The French merchant vessel was a decent prize, it gave the men something to tide them over for a time until they could get back to port and rest before continuing their reign of terror along the coast. They left no one alive on board, especially after a rather bloody fight, but they came away with a wealth of expensive spoils to show for it. They’d have to stop in Inagua or Tortuga to refit, repair and recruit sooner rather than later. Especially when men suddenly go missing over the next few days. There are whispers of a cursed treasure, as if whatever that vessel was carrying has made the men go mad and jump overboard. Where else could they possibly have disappeared to in the middle of the ocean? Then they find a body, pale, gaunt from the blood being drained and dried into the wooden deck. But the more alarming evidence is a gaping wound in his neck, so the rumors shift some kind of shark monster on board and panic increases to near madness. Flint does his best to quell any ridiculous imaginations and set the men on a hunt for one of their own on board that’s clearly lost his damn mind. Some blame Flint for all of it considering his blood thirsty pursuits as of late.
It’s not until the body of Silver is found that Flint decides to take the hunt into his own hands. There’s enough rumor about his callousness over the lives of his men, and it’s placed in stark contrast to how absolutely livid he is over someone murdering their Quartermaster. It’s so much so that he flies into a rage into the hold where he’s found, and one man speaks out of turn, daring to blame him, or accuse him of being the murderer. Then and there he receives the brunt of his rage in the form of a swift and brutal beating before the others pull him off. Orders are barked, they have an enemy among them, none of their own crew would have gone after Silver, the crew loved and trusted Silver more than anyone and now he was dead and his men are now out for blood more than their fear of whoever or whatever has stowed away to pick them off and turn them against one another.
Flint returns to his Cabin to take up his sword, pistol and sheath his knife, fully armed to the teeth to search his own ship for the culprit. He doesn’t know how this fiend has hidden himself so well in the past week they’ve been sailing. Enough that he’s struck, likely at night, without anyone knowing or seeing a thing. And to kill their men so brutally… not even Silver deserved that sort of end.
While alone, there is a moment… where Flint’s rage gives way to grief. The time spent together he’d come to rely on Silver and start to care for him. Despite everything. He keenly felt the loss of Silver. So he sat at his desk, fighting with the feelings raging in himself to wait for the sun to set and night to fall, where he planned to stalk out onto his own ship and search for the monster taking his men. The thing that ripped his only friend from him.
Matthew DiVigny, fresh out of the hell that was an older Mountain of a German Gangrel beating him into place, had found a scant and rare opportunity to slip the grip of his Mad Sister's noose. She would come for him, without a doubt, but for now, the two hundred year old man had a lead on her and laid as many misdirections in his wake for her to find as he could manage with such short notice. The plan was simple - purchase his passage out of Europe on a friendly cargo liner, land in the Americas and vanish into the countryside, someplace far away from the smell of apples and sweet French Air.
What was Not part of the plan was that cargo liner getting hijacked by pirates. Oh Matthew knew he wasn't on the ship he had left land from, but he had been hijacked all the same; the long chest he'd been tophoring in that had been brought aboard. There was always a danger of it in traveling overseas but that fact of reality didn't sooth or make Matthew any calmer when he woke up.
The thing about tophoring was that his body fed off itself and his plans had him pushing his limits already. When he rose, he was already tipping the scales towards a Frenzy and it was a testament to his fresh training that he didn't eat the ship in one night. One unfortunate man, the first to trigger the whispers, was stored neatly in the same chest that Matthew hid in when the sun was up. He knew that he would be assuring his own destruction if he killed them all at once, knew that it would strand him further from shore and freedom and food.
So it took patience and a lot of it. He only took one man a night, incrementally restoring the blood that he lost to make it as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. But the men still talked at night and all their hushed whispers might as well been on loudspeaker to Matthew's sensitive ears. This wasn't sustainable for much longer. The men's fears push him into a new idea and the next body they found--
-- Let them believe the truth of the fact that a monster was on their vessel.
Matthew knew Silver was Important and that, along with the half a leg there, made him a prime target. Silver was laid out over the wheel, roughly mounted there, throat torn at in the same way as the last man. Let it stoke a fire in them, Matthew thought to himself as a fresh round of arguing sprung up. Hadn't Silver been staying by Flint's side? Didn't that give him perfect opportunity?
Instead of chancing Flint coming back down with the rest of the survivors and asking for a fight that would risk Matthew murdering all of them and himself by the consequences, the vampire spent some of his blood to slip his way into the Captain's cabin, soundless until the door shuts behind him.
There would be a fraction of a second, long enough for Flint to lift his eyes, before the Beast sprung, moving faster than the eye could ever hope to follow as he descends on Flint, hands snapping his up in an impossibly strong grip as Matthew's fangs sink into Flint's neck. The raw sexual pleasure of the bite will be immediate, inarguable and mind numbingly intense.
Matthew hadn't found anyone yet that was prepared to fight against it and if he could subdue Flint without a shot being fired, mores the better.
Unfortunately for Flint, Matthew happens to stalk into his cabin when he’s at his most vulnerable. Still reeling with the loss of Silver, fighting with familiar darkness of his anger and pain as the sun goes down and colors the sky with bright, crimson shades. As if it were an omen. He bows his head, closes his eyes to draw a deep breath and steel himself for the fight, preparing himself to murder whatever it is that’s killing his men, whoever it was that violated Silver in such a way. His eyes open, snapping up at the softest shift of something in the air, the barest feeling of not being alone and before he can pull his pistol the man is on him and in his face. His hands are up, he struggles in their impossibly strong grip, the chair tips with their weight and he goes over backwards with a clash. His hands are firmly pressed to the floorboards, stiff shoulders slightly twisted, head turned where it hit the deck with the chair painfully digging into his spine. His legs spread around the seat of the chair, hooked over wooden arm rests behind the stranger who is straddling him, pinning him bodily to the floor. It all happens in the blink of an eye and before he can attempt to wrench free there is a needle-sharp lancing pain in his throat as fangs puncture his neck.
Immediately he’s hit with this overwhelming sensation, a primal heat grips him, makes him dizzy and intoxicated. He makes a helpless, moaned sort of noise that’s pulled from his chest despite himself. He meant to curse, to cry out, but it comes out as a noise of pleasure. He fights it, just barely, the desire to just submit to it is powerful. He’s aware the monster is sucking the life out of him somehow, that he’s consuming him or the position that he’s in, he knows he needs to fight. This man killed Silver. If he could be called a man. He struggles, but it’s weak, the position he’s in doesn’t give him much room to fight it. But he fights just to fight. And as his vision dims and swirls dizzily as if he were drunk, he sees a flash of Miranda’s ghost, screaming at him. She’s sobbing and falling to her knees in despair for him, reaching silently and wordlessly.
The greater part of himself, the one desperately wanting it to end, wanting peace to take him is willing to give into this. Surely he’s about to die. Maybe he deserves it. It should have been him from the start, not Silver. Not his men. Why didn’t this monster take him and be done with it. He’s desperately wanting the pain to stop, the anger, he doesn’t want to be this monster anymore. And the more disturbing side of all of this is he can feel it, as his body begins to give in, as he stops struggling and the drug like effect wrenches back control. He can feel his body responding almost eagerly to all of it. Does the thought of death really arouse him, or is it something else entirely fucked up and broken inside him?
There’s a whimper of submission, a soft “fuck” as his toes curl and the pleasure overtakes him, numbing and clouding his thoughts to arouse and seduce. He thinks of Silver, how he must have felt in this moment. Remembers the sounds he made when they first fucked on his cot only a few feet from where they were. His mind forces him to remember and fantasize, pulling him from the moment of this creature consuming him to make him want to eagerly accept it. To see Silver and Miranda and Thomas, all his lovers and remember those heated, passionate nights spent together. He could be with them again. He could be free of it.
He’s hard, painfully so and there will be no hiding it from Matthew. Deep in the thrall of his bite Flint is his to do with what he will.
It did not matter, the struggle of the form beneath him, it did not matter the guttural breaths of protest, of pleasure, of pain; it did not matter what Flint was suffering. All that did matter was the rush of blood in his mouth, the pleasure of that hot wetness coating his mouth and the way half of it ran to his cock. Feeding was still a sexual thing, something that made his cock roll over back and forth in his pants, but the hunger.
It was by the grace of.. well, something, that Matthew had the sense of self preservation to drain Flint only just to the point of death. There was a delicate line to be managed there and while he hadn't ever turned anyone else, he remembered too vividly his own death. His own rebirth. Matthew rears back and sighs in satisfaction, mouth messy and unkempt, blood running in rivets down his chin, head tilted to one side in consideration of the large ginger laid out before him.
"I've been watching you, hunting your men for days. Murdered your first mate, your quartermaster. Watched you fight and argue with your men, trying so desperately hard to keep control of such a precarious balance act. They fear you. Revere you," he says, pushing up his dirty, torn and bloodied sleeve to cut a shallow slit across his wrist, pressing it against Flint's lips, forcing him to drink by kneeling on his wrists if necessary.
"There are the same handful left alive. Good souls. We could make them more. You could make them more. If only you were stronger than this sad sack of flesh God has burdened you with. You've made yourself powerful without knowing the limits you might be able to reach." He groans at the letting of his own blood, the suckling of it.
"I will make you stronger. Give you companionship, guidance.. We shall craft and form you into a god, Captain."
By the time Matthew lets his wrists go Flint can feel his strength draining, his body going limp and cold. His vision is narrowing in at the edges as he feels death pulling at him and peace rolling over him at his acceptance of the inevitable. There’s even a tired smile starting to form on his lips as his eyes are about to drift closed to let himself be free of it. But just like that his head is turned and there’s a voice he’s vaguely aware of. He blinks, eyes barely focusing on the bloodied and young looking face above him. The almost melodic sound of Matthew’s voice and the trill of his accent. He hears the promises and is only half aware of the warm droplets of blood dripping into his mouth and rolling down his tongue.
But something in him snaps to attention some tether being snapped taught to anchor him to this world a little longer. And he surprises himself by not turning away from the overwhelming coppery taste being forced into his mouth or smeared over his lips. His hands move, not to push the other away but to grip his wrist and hold it firm as his eyes close and he seals his mouth to the wound to drink from it like a man absolutely dehydrated. As he’s wrapped up in this instinctual hunger he can hear Matt's voice echoing his promises. To make him stronger. To make him a God. And his darkness is reveling in it, excited by the prospect even if later, when he’s a little more clearheaded he’ll loathe the thought. He once boasted about being a King, about wanting the power to command and destroy. A part of him still wants that, but the more reasonable part of him, the better part of him wants none of it. He wants that peace that’s been stolen from him.
Something he’ll soon realize he may never have again.
Matthew groans again as Flint takes to the wound, takes to his wrist like a babe to the tit. It was as sensual as fucking to be fed from. He'd been turned himself when he was only 25, and even now, his cheeks sprang with the color of life and youth. He spent a few long seconds admiring the view before he continues. Flint was going to be a beautiful and impressive vampire; he could tell.
"It will be hard, but no harder than you life here on the sea. You will hurt but less than you do now. We shall get you strong and I shall show you the real beauty of the world."
But there was such a thing as Too Much and Matthew laid a reverent hand across Flint's forehead. "That's enough now," he breathed, lips curling in a soft sneer as he applied pressure. He had hopes that this could all be done as peacefully as possible, but he was not above putting more force in the already encouraging supernatural allure and draw of his voice, lulling Flint towards the supplication of agreement.
Flint is lost to the hunger, so much so he’s barely aware of how he’s latched on for several heart beats just massaging his mouth and tongue over the wound to drink. The groan of pleasure registers above him and passes through him like a wave, a vibration between them in this connected moment and the only thing cutting through the hypnotic draw. When Matthew speaks its like a spell over him, he barely hears the words but they twist around in his mind. It’s only when Matthew presses a hand to his forehead that he’ll somewhat blink out of it, feeling the push not only from the touch but something else between them. A sort of power over him, calming his thirst as he slowly and reluctantly pulls away. He’ll flatten his tongue over Matthew’s wrist to lap at the wound one last time as if to catch the last few drops before letting his head fall back and his grip release.
Now, laying under the other, mouth and chin smeared in red, already fiery beard coated in crimson, he’ll fall pliant and drugged as he stares up at his Maker. His head is swimming so much so he can’t think straight if he tried, trapped between barely breathing and painful arousal. He’s panting with his need but toeing the line between life and death with each raspy exhale. His ears rush with blood, though his heart is beating thick and slow. He’s impossibly hot while his limbs feel heavy and cold. All he knows in that moment is his desire, his need, his hunger, these new instincts that overwhelm any sense or rational thought. He just wants to fuck, or be fucked, anything to relieve this ache.
He’s forgotten that this creature has killed his men and brutalized his best friend. He’s hasn’t registered that he’s dying slowly, and that his body is changing because of this monster over him. All he feels is the burning need to rip the clothes off the other and fuck till they’re both heaving and breathless. Had he the strength to do so he would have thrown the other to the ground and rolled on top of him, but as he is, drunk off this heady, intense power, he simply lays under the other so he can do what he will. His hands move to splay out over his thighs, digging his fingers into his pants.
His words echo in his mind, I will make you stronger. We shall craft and form you into a God. I shall show you the real beauty of the world.
His throat works, struggling around where he was bitten and still bleeding, voice thick.
“Show me.” Take me. His mind thinks but he bites it back from rolling off his tongue, trying not to beg to be released. To beg for death or whatever is to come next.
There was something of a show to be made of Matthew licking the bite wound he'd inflicted on himself, and when his mouth pulled away, the skin was freshly formed and as perfectly unmarred as it had been before. His tongue took a long swipe over his lips, face wild eyed by bloodless for all the murder and violence he's set upon the ship. He could smell the arousal, the heady scent of need and blood off the tinges of fear in the air. It was the best scent in the world beyond those that came with war or what he vaguely remembered of wine.
Matthew's approval rumbled through his chest before he was fisting his hands in Flint's shirt. "Gladly," he purred. The next movements happened in the same blink of an eye that Matthew had charged at Flint with; Matthew stood and hoisted Flint easily off the floor, moving to push him against the door. Matthew gave him a half second to process them having moved before he's flipping Flint around to face the wall and sliding his hands around the man's waist, dipping down to grab and grope roughly at the length in his trousers.
"Are you a betting man, Captain," he asks, hands shifting to undoing the laces and bearing Flint's cock out to the open air inside the utterance of his title. He was curious if Flint would fight it, fight him but Matthew's tastes didn't stop at blood. He was a hedonist at heart, indulgent and sinful for all sorts of things that society would call Ungentlemanly. Savage, in a base sense that he fully lived up to despite the silk of his travel beaten jacket. "Care to wager on how long it'll take before you're begging me to fuck you?"
The men on the upper deck had, of course, heard the tussle, the fall of Flint's chair and frame. Matthew gave it less than a minute before someone was knocking at the door that Flint's cock was pointing towards. It didn't stop him from grabbing the blood hot length and stroking a tight circle down to the base, almost wielding the member with a teasing jiggle. He did so love situations like this.
Flint’s lips part as he watches Matthew lap at his own wound, still intensely thirsty but denied and teased. He’ll walk his fingers up to Matthew’s hips, but they won’t make it to his belt before the other is fisting his hands in his shirt. In a blink he finds himself on his feet and shoved against the door, eyes a little wide as he’s once again surprised by the power, strength and deadly speed the other possesses. Will he be able to do the same? Will he be less powerless to such a beast? Then again he’s turned in a blink and pushed up against the weathered wood, and he can hear the sound of footsteps and voices. He has to bite back a moan as those hands grope him through his trousers and start to undo the bindings.
He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t want to. There’s that shameful part of him in the back of his mind berating him for letting the monster take him, for allowing himself to submit, ultimately in such a way. But he wants it. He’s never wanted it so desperately before in his life.
His hand fumbles down the wood to find the metal latch by his hip and he’ll push it into place while struggling not to make noise. There’s a low grunt and a sharp inhale as he’s fetched out of his trousers and the other starts to stroke him. He whimpers despite himself and digs his nails into the door, rolling his hips eagerly into those tight fingers, simultaneously pushing his ass back against Matthew’s own hardened member. He can feel him pressed up against him and grinds against that cock.
He pants, lips parting as he’s about to speak and answer when he hears voices calling “Captain!?” From the other side. He swallows raggedly, mind reeling and trying to grasp at words to say. He doesn’t want them to interrupt, he’ll fucking kill them himself if he isn’t given this sweet release, even if it ends up rough and hard.
“I’m fine!” He snaps, and the voices go silent, they know his tantrums by now and just assume he’s flipped the table again in his rage. He listens to the murmuring and retreat of footsteps as the others go back to whatever they were doing prior. He turns his head, closing his eyes to rest his forehead against the door and sighs with relief.
“A beast like you, are you telling me you’re only good for one go?” It’s a dangerous gamble to make such a jab, his own body might not be able to take whatever Matthew can dish out. But that shit-eating half-smile over his shoulder is a bratty sort of thing. Hoping to make Matthew break and want to put him in his place sooner rather than later.
Matthew's grin was brilliant, braggish and roughish as one hand pulls back to tug at Flint's trousers, undeterred by the sounds of feet coming to greet them. There wasn't going to be a fight, not with Flint locking the door in supplication to MAtthew's advance. If he had a heartbeat, his cock would have been throbbing. He didn't, but it was still rock hard. The feeling of the rough fabric of Flint's trousers were replaced with the fractionally softer, higher quality tailored trousers as Flint snapped at his men, earning a very softly chuckled sound from the beast behind him.
The feeling of fabric pulled back followed the sounds of shuffling pants before Matthew pulled Flint back into a cool, stiff length. The hand around Flint's cock stroked again slowly as Flint spoke, tightly only to settle back down at his base like a fleshy cock ring. "My cock is hard because I will it so. Fucking you until your knees stop holding up your weight and your balls have been worked dry of their milky whiteness is well within my abilities."
The elder Vampire only hummed, free handing coming up to claw and tear some of Flint's shirt from itself, enough so that he can shallowly sink his fangs into the man's shoulder. It wasn't the feeding or the bloodletting that cause the pleasure - Science would be done on it later to prove - it was the saliva entering the flesh, like a mosquito bite that came with endless pleasure. How much was smeared in with the bite determined just how pleasurable but on the brink of death, Matthew was sure that Flint had been riding that edge since his fangs first slid in.
Once they got to land and got settled, there would be several nights dedicated to Matthew training Flint on how to not run his mouth so coyly unless he wanted to suffer the result of Matthew's furious lust, he could already tell.
Perhaps all of this was due to the pent-up sexual frustration of living behind a mask and pretending to be something he wasn’t. Perhaps it was the will and allure of Matthew’s supernatural draw over him, or perhaps he was simply weak to the lust and need because it had been something he so deeply desired for so very long. But there was something so incredibly freeing about the overwhelming and heady drug that was making him feel both exhilarated and frustrated in its heat and passion. Flint could play at being strong-willed and defiant, but in the end, he was not nearly as resistant as he pretended. How long had it been since he felt like this? If ever? He and Miranda fucked, but it was never quite like how he felt with Thomas and this? This sort of intoxicating arousal was something else entirely. He was certain that Matthew could tie him down and pepper him with bites and he'd come from that alone.
Flint shudders as his trousers drop around his ankles and those fingers circle his length to slowly stroke. His hips move instinctually with the draw and even press into the grip where it sits against the base, desperate for more contact and friction. There’s a flutter and a pulse of lightning up and down his spine the moment he hears the whisper of cloth, followed by the press of cool flesh to his own. That twist of feral anticipation lancing in his stomach made his cock throb in the other’s grip. So close, yet so far. His hips angle back as he’s pulled back against Matthew, his legs spread to widen his stance to welcome and prepare for more. Eager like a bitch in heat. There’s another low, bitten-back hum of approval as Matthew threatens him with a good time. He wouldn’t mind at all being laid out and milked dry, too weary from fucking for hours or days to move.
He’s dimly aware his shirt is being ripped aside before those fangs pierce his shoulder, he tenses with a grunt, low and guttural to swallow up the gasp of pleasure. It washes out past his lips in a breathless sigh, a small note of ecstasy slips from his throat as that high swims in his head and sets every nerve alight with intense arousal once again. He’s elated by how easily it washes over him, helping to drown out the shame and disgust in how he’s acting or how desperately he wants it. The very struggle to keep himself from begging right then and there. How it makes his body tremble and his cock bob as droplets of precum weep from the tip.
His fingers dig into the wood as he struggles with himself, wanting to just swim in this feeling and enjoy it while it lasts. To not give a shit about who was fucking him or how much he desired this and so much more. How much he missed this feeling. But he’s not strong enough to resist it and he nearly bites his lip open with worrying it between his teeth. Finally, he gives, body too hot and in need of this release. Panting he tips his head, eyes blown dark and hooded as he swallows raggedly and prepares to give Matthew what he wants.
“Fuck” He groans, “Fuck me.” Will he make him say please?
Oh the fun he was going to have with this man. The breaths, the half thrusts and the presentation of ass told him there was plenty of opportunity to play with and uncoil some of the steel straights that Flint had no doubt been required to grow to run a ship and crew of this size. This was looked down upon in 'civil' society, an opinion Louis DiVigny had shared in his adulthood and a hundred years into his death until the darker passions and higher need of deviance to get him off had cured him of that well before Flint and his shame was even born.
They would break him of that too.
Humming against Flint's skin, Matthew pulled back, tongue lapping across the wound to seal it shut. The only proof of the night would be the one left on Flint's neck. Now that the men had been put off, this could slip back into being something of a game and Matthew's planned on playing it. Spitting in his hand, glad for the shadows that hid the fact that his spit was blood, he smears his cock with it and uses his tip to rub up Flint's taint a little, pressing threatening at his entrance as he remained held firmly in the front.
"We must work on manners, mon ami," Matthew murmured, "But I promise you will find them."
His statement was punctuated rather pointedly as he starts to press in, working his tip teasingly against Flint's center until it was so tightly enveloped by muscle. Flint was given a few heartbeats, each felt through the solid velvet flesh inside him before Matthew thrust himself halfway and then again to fully seat himself into the man.
"Now," he purred, hips rolling in a circle to stir the good Captain as his lips ghost across Flint's bared bit of back again. "What was that?"
As Matthew pulled back to flatten his tongue over the bite wound, Flint once again was wracked with the mind-numbing pleasure as he was drugged three-fold, leaving him sluggish and impossibly hot. He was pliant and aching, head swimming and eyes unfocused. If he were to reflect on this later he’d realize how incredible it felt to just give over his control so completely, to be at the other’s mercy was more arousing than he’d ever admit to. For as much as he needed to be in control, there was an indescribable feeling of not being in command for once. The weight, the burden, the anger, the shame, the hate, it all was dulled down till all he felt was this baser need. Drunk, high, exhilarated, and free of any of it, not able to think straight or care about much else other than getting absolutely used in any way Matthew saw fit. It fed his darker parts and the monster awakening in him would thrive more than Matthew knew.
Another part of him might be disgusted by this when it’s all over. This was something he’d only shared with his one and truest love, Thomas. So when Matthew took this from him, that connection he had, that memory would be lost. He hadn’t exactly been saving himself, of course, he just never really desired to seek out another, saw no one else as his equal enough to top him. Sure, he’d fucked Silver, but the other never got close enough to him for him to feel the desire to switch the role. But now? Matthew had wrested it from him in a fitting display of power. He was supernaturally strong and fast, he was turning him and he would be his now, whether he liked it or not. For the moment though, he reveled in the thought. Later, however, he might reflect on it and resent the Frenchman for it.
As the other grinds his cockhead against his taint and presses against his entrance he can’t help but to groan, ass moving slightly back against him, begging silently to be filled. But when the other finally starts to push in he pulls the breath into his lungs with a sharp inhale. It hurts, it’s been several years since someone fucked him so he was tight and unprepared. There’s a strangled cry with the first initial thrust in, biting it back as he shudders and fails t hold the second moan from escaping his throat when Matthew sheaths himself. He throbs and aches for more, body adjusting and giving itself over to the other with the wash of that intoxicating pleasure. His body trembles as he bows his head and tries to catch his breath where it shudders off his lips.
“P…please…” He rasps, slowly shrugging out of one shirt sleeve to leave it to hang loosely, only to scoop it up and stuff the end into his mouth so he can bite down and muffle the noises he knows he’ll make. He’s pressed to the door, he doesn’t need the men to come running back to batter down the door in a panic. Unless of course, Matthew decides to move them again, perhaps to bend him over his desk or throw him down on his cot or even the floor. His mind is painting pretty pictures of either option as the other rolls his hips and moves his slowly warming member within him to tease. He wants to move, to thrust, but that strong hand gripping the base of his cock and the press of the other against his hips doesn’t allow for much, he’s trapped until the other allows him to move.
"Better," Matthew praises, hips moving in short strokes to help work Flint's body open from it's dry spell. If he was pressed to guessing, Matthew would assume that Flint has done this before but it was a long time ago. He was as tight as a virgin and there was elation to be found in the sharp helpless little sound and the whorish moan that had followed it. Matthew had demanded the supplication, roughly so and was being rewarded hand over fist.
Matthew's free hand smoothed up Flint's back, fingers running from fabric to the smooth skin of his shoulders, where his grip became iron. There would be no questioning who was in control here, who was going to allow Flint to find the climax of his pleasure, and Matthew's thrusting sped up to a steady, unforgiving slap. The hand on his shoulder helped pull the man back into the thrust and the hand around Flint's cock eased it's grip but held it's place, forcing the man to fuck his hand because of the movements.
They might move for round two and again for round three - Matthew thought he might fuck this man to his literal death. Just for the fun of the experience.
If Flint moved with him, he'd earn a cooing praise from the Vampire. "There you go, isn't that better? Riding my cock like the right little whore that you secretly are, hmm? So tough with your temper and your power, and all you really need is a strong hand to put you in your place, isn't it?"
Matthew knew he was poking in more ways than one and offset it with a scrape of his fangs over Flint's back, two sharp lines of blood popping up in their wake.
There are soft, muffled moans, little low vibrations in his throat of pleasure when Matthew finally starts to move, albeit in short strokes. His body warms quickly and invites him in with ease, remembering and enjoying being filled so completely. As that hand smoothes up his spine he arches his back into the touch, just in time for Matthew's first hard thrust into him. The slap of hips to ass is jarring and rough and it makes his noises pick up a clip, grunting, and clawing at the wood. One hand drops to the one snaked around his hip as he feels Matt’s grip loosen and his cock slide through his fingers with each slam into him. He takes it for the first few before needing to move and finding a rhythm of grinding back against the unforgiving hammer of Matt’s cock, and fucking into his fist. His fingers dig into his forearm, The other hand pressed to the door above his head to brace and push back into the rough fucking. If Matthew looks close enough he can see a small, faded moon tattoo on his upper arm.
The cotton sleeve he’s been gritting between his teeth drops with a gasp as Matthew’s fangs find his skin and scratch their way down to open shallow wounds. He feels the wash of pleasure again, not only from the supernatural desire but the pain, causing him to buck that much harder and struggle for his release. It’ll come sooner rather than later at this rate, as drugged and heated as he is. He almost seems to respond to Matthews chiding words, moving with reckless abandon as if to prove the other right. He can’t help it. He needs this. He wants this. And without the barrier of his sleeve, he’s panting, snarling, and making breathless noises without caring who hears him.
Matthew wished he could sustain himself on those noises alone and smeared his lips lightly up along those scrapes, spreading moisture across the pale freckled skin as his hips continued their relentless speed. There was no quarter given on the sea and so none given here, even as Flint gripped his forearm and worked back against his assault. The tattoo was noticed briefly but Matthew wasn't going to stop what he was doing to ask about it.
There was no danger of Matthew cumming unless he wanted too - too many years practice riding the edges of a pleasure that was dulled at the edges, not nearly as powerful as it had been in life. Not what Flint was suffering so deliciously right now and Matthew wanted to enjoy Flint's enjoying of it for as long as he could. They might try again and again over the hopeful years to come, but none of it would match the high of being turned and getting fucked while it's happening to your body. There was a line of danger that most humans liked getting off on and Matthew had found their struggle a delicacy of its own.
No, the pace would keep it's relentless rhythm until Flint starts to shudder towards his climax. It was then that Matthew would bury himself deep in the man again and stroke his cock for all he was worth, denying him the satisfaction of cumming from the pounding alone. Matthew wanted him to want that, and one didn't get there by giving it right off the bat.
The bruising slam of those hips is relentless and it rocks his whole body with every solid and thick contact of skin to skin. He’s panting heavily, rolling his hips between them as he feels those lips spread over his skin followed by the swipe of tongue and the lightning strike of pleasure coursing through his body. His cock is weeping and his knees start to shake as his body draws nearer to climax. He’s making desperate keening noises now, back curling the moment Matthew stops and sheathes himself to the base. He’s shuddering as the other pumps over his cock, furiously pushing him towards a quickly approaching precipice. His hand that was once on that wrist moves to a hip then spreads back to gather a handful of his ass to hold onto. His other hand reaches back as he bows back against Matthew so his torso is stretched out against him, those fingers fisting in his hair as his head lulls back and his jaw goes slack. He’s stuttering now, hips grinding but only just moving with the rhythm of that hand over his length.
“Pl-please” he begs once more hoping Matthew won’t suddenly stop and keep him just barely toeing that edge. He jerks, belly tensing and body trembling as he gets closer still. Nearly there… just a little bit more…
Matthew's non-pumping hand spread and slid around Flint's front, running his palm up the well sculptured stomach and chest that was currently bowed against him, his fingers dancing along the skin like Flint was a tightly strung violin in his hands. At some point, his fingers hit the dribble of hot blood that was still seeping out of Flint's wound, smearing it across him as those fingers teased his neck.
His lips move to Flint's ear, tongue lapping at the lobe before he speaks.
"You're such a perfect choice." It was a praise of himself, really, but what mattered was that it came with the thrusts that Flint were asking for, and a little less punishingly but not softening in any significant matter. "Come on, my Captain, show me what it looks like when you unravel."
As though he didn't know that Flint was already well unraveled and holding onto his last thread.
The skin under Matthew’s fingers is stretched taught, hot and slick with sweat, his nipples standing hard enough to cut glass or stone. His fingers twist in his hair as he holds on for dear life, what little of it is left, at the mercy of that quickly pumping fist. He lifts his chin to let those fingers play along his throat as if gently and silently giving permission to choke him or finish ripping out his throat. A death to follow his little death and his final release. But it wouldn’t be that easy.
There’s a low hum as the tongue finds his ear lobe and his brows gently knit as his body struggles for release which is washing over him and back, ebbing like the tide. Until Matthew starts fucking him again, thrusting at the perfect angle to hit his prostate and make him see stars. He’s making small, broken noises of pleasure that rise in tone as he’s pushed towards the edge. It’s only a few hard thrusts before he’s breaking completely and coming absolutely undone. Every inch of his body tenses with his orgasm, clutching Matthew’s cock tight inside him as he shudders and writhes with his throes. His mouth is open but there’s no sound, orgasm hitting him like lightning and blinding him just the same. He trembles, fingers digging in hard at Matthew’s ass and hip, leaving angry red marks across his skin. He comes so hard that it hits the ceiling and the top of the doorframe, though his room doesn’t have very high ceilings, to begin with. He slumps as he’s milked through his climax and once again braces against the door to ride out the last of the explosive high. He might collapse if Matthew doesn’t keep hold of him, his knees and thighs are shaking. His chest heaves great breaths, trying to catch the air in his lungs as his head swims and he feels drunk.
All of Matthew's senses honed into Flint's orgasm, the way his body writhed and shook, the sound of his hammering, weakened heart and the grip of hot flesh around him, the earnest throat workings that did produce a very very quiet noise, all picked up on Matthew's supernatural senses, was the first thing that made the vampire moan low and throaty himself. The impulse to bite Flint again, to drain him a little more was a dangerously strong one but Matthew knew better and offset his need by his fingers denting into Flint's skin as he shuddered through it.
"There's a good man," he praises softly, strong arms fully capable and willing of holding Flint's weight like he was a ragdoll that weighed nothing. Resting his lips on the man's back, he couldn't help another few staggered thrusts, aiming for the desperate cries of the thoroughly wrung before he gently pulls out. One hand came to heft his pants a little before he was turning Flint around and picking him up bridal style.
"If you behave yourself, I can promise you endless nights of pleasure like that and more," he purrs as he walks Flint over to the cot and lays him down like he were naught but a babe. "Though I have have a mind to spread you and fuck you some more, until your body knows nothin' but my attentions."
It was anyone's guess, even science, how long the turning would take but Matthew had no qualms about quasi-necrophilia - that was an issue long overcome, along with the loss of his humanity for it.
With those last few teasing thrusts Matthew pulls soft, keening sounds from his oversensitive body and he shudders as it pushes his body to arch and tense. The small rub against his prostate within milks a few more drops from his weeping tip before the other pulls free of his warmth, getting one last breathless whimper for his efforts. Flint's fingers have nearly bloodied themselves from clawing at the wood when they fucked and he nearly crumples to the floor before he’s turned and picked up with ease. He’s trembling in the other’s arms, still rolling and high with the intense ecstasy brought on with the heightened supernatural pleasure. His skin feels alight with every touch while also feeling heavy and sated.
As he lays on the cot he can feel his strength drained, not only from the drug-like haze of euphoria he’s swimming in but the gently flickering flame of his life as it’s nearly snuffed out. He swallows raggedly, looking upon the other as his vision clouds and dims. Matthew might get another round out of him, literally fucking him till the last of his thread of life slips from his fingers. It wouldn’t be the worst way to go if he’s honest. Not with how the other’s bites can deliver him into a wild, pleasurable haze, where nothing else matters. His promises all sound so tempting and wonderful that he simply can not refuse them anymore. Even if somewhere in the back of his mind he wants to fight it, he doesn’t want Matthew’s touch to be the only thing he knows anymore. He doesn’t want to lose his memories of his former lovers, of Miranda, Silver, and Thomas. But right now? Under his spell, he can see no one else and nothing else.
So as Matthew crowds in on top of him in his cot, peppering his skin with more shallow bites and warm, pleasure enducing swipes of his tongue it’s not long till his body is eagerly responding again and the vampire can take him, roughly spreading him out and driving into him to pull the last keening breathes from his lungs until he can no longer hold onto this life. For Flint, it’s a pleasurable end, he reaches a final climax which sets his soul free of its shell. It’s like he simply passes out from the euphoria and fatigue, going to a soft end, considering how violently and passionately it was taken from him.
A change happens within him, Matthew’s blood mixing in his veins with his power and his influence. It melds with his own darkness, his hunger, his rage, and his need for blood and destruction. He doesn’t know how long he was dead. How long it takes for his body to grow cold and then his heart to instinctively start beating as he rises again. Something in him no longer allowing death to claim him. His soul is forfeit, but he will live forever in his darkness, but perhaps free of so much more. His eyes fly open as he wakes with a gasp, drawing a deep breath into his empty lungs out of the last shred of his human need. He pants softly, his body now light and strong, still cold and covered in blood but changed.
Just then, there comes a rapping on the door once more and a concerned but quiet “Captain?” It’s Billy Bones. Flint knows his voice, can smell him, and can practically hear the blood rushing through his veins from behind the door. He’s starving. Suddenly something else, something not James or Flint, a beast, a true monster latches onto him and screams at him to rip out his throat and feed.
Once Flint was laid out, Matthew really couldn't resist his own impulses and the man was roughly stripped, boots cast off to the side to be followed by pants. The shirt would be suffered to shredding until it was just a strip of fabric under his broad shoulders and Flint was laid bare, cock still weeping in front of him.
He was almost there. Matthew had never fucked someone to death before and his cock twitched at the thought of it. So he climbs in and has his way, teasing and fucking Flint to his last breath, dark hair wild and throat already dry and hungry for another drink. He worked Flint's cock and it's stiffness until the man came and once he faded, Matthew came himself, growling as his hands dented into Flint's thighs. A second wind came and as inhumane as it was, Matthew fell over onto his hands and fucked Flint's still warm body at full strength, nearly pulling the cot off it's hooks until he came again.
There was no shame in this - no matter how much the living world thought it so. For Vampires, it was different.
It was hours later before Flint gasped backed to consciousness and Matthew had left him as he died, spread and sticky with his last discharge. Not yet Sunrise - That would put them down without options but the nights were long. Matthew was dressed and sat in Flint's chair, reading one of his books, feet propped up on the desk when the knock came and he dropped his feet one after the other, book closing and dropping on the table.
He could tell Flint was Awake, could hear the habitual pant of now useless and unneeded air - it had taken Matthew years to stop breathing out of habit. But good. It had been successful.
In a blur, Matthew was up against the door, smooth hands silently lifting and unhinging the lock before cranking the knob oh so slightly, enough to pop the tongue and let it 'swing' open naturally with the heave of the ocean. He knew how to play this game, remembered the burning hunger of First Awakening and almost pitied the poor man on the other side of the door.
Newborns were a handful. The most important thing was the first feed, where they could pull long and deep without restraint. Well. For the most part. Matthew knew that anyone was more reasonable and clear minded when the lust of thirst was quenched. The mind would return after the Beast was sated and Matthew had no doubt that Flint was as brutal as he was submissive and needy. There was always a balance to these types.
Flint is too distracted with the meal behind the door to notice the state he’s been left in, or for it to dawn on him what has happened, what Matthew has done to him. He slowly sits up, gaze zeroed in on the door and his master as he slowly lets it swing open to watch what happens next. He pushes himself from the cot, nude, covered in blood and bodily fluids, eyes flashing, lips curling back to reveal his fangs. The moment Billy pushed the door open and his large frame starts to duck through the door, Flint is on him before he can blink. The beast at least has the wherewithal to pull his meal into the room and pin him to the wall near where he’d been fucked not that long ago. He’s barely aware that his fangs are sunk into the other’s throat, blinded by hunger and need. It’s not until the first welling of warm, hot life touches his gums, fills his mouth and smears over his lips and tongue that he truly feels the moment. He groans with the insatiable pleasure, a man starved being fed. He drinks than tears at the flesh for more, to flood his mouth till it’s running down his chin in red rivulets. Billy is struggling, gurgling and beating on him. Big hands trying to get purchase on his skin or impossibly strong form and getting no where. Any blows won’t make him budge an inch, he’s like solid steel gripping the other and pinning him as he tears out his throat and drains him of life. It happens quickly, the light fading and Flint drains him of every last life-giving drop.
When finished he’ll toss Billy aside like a rag doll. Something wafts to his senses, the smell of men, of sweat and blood. He can smell more life beyond, more food. He’s not yet sated and he snaps his gaze to that door, expecting it to be wide open with how strong the smells are to his senses. He flicks his gaze to Matthew as he stands, guarding the door, but Flint won't make a move till given permission. At least for now.
"Poor, poor Billy Bones," Matthew coos as he slides the door closed again, white teeth glinting in the shallow light as he leans against the door. "Never had a chance."
It was important that he watch. Being a vampire wasn't as easy as just sucking blood - there was an art. Namely the art of the heartbeat. Some souls went overboard right away, some only when they were in a proper full frenzy, but there were consequences for drinking once the heart stopped pumping. But as Flint threw Billy to the side, Matthew was sure that it wasn't currently an issue.
One down, quite a few more to go.
Matthew walks over, a slow purposeful amble that belayed how quickly the Frenchmen could move.
"You need patience. If you go and massacre everyone, that's it. There's no more until we hit dry land. We can spare you one more, but the rest must be captured and restrained before sunrise. Once dawn comes, we will be venerable." He comes to a stop a few inches away from Flint's shoulder, unconcerned about any violence finding it's aim at him.
"I know how a fresh hunger burns, mon ami, but you must temper it early. First. Tell me how many of your men are left. Do not recall them, but count them, their heartbeats, their breaths. The murmurs of worry that will only get louder the longer poor Billy Bones is gone. How many?"
Flint stands but shifts his weight as an agitated, but not entirely well-trained dog does while at the end of his leash, waiting to be let free to maul someone. He listens intently to his master, despite how his lips curl back into a snarl at being told he needed patience. Those eyes flick to the body on the floor, and he thinks to take it and string it up, upside-down so it can drain every drop despite his heart no longer beating. He could still get a little more…
As the question about his men is posed he’s about to try and dig into his memory, Flint’s memory for the answer before he’s told to listen and use his fresh, newly heightened senses. He closes his eyes to do just that, focusing on the footfalls, the heartbeats, the voices, and the breath.
“16, we only need maybe a dozen, 10 at the very least, to sail the ship.” He answers some of Flint starting to awaken behind the monster.
“We weren’t far from the nearest port when we struck that ship, maybe a week out, it’s already been three days. That means we have 3 more each for us…” He blinks a moment as the human parts of his mind start to return and he realizes who he just murdered, whose blood is all over his body, how he stands, naked and covered in fluids. Some of them are his own. He looks to the body and knows there’s both remorse and the desire to hang him from his heels to get every last drop. Two halves warring inside him. Soon it will dawn on him what has happened to him, what Matthew has done to him, what he has become. All of it, but that feral hunger is a strong, strong pull.
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It’s not until the body of Silver is found that Flint decides to take the hunt into his own hands. There’s enough rumor about his callousness over the lives of his men, and it’s placed in stark contrast to how absolutely livid he is over someone murdering their Quartermaster. It’s so much so that he flies into a rage into the hold where he’s found, and one man speaks out of turn, daring to blame him, or accuse him of being the murderer. Then and there he receives the brunt of his rage in the form of a swift and brutal beating before the others pull him off. Orders are barked, they have an enemy among them, none of their own crew would have gone after Silver, the crew loved and trusted Silver more than anyone and now he was dead and his men are now out for blood more than their fear of whoever or whatever has stowed away to pick them off and turn them against one another.
Flint returns to his Cabin to take up his sword, pistol and sheath his knife, fully armed to the teeth to search his own ship for the culprit. He doesn’t know how this fiend has hidden himself so well in the past week they’ve been sailing. Enough that he’s struck, likely at night, without anyone knowing or seeing a thing. And to kill their men so brutally… not even Silver deserved that sort of end.
While alone, there is a moment… where Flint’s rage gives way to grief. The time spent together he’d come to rely on Silver and start to care for him. Despite everything. He keenly felt the loss of Silver. So he sat at his desk, fighting with the feelings raging in himself to wait for the sun to set and night to fall, where he planned to stalk out onto his own ship and search for the monster taking his men. The thing that ripped his only friend from him.
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What was Not part of the plan was that cargo liner getting hijacked by pirates. Oh Matthew knew he wasn't on the ship he had left land from, but he had been hijacked all the same; the long chest he'd been tophoring in that had been brought aboard. There was always a danger of it in traveling overseas but that fact of reality didn't sooth or make Matthew any calmer when he woke up.
The thing about tophoring was that his body fed off itself and his plans had him pushing his limits already. When he rose, he was already tipping the scales towards a Frenzy and it was a testament to his fresh training that he didn't eat the ship in one night. One unfortunate man, the first to trigger the whispers, was stored neatly in the same chest that Matthew hid in when the sun was up. He knew that he would be assuring his own destruction if he killed them all at once, knew that it would strand him further from shore and freedom and food.
So it took patience and a lot of it. He only took one man a night, incrementally restoring the blood that he lost to make it as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. But the men still talked at night and all their hushed whispers might as well been on loudspeaker to Matthew's sensitive ears. This wasn't sustainable for much longer. The men's fears push him into a new idea and the next body they found--
-- Let them believe the truth of the fact that a monster was on their vessel.
Matthew knew Silver was Important and that, along with the half a leg there, made him a prime target. Silver was laid out over the wheel, roughly mounted there, throat torn at in the same way as the last man. Let it stoke a fire in them, Matthew thought to himself as a fresh round of arguing sprung up. Hadn't Silver been staying by Flint's side? Didn't that give him perfect opportunity?
Instead of chancing Flint coming back down with the rest of the survivors and asking for a fight that would risk Matthew murdering all of them and himself by the consequences, the vampire spent some of his blood to slip his way into the Captain's cabin, soundless until the door shuts behind him.
There would be a fraction of a second, long enough for Flint to lift his eyes, before the Beast sprung, moving faster than the eye could ever hope to follow as he descends on Flint, hands snapping his up in an impossibly strong grip as Matthew's fangs sink into Flint's neck. The raw sexual pleasure of the bite will be immediate, inarguable and mind numbingly intense.
Matthew hadn't found anyone yet that was prepared to fight against it and if he could subdue Flint without a shot being fired, mores the better.
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Immediately he’s hit with this overwhelming sensation, a primal heat grips him, makes him dizzy and intoxicated. He makes a helpless, moaned sort of noise that’s pulled from his chest despite himself. He meant to curse, to cry out, but it comes out as a noise of pleasure. He fights it, just barely, the desire to just submit to it is powerful. He’s aware the monster is sucking the life out of him somehow, that he’s consuming him or the position that he’s in, he knows he needs to fight. This man killed Silver. If he could be called a man. He struggles, but it’s weak, the position he’s in doesn’t give him much room to fight it. But he fights just to fight. And as his vision dims and swirls dizzily as if he were drunk, he sees a flash of Miranda’s ghost, screaming at him. She’s sobbing and falling to her knees in despair for him, reaching silently and wordlessly.
The greater part of himself, the one desperately wanting it to end, wanting peace to take him is willing to give into this. Surely he’s about to die. Maybe he deserves it. It should have been him from the start, not Silver. Not his men. Why didn’t this monster take him and be done with it. He’s desperately wanting the pain to stop, the anger, he doesn’t want to be this monster anymore. And the more disturbing side of all of this is he can feel it, as his body begins to give in, as he stops struggling and the drug like effect wrenches back control. He can feel his body responding almost eagerly to all of it. Does the thought of death really arouse him, or is it something else entirely fucked up and broken inside him?
There’s a whimper of submission, a soft “fuck” as his toes curl and the pleasure overtakes him, numbing and clouding his thoughts to arouse and seduce. He thinks of Silver, how he must have felt in this moment. Remembers the sounds he made when they first fucked on his cot only a few feet from where they were. His mind forces him to remember and fantasize, pulling him from the moment of this creature consuming him to make him want to eagerly accept it. To see Silver and Miranda and Thomas, all his lovers and remember those heated, passionate nights spent together. He could be with them again. He could be free of it.
He’s hard, painfully so and there will be no hiding it from Matthew. Deep in the thrall of his bite Flint is his to do with what he will.
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It was by the grace of.. well, something, that Matthew had the sense of self preservation to drain Flint only just to the point of death. There was a delicate line to be managed there and while he hadn't ever turned anyone else, he remembered too vividly his own death. His own rebirth. Matthew rears back and sighs in satisfaction, mouth messy and unkempt, blood running in rivets down his chin, head tilted to one side in consideration of the large ginger laid out before him.
"I've been watching you, hunting your men for days. Murdered your first mate, your quartermaster. Watched you fight and argue with your men, trying so desperately hard to keep control of such a precarious balance act. They fear you. Revere you," he says, pushing up his dirty, torn and bloodied sleeve to cut a shallow slit across his wrist, pressing it against Flint's lips, forcing him to drink by kneeling on his wrists if necessary.
"There are the same handful left alive. Good souls. We could make them more. You could make them more. If only you were stronger than this sad sack of flesh God has burdened you with. You've made yourself powerful without knowing the limits you might be able to reach." He groans at the letting of his own blood, the suckling of it.
"I will make you stronger. Give you companionship, guidance.. We shall craft and form you into a god, Captain."
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But something in him snaps to attention some tether being snapped taught to anchor him to this world a little longer. And he surprises himself by not turning away from the overwhelming coppery taste being forced into his mouth or smeared over his lips. His hands move, not to push the other away but to grip his wrist and hold it firm as his eyes close and he seals his mouth to the wound to drink from it like a man absolutely dehydrated. As he’s wrapped up in this instinctual hunger he can hear Matt's voice echoing his promises. To make him stronger. To make him a God. And his darkness is reveling in it, excited by the prospect even if later, when he’s a little more clearheaded he’ll loathe the thought. He once boasted about being a King, about wanting the power to command and destroy. A part of him still wants that, but the more reasonable part of him, the better part of him wants none of it. He wants that peace that’s been stolen from him.
Something he’ll soon realize he may never have again.
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"It will be hard, but no harder than you life here on the sea. You will hurt but less than you do now. We shall get you strong and I shall show you the real beauty of the world."
But there was such a thing as Too Much and Matthew laid a reverent hand across Flint's forehead. "That's enough now," he breathed, lips curling in a soft sneer as he applied pressure. He had hopes that this could all be done as peacefully as possible, but he was not above putting more force in the already encouraging supernatural allure and draw of his voice, lulling Flint towards the supplication of agreement.
"More than enough."
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Now, laying under the other, mouth and chin smeared in red, already fiery beard coated in crimson, he’ll fall pliant and drugged as he stares up at his Maker. His head is swimming so much so he can’t think straight if he tried, trapped between barely breathing and painful arousal. He’s panting with his need but toeing the line between life and death with each raspy exhale. His ears rush with blood, though his heart is beating thick and slow. He’s impossibly hot while his limbs feel heavy and cold. All he knows in that moment is his desire, his need, his hunger, these new instincts that overwhelm any sense or rational thought. He just wants to fuck, or be fucked, anything to relieve this ache.
He’s forgotten that this creature has killed his men and brutalized his best friend. He’s hasn’t registered that he’s dying slowly, and that his body is changing because of this monster over him. All he feels is the burning need to rip the clothes off the other and fuck till they’re both heaving and breathless. Had he the strength to do so he would have thrown the other to the ground and rolled on top of him, but as he is, drunk off this heady, intense power, he simply lays under the other so he can do what he will. His hands move to splay out over his thighs, digging his fingers into his pants.
His words echo in his mind, I will make you stronger. We shall craft and form you into a God. I shall show you the real beauty of the world.
His throat works, struggling around where he was bitten and still bleeding, voice thick.
“Show me.” Take me. His mind thinks but he bites it back from rolling off his tongue, trying not to beg to be released. To beg for death or whatever is to come next.
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Matthew's approval rumbled through his chest before he was fisting his hands in Flint's shirt. "Gladly," he purred. The next movements happened in the same blink of an eye that Matthew had charged at Flint with; Matthew stood and hoisted Flint easily off the floor, moving to push him against the door. Matthew gave him a half second to process them having moved before he's flipping Flint around to face the wall and sliding his hands around the man's waist, dipping down to grab and grope roughly at the length in his trousers.
"Are you a betting man, Captain," he asks, hands shifting to undoing the laces and bearing Flint's cock out to the open air inside the utterance of his title. He was curious if Flint would fight it, fight him but Matthew's tastes didn't stop at blood. He was a hedonist at heart, indulgent and sinful for all sorts of things that society would call Ungentlemanly. Savage, in a base sense that he fully lived up to despite the silk of his travel beaten jacket. "Care to wager on how long it'll take before you're begging me to fuck you?"
The men on the upper deck had, of course, heard the tussle, the fall of Flint's chair and frame. Matthew gave it less than a minute before someone was knocking at the door that Flint's cock was pointing towards. It didn't stop him from grabbing the blood hot length and stroking a tight circle down to the base, almost wielding the member with a teasing jiggle. He did so love situations like this.
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He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t want to. There’s that shameful part of him in the back of his mind berating him for letting the monster take him, for allowing himself to submit, ultimately in such a way. But he wants it. He’s never wanted it so desperately before in his life.
His hand fumbles down the wood to find the metal latch by his hip and he’ll push it into place while struggling not to make noise. There’s a low grunt and a sharp inhale as he’s fetched out of his trousers and the other starts to stroke him. He whimpers despite himself and digs his nails into the door, rolling his hips eagerly into those tight fingers, simultaneously pushing his ass back against Matthew’s own hardened member. He can feel him pressed up against him and grinds against that cock.
He pants, lips parting as he’s about to speak and answer when he hears voices calling “Captain!?” From the other side. He swallows raggedly, mind reeling and trying to grasp at words to say. He doesn’t want them to interrupt, he’ll fucking kill them himself if he isn’t given this sweet release, even if it ends up rough and hard.
“I’m fine!” He snaps, and the voices go silent, they know his tantrums by now and just assume he’s flipped the table again in his rage. He listens to the murmuring and retreat of footsteps as the others go back to whatever they were doing prior. He turns his head, closing his eyes to rest his forehead against the door and sighs with relief.
“A beast like you, are you telling me you’re only good for one go?” It’s a dangerous gamble to make such a jab, his own body might not be able to take whatever Matthew can dish out. But that shit-eating half-smile over his shoulder is a bratty sort of thing. Hoping to make Matthew break and want to put him in his place sooner rather than later.
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The feeling of fabric pulled back followed the sounds of shuffling pants before Matthew pulled Flint back into a cool, stiff length. The hand around Flint's cock stroked again slowly as Flint spoke, tightly only to settle back down at his base like a fleshy cock ring. "My cock is hard because I will it so. Fucking you until your knees stop holding up your weight and your balls have been worked dry of their milky whiteness is well within my abilities."
The elder Vampire only hummed, free handing coming up to claw and tear some of Flint's shirt from itself, enough so that he can shallowly sink his fangs into the man's shoulder. It wasn't the feeding or the bloodletting that cause the pleasure - Science would be done on it later to prove - it was the saliva entering the flesh, like a mosquito bite that came with endless pleasure. How much was smeared in with the bite determined just how pleasurable but on the brink of death, Matthew was sure that Flint had been riding that edge since his fangs first slid in.
Once they got to land and got settled, there would be several nights dedicated to Matthew training Flint on how to not run his mouth so coyly unless he wanted to suffer the result of Matthew's furious lust, he could already tell.
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Flint shudders as his trousers drop around his ankles and those fingers circle his length to slowly stroke. His hips move instinctually with the draw and even press into the grip where it sits against the base, desperate for more contact and friction. There’s a flutter and a pulse of lightning up and down his spine the moment he hears the whisper of cloth, followed by the press of cool flesh to his own. That twist of feral anticipation lancing in his stomach made his cock throb in the other’s grip. So close, yet so far. His hips angle back as he’s pulled back against Matthew, his legs spread to widen his stance to welcome and prepare for more. Eager like a bitch in heat. There’s another low, bitten-back hum of approval as Matthew threatens him with a good time. He wouldn’t mind at all being laid out and milked dry, too weary from fucking for hours or days to move.
He’s dimly aware his shirt is being ripped aside before those fangs pierce his shoulder, he tenses with a grunt, low and guttural to swallow up the gasp of pleasure. It washes out past his lips in a breathless sigh, a small note of ecstasy slips from his throat as that high swims in his head and sets every nerve alight with intense arousal once again. He’s elated by how easily it washes over him, helping to drown out the shame and disgust in how he’s acting or how desperately he wants it. The very struggle to keep himself from begging right then and there. How it makes his body tremble and his cock bob as droplets of precum weep from the tip.
His fingers dig into the wood as he struggles with himself, wanting to just swim in this feeling and enjoy it while it lasts. To not give a shit about who was fucking him or how much he desired this and so much more. How much he missed this feeling. But he’s not strong enough to resist it and he nearly bites his lip open with worrying it between his teeth. Finally, he gives, body too hot and in need of this release. Panting he tips his head, eyes blown dark and hooded as he swallows raggedly and prepares to give Matthew what he wants.
“Fuck” He groans, “Fuck me.” Will he make him say please?
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They would break him of that too.
Humming against Flint's skin, Matthew pulled back, tongue lapping across the wound to seal it shut. The only proof of the night would be the one left on Flint's neck. Now that the men had been put off, this could slip back into being something of a game and Matthew's planned on playing it. Spitting in his hand, glad for the shadows that hid the fact that his spit was blood, he smears his cock with it and uses his tip to rub up Flint's taint a little, pressing threatening at his entrance as he remained held firmly in the front.
"We must work on manners, mon ami," Matthew murmured, "But I promise you will find them."
His statement was punctuated rather pointedly as he starts to press in, working his tip teasingly against Flint's center until it was so tightly enveloped by muscle. Flint was given a few heartbeats, each felt through the solid velvet flesh inside him before Matthew thrust himself halfway and then again to fully seat himself into the man.
"Now," he purred, hips rolling in a circle to stir the good Captain as his lips ghost across Flint's bared bit of back again. "What was that?"
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Another part of him might be disgusted by this when it’s all over. This was something he’d only shared with his one and truest love, Thomas. So when Matthew took this from him, that connection he had, that memory would be lost. He hadn’t exactly been saving himself, of course, he just never really desired to seek out another, saw no one else as his equal enough to top him. Sure, he’d fucked Silver, but the other never got close enough to him for him to feel the desire to switch the role. But now? Matthew had wrested it from him in a fitting display of power. He was supernaturally strong and fast, he was turning him and he would be his now, whether he liked it or not. For the moment though, he reveled in the thought. Later, however, he might reflect on it and resent the Frenchman for it.
As the other grinds his cockhead against his taint and presses against his entrance he can’t help but to groan, ass moving slightly back against him, begging silently to be filled. But when the other finally starts to push in he pulls the breath into his lungs with a sharp inhale. It hurts, it’s been several years since someone fucked him so he was tight and unprepared. There’s a strangled cry with the first initial thrust in, biting it back as he shudders and fails t hold the second moan from escaping his throat when Matthew sheaths himself. He throbs and aches for more, body adjusting and giving itself over to the other with the wash of that intoxicating pleasure. His body trembles as he bows his head and tries to catch his breath where it shudders off his lips.
“P…please…” He rasps, slowly shrugging out of one shirt sleeve to leave it to hang loosely, only to scoop it up and stuff the end into his mouth so he can bite down and muffle the noises he knows he’ll make. He’s pressed to the door, he doesn’t need the men to come running back to batter down the door in a panic. Unless of course, Matthew decides to move them again, perhaps to bend him over his desk or throw him down on his cot or even the floor. His mind is painting pretty pictures of either option as the other rolls his hips and moves his slowly warming member within him to tease. He wants to move, to thrust, but that strong hand gripping the base of his cock and the press of the other against his hips doesn’t allow for much, he’s trapped until the other allows him to move.
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Matthew's free hand smoothed up Flint's back, fingers running from fabric to the smooth skin of his shoulders, where his grip became iron. There would be no questioning who was in control here, who was going to allow Flint to find the climax of his pleasure, and Matthew's thrusting sped up to a steady, unforgiving slap. The hand on his shoulder helped pull the man back into the thrust and the hand around Flint's cock eased it's grip but held it's place, forcing the man to fuck his hand because of the movements.
They might move for round two and again for round three - Matthew thought he might fuck this man to his literal death. Just for the fun of the experience.
If Flint moved with him, he'd earn a cooing praise from the Vampire. "There you go, isn't that better? Riding my cock like the right little whore that you secretly are, hmm? So tough with your temper and your power, and all you really need is a strong hand to put you in your place, isn't it?"
Matthew knew he was poking in more ways than one and offset it with a scrape of his fangs over Flint's back, two sharp lines of blood popping up in their wake.
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The cotton sleeve he’s been gritting between his teeth drops with a gasp as Matthew’s fangs find his skin and scratch their way down to open shallow wounds. He feels the wash of pleasure again, not only from the supernatural desire but the pain, causing him to buck that much harder and struggle for his release. It’ll come sooner rather than later at this rate, as drugged and heated as he is. He almost seems to respond to Matthews chiding words, moving with reckless abandon as if to prove the other right. He can’t help it. He needs this. He wants this. And without the barrier of his sleeve, he’s panting, snarling, and making breathless noises without caring who hears him.
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There was no danger of Matthew cumming unless he wanted too - too many years practice riding the edges of a pleasure that was dulled at the edges, not nearly as powerful as it had been in life. Not what Flint was suffering so deliciously right now and Matthew wanted to enjoy Flint's enjoying of it for as long as he could. They might try again and again over the hopeful years to come, but none of it would match the high of being turned and getting fucked while it's happening to your body. There was a line of danger that most humans liked getting off on and Matthew had found their struggle a delicacy of its own.
No, the pace would keep it's relentless rhythm until Flint starts to shudder towards his climax. It was then that Matthew would bury himself deep in the man again and stroke his cock for all he was worth, denying him the satisfaction of cumming from the pounding alone. Matthew wanted him to want that, and one didn't get there by giving it right off the bat.
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“Pl-please” he begs once more hoping Matthew won’t suddenly stop and keep him just barely toeing that edge. He jerks, belly tensing and body trembling as he gets closer still. Nearly there… just a little bit more…
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His lips move to Flint's ear, tongue lapping at the lobe before he speaks.
"You're such a perfect choice." It was a praise of himself, really, but what mattered was that it came with the thrusts that Flint were asking for, and a little less punishingly but not softening in any significant matter. "Come on, my Captain, show me what it looks like when you unravel."
As though he didn't know that Flint was already well unraveled and holding onto his last thread.
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There’s a low hum as the tongue finds his ear lobe and his brows gently knit as his body struggles for release which is washing over him and back, ebbing like the tide. Until Matthew starts fucking him again, thrusting at the perfect angle to hit his prostate and make him see stars. He’s making small, broken noises of pleasure that rise in tone as he’s pushed towards the edge. It’s only a few hard thrusts before he’s breaking completely and coming absolutely undone. Every inch of his body tenses with his orgasm, clutching Matthew’s cock tight inside him as he shudders and writhes with his throes. His mouth is open but there’s no sound, orgasm hitting him like lightning and blinding him just the same. He trembles, fingers digging in hard at Matthew’s ass and hip, leaving angry red marks across his skin. He comes so hard that it hits the ceiling and the top of the doorframe, though his room doesn’t have very high ceilings, to begin with. He slumps as he’s milked through his climax and once again braces against the door to ride out the last of the explosive high. He might collapse if Matthew doesn’t keep hold of him, his knees and thighs are shaking. His chest heaves great breaths, trying to catch the air in his lungs as his head swims and he feels drunk.
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"There's a good man," he praises softly, strong arms fully capable and willing of holding Flint's weight like he was a ragdoll that weighed nothing. Resting his lips on the man's back, he couldn't help another few staggered thrusts, aiming for the desperate cries of the thoroughly wrung before he gently pulls out. One hand came to heft his pants a little before he was turning Flint around and picking him up bridal style.
"If you behave yourself, I can promise you endless nights of pleasure like that and more," he purrs as he walks Flint over to the cot and lays him down like he were naught but a babe. "Though I have have a mind to spread you and fuck you some more, until your body knows nothin' but my attentions."
It was anyone's guess, even science, how long the turning would take but Matthew had no qualms about quasi-necrophilia - that was an issue long overcome, along with the loss of his humanity for it.
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As he lays on the cot he can feel his strength drained, not only from the drug-like haze of euphoria he’s swimming in but the gently flickering flame of his life as it’s nearly snuffed out. He swallows raggedly, looking upon the other as his vision clouds and dims. Matthew might get another round out of him, literally fucking him till the last of his thread of life slips from his fingers. It wouldn’t be the worst way to go if he’s honest. Not with how the other’s bites can deliver him into a wild, pleasurable haze, where nothing else matters. His promises all sound so tempting and wonderful that he simply can not refuse them anymore. Even if somewhere in the back of his mind he wants to fight it, he doesn’t want Matthew’s touch to be the only thing he knows anymore. He doesn’t want to lose his memories of his former lovers, of Miranda, Silver, and Thomas. But right now? Under his spell, he can see no one else and nothing else.
So as Matthew crowds in on top of him in his cot, peppering his skin with more shallow bites and warm, pleasure enducing swipes of his tongue it’s not long till his body is eagerly responding again and the vampire can take him, roughly spreading him out and driving into him to pull the last keening breathes from his lungs until he can no longer hold onto this life. For Flint, it’s a pleasurable end, he reaches a final climax which sets his soul free of its shell. It’s like he simply passes out from the euphoria and fatigue, going to a soft end, considering how violently and passionately it was taken from him.
A change happens within him, Matthew’s blood mixing in his veins with his power and his influence. It melds with his own darkness, his hunger, his rage, and his need for blood and destruction. He doesn’t know how long he was dead. How long it takes for his body to grow cold and then his heart to instinctively start beating as he rises again. Something in him no longer allowing death to claim him. His soul is forfeit, but he will live forever in his darkness, but perhaps free of so much more. His eyes fly open as he wakes with a gasp, drawing a deep breath into his empty lungs out of the last shred of his human need. He pants softly, his body now light and strong, still cold and covered in blood but changed.
Just then, there comes a rapping on the door once more and a concerned but quiet “Captain?” It’s Billy Bones. Flint knows his voice, can smell him, and can practically hear the blood rushing through his veins from behind the door. He’s starving. Suddenly something else, something not James or Flint, a beast, a true monster latches onto him and screams at him to rip out his throat and feed.
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He was almost there. Matthew had never fucked someone to death before and his cock twitched at the thought of it. So he climbs in and has his way, teasing and fucking Flint to his last breath, dark hair wild and throat already dry and hungry for another drink. He worked Flint's cock and it's stiffness until the man came and once he faded, Matthew came himself, growling as his hands dented into Flint's thighs. A second wind came and as inhumane as it was, Matthew fell over onto his hands and fucked Flint's still warm body at full strength, nearly pulling the cot off it's hooks until he came again.
There was no shame in this - no matter how much the living world thought it so. For Vampires, it was different.
It was hours later before Flint gasped backed to consciousness and Matthew had left him as he died, spread and sticky with his last discharge. Not yet Sunrise - That would put them down without options but the nights were long. Matthew was dressed and sat in Flint's chair, reading one of his books, feet propped up on the desk when the knock came and he dropped his feet one after the other, book closing and dropping on the table.
He could tell Flint was Awake, could hear the habitual pant of now useless and unneeded air - it had taken Matthew years to stop breathing out of habit. But good. It had been successful.
In a blur, Matthew was up against the door, smooth hands silently lifting and unhinging the lock before cranking the knob oh so slightly, enough to pop the tongue and let it 'swing' open naturally with the heave of the ocean. He knew how to play this game, remembered the burning hunger of First Awakening and almost pitied the poor man on the other side of the door.
Newborns were a handful. The most important thing was the first feed, where they could pull long and deep without restraint. Well. For the most part. Matthew knew that anyone was more reasonable and clear minded when the lust of thirst was quenched. The mind would return after the Beast was sated and Matthew had no doubt that Flint was as brutal as he was submissive and needy. There was always a balance to these types.
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When finished he’ll toss Billy aside like a rag doll. Something wafts to his senses, the smell of men, of sweat and blood. He can smell more life beyond, more food. He’s not yet sated and he snaps his gaze to that door, expecting it to be wide open with how strong the smells are to his senses. He flicks his gaze to Matthew as he stands, guarding the door, but Flint won't make a move till given permission. At least for now.
"I need more."
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It was important that he watch. Being a vampire wasn't as easy as just sucking blood - there was an art. Namely the art of the heartbeat. Some souls went overboard right away, some only when they were in a proper full frenzy, but there were consequences for drinking once the heart stopped pumping. But as Flint threw Billy to the side, Matthew was sure that it wasn't currently an issue.
One down, quite a few more to go.
Matthew walks over, a slow purposeful amble that belayed how quickly the Frenchmen could move.
"You need patience. If you go and massacre everyone, that's it. There's no more until we hit dry land. We can spare you one more, but the rest must be captured and restrained before sunrise. Once dawn comes, we will be venerable." He comes to a stop a few inches away from Flint's shoulder, unconcerned about any violence finding it's aim at him.
"I know how a fresh hunger burns, mon ami, but you must temper it early. First. Tell me how many of your men are left. Do not recall them, but count them, their heartbeats, their breaths. The murmurs of worry that will only get louder the longer poor Billy Bones is gone. How many?"
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As the question about his men is posed he’s about to try and dig into his memory, Flint’s memory for the answer before he’s told to listen and use his fresh, newly heightened senses. He closes his eyes to do just that, focusing on the footfalls, the heartbeats, the voices, and the breath.
“16, we only need maybe a dozen, 10 at the very least, to sail the ship.” He answers some of Flint starting to awaken behind the monster.
“We weren’t far from the nearest port when we struck that ship, maybe a week out, it’s already been three days. That means we have 3 more each for us…” He blinks a moment as the human parts of his mind start to return and he realizes who he just murdered, whose blood is all over his body, how he stands, naked and covered in fluids. Some of them are his own. He looks to the body and knows there’s both remorse and the desire to hang him from his heels to get every last drop. Two halves warring inside him. Soon it will dawn on him what has happened to him, what Matthew has done to him, what he has become. All of it, but that feral hunger is a strong, strong pull.
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