your flesh and bone welcome me in

by Lycanthra (Wolfarella)

Summary:

Your village has an arrangement with the vampire lord on the hill—every seven years, a firstborn virgin is delivered to him, and in return, your village is safe and prosperous. They call the cycle the Bloodtide, and through a stroke of luck, it skipped over you… or so you thought. Only a short while after the last sacrifice was sent to him, he’s demanding another, and you’re the only viable option at the moment. But you’re not exactly a virgin anymore. Life went on, you were free from the cycle, you were safe. And now you have no idea what you’re in for….

Notes:

like i mention in the tags, please don’t look too hard at the plot here—it’s paper-thin and merely an excuse to get to the good stuff. this story has no set time period or location, but i imagine it taking place during modern times, just in a small, old-timey village that’s closed off from the rest of the world.

i’ve spent the last two weeks obsessively writing this—it’s all finished and ready to go, so i will probably upload every couple of days or so!

also, whoever was the first to create fanart where any/all of the Papas have pointed ears, i hope you get everything you want in life and that you only know happiness~

Chapter 1: we step into my suffering

The dream comes first. 

Then the news travels through your village. 

 

You’re in that hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, where the air feels thick and the silence seems to crush you, almost tangible in how it bears down on you. You feel… something. Like fingers sliding down your spine. You shift, your legs sliding against the covers, and you roll over onto your back. The fingers slip away. 

In your half-dream, you look toward the window. 

You see a ghastly, partially obscured face at the glass, peering in at you with one eye hidden in shadow and the other bone white. 

And at the same time, you feel a hand at your throat. 

 

Your eyes pop open and you sit straight up in the bed, heart thumping. Gray morning light pours in through the window, the empty, and you can hear the sounds of the village stirring outside the shack you’ve only recently moved from your parents’ house into. There’s no face in the window, but the dream lingers in your mind. 

Those eyes…. Why would you be seeing him?

The last Beckoning was only two years ago. He should be… well not happy, but sated. The pact struck by the the elders all those years ago means there’s still five more years before he should expect another Firstblood delivered to him. 

And besides, you’re too old now. You’ve aged out. 

You were born on a Turning year—your fate was decided while you were still in the womb. You came into the world eerily quiet and calm, not crying but bearing a red indent around your neck from where the umbilical cord strangled you. It’s not quite a scar, but maybe closer to a birthmark, and it meant one thing and one thing only: at the end of your twenty-first year, when the Beckoning came, there was a chance you would be sacrificed to the lord on the hill for the safety of your village. Every seven years, he takes someone just like you—a firstborn child who came on a Turning year. 

The elders call it the Bloodtide, this cycle. You don’t know when it began or why the pact was even made in the first place—this is just how life is. 

And the only reason you lived past your twenty-first year is because there was another—a boy born only a few months after you. When the Beckoning came, it was him who was chosen. Who was taken to the manor never to be seen again. You’ve heard the stories shared in whispers between villagers: he’s a monster, he’s a cannibal, he devours souls. The only thing that people seem to be in agreement on? The man drinks blood. It sustains him and grants him the immortality that has allowed his shadow to loom over you all for centuries. 

You’ve never seen him in the flesh, but the bethel in the village has a large portrait on display—mismatched eyes, a skull-like half-mask that obscures the top of his face, the stark white of his skin around lips that are painted black, the hint of dark curls behind ears shaped into points. You don’t know what he is. You don’t think it really matters. 

Knowing won’t change anything. 

You prepare for the day and leave the flimsy structure your parents had constructed at the back of their lot. Despite the fact that you’re thirty years old at this point, you were still living with them until recently. You’re pretty sure they didn’t expect you to make it to this age—they knew they had you on a Turning year and likely just assumed Papa Perpetua would take you. When he didn’t, it was kind of just like… now what? 

Your mother is already outside, feeding the chickens, and you don’t notice it at first, but her face is pale. Her motions are short and jerky. She jumps when she sees you approach, like you’ve startled her, and she looks at you with wide, guilty eyes. 

Your stomach clenches. “What is it?” 

But she doesn’t tell you right away. She makes you stew in the unease and anxiety until you follow her inside. One of the elders is already there, waiting. 

He tells you of the missive that arrived sometime in the night, hand-delivered by one of the dark, masked beings from the manor. Perpetua demands a Firstblood, he says. To be ready at midnight tonight. 

“But it’s not a Turning year,” you say. 

A solemn nod. “We know.”

“I’m too old.” 

“We know.” 

“The next Beckoning isn’t for another five years!”

“We know.” 

You’re the only semi-viable Firstblood left, it turns out. The others are still underage, still stuck in the Bloodtide and awaiting their twenty-first years. There are two sixteen-year-olds primed for the next Beckoning, a nine-year-old to follow, and a number of two-year-olds who were born Marked. That just leaves you. 

 

And now you find yourself being prepared. Like a gift. 

You stand before the mirror in your parents’ bathroom, while your mother hovers behind you, brushing your hair. You can hear the staticky radio in the other room—your father trying to distract himself, trying to act like this whole thing is normal. You’ve already been dressed in a loose and flowing gown, the material starkly white and surprisingly soft against your skin. There’s no clock in the bathroom, so you can only estimate the minutes as they pass. It’s already dark outside and midnight is nearing, nearing, nearing. 

Your face is ashen and sickly. There are dark circles under your eyes. You almost don’t even recognize yourself. The red indent around your neck seems darker somehow—like even it knows what’s in store for you tonight. 

You swallow against your dry throat and say, “This is a mistake.” 

She doesn’t meet your eyes in the mirror. “This is what you were born for.”

No. It was what you were born for. 

And then you were spared. Someone else got the short end of the stick and you survived. The next Beckoning came when you were twenty-eight, and you remember holding your breath, anxious and anticipating. But you were no longer a part of the Bloodtide. You could live your life. 

“I’m not…” you start. 

After a beat, your mother finally looks at you, her gaze finding yours in the reflection. She seems almost as nervous as you. 

And you don’t know how to say it. It isn’t just Firstbloods that are sent to the manor, but Firstblood virgins. You grew up sheltered and secluded—groomed—because the elders had specified in the original pact that the village would give up virgin blood. But after you were spared, you let yourself start living. 

There’s a man in the village, married now, but you and he would sneak away some nights. You’re no longer a virgin. What does this mean? Will Perpetua accept you? If he doesn’t, what happens to the village? Will he consider the pact broken? 

Your mother seems to read it in your face. She blanches and ducks her head. She says nothing. 

 

The rest of the evening goes by in a blur. 

A normal Beckoning happens on the last night of a Turning year, and the week leading up to it is filled with celebration and festivities. The elders frame it as a good thing—something you should be grateful for—and the Firstblood chosen as sacrifice is treated like royalty up until the night they’re taken to Perpetua’s manor. 

But this isn’t a normal Beckoning. 

There are no feasts or exchange of gifts or meaningful speeches from the elders. Just you walking shoulder-to-shoulder between two of them, while the third leads you along the dirt road to the manor on the hill. Everyone else remained behind, standing just at the edge of village and watching you go. Your parents didn’t cry. You suppose you can’t blame them, considering this was what supposed to happen years ago. 

“So, uh, any words of wisdom for me?” you ask awkwardly. Your quiet voice is almost drowned out by the buzz of nighttime insects, so you clear your throat and add, “Is there anything you normally tell us on the way?” 

“You do as you’re told,” the elder to your right says softly. 

“You address him as Papa,” the one to your left says. 

And in front of you, over his shoulder, the third says, “You remember that you’re doing this for your family. For the village to survive and prosper.” 

And gods… that sounds kind of boring. 

The manor comes ever closer. It’s an ancient, hideous thing that looks like it’s painted against the dark sky. Your heartbeat picks up with every step that brings you nearer, pounding against your rib cage like a prisoner trying to break free. 

“So he’s going to kill me?” you ask. 

There’s a moment of hesitation. The elder in front of you says, “We don’t know what goes on inside the lord’s manor.” 

But it sounds very much like a confirmation. Everyone expects you to die—if not tonight, then very, very soon.  

Because what else would happen? You’ve only got so much blood to go around. 

It’s twelve midnight on the dot when the head elder knocks on the front door. You can hear a clock chiming from somewhere inside, the sound muffled but cold enough to make your stomach contract in dread. This is real. You went to sleep last night thinking about ways you were going to try and make money, ways you were going to get away from your strange, esoteric village and finally enter the modern world where no one’s ever heard of the Turning or the Bloodtide, and where the word Firstblood means nothing. 

But now you’re here. 

The door starts to open. 

Your heart jumps into your throat. Your blood turns to ice in your veins. Your head goes light and dizzy and the ground seems to tilt beneath you. But it’s not him. A short, feminine form seems to materialize in the doorway, appearing like mist. She doesn’t speak, though her head turns as she looks from elder to elder and finally to you. Her face is nearly entirely obscured by an expressionless and gleaming silver mask, but you see the way her eyes look over you from head-to-toe. 

And more, you feel her eyes on you. Like a crawling sensation across the surface of your skin. You fight off a shudder and heat creeps up your neck, but you don’t look away. If you’re walking toward your own death, you’re going to make sure you see all of it. 

A black veil covers her head, a wimple that falls to her shoulders and frames her almost cherubic mask. She wears a black bodysuit that clings to her like a second skin, with a skeletal motif in silver paint that details every bone. The paint glitters in the low light of the foyer. Hanging from the arm she holds the door open with is a bat-like wing made of the same material as her bodysuit—it is a suit, right? you can’t stop staring—the sharp spines gleaming silver to match the skeleton. 

You had no idea anyone else lived here with Perpetua. You certainly hadn’t expected this. 

The head elder bows repeatedly to her, intoning softly about “the promised Firstblood” and telling her how “honored” the village is to “acquiesce to Lord Perpetua’s request.” 

She still doesn’t speak. Just nods her head once, slowly and deliberately. 

And then the elders are just leaving you there. Without another word. They give you grim little smiles, their eyes shadowed by guilt, and as they shuffle away from the door, you wonder if anyone in your village has ever tried to push back against the Bloodtide. Against Perpetua. This has been going on for hundreds of years and your village is just content to go along with it? 

As you turn back to the masked one, you find her just watching you. There’s something uncanny in her gaze, like she’s looking right into you. She lifts her other arm and gestures to the foyer, motioning for you to come inside. And what choice do you have? 

She makes no noise as she leads you deeper into the manor. Her boots don’t click or thud against the marble floor and her movements are eerily soundless. Your own soft-soled shoes seem unnaturally loud as you try to keep up. The air inside the manor is cooler than you expected, cooler than it was outside, even, and it makes goosebumps prickle on your arms. The walls are carved wood panels, ornate and old-fashioned, and they’re lined with oil paintings wrapped in gilded frames. A clock ticks loudly somewhere, no doubt the one you heard chiming when you arrived. 

It feels… bizarre. Empty, but like you’re being watched by an unseen force at the same time. 

She leads you to a room that’s almost totally bare. A fire pops and crackles in the hearth, though the room only feels a fraction warmer than the rest of the manor. The furnishing is sparse, with a low table and two narrow, high backed chairs that don’t look like they were designed with comfort in mind. A handful of wall sconces are spaced out on the walls, the flickering candles casting small halos of light, but the bulk of the room’s illumination comes from the fireplace. Above the mantle is a long mirror in an intricate bronze frame, and in its reflection, you look small and pale. 

Your guide stops and turns to face you. She holds up one of her hands in a gesture that says, very clearly, Wait right there. 

And so you do. She slips away like a shadow, and you stand there, hugging yourself while you look around. 

You have no idea how long it takes. While you can still hear the ticking clock from here, there are no clocks in this room. The dancing shadows from the fire catch in your periphery, tricking you into thinking there’s movement around you and spiking your anxiety. You turn this way and that, not wanting to be caught unawares. But as the minutes wear on, that sense of unease morphs into something closer to annoyance. 

This guy demanded you by midnight tonight, but he can’t even grace you with his presence? 

As if on cue, you feel a shift in the room. It’s like the air thickens, like it rearranges itself to make room for a new presence. And any warmth you’ve enjoyed from the fire seems to disappear. 

“You’re not afraid, are you?” 

The voice comes from behind you. Smooth, silky, sly. 

You flinch like you’ve been struck. 

Wildly, you look up at the mirror above the mantle, but all you see in the reflection is yourself. And yet you feel his presence behind you, dark and looming. You sense him move closer to you, though like the masked woman who brought you to this room, he makes no sound.  The hair on the back of your neck stands in response to his nearness. Your breath catches. You’re almost desperate to see him, but you can’t find it in you to turn around and face him. 

“Your heart is beating like you are,” he remarks—conversational, cocky. “Like a timid little rabbit cornered by something hungry.” 

And then he’s finally stepping into view, coming to stand in front of you. Your throat goes dry and your stomach drops. He’s taller than you, though he seems even larger somehow, like his shadow extends well past his form, filling and commanding the room. And the aged portrait at the bethel does not do him justice.  

The mask that covers the top half of his face is silver and skull-like, and from the open eye sockets, his mismatched eyes gleam. You feel them, like his gaze has the power to slice open your skin and peel it back. His lips are painted black and titled up at the corners in a smug smirk, and he looks at you like he’s laughing at you. His dark, curly hair is tucked behind ears that are drawn and tapered into points that are subtle but inhuman. He wears all black: fitted pants that hug his legs, a soft and silky button-up shirt with a high collar, fancy boots that you’re not used to seeing—boots made for aesthetic, not functionality. 

Black gloves complete the look. It strikes you as odd for him to wear gloves in his own home, but you can write it off with all the other weird things you’ve seen today. 

You glance toward the mirror again. You still see only yourself reflected in the glass—it’s like he’s not even there at all. As though he can read your mind, his smirk twitches up into more of a lazy grin. You’re pretty sure you catch a glimpse of fangs. 

“I suppose I am hungry, let’s not mince words,” he says, “But, little rabbit, I’m not going to kill you if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“But you’re going to drink my blood?” you ask. 

“I am.” A beat. And then, “Tell me your name, diletta mia.”  

You don’t know what that means. He could be mocking you, insulting you, threatening you. But you tell him your name anyway. What would be the point of not telling him? When he repeats it, like he’s testing the feel of it in his mouth, the sound of it feels like a physical caress down your back. You feel a pulling sensation, like invisible hands grabbing you by the intestines and trying to tug you closer to him. 

Desire. 

He makes a thoughtful noise in his throat and begins circling you. Studying you. Appraising you like a piece of meat. You can feel the weight of his eyes as they rove over you, can feel the intensity of his scrutiny. Your skin burns in the wake of his gaze. 

“You’re older than they usually are,” he says. 

“Sorry,” you say automatically. You feel stupid as soon as it leaves your mouth. 

Behind you, he laughs. It’s a low rasp of a chuckle that makes your spine tingle. You blush, feeling even more stupid. He suddenly inhales—he’s close enough that you feel his breath against your hair—and your face grows warmer as you realize he’s smelling you. You’re blushing so hard at this point you can feel your pulse in your cheeks. 

Another laugh slips out of him and he sounds tickled as he says, “And someone’s been naughty.” 

You wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You stammer out a weak defense. “It—it’s been nine years. I wasn’t chosen—I thought—it was only a few times—” 

He comes around to stand in front of you again, that lazy grin back on his face. His hands go to his hips in a casual pose and he says, “You know, the virgin thing wasn’t even my idea.” 

You blink, surprised. 

“Oh yes. You humans can be so weird. The age thing, too. Arbitrary, don’t you think? Blood is blood. I couldn’t care less where it comes from.” He steps closer, bridging the gap between you. Every instinct you have tells you to back away from him, but you’re rooted to the spot. His gaze dips to your neck, to the Mark. “Did you never wonder why this never faded?” 

He reaches for you before you can respond. The tips of his gloved fingers trace the red indent from one side of your neck to the other. His touch is cool and feather light, almost gentle, and you shiver. That pulling sensation jerks inside you again and you take in a quick, sharp breath. You feel it throb in your core—arousal stirring to life. 

It’s humiliating. 

He chuckles as he watches your face. His hand lingers at your neck—not quite touching, just hovering now. “You’ve always been mine. You’ll always be mine. No matter how old you get, no matter how many people get to enjoy what’s between your legs. I don’t care about the silly rules your elders imposed. They just wanted to feel like they had some semblance of control, but….” He lifts one of his shoulders in a half-shrug and sighs, and then he takes a step away from you. 

You let out the breath you’ve been holding. Before you can think better of it, you ask, “Why?” 

He gives you a curious look. 

So you clarify, “Why now? There’s still five more years in the Bloodtide….” 

He rolls his eyes. “As I said: arbitrary. I have played by the rules for an eternity, accepted the gifts given to me every seven years—seven, why seven? This cycle has become most tedious.” He cocks his head slightly, observing you. He seems to deliberate for a moment before he adds, matter-of-fact, “And if you must know, the one before you has… slipped away.” 

“Slipped away?” 

“Yes, yes—she was terribly tenacious. Annoyingly adamant. Stubborn.” He says this word like it personally offends him, like it tastes sour on his tongue. Then he shrugs again. “She escaped.” 

“Escaped?”

“Is there an echo in here?” he asks, and your mouth snaps shut audibly. He fixes you with a look, that stark white eye boring into you. “You’re not going to try and get away from me, are you, diletta mia?” 

You didn’t know it was even an option. 

You didn’t know the Firstbloods who came to the manor survived long enough to escape. 

So you find yourself shaking your head. 

His mouth tugs up into a smirk again. “That’s a good little rabbit.” 

The air shifts again. His gaze goes to something over your shoulder, and you cast a quick glance back. A masked figure stands in the doorway, but it’s not the woman who led you here. This one wears similar attire—black with skeletal anatomy painted on the fabric—but he has an open waistcoat over of it and dons a top hat. His silver mask gleams in the firelight. 

“You do not fear my ghouls, do you?” Perpetua asks. “They are fixtures here, you see? They serve me. This one will take you to your room.” 

“You’re not going to…?” you trail off, not sure how to phrase it. He just watches you, waiting. “My blood…. You need my blood….”

“I do not need it. I assure you, I am quite capable of surviving, thriving, without it. But I will have it—I will have you. In due time.” The smile he gives you is sharp and wolfish, and your stomach dips with a mix of fear… and desire. The Mark around your neck almost pulses. 

You’re led to your room—a gilded cage with a four-poster bed dressed in violet silks and velvets, an antique wardrobe and matching writing desk, a small hearth with a fire already lit for you, and even a private bathroom. There are clothes in the wardrobe. Soaps in the bathroom. A standing lamp in the corner of the room bathes it in a warm, comforting glow. It’s everything you could ask for; everything you could ever need. There’s a single window behind heavy drapes, and you peer out into the darkness. You can see the shadow of your village in the near distance. 

Your mind jumps to the escaped Firstblood. How did she do it? Could you do it too? 

But… you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little curious about what Perpetua has in store for you. Gods help you, the man intends to drink your blood and a part of you is attracted to him. A part of you wants him. 

That’s probably the part that scares you the most. 

Notes:

things will heat up in the next chapter. only god Satan can judge me.

Chapter 2: my only need, welcome me in

Notes:

wanted to get this up a little quick since it felt the first chapter was kind of just the set-up.

remember the ‘mildly dubious consent’ tag? that KIND of shows up here, but let’s be real… wouldn’t be anything dubious about it if it were me, ayooo

You don’t know what you expect, but it isn’t this. 

You don’t see Perpetua the next night, or even over the next few nights. It’s like he stuck you in a closet somewhere to forget about you. 

The routine you fall into is simple: you wake up sometime in the afternoon, one of the masked people—one of his ‘ghouls’—brings you food, you shower, and then you put on clothes that aren’t yours. The wardrobe is full of all kinds of clothes: dresses, skirts, pants, short-sleeved tops, long-sleeved tops. Some of them fit you, some of them don’t. You try not to think about the other Firstbloods that have come here. Did they wear these clothes? Did they sleep in this bed? 

You never thought you’d find yourself missing the shack on your parents’ property. 

Your first day in the manor, you’re almost afraid to leave the room. Truthfully, you expect to find the door locked, but it opens with no trouble. In the daylight, the manor feels different—not just warmer and brighter, but lighter, like the oppressive weight of night is lifted and you can breathe easier. It’s still as quiet as a tomb, and as you step out into the corridor, you still feel like you’re being watched. But it’s different. It’s like you can feel Perpetua’s absence. 

When it seems like no one’s going to come and punish you for daring to leave the room, you spend your time exploring the manor. You’re not alone. The ghouls are there—moving through the shadows soundlessly, watching you, tending to things around the manor—but they never speak to you. You don’t know if they can speak. They don’t try to stop you from wandering, either. You find a lot of empty rooms, or rooms made up for guests that have never arrived. There’s a library, a formal dining room, a parlor room as though Perpetua entertains people…. 

And there’s a locked door. You find it at the end of one of the narrow halls, closing off what has to be an entire wing on the top floor. The way a chill seems to slither down your spine tells you exactly what lies on the other side of this door. 

The ghouls provide you with what you need—rarely the same one, as though they take turns. They tend the fire in your room to keep you warm. They bring you breakfast and lunch. In the evenings, they bring you to the formal dining room to eat dinner. The first time, you expect Perpetua to join you—to tell you exactly how things are going to happen here. But he doesn’t. You swear you can feel his presence come nightfall, but you don’t see him. 

On the fourth night, you find yourself getting frustrated. 

You wake up every day with a knot in your stomach. You walk around with your breath held, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’re apprehensive and sick with unease. What was the point of bringing you here? Is this some sort of game on his part? He makes you wait so by the time he comes for it, you’re so eager for his company that you’re almost excited to see him? Does it make you more willing to give up your blood? Does he enjoy the flavor of your blood more when it’s tinged with desperation? 

You’re sitting at the long table in the formal dining room while a ghoul comes in to clean up the food you barely ate. You’ve tried speaking to them before—mostly to say please and thank you, to apologize for walking too slow when they’re leading you somewhere, to remark on what the weather looks like outside the windows. They never respond. 

So you’re not sure why you even try now, but you ask her, “What’s your name?” 

She hesitates, but then only looks at you. 

“How did you even come to be… this?” you ask next, gesturing at her. At her odd attire and the silver mask on her face, the top lip painted black. “Do you even like doing this?” 

She cocks her head, but not like she’s confused by the question. More like she’s confused as to why you’re asking. 

An almost frantic irritation spikes in you and you blurt out, “Why am I here?” 

Her eyes are steady beneath the expressionless mask, but still, she says nothing. 

You stand. The chair scrapes the floor and the sound is jarring in the quiet room. She doesn’t flinch, not even as you demand, “Is this what it’s been like with all the others? Is this some kind of—some kind of psychological torture? Does he want to drink my blood or not? Where is he?” 

Nothing. She just watches you. You can’t possibly discern what she might be thinking. From the eyeholes in her mask, her gaze is intense but unreadable. It burns into you, making heat pool into your face. Does she feel sorry for you… or does she think your behavior is pathetic? Is it that she doesn’t want to talk to you, or is it that she can’t? Who is she? What is she? 

The clock out in the hall—you found it in your wandering—ticks loudly. The seconds wear on.  

She stares at you. You stare at her. 

And then you take a quick breath and your shoulders slump in defeat. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…. Sorry. I’m not blaming you for any of this.” 

She bows her head slightly in acknowledgement, then begins clearing your plates away with that silent and dutiful precision. You open your mouth to speak again—to ask her to stay, to apologize again, to beg to know something, anything about her—but you think better of it. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for the night, you think. 

With nothing else to do, you find yourself at the locked door on the top floor again. The sun set a little over an hour ago, and you felt the manor shift when Perpetua was awake, but you don’t think he’s left the wing that’s closed off to you yet. Carefully, you try the knob. It doesn’t turn. Before you can think better of it, you lean in and press your ear to the door. 

The wood is smooth and cool under your skin. You listen, trying to pick up anything through the door, but all is quiet and still. Except…. 

You hold your breath. Try to ignore the steady thumping of your heartbeat. 

Something seems to whisper against the wood on the other side. It sounds like the ghost of a touch, a hand sliding against the door. And in your mind’s eye, you picture Perpetua standing on the other side, listening to you as you try to listen for him. The Mark around your neck seems to pulse with heat. 

Your stomach flips. You jolt away from the door like you’ve been burned. With your cheeks flushed and hot, you hightail it back to your room. 

 

Your sleep is restless and full of the kinds of dreams that have you tossing and turning. 

You see your parents and the little shack that was your home for only a brief amount of time. Your mom is feeding the chickens, your dad is chopping firewood. And then you’re young again, twenty-one again, and you see the boy that was born the same year as you, the Firstblood who was chosen when your Beckoning came. In the dream, the Mark around his neck is oozing blood, but he smiles like he’s enjoying it. 

And then you’re in the bethel, looking at the portrait of Perpetua. The paint may have faded with time, but his eyes are sharp and keen. They seem to follow you when you move. And there’s a growing weight on your neck—against the Mark—as though there’s a hand at your throat. Possessive and claiming. 

The dreams ebb away. But as the images fade from your mind, the weight on your neck remains. It moves. Strokes back and forth. As you come into consciousness, you realize that what your feeling is fingers—gloved fingers—tracing the red indent of your Mark from one side of your neck to the other, slow and teasing. 

Your eyes pop open, and at the same time, your stomach clenches. 

And Perpetua grins his lazy grin. 

The room is illuminated by the moon outside your window, not quite full but close, and while you lay on your back, Perpetua is beside you. He’s propped up on an elbow, looking down at you as the tips of his fingers brush along the Mark on your neck. This close, you can smell him—not cologne, but something earthy and vaguely coppery. Your skin tingles, your spine thrums, and you can feel a thick warmth stirring in your gut. Your face burns. 

Your breath hitches as you try to speak. In your embarrassment, you’re frozen. You must have kicked the blankets off at some point in the night—you can feel them twisted up around your bare feet, likely from all the tossing and turning. You’re wearing a nightgown you found in the wardrobe: a silky slip of a thing, champagne-colored with delicate straps and a low neckline. When you put it on, it came down to the middle of your calves, but it’s bunched around your thighs now, no doubt hiked up by all your moving around. 

You’re more exposed than you’d like to be. You want to cover yourself, but it’s almost as if you’re afraid to move. All you can do is stare up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. 

“My sincerest apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he remarks, though the amused gleam in his mismatched eyes says otherwise. 

“How did you get in here?” is all you can think to ask, your voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. You’d started locking your door, feeling like it gave you a sense of agency.  

He tuts like you’re a fool for asking. “Well, there is the small, simple fact that I own the place, of course. And everything in it.” 

“Am I dreaming?” 

“Does it feel like a dream?” He wraps his fingers around your throat and applies just the slightest amount of pressure. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your heart skip a beat and flutter weakly in your chest. You gasp a little. Heat continues to spread through you, low in your belly; a soft, sluggish lust. He chuckles like he knows—like he can sense it. “No. We are both very much awake, I would say.” 

“Where’ve you been?” you ask. 

He begins stroking the Mark again—back and forth, his gaze intent on what he’s doing. A thrill slides through you, making you twitch against the mattress. Your fingers twist into the bedsheets and he grins again, looking smug. He says, “Oh, I’ve been around.” 

“I’ve—” you swallow against your dry throat, fighting the way your body wants to start squirming and writhing, “—I’ve been waiting for you.”

“And you’ve been most impatient, haven’t you? Harassing my poor ghouls, haunting these halls like a specter….” His eyes meet yours again. His tone drops, low and dangerous. “Eager for me, are you?” 

“No,” you say too quickly. You try not to sound so desperate as you go on. “It just felt like a waste—you demanded I come here by a certain time, and then you—you cast me aside. You left me alone to wonder when you’re going to, I don’t know, when you’re going to kill me.” 

“My poor little rabbit, discarded like a broken toy by a spoiled boy, please forgive me,” he says mockingly. “But I do believe I’ve already told you that I’m not going to kill you. I don’t like repeating myself.” 

“So you don’t kill any of them?” 

“That is not what I said. And this conversation is not why I’m here.” 

Before you can even think to respond, his hand moves away from your throat. He tugs the top of your nightgown down, his movements short and bold. Possessive. As your breasts spill out, your nipples tighten and harden—and it’s not solely from the chilled air in the room. You gasp and start to protest, one of your hands breaking from your paralysis to latch onto his wrist. 

He hesitates, looking at you curiously. And though your face heats with mortification, though your chest heaves with your labored breathing, though you clutch his wrist like you mean to keep him from going any farther… you throb between your legs. Your skin is hot and electric, the blood in your veins simmering with want. 

You ache for him. There’s no pretending otherwise. 

His mouth quirks up. He watches your face as he cups one of your breasts, giving it an almost experimental squeeze. The leather of his glove is cool and smooth. You let out a shaky breath as your hand falls away from his wrist, and it’s like you’re giving him permission. He squeezes again, harder, then takes your nipple between his gloved fingers. A whimper escapes you. 

He hums like he’s satisfied, rolling your nipple between his fingers. Pleasure jolts through you, making your pussy throb again, and you squeeze your thighs together. You don’t know if you’re trying to stop the feeling or if you’re trying to chase more of it. You grow wetter by the second. He’s barely done anything, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on before. As he starts to lean down, bringing his mouth to yours, you’re frozen again. 

Is this really happening? Are you really letting it happen? 

And just before he kisses you, he rasps out, pleased, “I can smell how much you want me.” 

His lips are firm and cool, capturing yours with the same boldness—the same possessiveness—as the way he touches you. The kiss is slow and measured. Deliberate. Like he wants you to feel it in your bones. He continues to tease your nipple, languidly tracing his fingers around it, and you tremble slightly as his lips part against yours. His tongue slides into your mouth, claiming you, and a small sigh eases out of you. This is… not what you expected. 

He gives your breast an abrupt, firm squeeze, drawing a little whimper out of you. He swallows the sound, slanting his mouth against yours and kissing you harder—with more determination. As his tongue strokes against yours, he continues to squeeze and palm your breasts, alternating between the two. 

One of your hands goes to his shoulder, fingers curling into the soft material of his button-up shirt. His tongue slides against yours again, coaxing you—and you oblige, following his lead and starting to kiss him back. A rumble of a chuckle stirs in his chest, but you don’t even care that he’s laughing at you. Not while he’s fondling and groping your tits like this. Not while he devours your mouth like his kiss is a punishment. 

And as your tongue brushes against his fangs, a sharp thrill snaps down your spine. You gasp in excitement, your body quivering with need.

His hand moves down your stomach. He doesn’t take his time. There’s no preamble. He simply hauls your nightgown up to your hips and cups your pussy through your panties. The pressure makes stars burst in front of your eyes, and you tear your mouth away from his to utter another pathetic sound, your head falling back against the pillow. 

“So wet for me, diletta mia.” His voice is gruff. Thick. Hungry. 

You know you should be scared. You know it should bother you that you’re letting yourself be so pliant under him. He may not intend to kill you, but you’re here for one reason and one reason alone—he wants your blood. 

But gods, if he keeps this up, he can have as much blood as he wants.  

He begins to stroke you through your panties, his fingers rubbing along your aching slit, and you gasp and squeeze your eyes shut. He swoops in again, kissing along your jaw and down to your neck. He’s all teeth and tongue as he mouths at the column of your throat, sucking hard enough to bruise, to bring blood to the surface of your skin. You whimper, clutching both of his shoulders now like you’re afraid he’s going to pull away. 

He shoves your panties to the side and his gloved fingers slide against your slick folds. He says something against your neck, his voice a muffled rasp against your skin, and though you hear it, you don’t understand it. You don’t speak whatever language it is. But then his tongue is following the line of your Mark and your mind blanks. And as he starts to press two fingers into your wet heat, a wanton moan shudders out of you. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, “Let me hear you.” 

He works you open with two fingers, thrusts slow and deep into you. You cry out in mingled surprise and pleasure, your hips jerking against the mattress, and he answers with a low groan of his own. He scissors his fingers inside of you, parting you for him, and then he’s back to kissing at your neck. You can’t think, can’t speak, can barely remember to breathe, and all you know is that this feels too good to be true. Are you sure you’re not still dreaming? Despite the slow pace he builds, there’s a brutality to the way he drives his fingers into you—like he’s imprinting himself upon you, ensuring you’ll never forget this. 

And as he adds a third finger, the way it stretches you makes you whine. 

The points of his fangs scrape against your skin. You feel a brief flash of fear, but it dissipates as his thumb brushes against your clit. You buck off of the mattress again, sobbing out in pleasure, and he rewards you by pushing impossibly deeper into you. He curls his fingers as he works them in, stroking that spot inside of you—that magical, blissful, torturous spot. You’re babbling now, moaning and pleading with him, begging for release, and he swirls his thumb around your swollen clit even as he teases your G spot. 

Your orgasm approaches fast—the simultaneously hot and cold sensation mounting and pushing you closer to the edge with every passing millisecond. It’s never felt like this before. It’s actually kind of terrifying. You rock your hips for more, grinding up against his hand brazenly, and he whispers praises against the Mark on your neck. Praises. 

“I knew you would take me so, so well.”

“Give it to me, little rabbit. Give yourself to me.”

“You make such sweet sounds. Perfect, perfect girl.”

And suddenly, he pushes four fingers deep into you and holds them there. At the same time, he does it—he bites you. His razor-sharp fangs pierce your skin with ease, and you swear you hear the rip of your flesh. Pain mixes with pleasure and your moan turns into a wail that echoes off the walls as you come. It feels like you’re being torn apart at the seams, and you cling to him frantically, trembling beneath him as he feeds on your blood. His hand starts moving again, pounding into you even as your pussy clenches and pulses around his fingers. He swallows your blood greedily, mouth latched onto your throat, and it feels terrible and wonderful at the same time.

It’s agony. It’s ecstasy. It’s everything.  

When you can’t take it anymore, you grab for his wrist again. “Please, no—I can’t—” 

And for a moment, it seems as though he isn’t going to listen. He thrusts his fingers into you a final time, the overstimulation making you convulse and mewl. But then, blessedly, he eases out of you. At the same time, he flicks his tongue against the wound on your neck, lapping up a final mouthful of blood before he lifts his head. 

His eyes burn into yours, the white one piercing and eerie. Blood oozes down his chin, and as he grins wolfishly at you, his teeth are stained red. It almost looks black in the darkness of the room. Mockingly sweet, he says, “Tell me you’re mine, diletta mia.” 

You’re panting wildly. Your heart pounds so hard against your ribcage it almost hurts. You open and close your mouth soundlessly at first, like you can’t find the strength to speak. One of your hands goes to your neck—you don’t want to bleed out, you need to apply pressure, are there any bandages in the bathroom? 

He grabs your wrist. “Say it.” 

“I’m—I’m yours.” And because you remember what the elders told you, you add, “Papa.”  

“And you always will be,” he says. But then he surprises you by placing a kiss that could almost be called gentle to where he bit you—to the Mark. 

When you wake up in the afternoon, you’re sprawled, alone, in the center of your bed. Your nightgown is still hiked around your hips, the neckline still tugged down around your breasts. You sit up slowly, sore between your legs, and your hand flies up to your neck. A dull pain radiates where he bit you, but your fingers find that the wound is closed and scabbed over. When you look in the mirror in the bathroom, you’re surprised by how clean it looks. 

It happened only hours ago, but it’s almost entirely healed. If it keeps up at this rate, it’ll be a scar by the end of the day. 

You add it to the list of many, many things you don’t understand about being at Perpetua’s manor. The top item on that list? Why you’re so desperate to see him again. 

Chapter 3: follow me between the jaws of fate

Notes:

thank you guys for being so kind to me~

also the Reader character starts to develop an awkward kind of humor over these next few parts, so plz forgive me if that’s not your thing. come on, she was a sheltered loser her whole life, even by her village’s standards.

Despite the soreness, you’re light and airy when you get out of bed. You’re satisfied. You swear you can still feel his fingers inside you, the way they stretched you and opened you up—a phantom pleasure—and it’s hard to believe it wasn’t all some weirdly graphic dream. How did he make you come so quickly, so intensely? It almost feels like it had to be some kind of inexplicable magic. Something unnatural and inhuman that comes with the territory of whatever he is. 

Even the bite felt good. It hurt, sure, especially when he drank. With every pull of your blood into his mouth, it felt like something inside you was being torn up by the root. Like he was taking something that was never meant to be taken. But combined with the pleasure of his fingers working into you, pounding into your slick heat and brushing that sweet spot inside of you, it was… transcendent. Divine. 

But in the light of day and under the hot spray of the shower, shame settles in. 

You didn’t do anything wrong, you suppose, but you’re mortified by how you acted—how Perpetua saw you. Thrashing against the mattress, holding onto him desperately, whining and whimpering like some kind of needy, frantic animal in heat. 

And when you venture out of your room, you’re convinced everyone else knows. Every ghoul you come across, you just know they know. With all the noise you made last night, how could anyone miss it? And whenever they look at you, their eyes intense and eerily bright behind their masks, you’re sure they’re judging you. Because who wouldn’t? You were forced to the manor by your village elders for some ridiculous ancient pact, should you really be enjoying yourself in this scenario? What does that say about you?  

For the first time since you came here, you’re kind of glad they never speak. 

You spend the rest of that first day walking on eggshells and waiting with bated breath, twitching at every noise you hear, but come nightfall, you don’t see Perpetua. You think maybe he’ll come to your room again, so you stay up late into the early hours of the morning. But he never shows. And that just makes you feel worse about it all. You really were as pathetic as you thought—it repulsed him how needy you were, how easily you gave into him, how much noise you made. 

He’s probably regretting having you brought to him in the first place. 

You try to convince yourself that your feelings aren’t hurt. You’re only here because you were born during a Turning year, born with a ring around your neck where fate tried to strangle you before you came out. It means nothing in the grand scheme of things. You mean nothing. He said it himself: blood is blood. 

But you never knew it was possible to feel the way he made you feel. And gods, that was just a taste—you didn’t even have sex with him. What would that feel like? 

You follow one of the ghouls into the dining room where the table is already set for your lonely, solitary dinner, though at this point, you know your own way around. You know the daily routine, too—you could get around well enough without them. But you don’t complain. They might not speak, but it’s nice to not feel totally alone here. She pauses while you pull out your chair and sit down, and then she turns to leave. 

“Wait,” you say softly. 

She looks back. You’re pretty sure it’s the woman from the first night—the one who opened the door and took you from the elders. You’ve started noticing differences between the ghouls, whether it’s simply body shape or the subtlest marks on their masks. Maybe you should give them names. Maybe they already have names. How would you ever know? 

You blush slightly as she watches you. You can’t see her face, but you can feel the expectant expression. Gesturing to the chair across from you, you say, “You could… stay?” 

She looks at the empty chair, then slowly back at you. Her head cocks ever-so-slightly, almost like she’s asking, Why would I do that? 

A sheepish laugh huffs out of you. “I just… can’t be the only one that gets lonely around here, right? We can keep each other company?” 

She hesitates. Then, her movements quiet and fluid, she glides over and sinks into the chair across from you Her hands settle on the table, palms flat against the surface of it, and she looks at you with that uncanny discernment that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. She doesn’t relax. She doesn’t seem content or comfortable. She’s only here because you asked. 

You push out all of your breath on a sigh and quickly shake your head. “Yeah, I don’t know why I suggested something so stupid, you can go.” 

She stands and you get the distinct impression she’s relieved. And then she’s gone and you’re left to pick at the food on your plate, alone. Was it like this for all the other Firstbloods? How long are you going to have to put up with this? Until the next Beckoning? And then what? What ends have the other Firstbloods met? Death, you assume. But Perpetua seems determined to convince you that he has no intentions of killing you. 

The room seems to grow colder. You rub at your arms, left bare by the short-sleeved shirt you’re wearing, and you’re glad you opted for pants today. There’s a fire burning in the hearth on the far wall, but it does nothing to stave off the sudden chill in the room. You’re not sure why such cold seems to linger in these halls, but it feels like the mausoleum under the bethel. You’d only been to it once—a funerary ceremony for an elder who’d passed—but the feeling of it had stuck with you. Cold, silent, watchful. The manor feels just like that. 

“Oh, well, don’t you look positively pitiful?” 

You jump a little, whirling in the chair to find Perpetua in one of the other doorways. His arms are folded across his chest and he’s leaning a shoulder against the frame, looking at you with a lazy sort of arrogance. Even from across the room, his eyes bore into you into a way that makes you feel exposed. Like a raw nerve. Your mind is immediately assaulted by images of the other night: his smirk as he looked down at you, the way he watched your face like your expression was a puzzle he was decoding, the moonlight bouncing off of his half-mask. And the way he’s looking at you now makes you think he’s remembering the very same night. 

Heat floods your cheeks and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind. “No, I—what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re moping.” He pushes off from the doorframe and stalks toward the table. Like the ghouls, he’s all cat-like grace and ghostly silence. “Are you upset with me for making you wait again? Have you been lamenting my being away? Begging your gods for me to return and pay you just a little bit of attention?” 

“No,” you say. You try to sound more firm as you add, “And I’m not moping.” 

“Do you have a different definition of it?” he counters. He sits to your right at the head of the table, plopping into the chair with an air of indifference. “Even my ghouls have noticed. They’re concerned, you know? They worry about these things.” 

You don’t know how to respond to that. It embarrasses you to think the ghouls feel any type of way about you. But maybe he’s just taunting you. 

He goes on, “I’m not. Concerned, I mean. You are resilient, as far as rabbits go, and I know you can handle what I throw at you. You certainly handled what I gave you the other night.” 

You jolt in the chair, stunned. You may as well have taken your fork and jammed it into an electrical outlet. You shoot him a quick look, and he’s just watching you. Eyes gleaming in amusement, mouth quirked up into a derisive little smirk. He relaxes back against the chair, stretching his legs out and getting comfortable. The collar of his shirt catches your eye. It’s open, the top couple of buttons undone, and you’re more than a little enthralled by the way the black face paint dips down his neck and beneath the silky material. How far does it go? What does he look like under there? 

Realizing you’re staring, you snap your gaze back up to his face. The smirk curves into a roguish grin as though he knows exactly what you’re thinking about. 

“I trust you’re not in any pain,” he remarks breezily, and at your confused look, he gestures to his throat. 

“Oh.” You clap a hand over your neck, over the bite he left against your Mark. By now, it’s entirely healed over, like a months old scar, and you absentmindedly run your fingers over the slightly raised skin. “Yeah, it’s fine. Although I don’t really understand how….” 

He holds his hands out, gloved fingers spread. “Thanks to me, of course.”

“But how? What did you do?” 

He sighs like your curiosity annoys him, but he says, “My saliva. It heals you after I feed. Otherwise, you’d bleed out much too soon, my ghouls would be forced to clean up the mess, and I’d lose my food source and have to find a new one.” 

“Wait, so does that mean you keep us alive the whole time? The whole seven years between Beckonings?” 

“Why are you so obsessed with this Beckoning thing? Bloodtide this, Firstblood that—blah, blah, blah.” 

“Maybe I’m just trying to learn a little about you.” 

“You know everything you need to know, diletta mia,” he says, bored. “I am a creature of hunger and you are here to help me sate that hunger.”

“Have you always been this way?” 

“As long as I can remember.” 

“How long is that?” 

He fixes you with a flat, reproachful look—almost like the way an exasperated parent might look at a child. Simply, he says, “Long.” 

And despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your mouth. He doesn’t fail to notice. His eyes narrow slightly. 

“Oh, I see. You find it funny to vex me with inane questions.”

“They’re not inane.” When he merely looks at you, you take a chance and try to joke, “Inane would be me asking your favorite color. Which, if I had to guess, I’d say black?” 

“I don’t have a favorite color,” he says instantly. A beat. “And if I did, I’d pick something a lot more interesting than black.” 

“Like what?”

He stares at you. Seems to weigh his options. Then, “Nightshade.” And when you open your mouth, he says, “Now shut up and finish your dinner.” 

You oblige. You’re not going to push your luck too far. As you go back to picking at your food—plain and kind of boring, but hey, it’s edible—your mind goes to your village. Perpetua is spoken about in hushed, reverent whispers. People respect him, but more than that, they fear him. You feared him for a significant portion of your life, even though you’d never seen him until now. But he’s… not what you expected. He’s kind of funny. Charming, in a way. He could probably tear out your throat with barely any effort and you imagine he’d even laugh while doing it, but… he doesn’t really seem like the monster everyone made him out to be. 

You’d almost say he seems lonely. 

He watches as you eat, like he’s just as curious about you as you are him. Was he like this with the other Firstbloods? 

After a moment, you say, “You’ve never joined me for dinner before.” 

“I don’t waste my time with things that don’t nourish me,” he says. 

“Which is blood.” 

“My, someone’s a fast learner,” he jeers. You blush and duck your head, because yeah, that was dumb. When you glance back at him, he’s still watching you. Intent. Thoughtful. It makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into a fathomless black—a never-ending, all-encompassing nothingness. It’s enough to make you lightheaded. And then he says, slowly, “Blood isn’t the only sustenance I enjoy.” 

Your stomach pitches and you take a deep breath, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “Oh? What, uh… what else…?”  

His mouth twitches up slyly. “Don’t you worry. I was planning on showing you when you were finished. Though if you make me wait much longer, it might not go as I initially intended.” 

A thrill shoots through you—an electric current that slides down your spine and curls around the base of it. Your entire body seems to thrum. Your bones feel like they’re melting. Warmth spreads through your core and you clench your fork so hard the metal bites into your fingers. How the hells are you supposed to finish your food when he says something like that? 

You swallow against your dry throat and huff out a sheepish laugh. “You’re teasing me.” 

“You are so very pretty when the blood rushes into your face, little rabbit,” he says, “But just because I’m teasing you doesn’t mean that I’m lying to you.” 

You look at him for a long moment. He looks back, expectant. Challenging. 

And maybe there’s something wrong with you. 

Because while you keep your gaze locked on his, you push your plate away from you. An intentional gesture to show that you’ve finished. 

Something smug flashes in his eyes. 

“Get up,” he says, “And come here.” 

“What?”

“Stai esaurendo la mia pazienza,” he murmurs with a roll of his eyes. Louder, he says, “I believe I’ve already told you: I don’t like to repeat myself.” 

For a moment, you almost don’t know what to do. You’re trying to figure out if he’s kidding or not, because even with the exasperation in his voice, the self-satisfied smirk on his face tells you this is all a game to him. But there’s a hard glint in his eyes that bids you comply. Slowly, you push your chair out and stand. As you do, his eyes sweep over you, drinking you in inch-by-inch. His jaw ticks. You don’t know what he’s thinking, but the weight of his gaze makes your stomach clench—makes you hyper-aware of the way your clothes touch your skin, the way your hair brushes your neck, the way your heart jumps in your chest. 

Face burning, you move closer to the end of the table where he sits, coming to stand beside him. His eyes track your movements like a predator, and your fingers fidget awkwardly with the bottom hem of your shirt. The moment seems to stretch on for an eternity and he just watches you. It doesn’t seem like he’s waiting for anything, more that he simply enjoys watching you squirm. 

And then he’s reaching for you. Sliding a hand up the side of your thigh and over the curve of your hip. Electricity races through you as he grasps your waist—casual, lazy, entitled. You try to hide the shiver that dances down your spine. 

“I make you nervous,” he says coolly. 

You shrug and admit, “A little.” 

“And yet… you like it.”

You hesitate. A little facetious this time, you say again, “A little.” 

A sharp grin splits his face and his eyes flash with satisfaction. And then he moves, striking quick like a snake. He surges to his feet and curls an arm around your waist, and in the same motion, his other hand goes to the side of your neck. He hauls you against him and crushes his mouth to yours. The kiss is hard and bruising, and it punches all of the air out of your lungs. Any shame or regret you’d felt over the past few days goes right out the window, because this? Nothing’s ever felt as right as this. 

His thumb digs in just under your jawbone, and he tilts your head so your mouth slants against his and he can deepen the kiss. As his tongue boldly sweeps through your mouth, claiming it, you feel it in the backs of your knees. Your legs go weak and you melt against him. At this point, who cares if you’re desperate? The blood in your veins simmers, something in it calling out to him, and this is all you never knew you needed. 

You don’t know what that says about you. You don’t particularly care, either. 

He nips at your bottom lip, the tips of his fangs just barely nicking you and making you jerk against him. He chuckles, pleased with himself. His hands go to your shirt, starting to tug it up, and a bolt of anxiety pierces you. You grab him by the wrists, turning your head to break the kiss and suck in a quick breath. 

“The ghouls,” you say. 

“Know better than to interrupt.” 

He overpowers you and yanks your shirt over your head. The cool air of the room brings goosebumps to the surface of your skin, and your heart thumps wildly in your chest. When he sees the bra you’re wearing, he almost looks annoyed. A gloved hand goes to the clasp at your back, and with surprising dexterity, he unhooks it. Then he lazily tugs the straps down your arms and tosses it aside. 

His gaze roves over you. Instinct has you moving to cover yourself with your hands, but it’s his turn to grab you by the wrists, and he holds your arms out at your sides so he can have his fill of looking at you. This is different from the other night. That felt like a dream, something hazy that happened in the dark, something secret and surreal and safe. You’re wide awake now and this is real. But the way he looks at you doesn’t seem disappointed—it seems fervent. He swoops in to kiss at your neck and you gasp again. When he releases your arms, you wind them around his shoulders, hesitant like you’re waiting for him to stop you. He doesn’t. His mouth moves against your neck, his teeth raking against your flesh only for his tongue to immediately follow, soothing the area. 

As he cups your breasts in both hands and squeezes, you whimper a little. He teases your nipples briefly, just until you start to tremble against him, and then his hands slide down your ribs to where your pants sit on your hips. 

He huffs against your neck. “Why did you wear so many clothes?” 

“You’re one to—” you don’t get a chance to finish. 

He bites your collarbone. It’s gentle enough that his fangs don’t break the skin, but it makes your mind blank. A breathless moan slip out of you. 

Before you know it, he’s shoving your pants down over your hips. He drops to a knee as he pulls them down your legs, and you dutifully step out of them so he can toss those aside too. And then you’re wearing only your panties and socks in the formal dining room of the manor you’ve spent your whole life hoping you’d never see the inside of. And Perpetua, the thing you were promised to before you were even born, is on his knees before you, looking up at you with a hunger that sets his mismatched eyes alight. 

His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he slides a hand up the inside of one of your legs. You shudder, biting your tongue to stop yourself from uttering an embarrassing little noise. But he notices. Because of course he does. 

He tuts. “I thought I made it clear that I want to hear you, diletta mia.” 

And he brushes his knuckles against your pussy through your panties. You gasp, reaching behind you to clutch the edge of the table and steady yourself. His mouth twitches up and he presses against you more firmly, sliding his knuckles down your slit. The delightful pressure makes your eyelids flutter. 

He begins to stroke you through your panties, at first watching your face, watching as you try—and fail—to control your expression. But then he looks at what he’s doing, his eyes gleaming as your panties grow wetter, the material darkening as the evidence of your arousal soaks into it. Every brush of his fingers has pleasure coiling around your spine, stoking the fire inside of you, and you let out a soft sigh. 

His nostrils flare like he’s smelling you. He mutters in that language you don’t know, hissing out what seems to be a curse. And then he leans in so he can nose at your mound, breathing you in. The edges of his mask scrape against your thighs—sharp and surprisingly cold, and you jerk a little. One of your hands carefully settles on his head, fingers playing at the straps of his mask.  

A low noise stirs in his throat. As his nose rubs against your clit, you moan. Your fingers unconsciously tighten in his hair.  

He reacts in a flash, tearing your panties down your legs and pushing you until you’re perched on the edge of the table. He throws one of your legs up onto his shoulder, and then his mouth is on you and you can’t think straight. He licks up your center and you cry out, your eyes rolling back at the heat that races through you. The cold edges of his mask heighten your pleasure as he gives you another lick that’s slow and devastatingly deliberate. He punctuates it by swirling his tongue around your clit. Once. Twice. A beat, and then a third time. 

“O-ohh,” you moan weakly, pulling some of his hair free from the mask straps. He does it again and your hips jolt. 

His hands come to your thighs to hold you in place, grasping you so hard his fingers bite into your skin, even through the gloves. You fall back on your elbows, half-laying on the table now, with one leg over his shoulder and the other dangling uselessly. It’s not a position you ever would have thought you’d be in—and certainly not with him—but it just feels right. You chance a look down at him and whimper. 

He’s already watching you, his eyes boring into you as his tongue flicks over your clit. 

“Oh gods, please,” you whisper. 

And he begins to eat you out in earnest: fucking you with his tongue, sucking at your slick folds, licking up to your clit. It’s like he can’t decide what he wants to do more, so he just does it all. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You’re pathetic on the table—gasping, whimpering, moaning wantonly. You’ve lost control of your body. You writhe and squirm and wriggle, and you don’t know if you’re trying to get more, or trying to get away. 

It’s all in vain anyway. You’re trapped—held in place and forced to take the assault from his mouth. 

With his lips on your clit, he says your name. The vibration makes your hips buck and your toes curl, a broken gasp tearing out of you. He says, “Tell me you belong to me.” 

A strained moan is all you can manage. Every stroke of his tongue has the fire inside of you mounting, climbing, ascending, and he expects you to be able to speak? 

“Say it,” he growls against you. 

And again, the vibrating sensation makes you cry out and grind up against his face. But you manage to whine, “You…. I belong to you, Papa.”  

He grunts, satisfied. And he rewards you by bringing one of his hands up so he can slide a thick, gloved finger into you. You’re so wet that it sinks in easily, and he wastes no time in starting to fuck you with it. You tremble, desperate for more of him even as you know you’re not going to last much longer. He latches onto your clit with his mouth, swiping his tongue over it as he works his finger in and out of you at a brutal pace. Your orgasm is on you before you can even think to warn him. 

“I’m—I’m—” you bite out, and then you’re gone, howling in pleasure as your climax slams into you. 

In a flash, he turns his head and sinks his fangs into your thigh. He continues to pump his finger into you as he takes deep pulls of your blood, swallowing hungrily, and the pain that courses through you collides with the pleasure. White hot and icy cold. Blinding. Earth-shattering. Your back bows off of the table and you convulse, pulling on his hair and rolling your hips up for more. 

He doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden it out, until you collapse in a heap, jelly-limbed and sated. And you watch as he laps at the open wound on your thigh, both collecting a final mouthful of blood and giving it a dose of his saliva to make sure it heals. As he reclaims his finger, he sticks it into his mouth to suck your juices from it. Some of your blood trickles down his chin and neck. 

And his eyes are on yours the whole time. 

He moves, standing so he can bend over you and kiss up your stomach to your chest, leaving your own blood smeared against your skin. You quiver as he kisses at one of your nipples. Then again, as he bites the swell of your breast just enough to break the skin and draw a bead of blood—which he quickly laps up. Then his tongue drags up your neck and over your jaw, and he claims your mouth in a hard, biting kiss. 

You can taste yourself on him and you whimper. 

“Do you see?” he rasps against your mouth. “This is what nourishes me. And this is what you’re here for.” 

As he kisses you again, his fangs nick your tongue. 

And for the first time ever, you think that maybe the Mark around your neck isn’t a curse. It’s a gift. 

Chapter 4: so let’s get swallowed whole

Notes:

oh yeah i should have mentioned Perpetua has like… SLIGHTLY monstrous features?? it didn’t feel like something i should tag for, because we’re not entering “monster fucker” territory or anything, but he’s definitely Not Normal™️. just… felt like i should give a brief warning for that. i hope this isn’t terrible, y’all have been so kind and i don’t want to let anyone down lmao.

You should sleep deeply after what happened, but your night is restless and full of dreams. They’re hazy and sometimes muffled, and you see past Firstbloods—many of whom you only recognize by the Marks around their necks. You also see a shadow that stretches up the wall, looming and sharp, bringing with it a smell like an open grave. Just before you wake up, you see a familiar face: the girl who was brought to the manor at the last Beckoning, the one who escaped. In the dream, she hides her face behind her hands and cries. 

Your eyes open slowly. The dream fades and the bedroom comes into focus. You’re not sure what to make of any of it. 

You’re not surprised that you see no sign of Perpetua over the course of the day. You actually kind of expected him to avoid you—it seems like it’s his thing. When another day passes without him, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed. On the afternoon of the third day, you make your way up to the top floor, and though you don’t think it’ll actually be open, you try the door that’s been locked to you since the beginning. It’s still locked. You jiggle the knob a little, like you think maybe you just haven’t tried hard enough, but it’s stuck fast. 

Not that you know what you’d do if it even opened. 

Come dinner, you take your time, pushing your food around on your plate and listening to the clock in the hall tick away. You sit around so long waiting to see if Perpetua will join you that the ghouls waiting to clean up after you are restless. The feminine one who brought you to the dining room pokes her head in every few minutes to check on you, and one of the masculine ones hovers in the doorway that leads into the kitchen. You eventually concede and get up to go. You stay up as late as you can, until you physically can’t keep your eyes open any longer, but nothing comes of it. 

And the next afternoon, you don’t crawl out of bed until you absolutely have to, which only happens because you have to go to the bathroom. You spend most of the day wandering the manor and trying to find something to occupy you, to distract you from how badly you want to see Perpetua. You map out the rooms you’re still unfamiliar with: a gallery of sorts, a trophy room full of taxidermied animals, an overgrown greenhouse. It all seems like a waste. These rooms appear to be kept clean and free of dust, but they feel… dead. Like they get absolutely no use. You end up where you always end up: the library. But it can only hold your interest for so long. 

You wind up in the front hall. The double doors stretch up toward the ceiling, carved and paneled, and as you shuffle closer, your mind goes to the Firstblood before you. Where did she go? Why? Maybe the manor is cold. Maybe you spend the majority of your time alone. Maybe you’re there to put up with Perpetua’s whims and be available only when he wants you to be. But as far as you’re concerned, this whole being Marked thing ended up a pretty sweet deal. You want for nothing—well, nothing material, at least—and you have no responsibilities or real worries. Why did she want to leave? 

Escape doesn’t seem so hard, you think. It’s not like there are any guards posted anywhere. Who would stop you? The ghouls? It seems like you could just walk right out if you wanted to. 

But the front door is locked. And you see no way to unlock it, which is curious. No deadbolts, no chain, no bar. Just a door that won’t open no matter how hard you pull on it. You let go of the icy knob and step back, your mind working. What’s it like in your village right now? The sun hasn’t set yet, so your father’s probably finding things to do outside, and your mother’s probably patching up a pair of his pants or something—you can almost hear the sound of her old, sputtering sewing machine in your head. The elders are likely tucked away at the bethel, updating Bloodtide records or going over the village census. Routine and humdrum. 

You try to determine how long you’ve been gone, but you’ve actually lost track of the days that have passed. Does anyone still talk about you? Do they think you’re dead? Are you just another name on the list of those sacrificed to Perpetua? 

You turn to go and jump, startled. 

A nameless ghoul stands in the archway of one of the sitting rooms, watching you. He’s the tallest, filling the doorway, though you’ve seen that he moves with the same eerie grace as the others. His top hat casts a shadow across his silver mask, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze. 

Your face heats, and you shift your weight. A little defensively, you say, “I was just curious.” 

But of course, he doesn’t respond. He merely watches you. 

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you add. 

Nothing. 

An embarrassed huff leaves you and you scurry away from the door. You don’t look back, but you can feel the ghoul’s eyes on you as you make your way to the stairs.

You hide out in your room for the rest of the day, leaving only when it’s time for dinner. 

 

When you return to your room after you eat, you run a bath for yourself. Until now, you’ve mostly stuck to quick showers, but the bathroom came stocked with luxury soaps, salts, oils—things you’ve been raised to consider superfluous. And you figure there’s no better time to try some of it out than now. You measure with your heart and soon the bath is infused with a mix of vanilla and lavender and frankincense, and you sink into it with your hair pulled up so it doesn’t get wet. The hot water eases away the tension that’s built over the past couple of days, and you lie back against the tub with a sigh. 

The room is quiet, save for the slow dripping of the tap into the bath. It echoes off the walls. You’re not sure if it’s the heat, the relaxing scents, or simply the fact that you’d stayed up so late waiting for Perpetua, but you doze off and on. The dreams that come to you are faint and tenuous, like imprints of images. In one, you see the door to the bathroom open. Something fills the doorway. A shadow slides across the tile floor, spreading like spilled ink, reaching for the clawfoot tub where you lay. 

You open your eyes to find you’re alone. Why wouldn’t you be? The door is shut, just as you left it. 

You tell yourself you’re not disappointed.

The water is cold by the time you climb out. You let your hair down and brush it out with your fingers, then lean toward the mirror to get a better look at the bite on your neck. Because it’s on the Mark, the scar almost disappears in the red indent, and it’s only when the light hits it just right that you can see it. The one on your inner thigh looks fresher, but it’s healed over too, the newly formed skin raised and glossy. It’s still hard to believe how quickly his bites heal—though you suppose it’s no harder to believe than the fact that he drinks your blood in the first place. You brush your fingers over it and your mind jumps to the memory of his head between your legs. 

And even though you’re alone, you feel a flush creep into your cheeks. You promptly pull on a fluffy robe and leave the bathroom. 

Is it worth it to go up to the top floor and just start banging on the locked door? He can’t ignore you forever, can he?  

“I was beginning to worry you’d drowned in there.” 

You flinch like you’ve been struck. 

Perpetua is in your bed, reclined back against the pillows with his legs crossed at the ankles. He flips lazily through one of the books you’d brought up from the library, and he doesn’t bother to even glance your way. He’s the picture of casual indifference. Like the night he joined you for dinner, the collar of his silky shirt is open, exposing his throat, and in the warm light of your bedside lamp, he looks almost like an oil painting. A smudge of charcoal against the violet of your bedcovers. 

Your stomach squeezes at the sight of him. The Mark around your neck pulses with a heat that spreads through the rest of your body and makes you blush. It’s ridiculous. You fidget with the tie of your robe, ensuring it’s closed. There may not be anything left that he hasn’t already seen, but you’re still not at the level where you’re ready to walk around naked in front of him. Well… if he told you to, you suppose you’d have no choice. 

He turns another few pages in the book, then snaps it closed like it bores him. He tosses it aside without a care, and his gaze drifts to you. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at you expectantly—like he’s waiting for something. 

So you say, “Why do you do that?” 

“Do what?”

“Disappear like you do.” When he just looks at you, you’re compelled to go on. “You give me these moments—like the night you first, you know, bit me, and then the other night in the dining room—and then you just… stay away. Like I don’t exist, like I’m….” You trail off, feeling stupid and wishing you could start over.  

The longer the silence goes on, the harder you blush. Probably because he looks like he’s delighted by your awkwardness. 

But he finally takes mercy on you and says, “I ‘disappear’ to let you recover. Excuse my being a gentleman, ingrata mia.” 

“Recover from what? The bites heal—your saliva—” 

“Think for a moment,” he cuts you off. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. “You do not have an unlimited supply of blood, do you? You are not a modern, medical miracle from which I could feed and feed to my heart’s content, are you?” 

“Well… no.” 

“So, my rapacious little rabbit, no matter how much you are wanting my company, perhaps it’s for the best that I ‘disappear’ so you have time to recuperate.” 

You duck your head, sheepishly. “Alright, I…  didn’t think about that.” 

“No, no, of course not. You just allowed your precious feelings to be hurt because you thought I was avoiding you.” 

“I mean, you kind of were. Technically.” 

Behind the mask, his eyes flash with something like amusement, but there’s an edge to it. His gaze is heated. He takes a step toward you, cocking his head a little. “Is that why you were trying to leave earlier?”

“I didn’t try to leave,” you say at once. 

“So my ghouls are lying to me?” 

“I was just… checking. I was bored, okay? You left me to my own devices,” you say. 

“And if the door had opened?” he asks. 

There’s something in his tone that draws you up short. He’s looking at you like he’s merely curious, but the way he asks feels like a challenge. Accusatory, even. You shrug and shake your head at the same time, not sure how to respond. If the door had opened, you probably would have just shut it again. 

He studies you. A muscle in his jaw jumps, but he almost seems to relax—like he’s satisfied, even despite you not having an answer for him. He says, conversationally, “You don’t miss it, do you? Living out there in the village?” 

“I don’t know,” you say. And it’s the truth. The shack your parents had built for you had terrible water pressure and worse soundproofing. The electricity was always acting up. You hated cleaning up after the animals and living under the thumb of the elders, and you felt invisible most of the time, probably because you weren’t supposed to be there—people had expected to lose you to Perpetua years ago. You still don’t really know where you fit, and even now, you’re almost as lonely as you were then. But on the nights when Perpetua comes to you? You’ve never known such bliss. And you don’t think there’s anything from your past life that could convince you to give those nights up, no matter how few and far between they seem to be. 

He watches your face like he can read the thoughts flitting through your mind. Abruptly, he says, “They don’t think of you.” 

It stings. Maybe it’s the matter-of-fact way he delivers it. You drop your gaze and try to look more unaffected than you feel. 

As he comes closer, his tone dips into a gentle rasp, and it’s like he’s trying to comfort you. “It’s just the way they are, you see? This ridiculous Bloodtide thing. They assume I’ve killed you. They’ve written you off and are prepared to move on, just as they have with all the other unfortunate souls sent to me. They don’t care. They never did.” He pauses, then adds, “But I care. I would miss you, diletta mia.” 

You hate the way his words make your chest go tight. You’re naive, but even a sheltered Firstblood can recognize the scent of manipulation. You push out a laugh and say, “You would miss my blood.” 

“I can get blood anywhere. I would miss your taste.” And the way he says it tells you exactly what he’s talking about. Blood rushes into your face so hard and so fast that you go lightheaded, and he takes that final step toward you, closing the gap. His strange, earthy smell washes over you. Desire plucks at your insides and you almost sway toward him, desperate to touch him. He goes on. “I would miss the way you sound when I bring you to that point—that sweet, symphonic, seraphic moment where you break for me. And oh, the heat of you, my little rabbit.” 

Arousal is thick and heady inside you, pulsing with your heartbeat and fogging your mind. Every inch of your skin feels charged, like the air just before a lightning strike. You open and close your mouth uselessly, words failing you. 

His smirk broadens into a grin. “And to think I haven’t even had the whole of you. Can you imagine it? My teeth in your throat, my cock in your delicious little cunt?” 

A weak sound leaves you. 

You can imagine it. And gods know you want it. 

Probably have since the first time you laid eyes on him. 

But now he takes a step back. “And yet I hear from my ghouls that you have barely eaten these past few days. So torn up over my absence that you torture yourself more.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, admonishing you. “We’ll have to wait even longer for you to recover now, I think.” 

“No.”  

He grins again. “No?”

“I’m fine, I’m totally fine, I’ve recovered,” you say quickly. 

“Have you?” He finally reaches for you, cupping your jaw in a gloved hand. A shiver wends its way down your spine. He asks, “Or are you just trying to get me to stay?” 

“A little bit of both? Is it such a crime?” you counter. 

His mismatched eyes glint. “So ask me to stay. Beg me.” 

You feel painfully awkward. Fresh heat fills your face, but you figure you don’t have anything to lose. At least, the only thing you have to lose is him, and that’s not going to happen. Not when you’ve waited for four straight days. “Please don’t leave me alone again, not now that you’re finally here. I’ve been waiting for you—desperately waiting for you—you’re all I think about.” 

”Were you thinking about me when you were sneaking around and trying to open the front door?” he asks. 

“I wasn’t trying to leave,” you insist. “Why would I? You treat me so well, Papa.” 

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but he’s pleased by your attempts. 

So you feel emboldened. “I’ve never felt the way you make me feel, no one’s ever touched me like you do. Your hands… your mouth…. I can’t stop thinking about the rest of you and what it’ll feel like.”

His grasp on your jaw tightens a little, and an excited little gasp tears out of you. It makes his eyes flash. 

And you’ve come this far, right? You push it further and sink to your knees in front of him. As he lets his hand fall away from your face, the look in his eyes is hard and hungry.

“I swear, I don’t want to leave. All I want is to be with you. I ache for you, Papa. Here—” you press a hand to your sternum, just over your heart. You swallow against your dry throat, and looking up at him with as much bravado as you can muster, you slowly slide your hand down your front, letting it disappear beneath your robe and between your legs. “And here.” 

A low laugh leaves him, and it ends on a sigh. He says, “You’re not playing fair.”

“You told me to beg.”

“And yet I’m the one who feels weak.” 

You don’t get to linger in the satisfaction of hearing him say that, because he does something you don’t expect. Slowly, finger-by-finger, he removes his gloves, one hand at a time. At first, you almost think he’s wearing a second pair of gloves, but as he drops them to the floor, you realize his hands are stained black. It covers just up to the wrists, as though he dipped his hands into black paint, and where it smears up his wrists, his pale skin is a glaring contrast. 

His fingernails are long. No, not fingernails, you realize. He has short, sharp claws, jet black in color. The sight of them makes your stomach pitch in a mix of unease and exhilaration. He’s full of surprises. 

He reaches for his shirt next, deftly undoing the buttons even with his claws. His eyes stay on yours, his mouth quirked up into an arrogant little smile, and your throat goes tight as his shirt falls open. His pale torso is defined in all the right places, tapering into pants that are slung low on his narrow hips, and the black pigment that stretches down his neck dips all the way to the center of his chest—to where his heart is. 

As he shrugs out of the shirt and lets it fall to the floor, you take him in, awed. The inky black from his neck covers the tops of his shoulders and smudges just over his deltoids. Where it fades, his arms are pale and wiry and strong. 

“I thought it was makeup…” you say. 

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug and says, simply, “Just me.” 

“Is it… spreading?” 

“Slowly.” The answer is just as simple. Just as matter-of-fact.

“How…?” You don’t even know how to phrase what you want to ask. How did it start? How is it consuming him? Why? What you finally settle on is, “What happens when it covers you entirely?”

“I suppose we’ll have to find out together. Should you live that long. You humans live such fragile, fleeting lives, of course.” 

“What are you?” you let yourself ask next. 

“I’ve already told you,” he says, smirking, “A creature of hunger. Something I think you might actually be able to relate to, no?” And then he’s undoing the fly of his pants. 

You throb between your thighs, a rush of lust hitting you so hard that it knocks the breath out of you. Because you don’t care what he is. You don’t care why he is. He pulls out his cock, and everything you said stands: you ache for him. He’s thick—almost intimidatingly so—but as his clawed hand moves lazily along his length, you clench with need. You’ve suddenly never wanted anything the way you want to feel him inside you. 

“Oh, I can hear that rabbit heart beating,” he says smugly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

You take a slow, deep breath and force yourself to look back up at his face. His white eye bores into you, pinning you to the spot, and you joke, weakly, “I’m wondering if this means you’re staying…?”

He laughs, indulging you. Then he reaches for you with his other hand, taking you by the chin and murmuring, “Open your mouth for me, diletta mia.” 

And you do. Of course you do. 

You take him into your mouth, and a low hum escapes him. You’ve only done this a handful of times before—and gods know that man in the village was nothing like Perpetua—so you try not to get stuck in your own head as you tease his velvet skin with your tongue. The taste is not unpleasant; a little salty, a little earthy, a little… different. And though his skin is cool to the touch, it’s a thrilling sensation—wholly unique to the man, the monster, in front of you. The hand on your jaw slides to the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair and claws ghosting against your scalp, but despite his hold on you, he lets you set your own pace. 

Though as you start to move, swallowing him down as best as you can, you can feel his restraint—the way his body feels tight and coiled as he controls himself. You let your hands settle on his thighs as you bob your head up and down, taking what you can without hurting yourself. You hollow your cheeks as you suck, following the length of him with the flat of your tongue. Your jaw is already tight. You’ll ache tomorrow, but it’s worth it to feel him pulse in your mouth. It makes your nipples pull taut beneath your robe; makes your pussy throb in a way that has your hips rolling and seeking any kind of friction it can find. Need is too small a word—you feel like if you can’t have this man, you’ll just die. 

A little whimper sneaks out of you at the thought, the sound muffled around him.

Your name leaves him. It’s soft, like a benediction, and you’re not sure if he’s even aware he said it. Like he can’t wait any longer, he starts to thrust into your mouth, moving slowly. Carefully. He tries to match your rhythm, moving to meet your mouth on every downstroke. But soon, the pressure on the back of your head grows heavier. He holds you in place and almost eagerly fucks into your mouth. He rasps out a moan that makes your spine vibrate with desire, and his hips jerk as his control slips. 

You gag as he goes too deep. 

He hisses out a curse and uses his hold on your hair to pull you off of him. You try to ask him what’s wrong, but your words cut off as he takes you to the floor. He yanks open your robe with impatient hands, exposing you to him, and as he settles heavily between your legs, he buries his face in your neck. He kisses and sucks at your throat, and at the same time, he grinds against you. His spit-slicked cock drags against your throbbing pussy, and a soft, pathetic sound shudders out of you. As the broad head of him rubs against your clit, your head falls back against the floor with a thump. 

Your hands go to his waist and you lift your own hips like you’re trying to guide him into you. Need clogs your throat, choking you, and you’re breathless as you try and plead with him to give himself to you already. Without a word, he refuses. He overpowers you and kisses down your chest, stopping briefly to tease each of your nipples—first with his tongue, and then with the edges of his teeth. You jolt beneath him and he slides further down your body.

He grips your thighs in his clawed hands and holds you open to him, and then he takes you with his mouth. His tongue slides between your folds like a starved man finally presented with food, and he kisses your pussy as thoroughly as he kisses your mouth: hard and claiming. The cool edges of his mask are sharp, pressing into your skin in a way that should be uncomfortable, but the sensation only heightens your excitement. 

You let one of your hands settle on top of his head—not to push him, but to ground yourself. 

He’s almost frantic as he devours you, and your mind goes fuzzy and blank as you try to keep up with what’s happening. You gasp and writhe on the old, worn rug, your heels digging into the floor so you can push up to meet him. You can’t get enough, and it seems like he can’t either. When his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks, you cry out like the pleasure shocks you. Your fingertips drag against his scalp and he groans against you in a way that has your eyes rolling back. 

And then he spears you with his tongue, starting to fuck you with it. Your hips jerk and you grind up against his face, panting out a string of curse words you don’t think you’ve ever even said before. He only grips you tighter. The tips of his claws indent your skin, coming dangerously close to breaking it and drawing blood, but the pain thrills you. It makes you think about the bite that you know is coming. You like bleeding for him. He angles you slightly, thrusting his tongue into you with purpose—so deep that his nose brushes against your clit. The edges of the mask graze your mound. 

You’re close. 

He seems determined to finish you like this. But now that you’ve had him in your mouth, you need him inside you. 

So even as the pleasure ramps up in you, as it starts to spark in you like flint striking steel, you try to stop him. You push on his head, grab him by the pointed ears, squirm in a vain attempt to get away from him. But he doesn’t let up. He pins you down, holds you in place with an effortless strength you can’t fathom, and he continues to saw his tongue in and out of you. He’s relentless. 

You let slip a broken noise, quivering with your attempts to hold on. “If you don’t—stop—I’m going to—” 

His only response is a grunt. Something deep and guttural. You look down at him like you think you might be able to formulate some kind of plan, but it’s a mistake. His eyes burn with a primal desire as he watches you. Like this is the only thing that matters to him. 

And now you whine. “I can’t—can’t last—” 

He answers with a long, deliberate lick up to your clit. 

It’s enough to shatter you. Your howl echoes off the walls. It’s like something possesses you, the way you convulse beneath him, and you pull on his hair, yanking some of it free from beneath the straps of his mask. You expect to feel the cold sting of his teeth, but he doesn’t bite you. He just continues to suck and lick and feast on you as you come. He eats you through it. 

When he finally lifts his head, black-painted lips glistening with your juices, a faint whimper shudders out of you. “Why…?” you try to ask, still trembling. “I told you—why—?”  

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. 

He moves over you again, bracing one hand on the floor next to your head. With the other, he guides his cock to your dripping entrance. You stammer a little, too stunned to know how to react. As he slides the head of his cock through your folds, you jerk and suck in a sharp inhale, overstimulated. You’re simultaneously excited and scared. You don’t know if you can do this all over again. You press against his chest with shaky hands, struggling to find your voice. 

“Wait, wait,” you manage to say. 

“Oh, will you make up your mind?” he says mockingly—right before he sinks into you, burying himself to the hilt. 

A strangled cry tears out of you and your back bows up off the floor. He feels even thicker than you’d initially thought, and the way he stretches you burns. He holds himself still for a moment as though he’s trying to let you adjust to him, but as you pulse and clench around him, it seems like too much for him. He can’t control himself. Or maybe he simply tires of trying. Letting out a deep groan, he starts to move. 

He quickly builds up a brutal pace, pounding into you. He hitches your legs up onto his hips, opening you more to him—letting him drive in deeper—and it takes everything in you just to stay present with him in this moment. The way he folds you up angles you in just the right way, and every thrust blinds you with a fierce, vibrant pleasure. You prattle at him pathetically—“Papa this” and “Perpetua that”—begging him for release, pleading with him not to stop, sobbing about how good he feels. You don’t even recognize the sound of your own voice. What has he turned you into?  

And for someone who normally seems to have a smug remark for everything, he has no words for you now. But that doesn’t mean he’s not vocal. His groans are short and sharp, punctuating every thrust into you. Your hands graze up his arms—from pale white skin to the black staining his shoulders—and you dig your fingernails in, clutching at him desperately. 

Without thinking, your hands go next to his mask. Your fingertips play at the edges of it, but he stops you.

He doesn’t lose his rhythm, but he reaches up to grab one of your hands firmly. He bites out, “No.”  

You’re panting, barely able to get enough air into your lungs, but you ask, “I wouldn’t like what I see?” 

“You wouldn’t be able to handle what you see,” he says. But then he turns your hand so he can press a kiss to the center of your palm—a gesture so unexpectedly and achingly tender that it pulls a brittle moan from you. 

He releases your hand and covers your body with his, burying his face in your neck again. His mouth moves against your skin—kissing, sucking, licking, not yet biting—and he slides an arm around your waist, lifting your lower half from the floor. Such tight quarters means his movement shifts; he’s not quite thrusting into you as much as he’s rutting against you, grinding with his cock inside of you. He’s pressed against that sweet spot that turns you to goo, and the rolling of his hips has him assaulting that spot over and over. 

You hurtle over the edge. You come hard. 

The wail that claws up your throat goes hoarse and cuts off. You can feel yourself clench around him, like it’s your body’s way of trying to pull him in deeper, and a rumbling moan leaves him. He fucks into your pulsing heat a few more times before he stiffens over top of you. As he starts to come, that’s when he chooses to tear into your throat. You feel the warm splash of your blood as his fangs rend your skin. 

He feeds on you even as he spills inside of you, and you realize that you’re yelling again. He’s bitten you on the other side of your neck, a wound against your Mark to mirror the first, and with every pull of your blood that he takes, your body jerks. It hurts so good. It devastates you. 

He seems to grow heavier over you, his weight crushing you to the floor, and his hips continue to rock just slightly as he finishes. You let your hands stroke up and down his back, lazily delighting in the planes of his muscles and the strength you feel in him. His mouth is still at your throat, still licking at the bite mark even while his saliva works to stitch the skin back together. It’s like a self-soothing gesture for him, or maybe like he just can’t turn off that hungry instinct. Whatever the reason, it makes you shiver beneath him. 

When he finally releases you and moves, his cock slips out of you and leaves you feeling all too empty all too suddenly. You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a short, wrecked sound. He climbs to his feet and as he tucks himself back into his pants, he gazes down at you with something you can’t quite discern. There’s amusement, a cocky satisfaction, a covetous glow, but there’s also something that almost seems… soft. You make no move to get up, yourself. Your legs are still shaking. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. You have the vague thought that you should at least cover yourself, and yet you can’t find it in you to feel any shame. For the first time in your life, you feel completely and wholly satisfied. 

Hells. Maybe this was what you were born for. 

His mouth quirks up. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp that feels like sandpaper against your nerves—enough to make you tremble all over again. “This is a good look for you, you know. Well and truly fucked.” 

You’d laugh if you could find the strength. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.” 

With a chuckle, he bends and reaches for you. He pulls your robe closed, though he doesn’t tie it, and he gathers you into his arms, lifting you with ease. As though you weigh nothing. He carries you to the bed and doesn’t so much as set you against the pillows but drop you against them. Unceremoniously. Before he can move away, however, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants. 

“Don’t go,” you say. 

He says your name. It sounds like a warning. 

“Stay with me tonight. Don’t go running off like you always do. You know it hurts my precious feelings.”  

That makes his mouth flicker up into a smirk, at least. 

You add, strangely shy considering what you’ve just done, “Please?” 

He sighs and bites out something that sounds like, “Piccola sciocca.” But he obliges and falls into the bed with you, getting comfortable on his back. As you drape an arm across his midsection and pull yourself closer to him, he says, “I’ll be gone by sunrise.” 

“Why sunrise?” 

“I burn easy,” he remarks in a way that’s too casual, too offhanded. A way just screams finality—he won’t be clarifying. 

So you ask next, “Why wouldn’t I be able to handle what’s under your mask?” 

“Because it’s beyond your human comprehension, I’m afraid.” 

“Is it scary?”

“Immensely.”

“Have any of the others seen?”

“No. Now shut your eyes and go to sleep.” 

But even though you’re exhausted to your bones—drained and empty and just barely clinging onto consciousness—you can’t stop the way your brain buzzes with thought. Tonight has changed things. No, tonight has changed everything. Not even he could argue that, you think. 

“Was it like this with the others?” you ask. 

“If you continue with this frivolous interrogation, I’m leaving.” 

“I’m just curious—” 

“Oh, I know what you want. You want to know if you’re special. If you’re the only one who’s gotten to see me, taste me, feel me.” 

Your face catches fire, but you don’t say anything. You can’t. Because instinct makes you want to defend yourself, but he’s not wrong. 

He sighs again, letting his clawed fingers comb through your hair. After a long moment of consideration, he says, “I did a lot of things with a lot of the sacrificial lambs your pitiful elders sent to me. You are certainly not the first.”

He pauses. 

You wait. 

Finally, he says, “But I never stayed when they asked me to.” 

It’s downright pathetic how your heart seems to flutter a little at his confession. And it’s all the more humiliating knowing that he can likely sense it. 

You open your mouth—there’s still a million different questions rattling around in your skull—but he twists his fingers into your hair and gives it a quick, painful tug.

Exasperated, he says, “Go. To. Sleep.” 

So you let him off the hook. 

Or maybe you don’t have much of a choice anymore, as your eyelids are so heavy it almost hurts to keep them open. You relax against him, your cheek pressed against his chest—a chest that doesn’t rise or fall with breathing. You suppose you’ve noticed that he doesn’t breathe, somewhere in the back of your mind. You’re not surprised that you don’t hear a heart beating in his chest either. 

But he doesn’t scare you. It’s funny that he ever did. 

Because if you’d known it would be like this, you would have begged to be chosen on the night of your Beckoning all those years ago. 

And you’re done worrying what that says about you. 

Chapter 5: i wanna have you to myself

You’re sore everywhere when you wake up. 

And alone, but that’s not really a surprise. 

Sunlight streams in through your windows, and you drag yourself up into a sitting position, wincing at the ache between your legs. One of your hands goes to the fresh bite on your neck. It’s still a little tender, though like the others, it’s well on its way to healing. Brushing your fingers against the mended skin, you can’t help but smile a little to yourself. He may be gone, but you can still feel Perpetua’s presence in the room. It’s in the chill that lingers in the air. The faint earthy scent clinging to your pillows. That phantom sensation of being full, your body’s memory of the stretch. 

The hot water in the shower takes away some of the ache. You’re sore in ways you didn’t know were possible, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re not sure how embarrassed you should be about your behavior. He brings out something in you that you didn’t know existed. 

From the wardrobe, you pull out a simple dress: black, loose and flowing, with thin straps and a neckline that dips into a V. The flared skirt flutters about your knees as you move, the material thin and gauzy and totally impractical. Especially with how cold it gets in the manor. But growing up with your parents and working around the homestead, you’re used to overalls and rough canvas pants, things that won’t get ruined with a little manual labor. It’s nice to feel… pretty. 

You look over yourself in the mirror, admiring the new bite mark on your neck. You like that he leaves his mark on you—that there’s something you can see to tell you that you’re his. It’s crazy. Maybe you’re crazy. Locked up in the manor with no one but a monster and his masked, voiceless, nameless ghouls to keep you company? It was only a matter of time before you lost your marbles. 

But after last night, it’s worth it. 

You don’t think you’ve ever slept as well as you did with him. You’re sure that a part of it was the pure, physical exhaustion after the night he gave you, but it certainly helped having him there. He’d kept an arm curled loosely around your shoulders, his clawed thumb tracing soft circles against you, lulling you. He’d been sturdy and safe. And he must have been gentle when he eventually untangled himself, because you didn’t wake up to him leaving at all. 

I never stayed when they asked me to.  

But he stayed for you. 

You’re not sure what this is, this thing between you, but you like it. And you want to keep exploring it. 

When one of the masculine ghouls brings your first meal of the day, you’re hungrier than you can remember being in a long time. You eat it all. You need to keep your strength up, to recover—you need to not give Perpetua a reason to stay away. Then you spend the bulk of your afternoon floating from room-to-room, passing the time with odd things here and there. In one of the sitting rooms, you listen to the old radio for a bit—it gets a better signal than anyone in the village ever could—and in the front parlor, you mess around with an old piano. You don’t know how to actually play, but you press the keys enough that it eventually starts to sound vaguely like music. (You get embarrassed when you realize one of the ghouls is watching you.) 

You eventually end up where you always do: the library. You browse the shelves that have become familiar to you by now, though you stand on a chair to finally get a good look at the top shelves you can’t reach. 

All the while, you count down the minutes. 

You’re found by a ghoul sometime later. By now, you’re sitting sideways in a wing chair, legs draped over the arm of it, and you’re flipping through some kind of occult tome that seems to be written in archaic symbols and illustrations instead of words. You recognize the ghoul by her height—she’s the shortest—and she’s probably the one you see the most. Also the one who greeted you at the door on that first night, so you have a soft spot for her. Seeing her always makes you feel a little less lonely. 

But…. You glance at the only window in the library, bemused. Judging by what you can see of the sky outside, it’s late in the afternoon—dusk is slowly approaching, but it’s nowhere close to your usual dinner time. You aren’t usually sought out by the ghouls unless they’re trying to shepherd you somewhere. 

And yet, she stops just inside the doorway and looks at you expectantly. 

She wants you to follow her. 

You jump to your feet, scrambling to pick up the books you’d stacked on the floor next to the chair. She holds up a hand and you hesitate, and then she gestures like she’s swatting something away. And gods, you’ve been here long enough that the movement makes perfect sense to you. We’ll take care of that later, it says. 

And so, feeling only a little awkward, you let her lead you out of the library. As you’d expected, she doesn’t take you to the dining room. Instead, you follow her upstairs—to the top floor. But while she turns into the familiar hallway, her gliding steps light and silent, you hang back a little. The door at the end of the hall seems to call to you, but you know it’s locked. It’s always locked. You feel a glimmer of anxiety. Is this some kind of weird test? 

She steps aside and presses her back to the wall, her arm moving in a sweeping gesture for you to proceed—to keep going down the hall. You look first at the door to the closed-off wing, then back at her. Now would be the perfect time for her to reveal she’s been able to talk this whole time and has just been pranking you. She only stares at you, however, her eyes bright beneath her mask. You take a quick breath, nod once, and you slip past her, continuing on to the door. You reach for the brass knob with your breath held, just waiting for whatever the punchline of this bizarre joke is. 

But the knob turns. 

The door creaks open a few inches, revealing a much darker corridor. 

Surprised, you turn to look back at the ghoul. You suppose you’re not surprised to find the hallway empty—she disappeared without a trace, like the ghouls tend to do. For a long moment, you just stand on the the threshold with your hand hovering over the doorknob, your mind jumping from one thought to the next. You almost feel like you’re doing something wrong, like you were set up to get in trouble or something. 

But the door is unlocked. It’s never unlocked. 

It’s like you’re meant to be here. 

So after you take a deep breath, you cross over into the newly opened wing. It’s much colder here than the rest of the manor—so cold you almost expect to see your breath puff out in front of your face—and it’s dark enough that you wonder if this side of the manor even has windows. There are lamps turned on sporadically, casting little orange circles of light that serve as the only illumination. You realize the lamps have been strategically turned on, like they’re leading you somewhere. And what choice do you have but to follow? You move deeper down the hall until you come to a set of double doors that stand open, inviting you in. 

The room is large and sprawling, lavishly decorated and blacked out with heavy drapes over the windows. A fire burns in the hearth, creating an atmospheric glow but only barely cutting the chill in the air. An antique lamp on an accent table provides a little more light, but your eyes still need to adjust to the shadows in the room. And when they do, you realize what’s off.

In the center of the room where a bed might be, there’s instead a heavy casket. It’s longer and wider than the modest ones you’d seen used in the village, painted black and seemingly carved with symbols and runes you could never think to name. It’s open. The lid is propped on the floor against it, and you hold your breath as you draw nearer. Perpetua lies against the ivory silks of the interior, flat on his back with his hands folded over his stomach. 

And he’s beautiful. 

Wearing only his half-mask and a pair of dark lounge pants, the pale parts of him that aren’t stained black by his monstrous nature almost seem to glow in the dark. He’s eerily still, like a corpse, and as you lean over him, what you can see of his expression is easy and relaxed. You trail your eyes over him. Like his hands, his bared feet are inhuman—slender and long, with clawed, bat-like toes. They’re like nothing you’ve ever seen before; a sharp reminder that you still don’t know the first thing about what he is. 

But whatever he is, you like it. 

As you look back up at his face, you feel an itch—a flash of desire to see what’s under his mask. Hesitantly, you reach for it, but only so you can brush the tips of your fingers against it, tracing the ridge of where it sits over his nose. It’s smooth and cold to the touch, and your mind jumps to what it feels like between your thighs. Blushing, you reclaim your hand. You’d never betray him by taking it off, no matter how strong your curiosity is. 

And something tells you that you don’t want to see what he’s like when he’s angry.

Why were you brought here? There’s probably at least another hour until sunset, so what are you supposed to do while Perpetua slumbers? And what comes after he wakes? Is he expecting you, or will your presence be as much a surprise to him as it is you? You cast another glance around the room and take note of an armchair near one of the blacked out windows, and you suppose it’s as reasonable a place as any for you to sit and wait. 

You only wish you’d brought the book you’d been looking at. 

Or…. 

You look back at him. 

After a moment of contemplation, you kick off the thin-soled slippers you like to wear around the manor, and you swing a leg over the rim of the casket. You’re careful as you climb in to join him, though you slip and end up bumping his hip with one of your knees. He doesn’t react. The bare skin of his torso is cool and smooth as you curl up at his side, holding onto him in a way that mirrors the way you’d laid with him in your bed last night. You let your cheek rest against his unmoving chest, eyes closing as the earthy, coppery scent of him washes over you. 

This feels… significant. It feels, again, like what you were made for. 

You’re not sure exactly how long you lay there. You hear no ticking clock, can see nothing that marks the passage of time, and all you can do…. 

Is wait. 

 

You feel the shift in the room when he’s awake. 

It’s as though something heavy settles over you, the room almost seeming to buzz with an incoming storm. The hair on the back of your neck stands. Your heart climbs into your throat. You’re weirdly nervous. Excuses well up in your throat—apologies and explanations that are ready to roll off your tongue—and all the while, he doesn’t move. 

But then you feel his lips at the crown of your head. He drags in a deep breath, smelling you, and something like a sigh eases out of him. “Profumi come i cieli.” His voice rasps more than usual, thick with sleep, and it’s almost enough to make you shiver. 

“I don’t know what that means,” you say. 

“I know.” He doesn’t clarify. “You may thank me now, little rabbit.” 

“Thank you?” 

“Do you not feel oh-so-special to be here with me?” he asks dryly. “You are not going to mope and pout and worry my ghouls half to death because I’m ‘avoiding’ you?”

You lift your head so you can look at him. His mismatched eyes burn into you in the way that makes you feel like your chest has been torn open and he’s examining your insides. You don’t look away, even while your cheeks burn. It’s almost like in the darkness of the room, in the privacy of his casket, you feel bolder. 

“You invited me here so I’d feel special?” you ask playfully. 

“I invited you here so I wouldn’t have to hear your sad bleating about how lonely you are without me, how much it hurts when I ignore you, how you can’t bring yourself to eat when I’m away.” 

You smile, despite the bite of mockery in his tone. Because he still stayed with you last night. And you’re still here now. Sweetly, you say, “Then yes, I do feel special. And thank you.” 

He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Piccola sciocca.” But as he grabs you by the arms and starts to pull, he says louder, “Get up here.” 

His sharp nails dig into the flesh of your upper arms as he hauls you up onto him, essentially forcing you to straddle his hips. The solid feel of him between your legs again makes your stomach flip. He presses a hand between your shoulder blades and jerks you down over him so he can bury his face in your neck. His mask is cold against your skin. He inhales, taking in your scent again in a way that makes your spine tingle, and desire pulls in you, hot and thick and syrupy. You take a slow breath to try and steady yourself. How does he have this effect on you? 

He mouths at the column of your throat, then says against your skin, “You tempt me so. I can feel the heat of your blood in your veins—it’s enough to make my teeth ache.” He scrapes the edges of said teeth against you and coos out a soft and sarcastic, “Oh, but I mustn’t. I took so much from you last night.” 

“No, it’s fine, I’m fine,” you gasp out. 

And he chuckles. “I know your ways, diletta mia. You’re so eager for me, so hungry for the pleasures I bestow upon you. So willing to let me take and take and take….” His tongue follows the Mark, tracing the red indent you used to hate. “You would let me kill you if it meant you could have me again, wouldn’t you?” 

“You know when to stop.” 

“I know precious little when I’m buried in you.” 

You throb between your thighs, knowing he’s talking about having both his fangs buried in your throat and his cock buried in your pussy. As he sucks on your skin, bringing blood to the surface and only further tempting himself, the smallest of moans slips out of you. You feel him grow hard against you. Your body reacts like it has a mind of its own: your hips roll forward and you grind against him. 

He makes a short sound in his throat that almost sounds frustrated, and in a flash, he pushes you upright again so he can look up at you. His eyes are rapt on you, unblinking, and his hands go to the straps of your dress. Goosebumps dance across your skin as he uses his claws to pop them, tearing through them with ease, and the dress is so loose on you that without the straps to hold it up, the top falls down and exposes your chest. The cold air of the room makes you suck in a quick gasp, your nipples tingling as they harden. 

His eyes gleam. His mouth twitches up into a satisfied smirk. “You learned your lesson about wearing too many clothes.” 

“Maybe,” you say playfully. 

“Or maybe you were planning on trying to seduce me if you saw me.”  

“Yeah, maybe that too.” 

“Cheeky little wretch,” he says, but there’s something fond in his tone. 

“I think I learned it from y—ohh—” your words turn into a surprised sound as he takes your breasts into his hands and squeezes. The tips of his claws poke into your flesh as he fondles you, kneading and pressing your breasts together, and you find yourself rocking your hips again. You rub against him pathetically, gasping, but he lets out a sigh that feels like a reward. 

“Perhaps I can take just a little,” he muses, and you nod quickly. Desperately. 

Using the claw on his thumb, he slices a small line down between your breasts, only an inch or so long. Over your heart. You gasp again—the pain is brief and fleeting, and it’s worth it to see the hungry way he watches your blood balloon out of the cut. He sits up and presses his face between your breasts, licking a trail up to the wound. He groans at the taste of you. 

Your hands go to the back of his head, cradling him to your chest, and he continues to lap up the blood that oozes from the cut. He’s rock hard in his pants, nestled between your thighs, and your panties are soaked with your own want. You squirm until his bulge presses against you in just the right way, nudging up against your clit, and your breath shudders out of you. You grind against that sweet, sweet friction, and you feel a surge of satisfaction—triumph—as he moans against your chest again. 

“Needy thing, aren’t you?” he purrs. 

“Never used to be,” you admit. 

The cut was shallow enough that it’s already closed—the skin already mended by his saliva—but he sucks and nibbles there like he still intends to leave his mark on you. One of his hands slips between your bodies, and in a quick, almost imperceptible motion, he cuts clean through your panties with his claws. A thrill runs through you as he rips them open, exposing you. 

He brushes his fingers against your clit. You jolt, electrified. He’s careful as he starts to tease your pussy, but his claws graze against your heated flesh. The sensation is simultaneously exciting and unnerving. One wrong move…. 

You whimper as he uses his fingers to open you to him. A clawed digit dips into you, gentle despite the danger. And you must not have any sense of self-preservation because the excitement far outweighs the fear of what he could do to you if he slipped. Especially as he uses his other hand to wrest his cock free from his pants. Your breath catches in your throat in anticipation, your fingers twisting into his hair. 

Grasping your hips, he positions you over him, lining you up. The moment lingers. It’s like time freezes just for a second. 

His voice sounds tight as he abruptly says, “I suppose I’ve never been this needy before, either.” 

And then he drags you down, impaling you on his cock. You cry out, your grasp tightening in his hair and tugging fistfuls of it free from under the straps of his mask. He uses his hold on you to move you—pushing and pulling, guiding you into riding him—and fuck, it feels amazing. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, but you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be so full of him. 

Neither of you waste time. You rut against him frantically, chasing your own pleasure, and his claws dig into your hips, urging you on. You can feel him break the skin, even through the material of the skirt hiked up around your waist. A bit of your blood soaks into the cotton voile, but you can’t find it in you to care. He rocks beneath you, and your bodies are sealed together in a way that grants your clit a sublime pressure that feels hot and cold at the same time. 

You’re panting and whimpering—begging for him, for this, for more. There’s something different about tonight. You don’t know if it’s this weird trust between you two now, the fact that he allowed you into his space, or if it’s just how wickedly exhilarating it is to ride him in his casket. But you’re close. So close. 

He nips at the swell of your breast, biting just a little, just enough to indent-but-not-break the skin. The groan he utters is almost broken, like it’s killing him to be so careful with you. You don’t doubt his restraint. You’re sure you both could finish without him biting you. But you want him to feed. And gods help you, you want him to leave another bite mark on you; want to be covered in them so you never doubt who owns you. 

So you whisper, “Do it.” 

He says your name. A warning. A threat. 

You caress the back of his head, and because you know what it does to him, you coax him by saying, “Please, Papa.” 

He hisses out a curse. And like it’s a punishment, he sinks his teeth into you, biting you in the center of your chest where he previously cut you with his claw. The pain is more intense—maybe because it’s directly over your heart—but so too is the pleasure. As he takes his first pull, swallowing your blood greedily, he hauls you against him harder, fucking up into you like he wants to get as deep as he can. Like he wants to merge you to him and never let you go. 

Your orgasm blooms bright and blinding and a howl peels out of you. Your hands scrabble for purchase at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin, and he grunts in response. But he doesn’t stop. He drags in another mouthful of your blood, pumping up into you until he follows you over that edge. When he comes, you swear you can feel him pulsing inside of you. As you tremble in his lap, coming down from the high, he continues to lick at the bite mark between your breasts—languid and almost lackadaisical. Even as your blood slows, as your skin stitches together, he can’t keep his mouth off of you. 

And then you melt against him, your bones turning to liquid. Your head is light and fuzzy, and as he lays back against the silks, pulling you with him, it feels almost like you’re dreaming. The edges of your vision are soft and blurred. Things seem to happen in slow motion. Your heartbeat seems unnaturally loud, and you’re hyper-aware of the thump of it against your sternum. Your mind blanks, and when your vision swims, you let your eyes fall closed. 

And alright, maybe you shouldn’t have encouraged him to take more blood. 

He tucks your head under his chin and holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. While he doesn’t move to pull out of you, you can feel him start to soften and slip out. You’re too exhausted to voice your disappointment, but you have the wildly filthy thought that you’d like him to stay there forever.  

“Are you still with me, little rabbit?” 

You nod weakly. 

“Look at you. I shouldn’t have fed from you so soon after I wrecked you last night,” he teases. He pets your hair and clicks his tongue before he adds, “Oh, but you are insatiable, preda mia. My needy, greedy girl.” 

His words make you quiver. 

Which makes him chuckle. 

And then he says, conversationally, “I think I’ll keep you.” 

It takes you a moment to register. You try to blink away the fog clouding your mind. “As opposed to…?” 

“As opposed to what usually happens to the others.” 

You muster all of your strength and sit up so you can look down at him. His gaze, bright as ever behind the mask, is thoughtful as he studies you. There’s a spot of your blood on his chin. Your vision loses focus, but you blink and bring it back. 

You can’t miss this. 

“What happens to them?” you ask. 

“Some of them stay. To serve.” 

“The ghouls?” 

“My ghouls,” he confirms with a bored nod. 

“And the others?”

A beat. And then, as if it’s obvious, he says, “I let them go.” 

You’re shocked. It’s certainly not the end the elders imply is waiting for Firstbloods. You’d spent your whole life thinking you were going to meet a violent, bloody death all for the good of your village. 

As if reading your mind, he shrugs a little—as best as he can while lying beneath you. “Most of them. Some got it into their hasty, half-witted heads to kill me, and well, by that point, it’s self-defense when I kill them first, no? Most regrettable, of course.” 

“Some have tried to kill you?” you ask in disbelief. 

“Oh, yes. Not all are as resilient as my rabbit. Not all can handle me as well as you do.” 

It’s hard to imagine wanting to kill him, much less trying to. You have to wonder how different he was with the others. Maybe you are special. 

“The ones you let go,” you say slowly, “How come they never returned to the village?” 

He snorts. “Why would they?”

It’s a good question. 

What’s back at the village? The elders? Parents who knowingly had you on a Turning year so that you would be born a sacrifice? A slow, sheltered life where you’d never experienced this? Even if you wanted to leave the manor—and let’s be real, you’re here for the long haul at this point—you can see nothing appealing about returning to where you came from. 

And it’s not hard to imagine the others felt the same. 

“What about the girl before me?” you ask as the thought comes to you. “You said she escaped?” 

He scowls. “She was… not fit for this.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I told you: she was stubborn. She did not listen. She thought herself above it all. She wanted to see… me.” He gestures toward his face—toward the mask. His mouth twitches a little, a cruel smirk tilting the corners. “And so I let her.” 

His words hang in the air, pointed. 

But you still find yourself needing to ask, “What happened?”

“So incomprehensible was my visage, she simply….” He ponders, then shrugs again and says, bluntly, “Snapped.”   

“Snapped?”

“Human minds are such delicate things, I fear. So easily fractured.” 

You’re stunned into silence at first. You hadn’t thought much about it when he said you wouldn’t be able to handle seeing what lay under his mask, and you certainly hadn’t thought there would be a real example of someone who did see. You try to gauge his expression to determine whether or not he’s lying—whether or not this is some kind of strange joke—but he looks up at you evenly. You blink and say, “So… you’re saying she went crazy? And then what?” 

“I wanted to put her out of her misery, of course. She was always running about, broken and terrified and maddening. But my ghouls… they have such tender hearts.” He sighs as though he’s disappointed. “One of them opened the way for her. Let her escape.” 

“And?”

“And what?” 

“Where did she go?” 

“Where indeed?” 

It almost startles you. 

She’s still out there? How? Where on earth could she have gotten off to? How did nobody from the village ever see her? Gods, is she even still alive at this point? If she was really as far gone as he makes it seem, you find it hard to imagine she had any way of caring for herself out there. The tragedy of it all sobers you. 

You think back to when you first came into his room, when you let your fingers brush against his mask and fought the urge to try and lift it. Is that what would have happened to you, too? 

His hands are on your hips again. His touch makes you wince a little. The shallow gouges left on your waist by his claws are tender and unhealed—untouched by his healing saliva. He squeezes slightly, fixing you with a hard look. “Now, can we stop talking about things that are of no relevance to you, diletta mia? There’s so much more we could be doing with our time.”

The way his tone drops makes your spine tingle.

You feel terrible about it, but it’s easy to push the other Firstblood from your mind. She’s not here. You are. 

Right here, right now, sitting astride Perpetua in his casket. 

Like he can read your mind, his smile sharpens, growing wolfish. He trails a hand up your side and lazily starts to fondle one of your breasts. Your body responds to him instantly: nipples pulling taut, core turning molten. It’s hard to believe how fast the desire comes on—like flipping a switch. Slowly, he asks, “You are not going to be stubborn, are you?” 

You shake your head, taking in a quick breath. 

“You are not going to push and push and push until I’m forced to do something we’ll both regret?” he asks. And again, you shake your head. He traces around your nipple with one of his claws, making you shiver. Then he asks, “You want to stay with me, don’t you?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Tell me you want to be mine.” 

You swallow against your dry throat. Your voice comes out a whisper as you say, “You make it so hard to think straight, Papa.” 

“And yet, you are managing well enough. Say it.”

“I want to be yours.”

His mouth curves up into another smile, smug and satisfied. “Mine. My pet. My perfect, perpetual prey.” 

You blush, but you offer up a wry laugh. “Until you get sick of me, right?” 

And then he moves. You don’t have time to even gasp as he yanks you down and presses you onto your back against the silks. He slides over you, slotting himself between your legs. It’s only now that you realize you can feel him against your thigh, hard again. Your stomach clenches, your whole body lighting up with your arousal. A gasp shudders out of you and he smirks down at you. 

“You are mine until you are no more,” he says plainly. He traces around the shape of the fresh bite mark on your chest, the tips of his claws scraping your skin and causing you to break out into a hard ridge of goosebumps. He watches for a moment, like it captivates him to see the way your body reacts to him. Then his eyes return to yours and he says, “Unless you want me to let you go like I did the others…?”

You shake your head. “I don’t.” 

“Don’t want?” 

“I don’t want to go. I want to stay.” You offer up a little smile and say, playfully, “You already made me say it, right? I want to be yours.” 

As though to penalize you for your cheekiness, he takes one of your nipples between his fingers and tugs. You arch into his touch, sucking in a quick, sharp breath. He watches your face, eyes hard and hungry. He shifts and his cock rubs against you, sliding against your tender pussy. Your hands go to his hips, though you don’t know if you’re trying to stop him or trying to urge him on. 

A lazy, roguish grin curves his mouth. But then he sighs. “You will be a study in self-control, my beautiful little fool. I hope you’re prepared.” 

And then he’s inside you again and nothing else matters. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this should bother you. You think you should probably be afraid of him—you still don’t even know what he is, or why something like him exists in the first place. But for the first time in your life, you feel like you know you where you fit. Or maybe it’s just the way he says your name, the way he holds onto you like he never plans to let you go. Or the noises he makes when your blood hits his tongue—when you clench around him and pull him into the blissful abyss with you. 

Because it’s enough for you. 

And somehow, it seems like enough for him too. 

Notes:

originally this story had an ending that was a bit more definitive, but uh, i’m gonna be honest with y’all….. i realized i didn’t want it to end? i liked writing Papa V like this, so i decided to leave this ending kind of open in case i want to write something else in this “universe.” i already have some ideas. 😈

but in the meantime, THANK YOU IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR. if you’ve left kudos or commented on any of these chapters, DOUBLE THANK YOU. 💖 my first Ghost fic, and more than that, my first reader insert fic, so i more than appreciate how kind you all have been. thank you, thank you, thank you!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Bloodtide