omg i’m still thinking about vampire niichannnn ughh
him keeping reader captive on his lap while he sucks blood from different parts of his body. and he keeps getting more and more drunk off of her meanwhile her body becomes so limp she can barely maintain a position without him holding her still and once he notices how languid her body is, he then decides to fuck her……ahhh i feel like i’m in high school watching vampire diaries again ;) (god the acting in that was horrendous lmao)
i am hOLLERING FROM THE ROOFTOPS ANONNNN this is such a fucking concept!!!
tw: stepcest, blood, vampire big bro, noncon
words: 830
when he feels you go lax, soft and droopy in his lap as your bones turn pliable beneath his lips, he knows he should stop.
when he feels your pulse turn faint in your veins, barely a fluttering against his tongue, he really knows he should stop.
so he does, reluctantly pulls his crimson slicked mouth from your flesh, sealing his newest wound with a thick salve of saliva, tinged a watery pink. you slump forward the moment his teeth aren’t holding you in place, and his head quirks curiously.
looks like he’s got himself a little dolly.
something devious smears across his face, something sinister unfurling dark and sticky in his stomach.
oh, let’s play, dolly.
he knows he should probably bandage your wounds before he does anything else—you’re still bleeding profusely, ribbons of scarlet cascading down supple skin, oozing slow but steady from the deep little indents scattered across your form.
but he just can’t help it, rearranging your slack body on your pale pink sheets—thighs spread, arms above your head, crossed loosely at the wrists—and swiping two fingers through a stream of thick blood, collecting it on the pads before smearing it along his cock, a crude form of lube.
time’s pretty tight, all things considered—you could technically die on him in any minute with how much blood-loss you’ve sustained, but that’s a risk his lust-dazed brain is willing to take—and he doesn’t have a moment to prep you properly.
not that he would, either way.
another messy slather of scarlet along his shaft and then he’s ramming his cock into you in one sharp, quick, hard thrust, the vicious motion jostling your limp body up the mattress.
it isn’t as fun when you’re not crying and squirming beneath him, nails sinking into his shoulders and tearing (a futile effort, but it’s cute that you try), limbs writhing in opposition as you try to shove at his shoulders or kick at his hips (so precious that you think you’d ever be strong enough to achieve such a feat).
it isn’t as fun when your sobs of protest don’t turn into squeals of pleasure, when your struggling doesn’t turn into clinging, suddenly desperate as your legs knot around his waist and your pelvis rolls up to meet his own, begging him with sugary sweet gasps of nii-chan, nii-chan, nii-chan!—but he’ll take what he can get.
because even in the absence of all of his favourite things, he still cums quite quick, the scent of your blood and the feeling of it on his skin—silk and slime—an intoxicating mixture, strokes of carmine smeared across toned muscle and pale linen.
it’s almost artful in a way, how he paints your body in your combined fluids, red and white, pearl and crimson, swirling together to create an iridescent pink.
your favourite colour, isn’t it? he thinks it might be on the verge of becoming his favourite colour, too.
a wheeze scrapes at your throat, a thick pool of saliva gurgling on the back of your tongue and he’s drawn back to the present moment, your wounds still gently weeping.
christ, he nearly whines to himself, fingers twitching, itching to touch. you look so goddamn pretty covered in your own blood, engraved with molds of your big brother’s mouth—replicas of all thirty-two teeth stamped thoughtfully into shoulders and wrists and thighs, stained a deep, grotesque purple—and glazed with your big brother’s cream, splattered in masterful streaks across soft skin.
pretty and perfect and all for him, made by him, just for him.
when you finally wake, half-delirious and head stuffed with fog, you wake to your big brother studiously tending to your wounds, deft fingers conscientious as they work—yet there is a certain carelessness to it, too; an ease, an expertise, the type that develops with extensive experience.
he’s done this before.
patches of white litter your skin, taped tightly over the sketches of his mouth. a hiss slips from between clenched teeth as you push yourself onto your elbows, blood blooming through cotton.
“be careful,” your older brother chides, not looking up from his task, nostrils twitching slightly. “you’ll tear open your wounds again; they were just beginning to clot.”
whining a little, your brow crumples in sleep-tinged confusion, lifting your heavy limbs experimentally, coating of dried cum cracking with the motion. some bites are deeper than others, some so painful it hurts to move the muscle they’ve been carved into at all, soft fingers prodding delicately around the puffy gauze, procuring a sharp gasp from your mouth, face puckering with pain.
“it’s good you’re awake,” he says, nonchalant as he presses another bandage over a wound on your ankle—fresh, still exuding dribbles of crimson. glancing up through a curtain of hair, his stare finds yours, crystal and bright. “i thought you might never wake up.”
the words are chuckled, dyed with lighthearted amusement, but the gleam in his eyes holds a shard of truth to it.
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