Chapter 1: Masks, Formal Wear - Theo
There’s damask crushed in the palm of your hand, growing damp with sweat, and cold glass heating slowly against the bare skin of your back as a masked man is bent over, rolling your nipple on his tongue and telling you to be quiet.
Masked, but you know exactly who it is - only one man has eyes that blue and focused, like the nadir of a whirlpool, sucking you in inexorably. Pulling you behind this curtain, into the narrowed alcove of this window, the dull murmur of the party and the tinkling waltz now muffled in the background as you’re wrapped in your own tiny sweltering cocoon. The threads pricked through the heavy crimson cloth around you echoing the shimmering filigree of pleasure that weaves, trembling, through your limbs. Spins gold out of the straw of your soft cries.
“I said to be quiet.” He bites down on the mound of your breast, spilled over the top of your bodice, just shy of breaking the skin. A promise. A warning. “Or do you want me to help you with that?”
You can barely manage a nod before he spins you around and the chill of the glass steals the lingering warmth of his mouth from your skin, chest pressed almost painfully up against it. Your breath fogs over the view of the gardens below, turning them into something hazy and ethereal. A fae landscape that makes this all seem even more like a dream.
Then there’s the whisper of silk unraveling, and something ties tightly over your mouth in a makeshift gag. Only when your tongue touches the cloth and comes away glazed with oak and vanilla do you realize it’s his cravat, still warm and scented with cologne. Riding triumphant on every breath you draw, as if to conquer even the very space inside your lungs for his own.
Not just your lungs. There’s a hand under the froth of your ballgown, and the low rumble of pleased laughter in your ear when fingertips find the slick apex of your thighs, sinking deep inside of you mercilessly. Curling just right as he shoves you harder against the windowpane, crowding you with the weight of his body, stilling the faint buck of your hips as you rock into the grind of his palm.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs approvingly into the nape of your neck, as you let the wet silk between your teeth soak up your moans. Wicked points scraping over your skin as he nuzzles the jumping pulse alongside your throat, teasing you both. “You deserve a reward.”
A third finger joins the first two on the next wet plunge and another shudder tears through you.
You look up and meet the eyes peering out through the wolf’s half-face in the night-black reflection of the window, and even that mirrored glance belies the mask. Lays them bare before you.
One night, this night, they seem to say.
You know he won’t acknowledge this tomorrow.
You hold those eyes as you watch his fangs sink into your flesh with a sort of morbid fascination, and the first velveteen ropes of ecstasy draw your back into a taut arch, finally tugging your gaze from his regretfully. Man or vampire or beast or dream - it matters not.
All that matters in this moment is that the beautiful lie endures.
Chapter 2: Orgasm Denial, Public - Isaac
October 2nd Prompts: Orgasm Denial, Public
Pairing: Isaac Newton/MC
It was a pity the Heimlich hadn’t been invented yet and would probably only earn you strange looks, you mused, as Isaac turned an interesting shade of scarlet and purple on the seat beside you.
Maybe it was the bite of tart that had gone down wrong, and he really was choking.
But you were inclined to believe it was the hand you had casually set on the front of his trousers.
“Hush,” you warned him with a wicked smile, as you draped your napkin over his lap with your other hand, covering it from view. “Nobody will even notice as long as you don’t start making noise.”
He stared at you, bug-eyed, for half of a befuddled moment, before you slid your hand along the tightly-woven fabric of his fly and he let out another half-strangled gasp. Utterly confident in your words - the small Parisian cafe was crowded with late-night carousers, and the small table you’d both squeezed to a seat at was tucked into a far corner, a curtain of hazy tobacco smoke hanging between you and the other mostly-tipsy patrons.
“Wh-what are you -” Isaac’s disbelief melted into a soft moan as you let your hand trail up and down the stitching again, feeling his flesh quickly firming beneath your fingertips into a most-fascinating ridge.
And then you popped open the first button on his fly with a devious flick of your wrist, and he swallowed so hard you could hear it.
“Shhh,” you admonished, making quick work of the rest of the buttons, and then taking his gloriously hard length in your hand, searingly hot already. “Look at you, all eager to see me.”
There was the sharp rattle of cutlery and flatware, counterpoint to the elegant chime of porcelain, as Isaac’s knee hit the underside of the table and he hissed in a breath. In his grimace you could see how his fangs had slid free, catching sharp on his lower lip as he bit down on it to smother the sounds that tried to limp from his throat. The blush on his cheeks blossomed charmingly lower, twining down his neck to disappear beneath his buttoned collar and tie and making you regret they weren’t open so you could see it adorn his collarbones the way you knew it would.
“You h-have to stop, or else…” He heaved an unsteady breath, blinking unfocused eyes. “Or…”
You lifted your cooling tea to your lips and savored a nonchalant sip of darjeeling, as your thumb brushed absently over and over the little ridge of flesh that ran taut just underneath the head of his cock. “Or else what, Isaac?”
He opened his mouth, as if to answer, but the only thing that came out was a needy little whine, and you almost almost felt pity for him.
“I have faith in you,” you assured him, the words warmed with affection. You knew he had trouble trusting himself, knew that he was always afraid of the hungers that slumbered inside of him…but you also knew he was stronger than he gave himself credit for.
Sometimes, he just needed reminding of that.
“You won’t do anything, because you’re a good boy.” Leaning closer, looking for all the world as if you were just passing on a bit of juicy gossip to anyone who glanced over, you set your lips nearly to the edge of his ear and finished on a coy murmur. “And you want to be my good boy, don’t you, Isaac?”
You punctuated the question with the slightest flick of your tongue, wrapped your fist tightly around him and stroked once.
His hands flew up to wrap around the edge of the table, knuckles going so white you could scarcely tell them apart from the cloth covering it. “Yes,” he managed to hiss, his eyes sliding shut as his hips jerked into your grip. “God, yes.”
“I thought so.” A satisfied smile crept onto your face. “Do you really want me to stop, then?”
He didn’t even try for words this time, just a broken shake of his head that had him flushing even darker, his hair falling in front of his eyes with the motion as if to curtain his shame. He was so lovely, so alive in your hand, steely and silken. The thrum of his heartbeat running ever faster against your palm as you worked him steadily, all hidden from the sight of everyone else by a fall of snowy, pristine linen - only belied by the slowly spreading spot of translucence where it soaked up the tears his cock softly wept.
The sight of his lips parting around his heated shaky exhales igniting a spark between your own thighs that had you squeezing them together fitfully. It was scant minutes before you felt he was close, when the aborted hitch of his hips started to escape his control entirely and he was twitching in your hand. And just as he throbbed with the first warning foreshocks, you clenched your fist once more, hard, before letting go of him entirely.
He did cry out then, a mournful lost sound, and his hips arched off the seat as if chasing your hand as his eyes popped open to meet yours. Wide and wounded. Fixed on yours, still alight with desire and full of betrayal at first, before flaring a preternatural rose. His chest still heaving and his tongue lingering at the tip of one fang as he watched you lift your fingers and lick the viscous evidence of his arousal from them, rolling the faintly salted flavor in your mouth.
“Put yourself together,” you suggested, taking your napkin back from his lap as he hastily tucked his still-hard cock away, wincing as he buttoned his fly around it. You dabbed your lips delicately, and then stood, tossing the soiled piece of cloth atop the table and angling a beatific smile over your shoulder - but you knew the devil was lurking in its shadow. “And we’ll finish this at home.”
Chapter 3: Bath - Napoleon
October 4th Prompts: Bath
Pairing: Napoleon/Fem MC
A started-at-11:30 PM-squeak-by-the-deadline drabble
“You can stay.”
It’s harder to say who’s more surprised by those words, still hanging like the chime of a bell in the steam-laced air of the thermae - Napoleon, or you for saying them. In the long silence that follows in their wake there’s only the chatter of the fountain in the center of the large bath, murmuring the same esoteric phrase over and over.
“Pardon?” he finally asks, disbelief threaded in his voice as if he isn’t sure he can trust his own ears.
“You can stay,” you repeat, louder this time.
“Nunuche. Do you know what will happen if I do?” He prowled a slow step closer, and even in the watery moonlight it was easy to see how your offer had affected him already, ruining the smooth fall of his towel with a slight rise.
You let your eyes wander the breadth of your lover’s frame. Perhaps not the largest, or the most imposing, but there was always something about him. Driven and chiseled, as if everything ancillary had been stripped away. Intent given form. You sank back against the hard tiled seat and let the thoughts you’d had about him, alone in your bed at night, warm your gaze. Knew he saw it when his own darkened. “Yes. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
There was a faint splash as he waded into the water, almost before his towel had crumpled to the floor.
No protests, no token resistance - not even a kiss. It was conquest through and through. Large hands, rough with sword callouses, framed your hips and flipped you around, hoisting your ass into the air until the bench below the water bit into your knees where you knelt. His cock, firm and ready, nestled in the cleft of your legs before he shifted your angle and slid home on one hard thrust - helped along by the warm waters of the thermae and your own wicked ideas.
You bit down on your lip at the sudden ingress, whimpered as it stretched you, molded you from the inside out. And when he began to move, every stroke ran electric over something deep inside you. Harder, faster, buoyed up by the water until your breasts swayed with each shuddering impact and warm waves lapped at your waist and kissed your navel. Their heat only serving to emphasize the cold chill of the mosaic lining the rim of the tub as it grazed your nipples, tightening them even further.
“Look up,” he demanded at your ear, grabbing a handful of your hair and tugging your head back sharply, the small sting flavoring the pleasure that washed over you. Above was the open roof of the thermae, and the moon looking down upon the both of you, attended by countless constellations. “What do you see?”
It took you two tries to find your voice, amongst the harsh tempo he had you dancing to. “Stars.”
His lips trailed along the curve of your shoulder delicately even as he thrust hard enough to brush the very end of you, bittersweet and brash. “I’ll love you, until the last one falls,” he murmured, just before his fangs found your neck and he broke you exquisitely, back into the very dust they were made of.
Chapter 4: Collaring - Vlad (TW: dubcon)
Another quick drabble.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: dubcon and/or noncon - this is darker than my usual stuff, but I wanted to explore whether Vlad’s abilities involve the traditional vampire’s hypnotism.
The soft snick of the door as it opens is the only thing that announces his presence at first, before the question.
Vlad knows what ‘le Comte’ (for that is what he calls himself these days) will see.
Himself, lounging on this chintz settee. And at his feet, Saint Germain’s precious ward - found fled from the party, on her hands and knees atop the thick Persian rug in this abandoned study, her breasts spilled bare from a half-ruined bodice and her mouth wrapped hot around his cock.
It had taken longer for Saint Germain to find them than he’d expected, and he was closer than he’d thought to spending himself down that beautiful white throat.
“Draga mea…” He shifts his languid seat on the sofa and slips a finger under the elaborate filigree that collars her throat - his gift - to tug. Softly at first, and then harder when she resists until she finally releases him with an unhappy mewl, a strand of saliva and his pre-cum strung between her tongue and his arousal like a silvered leash. “We have an audience.”
“My lord?” Her eyes shine, fixed on his with blind adoration, her lips glistening and plump from her ministrations. A deep flush shades her cheekbones and neck, unfurling across her chest before feathering away where she cups her own breasts restlessly, fingers rolling her nipples until she shivers.
Wanton. Needful. Mindless and utterly shameless with it. He’s reduced her to this with only the merest push. Seen the desires she harbored just below the surface, lurking like beasts beneath the placid waters of her consciousness, only waiting to be beckoned. All he had done was crook the finger in welcome.
Her skirts rustle, and he watches her hand slip beneath them to work frantically. Knows that if he peels those layers of satin aside he’ll see it buried between her thighs, plunging slick and wet and desperately seeking.
For the briefest of moments, he feels something stir in his chest, thick and uncomfortable like a misswallowed bite. Centuries ago, he might have named it pity.
But every chessboard has a queen - and every victory demands her sacrifice.
“You bastard.” Saint Germain’s anger is a tangible breathing thing that seems to draw all the air from the room. A dragon filling the bellows of its lungs, waiting for fire. Vlad hasn’t heard that voice in countless years, the one that holds ashes and ruin in its echo, and a shiver of delight runs electric down his spine. “She’s not yours.”
“Are you certain of that?” He holds the other man’s gaze, triumphantly, before flicking his attention to the woman at his feet. “Who do you belong to?” he croons, as he rubs his thumb over those bruised lips, smearing the slippery herald of his desire across her chin.
She leans into his touch eagerly, her eyes drifting closed on a wistful sigh. “You, my lord. Only you.”
He lets go of his hold on her collar and she falls forward gladly. Latches onto his cock again, humming happily as it slips behind her lips and the tight warmth of her mouth closes around him once more. For a moment his head falls back against the divan, awash with the pleasure her clever tongue brings, before he forces himself to lift it again.
Red eyes meet gold as they flare like the crucible’s leavings. Crimson on bronze, gore on a sword, as he deliberately places a hand on her crown and arches his hips to push himself even deeper.
First blood drawn.
Chapter 5: Masturbation - Shakespeare
October 6th Prompts: Masturbation
The sound of his name as he stepped from the bath was a surprise.
Shakespeare unstoppered a bottle of scented oil and drizzled a measure into his palms before running them over his still-damp chest, the powdery perfume of lavender tickling his nose as he listened to footsteps approach and let his daydreams of their owner play out.
His Juliet, his Desdemona, his Beatrice, his Ophelia. She was somehow all of them and none, somehow understood and yet a puzzle.
And false, false thoughts to disillusion him so, born of a traitorous silibant-tongued mind. For she was nothing like ‘his’ at all.
Would that she might stay! Would that she might deign to turn her eyes upon him, upon him alone! It was a rude, malformed hope - but his all the same - nurtured and guarded and carefully pruned in the garden of his heart. Bursting into bloom at the possibility that unfolded.
For what was this moment but just another stage? And what was he but just another actor? It was not, after all, the breadth of the audience that created the act. Merely its existence.
He let the rest of the world fall away and stepped to his mark before the grand full-length mirror that hung heavy on the wall. Let his oiled hands slip lower, sliding just once over his already half-roused length…
And he heard the faintest of muffled breaths drawn on the other side of the cracked door.
It was hard to smother the triumphant smile that threatened, as he ghosted fingers along himself again. Knowing she skirted the point of running away if she was still there now - drawn into this trap he’d unwittingly laid, but was happy to take advantage of.
“I see'st thou,” he called out in a soft sing-song. “And mayhap thou seest me?”
He swept his fingertips lazily along the thick length of his arousal, savoring the soft sparks of sensation. Drawing out the first faint blush of pleasure as he circled it with thumb and forefinger loosely and smoothed them down his flesh, his belly twitching taut with anticipation.
The scent of her blood rushing jubilant, just beneath her skin, hung thick and sweet in the air like treacle waiting to be lapped up. Belying her presence still hidden behind the door…but if his maiden wanted to be shy, if her sensibilities demanded the illusion of propriety, then who was he to rob her of that so cruelly? He could let her have her pretty deceits.
It was enough that she still watched. That he could feel her gaze on him like phantom fingers, shadowing his own.
He caressed himself again, tighter this time, and sought to weave the sort of web he best knew how.
“If thou wouldst stay…then let me make it worth thy while,” he offered, pitching his voice expertly to fill the small space.The oddest fluttering of nerves took wing in his stomach, a curious bout of stagefright the likes of which he hadn’t felt in decades. But this, this was a performance of utmost import. “Shall I tell thee what I dream of? What keen thoughts keep me chorus at night, as I haunt this low and lonely home?”
The first drop of desire beaded and he dipped his thumb along the slit it rested on, smearing it around to join the oil still slick on his hand, until the tip of him glistened deep and ruddy. The sensation shivered through him, and his head fell back slightly, fangs sliding free on a groan. The tiniest of releases that only taunted him with its inadequacy.
“How I wonder, perhaps, if you would let me make a gift of you. Wrapped in ribbons and baubles and sealed with a kiss, a present kept all to myself.” He could practically see it - scarlet slashes like blood, vivid against her skin and his bedframe, holding her steady. Drinking down the shivers and sighs that buffeted her limbs. “One that I could open in peace, pull back just the corners of your composure and see what wildery peers unmasked beneath.”
His, his, his alone.
Just the idea of it was enough to run ecstatic through his veins, like the headiest of liquors. Had him impossibly hard in his palm, harder than he’d ever been before. Life breathed into stone.
“Do the peaks of thy breasts taste of berries or roses? Do they bloom or furl tighter when the honeybee samples them? Or perhaps they love more the sting…”
He looked up to meet her eye through the sliver of the door in the reflection. Saw himself in the mirror as well, and marveled at the ruination he had become. Panting and fevered and dewed, his cock and his fangs straining, both aching to taste her soft sweet flesh. The tension plucking all his tendons to bowstrings, carving shadows from the lees of his lean muscles.
He propped a hand at the edge of the mirror as he worked himself faster, hips rolling into each stroke, and let his eyes fill with heat - let her see how many times he had imagined sheathing every last precious fraction of himself tight in her timeless mysteries, as he held her gaze unbroken. The ornate gilt of the frame biting into his palm as he clenched through another groan torn free.
“I would sup the sweetest brine that ever graced lips,“ he promised, his voice low and unraveling. Tattered by scalding exhales and grunts. "Kiss you again and again as I traipse the valley of your thighs, until they tremble against my ears and you die a thousand tiny deaths.”
He could almost taste her ocean on his tongue, scent the ghost of salt and sweat and the earthy honesty of her need in his nose on each desperate breath.
He was bucking harder now, thrusting into the clenched grip of his hand, each stroke ending in the wet-clay slap of flesh abusing flesh. Each pass singing like the cruel lash of a flame, sparking and smoldering at the base of his spine, drawing his groin ever tighter.
"I’d slide deep enough to pierce thy very soul,” he managed brokenly around the tumult of his pounding heart. Thoughts and sentences growing ever more slippery, falling away the harder he tried to hold them, tumbling from him in fits and spurts. “To brand and warp and claim it mine. A-and when that most glorious moment crested, I’d bite you at the cusp of our pleasure, so that you fluttered and folded around me like the very wings of an angel itself.”
He grunted, bit down on his lip, and his next words came away stained with blood. “A touch of the divine. One moment’s grace bestowed this unworthy sinner.”
The image of them, locked in ecstasy together, twined and twinned until one could scarce tell them apart as the hot rush of her honeyed blood washed over his tongue, was what pushed him over the edge he’d teetered on. Consciousness exploding and narrowing, all at once, the infinite glimpsed through a pinhole as he shuddered through his release on a low throbbing moan, his very fingertips and toes alight with foxfire.
He fell forward, bracing both hands against the huge mirror to steady his shaking limbs, heedless of where his seed ran white and spent down its smooth surface. Glanced up, through twilight eyes, and saw her open the door - just a fraction more.
But it was more than enough.
Her hand slipped through, before a first hesitant step, and he smiled at her reflection, dark and beguiling. Triumph riding pillion to satisfaction in the curve of his lips as he turned, enough to beckon. “Come then, seraphim, if thou wouldst pity this poor devil. And hell shall welcome thee with open arms.”
Chapter 6: Cuckolding, Voyeurism - Sebastian
October 16th prompt: Cuckolding, Voyeurism
Pairing(s): Sebastian, Napoleon/fem MC
This was, by far, one of the stranger things Sebastian had seen over his years working at the mansion.
He couldn’t say that in the future he would want to have had seen it. Couldn’t say that even now, he truly wanted to. But right then, at that moment, with his face pressed feverishly to the crack in the door and the varnished wood growing damp from his heated breaths, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his lover riding Napoleon’s cock.
He knew the back that presented itself almost as well as he knew his own, but he’d never seen it this way - the long pale line of her rising out of the dark-water froth of black silk sheets above Napoleon, like Aphrodite emerging from the sea. The generous curve of her backside quivering with each rise and fall, and candle-thrown shadows clinging to the dimples his fingers carved in her hips as he guided her down ever harder. The tips of her hair just brushing his blanched knuckles in soft sweet kisses.
Sebastian knew how ethereal that felt. Like butterflies deigning to alight, as if something esoteric had blessed you.
He knew how she’d arch her back if she changed her angle, how the finest of tremors would run wildfire through her thighs if she sat back just the slightest bit more.
He knew how tightly pebbled the dusky peaks of her breasts would be, like garnets crowning their glory. Could almost feel their familiar texture beneath his fingertips as they spasmed around the doorframe and knob, clutching at the wood and metal as if they were lifelines. Keeping him afloat in this wash of emotions - horror and shock and dismay, churning hot and nauseating in his belly until he feared he might be sick from it.
And then settling lower, livid and vivid and molten. His shame suddenly an ouroboros that was swallowing itself, feeding on its own tail and only fueling the taut burn in his loins, catching him up in an endless loop of humiliation that should have been wrong. Was still wrong…but the violent stir of his cock and the painfully tight fit of his pants insisted on defying all logic.
Napoleon Bonaparte was fucking his own woman, and Sebastian had never been more aroused in his life.
He bit down on a groan as his hand left the door of its own volition, rubbing along the thick ridge of his erection as his hips rocked slightly. Chasing drunkenly after even those small sparks of sensation, the rough abrasion of fabric against his throbbing flesh an exquisite sort of torture. But he deserved that…deserved this, probably. For being this dirty. For being as excited as he was to watch another man’s cock slide wet and deep into his lover’s welcoming body - for thinking that he could hold onto a woman like her with men like these around.
The thought was a bitter, acrid draught he drank down eagerly.
His breath whistled back at him harshly, the sound echoing loudly off the door he still had his eye pressed against, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the soft slap of flesh meeting and parting or the low moans that spilled from the two people inside the room. And the desperate travel of his hand over his fly wasn’t enough to sate the burning madness that had gripped him.
Anyone could walk down this darkened, moonlit hallway. Anyone could see his shame rampant. But none of that mattered at the moment.
He wrenched open the placket of his trousers, his arousal tumbling out heavy and free, and clenched down on the groan that tried to escape him at the blessed relief from the agony of its confinement. Took himself in a tight fist and began to pump recklessly, matching his tempo to Napoleon’s thrusts. His eyes fixated on the brief crescent of his lover’s breasts he could see from this angle, her curves dancing wildly as the couple picked up their pace. Witness to their pleasure in the slivers and fragments tossed him, like scraps to the dog under the table.
Wrong, wrong…but the humiliation that solidified in his gut was merely coal for the inferno of his lust. He slipped his other hand below the first and cupped his aching balls, half-whining at the way they tightened even further and sent another rush of liquid drooling from his cock. Dripping in thick silver strands when it didn’t coat his hands, shivering with every motion where it hung. The dampness let him stroke harder, faster, ever more punishing - as if he could exorcise these horrid thoughts, as if he could flagellate away this sin. But it was nothing like recompense at all, no matter how hard he tried. Only pleasure crackling white-hot like lighting along his nerves, singeing him in its wake.
He heard the familiar short, staccato gasp of her impending orgasm, fiercer than any he’d ever drawn from her, and a tiny part inside him died even as it sent his mind blank.
His fingertips went numb as he came, hard, at the exact moment the pair inside did. His own guttural cry of release lost in the chorus of their own, his shame unfurling hot and wet across the dark panel of the door, a final public declaration of his misery.
Stark and bleakly white, like a flag of surrender.
Chapter 7: Restraint/Bondage - Theo
Oct 17th prompts: Restraint/Bondage
Pairing: Theo/fem MC
I’d like to have spent a lot more time on this, but I’m trying to catch back up, so its getting posted before bed. @toloveawarlord requested Theo + begging + bondage
“I want you to beg.”
Theo's eyes narrowed to two fierce slits, and as the drawn-rope silence stretched ever more taut, you thought he wouldn’t answer.
Until finally he cut it, with a flinty tone and the creak of tested silk. “You know what it means if I do, right?”
You nodded, swallowing around a mouth suddenly dry with anticipation.
“Say it,” he demanded, somehow imperious even though he was the one naked and trussed and stretched out beneath you. “What does it mean if I do? I want to know that you remember.”
And remember you did, the recollections his words dredged up bringing a flush to your cheeks and another slick rush of desire between your thighs. “You return the favor tenfold.”
“That’s right.” His voice was a dark, dark promise as he shifted, the motion accompanied by a warning groan of wood. An unsubtle reminder that he was only where he was because he was tolerating it. Gifting you this.
You sat back on his hips, framing the searing heat of his arousal in the vee of your lap. Letting the damp warmth of your center just kiss the underside of him. Taunting.
In the stillness, he sucked in a breath.
“Please then, Mistress.” The words began honeyed, as sweet as you knew him to be capable of, before they took on an edge. Hard and dangerous, sharper than the cool glint of a blade in the dark. “Ride. On. My. Fucking. Cock.”
Humming pensively, you leaned forward, letting the solid length of him glide through your folds as you did, glazing him with your wetness. “How about…no.” You punctuated with words with a flick of your tongue over his tiny beaded nipple, savoring the delicate shiver he tried to suppress.
A low warning growl trickled from him but you ignored it and bit down on the firm muscle of his chest, and his hips jerked beneath you. Left you half-drunk and reeling on the feeling of power, knowing he was at your mercy like this. Not the sort of power that come from conquest, exactly. You knew that was only an illusion.
Theo was too much of a force of nature to ever be truly contained.
But there was power in being allowed to hold the leash, even if only for a moment - maybe even more so when such a proud beast had willingly bent its head to the collar. Declarations of love in its indulgence.
“Open your mouth,” you demanded, as you sat up.
For a long minute you didn’t think he would comply, blue eyes searing yours like gaslit flames as he held you locked in a glare, before he finally did. Exposing the long fangs you had been sure you’d see, a visceral reminder of the twinned lusts that you knew simmered just below his tight-lidded surface. And you wanted - so badly you could almost taste it - to see him finally boil over.
Still keeping your eyes fixed on his, you ran a thumb down the length of one of those dangerous teeth, letting the wicked point catch on the pad. Until in a slow, deliberate lean you pressed, felt your own flesh part with a sweet sting beneath the keen tip as it sank in, blood immediately welling up around it.
A wave of heat washed over you, like a banked fire being stirred, and you both shuddered through a moan.
You smeared the wound over his tongue and felt him rattle beneath you, his mouth closing around the digit to suckle. Hard enough to hurt, as if to punish you for your audacity, and you watched the pupils of his eyes blow wide and black as he swallowed. Dark and deep enough for you to tumble into and never climb your way out of again, lost in him the way you had been from near the moment you’d met.
You tugged your thumb free of his mouth with a soft pop of sound and he tried to follow, drawing to an abrupt stop when he reached the end of the restraints that held him. A snarl twisted his features, teeth still stained pink with blood as he writhed beneath you. Bucking for a moment like some half-wild thing.
“Sit on my face.” His growl was raw, painfully low, and closer to a plea than you knew he’d ever admit. “Verdomme…sit on me now. I need to taste you.”
Bending over, your breasts framed his face as you drew your lips to his ear and breathed your impudent reply, like the soft flutter of a matador’s cape before the bull. “Make me.”
There was another, half-choked noise from him before his jaw clenched, the muscles there jumping as he ground down on the rest of the sound. And then the remnants of it were overpowered by an ominous creaking protest and the harsh tear of fiber.
Hands clamped on your hips in a punishing iron grip, wrenching you upward so sharply you couldn’t stifle your squeal of surprise, setting you scrabbling to grasp the headboard as you toppled forward. Before you’d even caught your balance Theo had his tongue shoved deep between your thighs, and your squeal frayed to a moan as you squirmed atop his chin, just that slight motion pressing his needle-sharp fangs against your core…but there was something breathtaking about riding that perilous edge.
He kept at it relentlessly, moving between drawing on your swollen clit and fucking you ever harder with his tongue, his fingers digging almost painfully harsh into your hips to hold you in place. Feeding on the wet heat of you like a man half-starved, his harsh smothered breaths washing over your mound ever faster. You only managed to wrench your gaze from the heady sight of his face in your lap when he rolled his eyes up to meet yours and held the contact mercilessly.
Somehow, that was the thing that had you flushing with near-embarrassment.
“Theo…” His name was the near-gasp of a prayer on your lips as pleasure roiled golden and warm through you. Pushing at the confines of your skin as if filling you from the inside out, close so close…mere drops away from overflowing. Deep inside of you, muscled fluttered like ripples on the surface of a cup, and just when it seemed about to spill -
He pulled away and half-tossed you onto the bed beside him with a bounce, leaving you crying out in dismay and frustration.
“What did I tell you?” He rose over you, one hand stroking leisurely at the proud jut of his cock as if to taunt you. “What happens now?”
Swallowing around a mouth gone dry, you reached for him and he obliged, but only let you draw him close enough to drag his lips over the tendon of your neck. His hips still devastatingly far away from yours and your aching, empty center. “Please, Theo…”
He lingered for another handful of heartbeats, and you could feel his mouth curve into an infuriating grin against your throat before he sat up and you saw it as well. “You can do better than that.” He dragged a single finger through your soaked folds and rolled forward, so that his arousal ghosted hot along the inside of your thigh. Frustratingly close to where you needed him, and yet still so very, very far. “Now…be a good hondje and beg for your treat.”