Yeesh this took like a week I’m so sorry

Nothing really happens here, but the next part is going to be eventful so hopefully that will make up for it

Cw: creepy intimate whumper, drinking (champagne), vampires, humiliation, degrading (nonverbal), pet names

Mouse’s jaw dropped open. They couldn’t remember ever being inside a limo, but this was not at all what they had expected. A long, rather normal looking, black leather couch stretched across the length of the vehicle, while a small bar stocked with champagne and fine glasses sat opposite.

Silas sat down on the edge of the couch, and reached over to grab a bottle from the minibar. Mouse wasn’t sure where to go, if they were allowed on the seats or not, so they simply stayed awkwardly standing, hunched over with their head grazing the low roof.

Silas’s eyes flicked to them, his cold, dead gaze piercing through their soul.

“Sit.” Silas ordered, grabbing a crystal glass from the bar, and popping the cork off the bottle. Mouse’s forehead scrunched, as the glanced at the fine leather seats. Surely he didn’t mean…

“On the floor.” Silas sighed, noticing their confusion. He rolled his eyes, filling his glass halfway, before setting the bottle back into its place. As Mouse lowered themself to the carpeted limousine floor, the engine started, and a moment later the vehicle jolted forwards.

“There’s a water bottle in the cooler, you may have it,” Silas raised the champagne glass to his lips, and took a small sip.

Mouse didn’t need to be told twice. They reached their hand into the cooler, a chill creeping down their spine as their fingers brushed against ice cubes. Mouse’s hand wrapped around the small plastic bottle, before pulling it out of the basin. They looked up to Silas, and he nodded.

“Thank you,” Mouse whispered, clumsily twisting the lid off and breaking the seal.

“Of course, little one,” Silas chuckled deeply, taking another sip of his champagne. In the back of their mind, Mouse wondered if it actually did anything—they knew alcohol had little effect on the undead. If it didn’t have any effects, why would he even drink it? Maybe it was a pleasure from when he was alive, maybe a comfort. Maybe it was just a way to flaunt his obvious riches and power. Maybe.

Mouse took a small sip from the bottle, letting the cool water calm the flush that had began to creep up their neck. They couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a cold drink—with Master it had always been room temperature. Cold, mushy food and flat water from a kitchen tap. They could tell by the weird, almost slightly metallic taste.

But this water was fresh, and heavenly. When the limousine hit a small bump, their hand slipped, and a bit of water dribbled down their chin, but Silas just smiled, and finished the last of his champagne.

It felt like minutes, but could have very well been hours later, the limousine pulled to a stop. Through the dark tinted windows, Mouse couldn’t see anything outside. They glanced up as the driver slipped out of the vehicle, and opened the back door a moment later.

Silas climbed out first, setting his empty glass on the minibar, before extending a hand to Mouse.

“Come on, Mousie. Are you ready to see your new home?”

Anon I would never-

After a LOT of research and reading other people’s vampire stories, I present my own

Cw: captivity, starvation, blood drinking (referenced), slap, humiliation, forced to kneel

Whumpee knew someone was coming before the door to their room slammed open. They heard them, the sharp click, click, click of fine heeled shoes against the marble floor they knew lay the hallway outside. Their heart seemed to thump along, fear-riddled adrenaline beginning to spike through their veins.

Usually, there were only one pair of footsteps. Measured clicks, one after the other, growing louder and louder until they finally stopped outside the door.

This time, they could make out two. One much more careless than the other, if ‘careless’ could be used to describe a pair of footsteps. They seemed more… relaxed than the other, soft thumps indicating that they were likely wearing sneakers, tennis shoes maybe. Something with a flat, soft sole. Those footsteps were unlike any others they had heard coming down that hall.

That meant something was happening.

Master rarely had guests. Even less often did they let their guests see Whumpee.

Whumpee knew that out of all of Master’s blood bags, they were the least favorable. Their blood was O positive, the most common. “Poor person shit” as Master called it. They said it tasted like pigs blood.

Whumpee supposed that was lucky for them. It meant they got fed on the least. They were only called upon when Master had drank away all the others, and didn’t want to risk running them dry. It wasn’t often, but Whumpee couldn’t help but long for those days.

Master would hold them while they fed. The vampire’s cold hands caressing through their tangled hair, a touch after so long of being locked away all alone was enough for Whumpee to not even mind the chilling numbness that flooded their veins, to not care about the blood being stolen from them.

Whumpee sat up on their cot, a thin mattress shoved in the corner, the flimsy blanket falling from around their shoulders to their lap.

They knew the other blood bags got bigger rooms, better beds, and warmer blankets. They knew the others got three meals a day, even dessert if they were lucky. They got transfusions after a feeding, nice bagged blood to replace the stuff they liked. Whumpee didn’t get any of that.

Whumpee used to wonder why Master didn’t just drink from the bag like some others. But then they realized that pre-drawn blood took away the thrill. The difference was as stark as freshly baked bread, and a stale crust left out for days.

They couldn’t help but flinch as the door flung open. Healed puncture wounds along their wrists and neck seemed to sting, despite being weeks old.

It had been a while since Master last fed on them. Weeks since they’d had any sort of contact with anyone, human or vampire. It had been days since they’d seen the mice that usually scamper through their room. Maybe Master finally set up the traps they had been talking about.

That was Whumpee’s favorite part of feedings. Afterwards, Master would sit there with them, hold their tired, trembling form in their arms, and talk to them. Whumpee would cling to every word like it was a lifeline. In their case, it might have been just that. The one thing keeping their heart beating, each labored beat after the last. It was the only thing that kept them inhaling the stale air of their small room, the thing they lived for.

Now, Whumpee watched as Master entered the room, dressed in their usual regal robes. Whumpee’s face heated up a bit, color rising to their cheeks as they looked down self-consciously at their own clothes. Rags, they practically were, much too big on Whumpee, worn down to the last threads. Master had always been promising to bring them fresh clothes, but they just kept forgetting.

Whumpee’s mouth opened to greet them, but a hard glare from Master shut them up before they could get out a word. They snapped their mouth shut as another figure entered the room.

The stranger’s posture instantly told Whumpee they were wealthy. That they held themself highly, and that they were used to being in charge. It was interesting, Whumpee thought, how much you could tell about a person just from the way they stood.

“This is my last one,” Master crossed their arms, glancing down their nose at Whumpee. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to revisit the others-”

“Quiet.” The stranger commanded, and Master’s lips snapped shut. Whumpee’s forehead scrunched up, as they looked over the new person.

A vampire, undoubtedly. No mortal spoke to Master like that and got way with it. They were dressed casually, yet still managed to look just as breathtaking as Master. Whumpee shifted, dropping their eyes as the stranger turned their eyes to them.

“You, over here.” The stranger snapped their long fingers, and pointed to the floor by their feet. For a second, Whumpee just sat there in confusion, before shakily climbing to their feet. Their blanket fell to the ground, as they walked over to the stranger, all the while looking at Master, who nodded slightly.

The stranger glared down at them, and Whumpee shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

“Have you no training?” Their voice was cold and calculated, each word perfectly articulated with a slight accent.

The blow took Whumpee by surprise, a hard slap to their face that nearly knocked them over. Whumpee recoiled, stumbling back a step as they looked to Master with wide eyes. Was- was Master just going to allow this?

Master had never once struck them. Not once, not when Whumpee cried and thrashed during the first feeding, not when Whumpee hit them by accident. They really hadn’t meant to—it had to have been about a year ago—when they were first taken in. They had been scared, and blindfolded. How was Whumpee supposed to know Master’s face was right there?

But Master hadn’t hit them.

“Kneel.” The command was sharp and cold, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a knife. Whumpee looked to Master, a pleading expression breaking through their teary eyes. But Master just shook their head, and looked away. “Now.”

Slowly, Whumpee lowered themself to their knees. The stranger squinted, and tilted their head slightly, their eyes flicking over Whumpee’s face.

“I want them.”