VERY, VERY random fic. I want something light after countless hours of working, so here goes.

WARNING: Contains EXTREMELY disturbing ideas, pretty graphic sexual encounter, and profanity.

Again: DO NOT proceed if you are underage or simply easily disgusted with fetishes.


Alison knew something was wrong the time her father entered, coughing and trembling and heavy-lidded. She knew he had been crying at one point before he came into her room. Possibly even downed a bottle of whiskey to replace for the tears leaking out of his eyes.

But she sat rigid, by her bed, because she knew he had been from the hospital and the heavy bags of his eyes could not have meant well.

"Oh, Ali—" he had stammered, choking on coughs and stifled tears. "—I wish we can have more time – more memories—I want to see you grow—"

"It's okay, Daddy."

That had been her silent answer, and the two held each other for what seemed like ages. Knowing that even one second of each other's presence could mean a lifetime for the young girl.


Again, she knew it was wrong when the news bleeped with flash news of bats, infection, raging clusters of blood-feeding beasts. And it turned worse when her father entered her room, eyes a golden shade of pride and steely resolution – fangs flashing under the slight movement of his lips, hand moving back to beckon at a shadow behind him. A man – a blonde man. Fear struck and escalated as he moved in and bit her full on the neck.


She knew it was wrong to stab her own father, or to attempt pathetic suicides when she knew she couldn't die. Or the fact that the blonde had been assigned to fully trap her inside the confinement of her own house, now dark and adjusted to the changing world. He adorned the military uniform as if it was the crown of a king, never taking the now offending image of the country's serviceman off no matter how hard she insulted the badge he wore as a power of authority, no matter how hard she tried to drive him to lose control for the degradation of his beloved ideology.

Frankie Dalton was a cold, stony beast – a vampire at its finest.

But even when living as an emotionless little bitch, she knew when something was wrong. Like when the guard dog was temporarily occupied with her father, and how he was white-knuckled and furious after his brief meeting with the boss.

Several hours later, with Charles away for working hours and Frankie to dwell in his newfound steam of rage, she had extracted the fact that his brother had left for the humans, and how much the vampire had – in actuality – loved his dearest sibling. For the first time, nothing about this newfound aspect of the vampire soldier ruffled her wariness.


She probably should have accepted that it was wrong when she kissed Frankie, and how he kissed her back in equal enthusiasm. Pent-up frustration, probably, but it still felt good for two eternally young people who never had the chance to socialize with anyone else. But more than that, the awkwardness left after the first few days of thinking and reviewing the incident, and she felt nothing wrong about having a relationship with a man so cold-hearted and warm at the same time.


She considered if it was wrong to have such ludicrous 'fantasies', as Frankie put it.

"Do you think vampires like period blood?" she had asked, flipping through a magazine absent-mindedly.

He had looked up from the letter he was writing and raised an eyebrow so high his brow scrunched in three visible folds. "Where did that come from?"

She shrugged. "Just curious." And after that, her train of thought hadn't been able to leave the idea.

"It'll be like some crazy oral sex," she intricately described to a very disturbed Frankie. "Oh, come on, it's nasty, but it's still funny!"

He merely casted her a flat stare and spoke, "Alison, if you're implying that we should comply to your ludicrous fantasy, then may I remind that you no longer have your monthly periods?"

His words had made her pull a disgusted face, blush, and rambled agitatedly that of course it was not what she had meant.


She felt wrong when she helped the jeep – a particular one brimming with humans – escape. Long confinement in her mansion had certainly not transformed her into a devoted vampire in the early days of her freedom. At the same time, though, she felt relieved, as if she had just returned home.

But the fear charged back when she hurriedly left for the place one of the humans had told her to go to, and when she left in their jeep for the base camp.

All she could think of is Frankie, wide-eyed and disbelieved, thinking that she had joined him and how she could betray him like his brother did.


She had sensed the queerness of a situation, conquered it, and started the cycle over and over again during her entire life. The humans call it her sixth sense – some particularly inclined towards feminism call it her woman intuition.

But Alison knew it was no magic, no supernatural, no sex-based super power. Just primal instinct to live.

Because ever since Elvis gave her his blood as her daily ration, she had cherished the returning adrenaline pump, that gripping trepidation, that silly meaningless joy, that sagging bag of disappointment, the pure, irrefutable evidence of how she have won back the natural end to everything, the conclusion that is neither forced nor manipulated.


And now, sitting in her cell, heart thumping and breath coming in soft, raggedy whistles, Alison clasped her hands together in what she assumed would have been a praying stance, and silently waited. She waited for the soldier that will bite her, hoping to transform her and be transformed back instead. A high-risk operation, with 90% chance that she would also be killed in the upcoming chain reaction of feeding, but she'd do it. She'd do it because there's nothing wrong about standing up to her belief, standing on both feet for herself for once.

But that wretched sense of fear flush into her heart the immediate moment that steel doors slid open.

Golden eyes locked on hers, and she knew the raging, unsettled storm in his irises. The angry vendetta he had kept for months in looking for her.

She crawled back into her corner, holding her breath, as his pupils darted up and down in its socket, sizing her up. She waited for ages for the storm to finally fade, for utmost awe and confusion to replace it.

"I don't believe it…" he had said, reaching out for her cheek. His other arm was caught in a sling, she had observed, and she still couldn't believe the cold touch washing down her face, or how much she actually missed it.

"Stay away from me," she had mustered up the strength to say it, to spice it with venom. But he was relentless.

"I can forgive you," he had whispered, almost pleadingly. "We can go back again. A place in society. You – me. You don't have to stay living in fear any longer."

"I don't want to."

The trembling in her voice was eminent, but she persisted on looking tough and independent. She had managed months without him, she could surely hold out for several more minutes.

The light in his eyes, though, predicted differently. As did his actions, because in a beat of a moment he was pulling her up with one arm, constantly pinning her against the wall and one hand darting towards the lining of her zipper.

Her eyes had widened as the single row of metal broke apart into two halves and he removed the denim material off her in one swift motion – a speed she had never grown to accustom herself to as a human. Her thoughts grew frantic, knowing full-on what his intentions had been, and she struggled endlessly against him, yelling brutal profanities at the soldier.

It was hard, though, to continue when the aggressive force of his lips meshed against hers, her breath caught midway through her nasal cavity and coming out in tiny little whistles as she struggled hard to break off the claustrophobic space, to break off from the faltering control of her mind. Because as much as she wanted to admit otherwise, she knew he still had his imprint on her.

"I'm still not joining you," she had gasped out, though one of her legs was half-wrapped around his and the blood pumping to every part of her body was growing more agitated. He merely stared on, raised an eyebrow, nursed the crook of her ass with his healthy hand, and dropped it down as he did onto the floor.

She had watched with astonishing awe and shock as he pulled down the remaining garment hugging her pelvis, making a big show of waving the stained pad attached to the white cotton and smirking faintly at her – very, very faintly. Suddenly it tumbled down why he hadn't forced his fangs into her neck as he had the first time.

Ludicrous fantasies, he had said. Look how the tables have turned.

And Alison couldn't help but suck her breath in sharply at the tip of his tongue kissing her groin, slowly curving up to lap a drop of blood. She should realize how wrong this whole situation is, how she was supposed to focus on her mission and get this soldier to bite her, dammit – but he's Frankie, isn't he, and he's down on his knees doing things that you would never imagine anyone else doing it for you—

A groan escaped her lips as his tongue continued to circle her folds, blood staining the dull pinkness of the muscle as it finally reached that one spot that made her arch back, moaning unrestrainedly and shamelessly into the cell.

"You're going to have to be quieter, babe," he had muttered, but the assault between her legs continued on, the blood trickling even more rapidly than before.

"Slow down—" she had roughly spoke out. "Just slow down—"

And yet she relished herself in the fact that he was now writing the alphabets – all fucking 26 alphabets – on her folds, the tip of his tongue brushing teasingly against her clit, away, and then there again like a slippery ghost.

She had to force one palm against her mouth, binding the string of moans and hisses that strived to tumble out as the explosions came, shuddering her entire being as he wrapped his arm around her supportively, kissing her inner thigh goodbye before clambering up to his feet, trapping her weak torso against the wall.

"Admit it – you still love me," he had whispered, dropping his head to the crook of her shoulder, and she trembled at the intensity of his voice. She knew the answer to that forced statement, knew that she would say yes even if he dropped down and proposed to her right at that moment. But she could only utter three words.

"This is wrong," she whispered – shakily.

But the sensation of his arm slowly dropping to the nape of her neck, the burrowing muscle of his lips into hers, told her that the borders had been lost, the instinct faded away into oblivion.

And as wrong as it feels, she love to know that he was still there, how right it all is to enjoy their last minutes together.

Lol no longer sex scene because I'm tired. Reviews would be very lovely if you got time.