorite position is you playing with your pussy wide open in front of the camera.

۶۟ৎ he teases you a lot, he likes to play with you, and he pays so much attention to you, he likes to find out things about you, before entering in the horny mood.

۶۟ৎ sometimes mrthepimp58 sent money for you to buy a specific toy. thanks to him, your dildo collection is growing quickly in a short period of time.

۶۟ৎ one day you asked him what his job was—he didn't reach out for 3 weeks.

۶۟ৎ but when he's finally back, he is honest with you—he doesn't feel comfortable talking about him. and you respect his wishes.

if you want more let me know <3

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۶۟ৎ he's the gentlest guy you've ever talked to, and his favorite position is you playing with your pussy wide open in front of the camera.

۶۟ৎ he teases you a lot, he likes to play with you, and he pays so much attention to you, he likes to find out things about you, before entering in the horny mood.

۶۟ৎ sometimes mrthepimp58 sent money for you to buy a specific toy. thanks to him, your dildo collection is growing quickly in a short period of time.

۶۟ৎ one day you asked him what his job was—he didn't reach out for 3 weeks.

۶۟ৎ but when he's finally back, he is honest with you—he doesn't feel comfortable talking about him. and you respect his wishes.

if you want more let me know <3

taglist