Little Miss Muffet

Disclaimer: Neither Nyssa nor Whistler belong to me. Neither do any of the other Blade II characters. They are used w/out permission and I am not making money from this.

Summary: My answer to ghost-orchid’s Blade II challenge, which seems to have gotten lost during the changeover. It’s set in the canon universe, between Blade’s speech after the Reaper autopsy and Whistler finding Scud looking for phosphor rods. Since Nyssa pretty clearly has a daddy fixation, I think it’s somewhat logical. I wrote this because a friend of mine heard about it and was completely shocked and disgusted by the very idea, so of course I had to do it. WARNING: if younger woman/older man squicks you, don’t read.

Little Miss Muffet

Chapter 1–Before

Nyssa Damaskinos assured herself that it had been simple curiosity that brought her to the warehouse in Moscow that night to look at him. Even in her own ears that didn’t ring true, but she had no intention of wasting more thought on this until she saw him: Whistler, the vampire hunter turned vampire, now a captive of her father. After sunset they intended to move him to the safe house in Romania because the Daywalker was too close, cutting a swath of destruction through the city in search of the man he considered his father. Whistler was part of some secret plan her own father had conceived but had refused to share with her. All she could do was wait and wonder. But the sight of him, bound and helpless, had caused a stab of pity in her, and she had looked at the guards with hard eyes. “Get out. Now.”

One of them tried to protest. “But your father–”

“I speak for my father,” she told him sharply. “Besides, what do you think he’s going to do to me? Kill me with his eyes? I simply want to question him in private. There are things my father trusts only me to do.”

The guard backed down quickly, and all of them left, the heavy steel door locking behind them. The only way she could get out now was by telling them via the intercom that she wanted out. And she would, when she was ready to go. It had been a lie, what she told the guard. The Overlord had sent her along to supervise Whistler’s transfer to the safe house in Bucharest, but he had not instructed her to question him. Curiosity, she assured herself, simply curiosity that made her move closer to the table to look at him.

When her father had begun organizing the Bloodpack, she had done extensive research for him on both Blade and Whistler. Nyssa knew everything there was to know about Abraham Whistler’s life, his dead family, his single-minded quest to wipe out her race, his secret daughter whom he had trained to take his place if anything should happen to him. In fact, she suspected that even Blade didn’t know about Abigail and the Nightstalkers, which amused her. Although she had never said anything about it, Whistler fascinated her. Men her own age had never held much attraction for her, but somehow this man, this obsessed man who essentially had molded the Daywalker from a street kid named Eric who’d attacked him one day, affected her on an deeper level. Maybe it was the power he exerted over the deadliest enemy the vampires had ever known that she found an aphrodisiac, but one night she’d actually found herself thinking about him while she got herself off, and it had been the best orgasm of her life. Now her fantasy life centered almost exclusively on him. Nyssa built elaborate scenarios in her head that all ended with fucking him, and it had started to worry her, the depth of her interest in a man who was clearly her enemy. Her father showed little interest in anything except the Daywalker’s background, which offended her a little. If not for Whistler, there would be no Daywalker, but she kept these thoughts to herself. Why did he persist in treating her like a child?

The old man on the table groaned, drawing her attention back to him. The truth of it now, she told herself. She was here to break his hold, end her obsession with him. He had been just a man; now he was just a vampire, and a starving one from the looks of him. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open to breathe, the points of his fangs visible. Hunger had left him thin–she didn’t even have to strain to count his ribs. The steel bracelets around his wrists had abraded the skin, as the ones on his ankles probably had too, but the cuffs of the loose black pants he wore covered those. His beard was longer than she’d seen it in any pictures of him and his hair was longer, matted. Nobody bothered to brush it, she supposed. Don’t waste your pity, Nyssa, she almost heard her father saying. He’d slaughter you in a heartbeat. He lives to kill our kind. But even that didn’t stop her from moving closer and resting the back of her hand against his cheek, feeling the rough-silk brush of beard and the smooth coolness of his skin. At her touch his eyes snapped open and he hissed, struggling against the restraints.

“Ssh. You have to calm down, Whistler. I’m not here to hurt you,” she reassured him, but none of her words seemed to reach him. Unconsciously her hand moved over his face, stroking gently, trying to reach him with physical comfort. It did as much good as her words. Had he gone insane with captivity and torture? Then she realized–it was the thirst. They suspended him in a vat of blood to heal after torture, but had he ever really fed as a vampire? Suspension did only so much when it came to preserving their sanity. Nyssa knew it wasn’t pity alone that caused her to unfasten the gold battle torc around her neck and drop it to the floor before she moved to the head of the table and leaned over him. With one hand she swept her hair out of the way, exposing her neck. She felt him become still, imagined the stark need in his face. “Feed,” she whispered as she leaned down to him, her jugular temptingly over his mouth.

He struck hard, piercing her flesh with his fangs and sucking. Weakness flooded her limbs, and then–oh sweet God–the pleasure of it. She hadn’t expected the intensity of that, even though among their own kind most vampires combined feeding with sex. Nyssa had some experience with sex, but none of the pureblood men her own age who had been her lovers had affected her like this. A tiny mewling noise came out of her as Whistler kept feeding. Good, so good she thought her legs would collapse under her. “Don’t stop,” she groaned, knowing he wouldn’t. Even though he must have been ravenous with hunger, he took her blood slowly where another man would have gorged, rolling the fluid on his tongue like fine wine before swallowing and taking another sip. She gripped the edges of the table tightly, determined not to collapse. It was going to drive her insane, his lack of haste and the blossoming heat in her. Call it what it is, she told herself. Lust. The old man’s making you want him. It made perfect sense to her aching body. Her head tipped to the side, giving him easier access, and he made a sound of satisfaction that went straight to her groin and broke her self-control.

Barely aware of what she was doing, she found herself crawling on top of the table to press her body against his. Desperate to feel his skin, she pushed her black tank top up until it bunched above her breasts and began rubbing herself on his bare chest, her nipples diamond-hard. It felt so wonderful to touch him that way. He made a half-growl against her throat that made her shiver with desire. The pleasure of the feeding itself wouldn’t get her off, she knew, since it was a survival mechanism to keep prey from escaping and an orgasm would effectively free them, but she needed to come. Why hadn’t she foreseen this when she made her gesture of generosity, of pity? Or had letting him feed been an excuse to do this, to feel every inch of him against her, including the hardness in his pants that pressed against her? She knew the truth. This was what she’d wanted for months. Right now she didn’t care if he drained her completely–she wouldn’t die of it, after all–just as long as he fucked her. Nothing mattered, not her father, not the Daywalker, not some secret plan, nothing except the demanding burn between her legs and, apparently, between his as well. Briefly she wondered how long it had been since he’d had a woman. In her research she’d found no significant female connections except to his dead wife. If she looked at it a certain way, he needed this more than she did.

Giving in to her growing desperation, she pushed her hand between them and slid it down the length of his chest and stomach to the waist of his drawstring pants. Nyssa managed to shove them down past his thighs and bring her hand back up to wrap around his hardened cock. Whistler moaned as she massaged him. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she murmured as she used her other hand to unbutton and unzip her own jeans. Thank God she’d worn shoes she could simply kick off, and the jeans slid off her legs, catching her panties in the process, so that she was naked from the waist down now. “I have to do this, I’m dying for it. I’ve got to have you inside me. I need it so damn much. I’m so sorry.”

Nyssa settled herself on top of him so that she straddled him, still stretched out low enough so his fangs remained deep in her neck, the sheer ecstasy of it pumping through her as her slow draining continued and she rubbed her softness against his cock. Wet, she was so wet that if she’d been standing her juices would have run down her legs. In some cut-off part of her mind this fact amazed her. She’d always assumed she didn’t like sex. The Damaskinos ice princess melting for the Daywalker’s adoptive father. Wouldn’t that be a scandal. But thinking required too much blood in the brain, and hers was definitely elsewhere. Grasping him, gasping with need, she guided him until she felt the tip of his hard-on at the lips of her pussy, then took him inside. She cried out harshly at the sensation of his flesh filling her, stretching her.

That was enough to make him gasp, and his fangs began to slide out of her. “No,” she cried. “Please don’t stop. We both need it. You won’t kill me, I promise.” He made some noise she couldn’t identify, then his fangs went back in and she sighed with relief as the ebbing pleasure crested again.

Since he was chained to the table, all the work was up to her. Her hips moved, sliding up and down on him while rubbing her clit against his pelvis. Whether it was the lust or blood loss that made her dizzy now didn’t mean a damn thing. The empty room filled with their gasps and moans and cries as their flesh locked together. “Fuck me,” she gasped. “Oh, God, I love it. Whistler. More.” Chains rattled as he jerked against them, tried to move his arms, but he couldn’t do it. Did he want to touch her, hold her? No, couldn’t be. Nyssa doubted if he retained enough of his sanity to even remember this tomorrow. It comforted her a bit that her loss of control would stay private. It also excited her. Even he himself wouldn’t know.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as she felt the first exquisite tremors of orgasm. “Whistler. God. God!” Then it hit her and she sank her fangs into her own wrist, tasting her blood and realizing he had the same taste in his mouth that instant. The waves of pleasure broke over her again and again, and she didn’t dare take her fangs out of her arm for fear she’d bite him. He didn’t have nearly the strength to withstand her feeding, plus the guards would have no doubt whatsoever what had happened. Then his hips bucked up into her and he howled against her throat with his own climax, spilling his come inside her in hot spurts. Nyssa thought she’d never been so satisfied in her life. Through a haze of pleasure she felt his fangs slide out of her body, along with his cock. Lifting her head enough to look at his face, she smiled a little at his look of bliss. His eyes closed and his head sank back onto the table. Only her vampire hearing gave her the first words he ever spoke to her before he slept. Or lost consciousness–she was never sure which.

“Good,” he muttered. “So good, baby girl.”