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Malleus’s understanding of the human body wasn’t exactly lacking. There were just... gaps. Odd little blind spots that, until now, had never posed a problem. But tonight, something about you didn’t sit right.
More accurately, something smelled off.
The scent of blood was unmistakable; sharp and heavy, like iron heated over flame, and it clung to you with a persistence that set him on edge. You waved him off when he asked about it, a nervous laugh and a quick excuse, but he saw the tension in your shoulders. You were hiding something.
That wouldn’t do.
Uncertain, he turned to the only source of wisdom more mischievous than merciful: Lilia.
The old bat had the nerve to laugh.
“Oh, that?” Lilia grinned wide, fangs peeking. “She’s just bleeding. Perfectly normal.”
Malleus stared. “She is injured?”
“Not at all! It’s called menstruation. Human thing. Happens monthly. A sign of fertility, actually-”
Lilia’s tone took a smug lilt as he leaned in, explaining the discomfort, the cramps, the sensitivity. How the body purged itself to make way for potential life. His expression shifted somewhere between fondness and arousal.
“Humans are adorable when they’re hormonal,” he mused. “You should see what a little massage can do. Or how needy they get when they’re touched the right way...”
Malleus stopped listening.
He didn’t need advice on how to lust after you. What he needed was a way to ease your discomfort, and perhaps selfishly, to understand this strange new rhythm of your body.
So, he offered you his magic.
A simple thing at first. Warm palms pressed against your lower belly while you lay atop his bed, eyes fluttering in drowsy relief. His hands moved in slow, soothing circles, his body curled around you like a protective wing. His lips brushed your neck between hums of an ancient lullaby.
You sighed. Melted.
You didn’t notice how low his hand had begun to drift.
By the time you did, his fingers were already parting you, sliding through the slick mess of blood and arousal between your thighs. You gasped, hips twitching, but you didn’t stop him.
Not when he murmured your name with such reverence. Not when his hand moved with care, slow and steady, the heel of his palm rocking gently against your clit.
And not when your orgasm left you trembling, boneless, and wet all over again.
Malleus’s breath caught as he pulled his fingers from you. Blood painted his knuckles, his wrist, the base of his hand. He lifted them to his mouth and tasted you like wine, tongue dragging slow along the curve of his own flesh.
The taste of your body on the brink of creation.
His cock ached.
Before you could shift, before you could close your legs or gather your thoughts, he was moving again. Strong hands pressed your thighs back toward your chest, baring you to him, already flushed and oversensitive.
“Malleus! wait-” Your words stuttered out, high and breathless. You tried to wiggle away, but he only growled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your cunt as his mouth latched onto you.
Your blood coated his tongue. Your scent filled his lungs.
And he ate.
Ravenous, worshipful, almost desperate. Every moan you made, every twitch of your hips, only spurred him on. Your protests grew weaker as the heat built again in your gut, nerves shot and body buzzing.
He could feel it... the pulse of life inside you, the potential. The red river flowing from the womb that would one day swell with his children, carry his legacy, sing his name in every heartbeat it bore.
But not yet.
Not yet.
So he fed. And waited.
And throbbed with the knowledge that next time, it wouldn’t be blood painting your thighs, it would be him.