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The lone drifting bat beats its wings of nightmares with vigor.
Lightly, it delivers thunks on the arched window, tapping in a rhythm that’s just loud enough for Michael to pick up through the bleariness of midnight, catching him dozing off—out of boredom and not necessity.
Turning over lazily, he allows himself to take a minute—somewhat entertained by the impatience with which his lurker of a bat flutters and squeaks against the occasional gust of wind—before drawing a slender finger across the air to let it in.
Flying to the center of the room, it sheds its brilliant camouflage that rivals the dead of the night, dissolving into a cloud of dark glittering mist in the blink of an eye. It is Isagi who emerges in his regular, human-like form, hand on his neck in an effort to relieve the crick settled there.
Michael is momentarily flooded with a variety of snarky verbal expressions that could help him maintain his gelid mystique, but he really can’t help himself when he throws his personal favorite from his catalog: a scoff.
“You remembered the way back to my bedchambers?”
Fixing his ruffled, flared sleeves, Isagi approaches the foot of the bed, steps undetectable.
“Could I ever forget?” The deliberate silence left by Michael does not hold for too long, shattered by Isagi sooner than he anticipates as per usual. “Are you mad at me?”
Michael hmphs again and chooses to rest his gaze elsewhere. The intricate windowsill seems fairly charming, decorated in an arrangement of red and blue flowers that appear almost translucent draped in pale moonlight.
“No. I understand you’re busy.”
At that, Isagi gives a little chuckle of amusement and a shake of his head to match it. “Then why the attitude, my dear?”
“It’s not.” Michael crosses his arms and leans back into the silken volume of pillows. “You know it is no fun being apart from each other. I’m fine with staying holed up in my sanctum—but the bureaucratic aspect spoils any and all willingness to perform those—those lame duties I never asked for!”
Beneath the layers of sapphire-threaded canopies, his deceptively angelic silhouette appears to ripple in and out of the complementary blanket of shadows. Michael is sheltered in the appropriate lair of elegance for a delicate nocturnal creature such as himself, Isagi assesses. Lined with the finest fabrics, and not a spot as improper as the bathtub.
A calculating glint plays in his eyes as he bows politely, gathering the hand Michael has gracefully extended to place an apologetic kiss on his knuckles.
The gauzy drapes of tulle and velvet sway gently, easily. Their obedience as they part with Isagi’s movements might serve as a dim foreshadowing for what’s to come—though that is merely part of the subliminal messages Michael looks for in ordinary moments to justify, and strategically conceal, his own eagerness.
He stiffens up without meaning to when Isagi freezes mid-motion in suspicion, analyzing, nose a breath away from his wrist.
“You haven’t fed.”
“I’m fine.”
Isagi does not probe further. There is no reason to when he can sense his betrothed’s irritability from a mile away. He shall play along if only to indulge him, not quite in the mood for stern lectures either.
Not that he can focus anyway; Michael is so pretty, has waited patiently for his return all day, devastatingly inviting even when said invitation hasn’t been uttered aloud. Pretty in streaks of cerulean and royal blue that melt downward, staining the tips of his hair. Alexis, from the west wing’s guard, most likely being the one responsible for his gradual change in appearance—Isagi files the curiosity for later.
“When were you scheduled for sustenance? You must’ve missed out. This week’s livestock was exceptional.”
Of course that’s what he says. Yoichi, who feeds on human blood like a glutton. Michael pulls a face, barely managing to suppress the roll of his eyes. “Five days ago.”
Standard reply. Letting out the deep sigh of resignation, Isagi climbs up at last. Mattress dipping, sheets rustling under his knees as he crawls over to Michael.
Blue eyes wander, quietly drinking in the sight of him lying in quiet repose between cushions like a spoiled feline. Isagi has to swallow hard as his innocent urge to observe takes a turn, gaze becoming much too lecherous to disguise it as adoration.
He wants to bang his head against the hardest wall of the mansion for not noticing earlier; how Michael’s lean frame is dressed in a champagne gold piece bleeding to navy toward the hem, a sinful negligee of glossy super organza that catches even the faintest leak of light through the veil of canopies.
The weight of Isagi’s stare curls Michael’s lips to a knowing smirk, hoping the provocative flash of fangs that creeps out will create a mild vexation toward his antics.
“Don’t think I wore it for you…!” Michael says in a high-pitched voice, feigning frustration with a huff. As dramatically as possible, he drags his fingers slowly along the side of his leg. This causes the sheer layers of fabric to hike up, just enough to reveal his pale calf.
Instead, Isagi’s expression splits to a soft, satisfied smile that would have Michael thinking neither he nor his sex appeal are taken seriously were he another second late to cupping over his knuckles. Isagi takes his lover’s hand into his, wasting no time interlacing their fingers.
“Little minx.” He noses against the crook of his neck lovingly, making Michael vibrate with a faint purr. “You’re on my mind from early morning to duskfall.”
Michael takes the opportunity to play with the strands of midnight blue on his nape, sharp nails drawing random patters, tickling. “Oh, is that right…”
“The council…” Isagi starts, squeezing between Michael’s fingers. He expects his petulant reaction to the word itself ahead of time. At least let him finish, damn it, this testy kitten of his. “They acquiesce to my plans out of fear even though I’m open to objections. I’m afraid it’ll quickly reinvent itself through natural selection if they remain as spineless. But you’re all I think about. Keeping you by my side in the finest blue garments. On my lap.” He lingers under his ear, lips brushing his tender earlobe. “Folding you over that table… Letting them all watch.”
That pulls a slow, shaky breath from Michael. Yet the frown he simply cannot contain twists his features. Sour, he bristles. “Ah, yes. Your preliminary marriage negotiations that divide your court of catastrophically incompetent noblemen. How are your options looking, Sire? Business proposals advancing smoothly with Carmilla?”
To his tone dripping with venom, Isagi raises an incredulous brow. Then stifles a sudden burst of laughter into his neck which only grows louder once Michael clicks his tongue, and turns away in pure annoyance.
“Yes…” He hums thoughtfully against the jut of Michael’s clavicle. “…Carmilla. That’s right. What better for our faction than a powerful alliance?”
A beat passes. Michael does not bother to reply, and his breathing has shrunk, unaware that the insecurity that grips his chest tight is giving him away.
“Carmilla though… She doesn’t like me. Or men for that matter. She has another she’d give everything for and won’t back down. So—”
Michael blows air sharply through his nose.
“So…” Isagi continues, firmer, “that part is moving slowly… If at all. There are more pressing matters at hand.”
“Like?” Michael mumbles after a while, stubbornly avoiding Isagi’s searching eyes. He is now fidgeting with one of the ruffles on his right sleeve.
“Like me tending to my beautiful mate.”
The admission, being able to hear it confessed out loud, never fails to make Michael stupidly warm and fuzzy inside.
“You—Save the senseless sweet talk for another day.”
“Mmm, no,” Isagi rumbles, stirring to snake strong arms around Michael’s middle and finally press the two of them chest to chest, head dropping to his shoulder. “I want to sweet-talk you.”
“What for? What could you possibly need from me, Yoichi, you demon.”
Isagi, who’s started diligently scattering open-mouthed kisses around his fair neck between those sweet-nothings he promised—so pretty, pretty baby, you smell delicious, how are you so soft—descends to his sternum. Painfully slow, leaving his mouth to dance right above his nightgown’s neckline.
Michael is not sure whether he should blame his hunger for it, but a flush of excitement spikes within him, senses heightening. His knees fall inward, clenching with a subtle surge of hotness down there—
Ah! he realizes with some lateness to it, Isagi has positioned himself between his thighs already. And he’s unusually warm, if the sensation is not falsely supplied by an imagination running wild.
Every kiss is poison, lowers his defenses, fills him with giddiness.
Pausing, Isagi searches for his hands. He catches his thin wrists, bringing each to his mouth and running his tongue over their soft inner sides where that honey-like, dizzying warmth thrums, then pins both above his head.
Having skipped slipping on a pair of dainty underwear, Michael is sprawled and exposed beneath his looming figure. Thick arousal rolls off Isagi in waves. It prickles as it crashes against Michael’s skin.
His fatal gift of allurement proves its worth, most certainly effective, and he’s so greedy with it seeing as he attracts and holds all of Michael’s attention. But Michael won’t give in first, won’t let out the breathy plea—take me—much more willing to wait; see how Isagi intends to lure him into his trap.
His touch flirts with his upper thighs. Goosebumps rise as he goes.
That same hand creeps down, nestling right into his warm folds. Unashamed. His middle finger dips, lower, lower, skitters along the slit, careful from the top to the bottom and back up again, but the hint of a curved claw against him leaves Michael reeling. The motion ends up a slide, spreading a fine layer of wetness over his pussy.
“You’re not wet enough,” Isagi comments in a whisper, pleased to see his lover flush a shade darker. Michael’s scandalous negligee bunches up underneath his squirming form.
“Doesn’t matter.” Isagi loosens his grip around his wrists to let a visible shiver through, feasting on his endearing reactions. “You’ll take me as is.”
Fuck—Michael almost whines at that. His head whips to the side but his eyelashes are fluttering out of anticipation that’s too much to bear. He sucks a deep breath in and holds it, trying his hardest not to let his impatience shine through, however of a vain attempt it might be.
Yes, yes, he wants Isagi to love him until he suffocates, yes—and he also wants his mate to stuff him full and ruin his body. Just ruin him wholly, leave him bruised, passed out in their bed, that’d be evidence of their coupling, their love and his unswerving loyalty.
He does not need to be ordered to face him once Isagi shucks off his pants. Michael meets his eye as he strokes himself to fullness with lazy pumps.
Isagi delights in the scent of his arousal, simmering under his obedience. It doesn’t take much for Michael to sink back into the cushions with him in tow, arms looped around his neck.
The head of Isagi’s cock nudges against his entrance, both of them burning to the touch. Michael goes taut, bracing for it, tight cunt so needy it throbs, begging for something to open it up forcefully.
“You’re so big,” he breathes out, low and strained, “’t won’t fit.”
The shallow press of him between his folds is a teasing back-and-forth. Whatever slick his slender body has produced coats the tip. He feels incarcerated in that place of liminality, where emptiness and hunger crumble to overwhelming desire.
Isagi captures his lips in a slow kiss, moving to trace the line of his jaw before licking a warm, filthy stripe behind his ear. With that cocky smile he likes to wear, he says, “I think you just don’t love me enough.”
The sharp look Michael shoots him is worth it, knowing his taunt has landed.
“You know that’s—”
“—Not true?” Isagi cuts in.
In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. There is not one living or dead person he loves more. If there’s a limit to yearning, when it comes to Isagi, Michael has smashed through it. He has no one else in this world, and no one else will do.
Holding Michael’s stare, he runs a broad palm down the flat plane of his stomach, barely skimming the surface, which elicits a yelp bit between gritted teeth and a shudder that spreads through the bed frame. So easily affected when he’s eager to get ruined.
Isagi must restrain himself or he’ll go mad. “You’re so small.”
Michael’s response is a lovely sigh, eyelids squeezing as the first inches push past the tight resistance. The intrusion burns. Measured yet painful, bringing forth the vague impression of unshed tears. The sensation pulses out from his cunt to his legs, spread wide against the sides of Isagi’s pelvis.
“But you’re so good, Micha. You’re going to take me.”
Intent on his work, Isagi looks down where they’re trying to meet each other, fringe falling loosely across his forehead. In turn, Michael bites down on a knuckle to silence the needy noise rising in his chest.
“Take it,” he catches Isagi repeat through the soft static in his ears. He towers over his smaller frame, palm on his ribs. His hold curls possessively but his long, intimidating claws won’t scratch their marks on him just yet. “Let me in.”
Breathing requires effort and Michael forgets how to do it for a few long seconds, sending himself down the spiral of dizziness. He’s charged with a mix of pain and thrill, stemming from the growing pressure in his navel.
“Let me in,” Isagi urges, a demanding edge to it that stabs into Michael like a shot of the most potent drug.
Fingers tighten on his narrow hips, and Michael all but swoons; the command adding a layer to the visceral burn. He does not really need to let him in because Isagi is taking what he wants and forcing himself in anyway.
“Fuck, Yoichi—” The maddening sensation of that sinking fullness knocks the wind out of his lungs. His hand flies to his clit, hesitating for a moment when he thinks Isagi will slap it away. Pleasantly, he finds his lover a little too preoccupied to stop him, so he rubs frantic circles on it, his moonlit room blurring around the edges once he feels the sweet throbbing under his fingers melt along his nerves.
“That’s it,” Isagi praises, a charming lilt to his hoarse voice, “play with yourself, pretty. Just a bit more, sweetheart.”
The contrast between the fiery friction pinching around his rim and the light pressure on his sensitive nub pulls Michael up by the torso, involuntarily bending to a seductive arch. “Don’t be so… mmh—Don’t say that…!”
“No? But you seem to like it. You get all tight when I do.”
Isagi shifts, knocking into his lover’s backside, the change exactly what he needed to to ease a little further and sheathe himself fully inside.
The gasp the sheer stretch tears from Michael’s throat is downright filthy—loud and wounded and perfect. He hides, muffling himself against his elbow. To Isagi, shameful noises compose something akin to the sound of approval. Michael deems himself too vulnerable to endure that kind of humiliation right now. Does his mean, mean mate, who’s clearly up to no good, deserve the satisfaction?
Isagi doesn’t wait, doesn’t spare time to his body to relax. He moves and carves a path for himself. Drives hips halfway out before splitting him on his length in a single mean thrust. And he does it one more time, and again, rougher. Their angle deepens, unbearably so, the first few slams no less agonizing than the insertion.
Against snug walls, the friction flares and it’s torturous, sending shocks through the entirety of Michael. Crying out, he jerks, stomach tightening. He feels him everywhere, his thickness, the dull pulse between them making way for Isagi’s sadistic pleasure.
“What’s a more preferable alternative, Michael?” Michael refuses to peek up at him but he can discern his words edging into a sneer—he knows he’s all smug from above. “Play with your little cunt while you still can, before I wreck it?”
Vulgar. Michael flutters around him, slicing narrow tracks on the sheets he’s gripping. Rubs himself faster while he still can.
“You’ll be full,” Isagi rasps into the hollow of his throat, showing off his fangs. He fucks him deeper through the hiccuping babble his furious pace punches out of him. “And dripping by the time I’m done with you. Fucking ruin this cunt until it remembers me.”
“It hu-uuh-urts—” Michael chokes on his attempts to speak, coherence lost to the obscene smacking of their lower bodies, lucidity slipping to be replaced with Isagi hunting him down like the poor little prey he is.
He’s just so full, pressure blooming low and bursting, shuttering him tight every time he bottoms out.
Isagi seals his lips around his pulse point, thundering against his savage teeth just itching to bite. He nicks him, savoring his pussy’s warmth clamping tight around him. Such wonderful reactions, he’s lucked out. “You wanted it to hurt. Isn’t that why you didn’t feed?”
Ah, ah, ah, guilty as charged, and there’s nowhere to hide now, laid bare beneath him. The sharp hiss of expensive fabric—Isagi’s claws ripping the sides of his negligee as his hold on his small waist turns punishing—makes Michael yelp.
Through his fever, he panics, such a dreamy sight he makes, frenzied to cover his nakedness even as he’s getting railed into the mattress. Witnessing his cute struggle, a smirk flickers on Isagi’s face. He stirs back, pulling Michael with him by the elbows, heat flush to his hip bones.
Using his body’s weight slanting backward, he plunges impossibly deeper.
An electric jolt hits as Isagi grinds against that spot inside him. His legs shake, following the rest of him, writhing in a way that resembles pain, but is so sweet underneath it all and beautifully unconscious.
The girth of him shifts on the drag out and each rough snap in makes him uncomfortably full. Bands of heat coil in his belly, legs fighting to close to withstand Isagi’s brutal pace. Still, he takes him to the root, reddened pussy meeting the wet slap of balls.
And then he’s breathless, labored gasping stuttering in his throat at the brief respite—Isagi hooks under his ankles without pulling out, his hands rough and demanding as he applies force to his knees to bend them back.
Stretched to its limit, his pussy sucks Isagi’s dick in, twitching hotly. The pull of him is intoxicating, pleasure throbbing in recurrent waves in his swollen clit, so much, too much.
“Please touch me, Yoichi, please, pleaseplease,” he whimpers feverishly between ragged moans, desperation pitching his voice higher. Despite his sweetest, misty-eyed pleas, Isagi doesn’t lay a finger on his clit, merely bracing on his arms to keep him in the same position.
It has his feet dangling, thrashing uselessly, thighs clenching at the feeling of Isagi’s length bullying its way through, sinking sloppily between velvet walls until there’s no space left in him anymore.
Something in Michael cracks once Isagi tilts downward. That heavy pressure reaches his depths, finding the gummy bump of his cervix.
He screams at the bolt of electricity that claws up his spine.
It’s so much, so much, so so much—Michael wishes he could have Isagi’s fangs on his neck right now, injecting those addictive numbing toxins into his bloodstream, anything to lessen the strain his little body is being made to take—but no. Even though Isagi can smell what he’s asking for in the humid air between him and his mate, he finds little to no appeal in surrendering to his whiny protests.
It’s sweeter like this, when he squirms prettily to the same rhythm as the one Isagi is ravishing him with. All it does is bring him closer, spurring him to buck mindlessly onto him.
“Yoichi—oh, oh, Yoichi—Master—!”
Isagi sees stars, sanity fraying further the more his sweetheart cries on his cock, breaking down into hot tears about it.
“Is that your womb, baby?” he coos, half patronizing half smitten. He finds it hard to feel even remotely sorry when this pretty thing goes boneless against him, just taking everything he gives his cunt.
The steady stimulation on the area, gliding meanly along his upper wall as he draws his hips back has fresh wetness spilling in translucent clumps that drip and drip down his milky inner thighs.
Slick friction grows molten hot, messy and indecent. So good Michael can’t see straight while Isagi doesn’t falter for a single beat, keeps on assaulting his insides. Isagi knows exactly where to place his hands to restrain him, holding him down through ripples of shudders he can’t control.
“M-My, mmh-hah—You’ll break me,” he manages, his slurring coming out disconnected between pink lips. Bright scarlet glows on the apples of his cheeks, damp with tracks of tears that have left his golden lashes equally moist.
Tension builds, climbing at a speed neither can curb no matter what they do. Isagi does want to break him, and he confesses so in a filthy whisper as he pulls him tight, panting it out hovering over his heart with Michael draped over his arms—he wants him so, loves him far more than he understands.
Caught in that febrility, he throbs inside him, fingers searching frantically to ground himself before their imminent orgasm ruins them both.
Michael falls apart first, and his high hits him in full force, sudden and searing. It’s all it takes for Isagi’s rhythm to fall apart in the same manner; a couple more insistent rams, and the softness of his cervix gives under the force. Michael’s mouth parts for a high, strangled moan, a fragile thing, before his voice cracks, fading to pained mewls.
His release drags on forever, wild then slow and wet, unfurling deep throughout his guts in powerful, mind-melting pulses of heat.
Hissing, Isagi digs his nails into the soft flesh of his waist, mind blanking against the warmth and tightness he’s enveloped in. Thrown does not begin to describe it—he’s practically hurled over the edge.
With a satisfied groan, he fills him up, pumping ropes of hot seed straight into his womb. Drunk on the spasms of his sloppy cunt soaking, milking every inch of his cock.
“Ah-hn—Are you trying to get me pregnant?” Michael says weakly, weaved around a thin sulk.
And why does that sound like a complaint anyway? The bite behind it certainly challenges Isagi to drive some points home.
“Not right now, no, Micha. But I’ll make you my wife soon enough. We need…” he rasps, trailing off on a clipped sigh that Michael fills with a sweet whimper of his own. “Need your womb to soften, sweetheart… Ripe and dropped for conception. You’ll be mine then.”
Isagi does not bother with the logistics of it; whether Michael consents, whether his body can take it—there's hardly anything to refuse.
I’m yours now, aren’t I? Michael wants to interject in a sniffle but bitterly keeps it to himself. His thoroughly disarming gaze lingers on Isagi’s lips, darting from his hooded eyes to his cherry red mouth adorned with the jewels that are his menacing fangs.
Warm cum trickles out of him in a pearlescent strip, accompanied by a dull ache that only intensifies once Isagi pulls out. A thin strand of blood leaks from his pink, abused hole, dripping along the cleft of his ass to stain their pristine white bedsheets with crimson.
Tonight, Isagi’s intentions are clear as they are cruel—he craves violence and is but a man driven by instinct to stake his claim to what’s rightfully his, and will be his evermore.
Michael, still tingling and wracked with tremors, sobs. He scrabbles to claw at anything before his strength gives out. Isagi flips him over with urgency, as if he can’t stand wasting one more second not near the slick clutch of his pussy. Rough as he’d be handling a doll—and it doesn’t help his case that Michael is petite and weightless as one.
He shoves inside in one smooth slide. Doesn’t let him rest or forget the harsh sting in his walls, no—he fucks it into him, into his bones, and then some.
A sequence of brutal snaps forward fueled by Michael’s broken wails into the mattress—where he’s drooling and shedding tears of overstimulation—pushes his cum deeper inside him, where it belongs.
The lewd squelching of his creampied cunt is beyond embarrassing, soaking wet with his load, less so with his own slick. It echoes across the room, perhaps audible down the ill-lit corridor stretching outside his chamber even.
Their fluids dribble in thick strings around Isagi’s cock, and the raw sensation doesn’t let up, getting Michael to arch further down to convince himself he’s able to take it.
Mercifully, Isagi wrenches him up with a gentle palm around his throat, and lifts under his ass to place him on his lap, back to his chest. He allows himself to bask in his floral scent tinged with passion, rocking up short and steady into him. Barely lucid, Michael nuzzles back affectionately, shivering at those deadly canines grazing their way to his artery.
“Let me taste you, Michael.”
That it’s too much is the last thing Michael utters between hiccuping breaths before another orgasm rushes over him, overwhelmingly fast. This one blurs his vision, gets him to squeeze down deliciously on Isagi’s cock.
Gets Isagi to act on his impulses too—finally putting his fangs near his neck and piercing the delicate flesh.
The bite is liberating, feral, a surge of liquid fire released upon his tattered nerves. Isagi adjusts his latch. Burrows deep enough for all three sets of main and secondary fangs to sink and catch. He drinks in small increments from him, lapping at the excess blood whenever it seeps away to numb the soreness trapped below the skin.
He tastes his innermost desires, cloying like luscious roses, his muted heartbeat separated from the racing pulse in his veins—his beloved, just how he needs him to be.
It is not surprising in the slightest that he comes again soon after, sucking like he can’t stop, glued to the column of Michael’s neck. They collapse to the mattress together, and it takes considerable effort to relax his jaw and unlatch.
His reward: Michael’s blushing, dazed, and blissed-out expression. His frosty blue irises have been eclipsed by shining bands of red and pools of black in their middle, dark with lust and an undertone that signals an unsated appetite.
Isagi tries to steal a kiss—blood-slicked lips, tingling fangs and all—but Michael jerks away, looking ready to set his loins on fire. Which sets Isagi off. Preposterous and—for lack of a better word—ironic! He’s leaking him on the bedding, pussy too full not to let his seed escape despite staying plugged with his cock.
His stare narrows. “Is this all the future chatelaine has to give me? Really, you’d deny me?”
“Yoichi, no—”
Well, no means nothing to him. His Yoichi is pent up and has the kind of stamina that always tests Michael’s own, a hard thing to burn through considering he’s spent centuries building it. The afflictions of arrogance and greed however—he won’t have ironed those out even if you checked in on him a millennium later.
For that reason, because he can, Isagi coaxes orgasm after orgasm out of Michael as punishment.
Patiently works him to the next tipping point, ensuring Michael ends up crying, clawing at his shoulders, helpless to do anything but beg through batting eyelashes for release. As his pleasure dims at intervals, overridden by the raw ache of overstimulation seizing his core, Isagi bears down to match up to it.
His shrewd plan requires commitment in order to bear fruit, to see his hunger give way to desperation. He murmurs his praises before he thumbs at his hardened clit, flicking fast side-to-side then slower in firm circles, helping heat build bit by bit, unhurried, where he’s most sensitive. To ensure he shatters more beautifully than last time.
Indeed, Michael is a vision as he yields. The intensity blinds him. His eyes glaze over to darker hues, shifting to semicircular wallows the longer he studies him. He’s beautiful, ruined.
“Does my sweetheart want to feed? What’s this pretty face, hm?” Isagi mumbles against his temple, planting a reverent peck there. Fingertips sweep along the dip of his spine, hands settling flat on the small of his back.
Michael’s jaw slacks with the mention at once, fangs excreting their venom in preparation. It’s an instinctual response to his conditioning and integral to their vampiric nature: feed mate, feed from mate, consummate the sacred union and cement it in sanguivory—that kind of thing.
How could he not reciprocate the bite, a bite imbued with Isagi’s love, the thing Michael desires the most. As his cuspids break skin to relish the essence of his blood, the life beating within it crashes into him with all of its richness, delicately effervescent. Open and moaning into his neck, Isagi becomes his sustenance, more filling than any meal could be.
In a haze, he retracts only to bury next to the patch of skin he marred seconds ago. The creamy texture turns sticky under his tongue, clings behind his teeth.
He’s humming something, barely above hushed whispers, but soon it peters out to long gulps, the guttural sounds of his messy drinking paired with pitiful whimpers.
Only once his hunger abates does his body unlock and truly remember how to let go.
“I love you, love you—uuhn—love Yoichi, Yoichi, I’m so in love with you, Yoichi—”
He’s swept by the decadence, and he’d laugh and kick a chair angrily about it to counter the mortification if he could, but he can’t—Yoichi, that bastard, is his blood dosed with truth serum?
Isagi fucks him hard through his delirium, bumping into that sore spot as if it has personally wronged him when in reality he’s over the fucking moon hearing his voice crack with desperation.
His commitment to wring him out earns him the grandest finale: of Michael squirting on his cock. The distinct soft gushing of his cunt spraying his juices on the bed has Isagi locking up and burying deep, deeper, wrapped in that perfect, pulsing heat until he spills heavily, messy and hot one last time.
Tangled and clammy with fluids cooling on top of the residue of blood, Michael tiredly tucks himself in Isagi’s chest with his help, folding in on him to soak up his body heat while it lasts.
Isagi threads his fingers into his silky soft mullet, combing through blond and blue, suddenly sick with the need to protect and hold him close.
Mine.
Michael cracks an eyelid open, wondering what’s going through his head like he didn’t stuff him to the brim as he said he would. Isagi’s straightforward approach to virtually everything is a bit lost on him sometimes. Or most of the time.
“Won’t you keep your seed inside me? This is wasteful, isn’t it? You said we should…”
“No need, darling,” Isagi replies, leaning in to press a featherlight kiss on the terribly smudged wing of his red eyeliner, where the moisture of a crystal tear has found a place to dwell. “Come morning, I will give you more.”