Work Text:
Lady Dimitrescu is a force as formidable as her castle walls suggest.
She lays claim to her land, her subjects, her meals, with strength unyielding. Unerring.
The same way she lays claim to you.
She takes and she has and she is, and everyone else – everything else – merely falls in step behind her.
But you don’t mind that view, do you?
No, never, but… there is one you prefer.
“My, my, how lovely you are like this, My Lady.”
She rolls her eyes (but rolls her hips just as well).
Sometimes she’s Alcina, and she’s yours.
Alcina is soft and pliant and wanting. She wants, and what she wants is you. To have you and to be had and to be yours.
The ethereal lover falling apart beneath you now plays at dominance, of course, but you know in these rare moments – the moments when you have her on her back, the moments when her chest flushes from her neck down to her nipples, the moments when her hips twitch with want every time her good little girl decides to break the rules and her cunt aches for you – that it’s your name on her tongue and her surrender soaking yours.
You can taste the way she loves you, and you love the way she needs you, you feel it in the way she drips onto your palm and leaks onto her thighs, her sheets, her precious, perfect maiden.
You wonder if this is how she feels when she feasts from your neck.
You think it might be; you know that each glass of Sanguis Virginis only tames the thirst now, when before it fully slaked it, and you see the way her golden eyes cut to yours across the room when she takes a sip of something and wishes it was you. You hear it in the silence when she has one hand around your throat, the other on your thigh, her fangs in your carotid. Any other snack has her moaning and sighing – you make her writhe, you make her shiver, you make her lose all sense. She clings to you for dear life because you taste so good, and she hides her pretty sounds because they’re real.
That scares her.
She’s nine-foot-six and you’re no one and she thinks she’s in control, she thinks she’s good at hiding, but you know.
You have her just as she has you. And that’s her dirty little secret.
She’ll tell you when she’s ready. You know that, too.
Until then, you have nights like these.
Nights when she won’t quite voice what she wants, because to give it words means to give it life. Instead she’ll card her fingers through your hair and slowly pull you up and off your knees. She’ll look you in the eye and there’ll be no games there, no roles, no teasing.
You’ll kiss her without permission and she’ll whimper and you’ll both pretend she never did.
But she won't claim she didn’t.
Claim. Claim…
She pants, and she yearns, and it's not often you envy the afflicted, but a white-hot need travels up your spine and you want to devour her as she does you. You wish you could mark her, lap her blood instead of just her tears and sweat and come. Feed and be renewed and taste the release in it, which she’s so often told you is nothing short of ecstasy. It makes it sweeter, she says, makes it bounce through the body like electricity.
You can’t. But you satisfy the urge just as well, driven to madness as she opens her eyes to look up into yours, the space between her brows creasing and her nails digging lines into your back.
Your hand moves slower, deeper, now, as you launch up and into her neck and bite. She jolts in surprise but claws at you more, the only encouragement you need to clamp down harder.
Mine, mine, mine.
You suck until it bruises, and the sounds she makes are like nothing you've ever heard from her before.
“Mine.”
You pull back and admire the mark. Purple-blue and lined with the indentation of your teeth, and although it will heal by morning – unlike the ghastly ring of scars upon your neck – for now you know it means she’s yours.
She’s your Alcina, and she’s your Lady, and she’s the legend those brain-dead sycophants in the village tell over firelight, the reason mothers warn their children not to walk around after dark. She’s the archfiend who lurks in the shadows – a beastly thing who plays with her food, hunts people for sport, drains them dry and leaves their meat in the cellar to cure.
She has no heart (though it beats, unhurried and inhuman, beneath your palm right now). She has no conscience, no feelings, no morals or empathy or care for anyone. (Then what of her kisses, that taste of blood and reverence?)
They know – they think – who she is.
And maybe they’re right or maybe they’re wrong and maybe you’ll kill them if they ever get close enough to find out.
She’s everything.
She’s the devil incarnate, with a smile and hands incarnadine.
Yet she comes around your fingers and it’s heaven.
And who are you to have made it there?
Who are you now that you’ve bent to her body? Who are you now that you’ve bent to her will?
Who are you now that you’ve seen the horrors and stayed?
Maybe it makes you a fraud. A prowling reprobate encroaching on elysium, unworthy and bedamned once an angel smells your sin.
Or maybe it makes you God; because your name sounds like a prayer when it tumbles from her lips.