A/N: Written for the 28 Days of Love Challenge on the Digimon Fanfiction Challenges Forum, day 9: write about a crack pairing.
And you know, this made me rather uncomfortable writing it. I think I crossed a new line for myself here. Doesn't help when you have an anatomy lab that was a tad more graphic than expected, considering we're touching everything (I won't tell you why it was more graphic than usual, because anatomy labs in general are enough to gross out people without a science background).
Vampire Lover
There is blood on his fangs and she gags on the smell as it chokes her. Her chin is still gripped tight in his hands, long nails digging into the soft skin of her left cheek while he laps up the plasma that bleeds. His tongue, controlled and wet and so human-like, desires something else – and she can feel that desire, feeling it ripple through her dry mouth, and her bare skin stretched tight despite her shaking restraint.
Her fists are clenched tight and one of her own less-sharp nails have snapped; that bites into her palm, while the others are like blunt needles pricking skin. But the rest of her body is a cannon over which she has no control; it is his fingers who have loaded the gunpowder into her, and sealed the chamber. She can only shudder because she knows it'll explode out of her and she cannot stop it, whether she wants to or not.
But her skin is stretched so tight she doesn't want it to stop, and even the nauseating smell of blood on the fangs tickling her cheek isn't enough to distract her.
Though she wishes it was; that way she could lose herself in a different oblivion, that vicious cycle that sought to leave an aching black hole within her stomach – instead of tearing her traitorous heart to shreds. Because she had agreed to this, agreed to do whatever it took to live: to be the thing he feeds upon when he's hungry, let's loose upon when he desires, and breaks into tiny little pieces in the process so he can gloat about his victory to the world.
And she agrees to just one more thing: not a part of the deal with him, but with herself. Because she's sacrificing too much for her measly little life, and she needs to get something out of it in return. So she vows to love it, to enjoy every moment, to cast the dead skin off herself before he pulls it out, so he gets the refuse and she gets to keep the little bit of bone underneath for herself.
But this is her first time and she's scared, and afraid, and wishing she'd chosen otherwise. But he'd had her fangs buried deep in her neck and her head had been drowning in black water from the lack of blood when she'd screamed for her life. He'd bit her there since, and she'd trembled every time, but it was different. He teased now; he took it slow, and gentle, so she could always remember the threat of death but remain standing after it.
Except now he wanted something else, and he's cast his cloak and coverings aside and looks so treacherously human she doesn't think she can cut the pieces for herself this time either. Not that her body will let; it's already red and bruised and straining against the sensual tongue and carve-wood nails, and her fists uncurl and clutch him tight instead, in her final desperate bid for some control.
He presses her to the wall and rearranges his grip, so her own on him is the only thing keeping her stitched together. The blood is still on his fangs, and his lips as well, she realises hazily, but now it's in her lips as well and she's winding her own dry tongue around his flaccid fangs because she needs that wetness in his mouth and not the dribble of her womanhood staining the inside of her leg prematurely.