He exhaled smoke– slowly and deliberately– then took another drag. Barely capable of focusing on the book in front of him due to how loudly his heart was beating in his ears, adrenaline tugged at the edges of his mind, desire taking place of any and all logic and reason.
The same part that had rejoiced in the rain of Cordelia’s blood, so enthralled by the prospect of “winning”– the thrill of the chase, the kill, becoming so detached from his own body that safety, health, self preservation, all had become secondary– No. Stop saying that. There was no winning.
He’d lost. Even if he’d defeated the opponent in front of him, his father– beloved, blessed father– was still dead. His community had lost a wonderful teacher, Kickboxing coach, friend, son, uncle, and he himself had lost his only support system. He had to keep a grasp on the wider perspective; doing otherwise was the first step to madness.
But it was hard, sometimes, to remember that what had happened had been more than Cordelia. He’d made that mistake somewhere in the middle of their 11 year song and dance; he’d become too focused on her. Moreso than he’d been in years for any mortal woman.
Any sooner and her invitation to join her and her army of the undead would have come at a perfect time; at the peak of his loneliness, at his most suicidal, when the only thing on his mind was wanting to be anyone else, he might have just been crazy enough, in that particular time, to accept her kiss of death…hell, even now, he thinks, if she were to rise from her unmarked grave, 12 feet under on the far side of the state of Massachusetts, and start the killing, the smack talking, the chase all over again, he would indulge her without hesitation.
And that terrified him.
Life wasn’t much better without Cordelia around, however. Randall’s desires never left, they were just restrained, and the thrill of the hunt had completely rewired his brain; she gave him a reason to keep living, and made him realize what it meant to be a man.
It was a dangerous game, but as long as he didn’t think too hard about things like the palpably vindictive, haughty air that immediately drowned any room Cordelia set foot in, the thrill of realizing that, for the first time in years, he was being pushed to his physical limit, having expectations thrust upon him and immediately experiencing reward and consequence alike for living up to them–
The slight attraction he’d felt was swiftly turning to an obsession as he fed it with fantasies. Channel the desires elsewhere, he thought. Into something more normal.
He’d imagine Cordelia alive in his bed, instead of how good it had felt to kill her. Sexual desire for the enemy. That’s sane, if ill-advised. Much like his habit of stilling the itch of his hands or stalling a conversational lull via reaching for another cigarette. Better to be obsessed with the woman herself than what she’d offered. It was safe enough—he’d killed her, after all.
So—his hands around her waist, her body so slight and seemingly easy to… lift, despite her height and the weight of her presence. Move. Not break. He imagined he could slam her against a wall, and this time pin her with his hands rather than a silver capped wooden steak. Watch her mouth curve in invitation and not take what it really offered.
Instead put a hand on her neck, feel the cold, inactive pulse under her skin and—tilt her head downward, kiss her hard and uncompromisingly while she clutches at him, sinks fingernails into his shoulders, slowly rolling her hips…
And now Randall was sitting at his desk with his hand down his pants like… the normal teenage boy he’d never been.
Good.
It was a decent fantasy, at least. He could feel desire and a curl of pleasure building in the pit of his stomach as he began to stroke and massage himself, and it gave him a feeling to cling to that wasn’t the hanging threat of insanity. But, rationally, it felt wrong, too unreal—it wouldn’t be like that with Cordelia. Couldn’t be, given who they were.
Cordelia was a powerful, unhinged, sadistic vampire who wanted to see him release his grip on mortality and embrace his own sadism; to imagine her compliant and delicate in his arms would be a blatant misreading of her character. She wouldn’t shy away from real violence, wouldn’t rake him with nails like a cabaret girl. Even when she’d been pretending to be innocent, she’d still wanted to kill him enough to strike fear through his deadened heart. Even while she’d been trying to charm him into joining her, she’d still attacked without mercy.
And of course, he wouldn’t shy away either, if she did somehow get him to submit to what she wanted—Ah, the amount of times she’d come close to breaking the skin of his jugular with those fangs, crushing his Adam’s apple like a spider squeezing the spirit of struggling prey. The bruising he could feel building on his broad, thick biceps every time he’d found himself caught in her grasp. The raw willpower of mortal man vs centuries worth of vampiric superstrength—
No.
Rather than sinking into his absurd fantasies, the likes of which caused the jerk of his hips to become more aggressive, his stroking more vigorous, he would sink into her himself, and feel her hot and warm and alive.
That still wasn’t right—it was all twisted together now, and Randall couldn’t tell how much of the quickness of his heart was due the madness outside and how much was his own. But he was far enough gone that he couldn’t help himself. It felt good, and it was as harmless as it could be, so he let himself go, and hoped it would be enough.
***
Randall’s plan had begun to backfire.
He was standing in that chapel, again. He could feel everything just as he had—the blood soaking his hair and trickling down his face, the ache of all the beatings he’d taken and the wounds that developed from them, an adrenaline high and pure instinct being his sole survival methods, and his body wracked with everything from rage to guilt to excitement. It was too intense to be just a memory, but still didn’t hold a candle to the way it had felt at the time.
A dream, then, probably.
His theory was quickly confirmed when he took a shuddering breath, heard a slight chuckle from one side of him, and turned to see Cordelia standing, untouched and entirely naked, in the middle of a pool of her own blood.
His expression remained stone cold.
“Here for me to kill you again?”
Cordelia smiled, “You’d like that.”
A drop of blood fell from her hair onto her, making a wet trail down her collarbone, dark against her pale skin.
Randall turned, making direct eye contact now. “Yes, I would.”
He watched the blood drip further down, following her curves to her hip, until he saw her muscles shift underneath it as she stepped forward. Belatedly, he moved to ready himself for an attack, but his bandolier of hilted blades disappeared from under his long coat.
Suddenly she was right in front of him, as close as she’d been when they danced, still not wearing anything, still smiling at him.
“You’re gorgeous like this, Randall.”
She looped arms over his shoulders and slumped against him, enough that he could feel the cooling blood—both his and hers—on his overheated skin.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?”
He was vaguely aware that, even if this was a dream, he should be doing something else. But god, it had– did feel good– so much so, to just do what he wanted—
Cordelia hooked a leg around his, riding up his thigh obscenely, her whole body clinging to his like a snake seeking warmth. He abruptly shifted his weight and lost his balance, stumbled backward and fell, Cordelia landing firmly on top of him. He splayed out for a minute and seethed, laying his arms flat in the blood that still covered the ground.
Cordelia folded her legs, straddling him and smiling.
He had to kill this woman.
Randall was moving before he’d even thought up a strategy, turning his shoulders into a strike. He hit Cordelia solidly in the torso with a strong left hook, all his concentration going into sending his bodyweight into the blow. Her eyes widened, her body twitching, as she’d experienced the brunt of his strength. He watched, enraptured, as she reflexively jumped a good 9 feet away, her expression twisted in pain.
Her eyes narrowed and focused on him again.
“So strong!” Her voice was high, sweet, fake. Then it deepened: “But that’s what I want.”
“Of course.”
He should be afraid of her, he knew. He should pull back for another strike, perhaps a little closer to the head this time, no matter how little good it would do. But he was shaking with excitement, his body still quivering from the thrill of the challenge. And Cordelia just reached for him, slowly, and somehow when her hand went for his chest it touched bare skin.
Suddenly his bandelier reappeared; his fingers closed around the handle of a silver dagger. All of his clothes, however, were gone, and Cordelia was astride him. He watched her face contort with a different expression as she rode him, back arched in pleasure.
He could feel the ecstasy moving up his spine, and he knew it could get better, if he could just raise his hand and touch her. He could trail his fingers to her chest and marvel at the stark contrast between her soft, ample breasts, and his hardened, muscular pectorals— the way both of their cocks were the same length when flaccid, but varying in girth when erect– the subtle jiggle of her rear with every bounce on his cock, the likes of which filled her almost perfectly. Her pale skin and thin arms camouflaged in the moonlight, contrasting so heavily with his dark complexion and vascularity.
He could also watch her bare skin be soaked with fresh blood as she still moved, trailing his blade over her carefully, being calculated and ambitious with her death this time rather than charging headfirst like a classless boar—
***
He woke up, gasping, moisture clinging to the hair on his head and chest. He was still hard due falling asleep without deflating his erectile pump, though he was about 90% sure the experience would have left him with the same result, neo or natal phallus.
Guilt and adrenaline are heavy blankets over him. It felt hard to breathe, like the air was a viscous fluid instead of a gas—except for the swirl of air that brushed his ear as he heard a bright laugh, from too close. He whirled to nothing but the wall.
“You’re too easy, Randall,”
Cordelia’s voice was clear. He turned again.
There was still no one there, but he couldn’t help responding anyway.
“And whose fault is that?”
“You were rotting here alone with untapped potential. I just woke you up.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t do so again,” he said firmly into his empty bedroom, knowing full well he shouldn’t respond.
Cordelia was dead. Her voice wasn’t real.
“I think we both know what you’d prefer.”
Even if the echo of her laughter sounded real enough.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/syizth/psychosexual_ftm4mtf