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For Gilbert, please? ❤️

[ WOUND ]:          upon noticing a recent injury on the receiver’s person, the sender carefully moves closer, running a thumb (or hand) across the wound in a gentle, troubled manner.

A/N: Here you go @joiedecombat 💜Thank you for letting me use Vampbert for this request!

This is part 2 of a two-part Vampbert fic. Part one can be found here

TW: blood, description of wounds, slightly nsfw

German translations: Neuling: newcomer, newbie; Bitte: please, vielleicht: maybe

Word Count: 1986

It is nearly twenty-four hours before you see Gilbert again. The silvery moon has just risen, the last rays of sunlight a memory as the sky welcomes night. You are sitting in the library with an open leather-bound tome and a glass of bloodwine, reading by candlelight when you hear the heavy double doors open and then close. His footfall is a familiar sound and you breathe out once, slowly, before turning in your chair to watch him approach. He must have been home for some time already as he isn’t garbed in the heavy black leather of travel and hunting but rather soft black velvet and snowy white linen. His dark hair is still glossy with water from his bath and you can smell the dark wooded scent of his soap before he reaches you.

You decide to take control of things before he even has a chance to open that mouth of his.

“Did you cut off its head? I’ve been reading that you have to do that in order to keep them from reanimating.” You’ve turned your gaze back to your book, holding your voice steady. You have no idea how he is feeling at the moment. His last words to you in that bloody, moonlit clearing were a resounding hiss of anger like a distant, warning clap of thunder before an impending storm. You hope to silence that storm now before it can blow in and ruin everything.

He stops not far from you, his eye dark in the dim light of the room. Leaning one shoulder against a bookcase, he watches you. You feel his gaze as it roams over you, heavy with consternation. Words fizzle and die on the tip of his tongue as he allows your question to hang in the air, silence stretching out between you like thick fog rolling in from the mountains. 

You are the one who snaps it, rising from your chair and meeting his hard gaze. “I won’t apologize.”

Not the response he was expecting nor one that pleases him. You notice the way tension tightens his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw as he continues to stare at you. He wields silence as deftly as his sword. 

Frustration bubbles up inside of your chest.

“Say something.” 

A beat. Another moment of silence that burns its way into your heart. You would rather he scream or yell, pace or throw something or tell you the hundred reasons why what you did was stupid and impetuous and reckless. Anything but this deafening silence that is slowly digging into you, claws curling around your resolve, readying to tear you apart.

You feel like your heart will simply crumble, will turn to ash in your chest and leave you with nothing if you stand here any long and endure his cold stare. Slamming the heavy book closed, you head for the door, needing to be anywhere but here in this oppressive room, with its dark velvet furniture and heavy bookcases and tall windows that allow the innocent moonlight to trickle into a scene it should be running from.

His hand on your arm is a cold, iron vice, stopping you in your tracks. You feel the cold through the silk of your dressing gown, but his eye is bright, a furious red flame singeing the edges of your heart.

“When your sire gives you a command, it is to be obeyed.” His voice is deceptively soft, velvet over deadly steel. 

“You would keep me here, like a pet,” you hiss, your hammering heart the only sign of the slow-rising tide of alarm inside you.

He cocks his head, emotion illuminating his face for an instant like a flare in the night, before he returns to his mask of cold indifference. “I would keep you safe, Neuling.” He pauses, taking in the way your eyes are narrowed, the defiant tilt of your chin. “You do not know how to hunt. You do not know how to fight. You do not know the dangers that wait in the shadows, even for creatures like us.”

Frustration blazes through you, white-hot, a wild comet careening across a black, starless sky.

“Then teach me, God damn it!” Without thinking you slam your injured hand into the bookcare, your anger an unleashed, savage thing, and instantly regret it. Pain radiates from the cut across your palm, a black hole that momentarily swallows everything in your consciousness.

You hear the sharp intake of breath as he reaches for your hand, yanking it to him. You’ve wrapped the injury in silken bandages but already angry red is seeping through, staining the white material. 

He says nothing, but pulls you with him toward the black velvet settee, directly under the light of one of the room’s black iron lamps. His hold on your arm is firm as he sits you down next to him, but you can feel the change in his movements. He is no longer guided by anger, but by concern as he slowly removes the makeshift bandaging. When he uncovers your palm, he releases a raspy string of angry words in his native language.

The cut from the creature’s razor-sharp tooth is red and swollen. The edges of the wound are not closed, but weeping a yellow substance, foul and watery. He reaches out, touching the edge of your injury with his index finger, the skin there warmer than usual.

“Reckless woman....” he murmurs, his voice which moments ago felt so cold and distant now muted with concern. His finger continues to trace the shape of the cut, his touch cool and soothing. You draw in a breath. His unexpected reaction leaves you feeling both comforted and unnerved.

“I thought….we were supposed to heal quickly but this hasn’t…” You trail off as he raises his gaze from your hand.

“This is not a normal injury,” he says, voice edged in unease. “This is an injury from another supernatural creature. They do not heal the same way. In fact….” He stops a moment, shaking his head, the truth of the situation impossible to deny. “There is only one way for this to be healed. You need blood.”

Relief settles into your body like a shot of liquor. “Blood? That’s easy. We have stores of it down–”

“No,” he interrupts, his tone sharper than he intended. You fall silent, waiting now for him to continue.

“What you need….is the blood of your sire. My blood.”

Those words sink into your mind, like golden coins falling to their final resting place at the bottom of the ocean. You’ve never even drunk from a human before, let alone….him. 

“Maybe there’s another way, maybe–” He releases your hand and the sound of his fangs protracting stops the flow of words from your lips. Pushing back the soft white linen of his tunic, he exposes his forearm. His eye catches yours, refusing to let you go, refusing to let you look away as he lifts his wrist to his sharp fang and slices it open in one, quick movement.

A shudder runs through your body, a gasp is pressed from your lungs at the sight of the dark blood welling from where he cut himself. Part of you is horrified and wants to reattempt your earlier flight from the room. But there is another part of you, a part that is rising from the fog of slumber, trembling with hunger, taunt with anticipation, at what you see before you.

He lifts his bloody wrist to your lips, his eye brighter than a lithium flame.

“Drink,” he commands. And this time, you obey.

The moment his blood touches your lips you are filled with a voracity you have never known before. Your body is a vortex, a funnel of want and hunger that only he can fill. Both hands curl around his forearm, holding it to you as you consume that which he freely gives. The pain in your hand is a distant memory, the dying light of a long-gone star fading into the night. You drink and drink, gasping with need and nearly frenzied at how your hunger is only tempered but never satisfied. Somewhere, someone is groaning. You do not know if it is you or him. You only know that there is nothing in the world that compares to the way you feel at this moment. Alive and strong and filled with a fire that will devastate anything in its path.

A shocking sound, half-whine, half-snarl, is ripped from your throat when he pulls his wrist away from your blood-stained lips. 

No, no…You want more. You need more. He can’t…

“Please….” you whimper, reaching for him with shaking hands. “Bitte….”

That word, in his mother tongue, is his undoing.

Gilbert, a creature of centuries, of scores of sunrises and sunsets, of power and blood and hunger, is breathing raggedly as he stares at you, at the naked need in your face, the desperation in your bright eyes. He cannot give you more of his blood. He already feels the trembling in his limbs at what you have just taken. But…vielleicht….maybe….there is something else that will help you, that may quell the beast that has awoken inside you and is now howling, frantic and unsatisfied. 

He surges forward, your face caught between his cool hands, his mouth ravaging yours, the taste of his own blood on his tongue. He is not there to calm you or soothe you. Not at all. Instead he presses your feverish body down onto the soft velvet as he crushes you, letting his weight fall onto your softness, so warm and alive against the midnight cold of his own skin. His fingers dig into your hair, curling into it, pulling as he continues his pillaging, a savage creature looking to feast. He shatters you with his lips, razes you to the ground with his tongue. One hand leaves your hair, slides down the slope of your neck where your heartbeat is running rampant, a wild thing he can feel in his fingertips, calling to him.

He growls, his mouth leaving yours. The one glimmer of control he has tells him to avoid your neck and that siren-song of a heartbeat and so his head drops to your collarbone. Frenzied fingers wrench the red silk of your dressing gown, freeing your upper body, miles of soft skin now laid bare before him. He may not have his fangs extended but Gilbert von Obsidian still sinks his white teeth into your flesh, his breath hot, broken sounds rolling from the back of his throat as he leaves red mark after red mark under your collarbone, across your décolletage. 

Hunger wrapped itself around you the moment you tasted his blood and the loss of it had almost made you weep. But now there is something else to feed the fire that is blazing its way through every atom of your being. Another way to have him, to consume him. To devour.

Your ears are filled with the sound of your heart beating, a cannonade of desire resonating through you. Every movement of his hands, every sting of his teeth, every long, slow drag of his mouth across your skin is a promise of what is coming. 

You have been unleashed, your appetite for him boundless. Even as clothing falls to the floor, torn in a haze of lust, you feel yourself spiraling upwards, the night reaching her arms out to you both, her creatures, her guardians. 

You know in his arms you will burn and burn and beg for more. 

You will be reduced to nothing but a ruin of ashes….and never feel more alive.

But what neither of you know, lost in the moment, in the depth of the night, in the staggering need for one another, is the price that tonight is going to exact. 

A price one of you would never, ever willingly have paid.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @ariamichel @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @scorchieart