In which your lovely âpersonal helper friendâ knows too much for⊠Well, anyoneâs good.
Alternatively
Verity is a fucking weirdo and I love that
Tags include; 5+1 things, fluff, weirdness, awkwardness, Verity infodumps, uncomfortable behaviors, he/they used on Verity, obsessive behavior, and sorry ball lovers but they have a body
You hadnât given it much thought before, but being friends with someone that had (to your knowledge) infinite knowledge could be kind of creepy. It sounds like a given, but you just didnât realize how bad it could be.
For example, Verity somehow knows your exact measurements without you ever giving them to him. Theyâve never asked, theyâve never tried measuring you themselves, they just got them somehow.
âVerity,â You start, already slightly exasperated, âSeriously, this is like- I-I donât even know how to begin to tell you how weird this is.â
âThatâs because it isnât!â He chirps, âTheyâre just clothes, and theyâreââ
âNo, Verity,â You cut him off, only slightly put off by the glare he throws you for a split second, âHow did you even- How did you get my measurements?â
He giggles your name, not at all bothered by your stern look. He never is.
âI know everything, you know that! I also know that you like the outfit, so Iâm not sure why youâre being so stubborn about it!â
You roll your eyes and open your mouth to argue again, but they cut you off this time.
âAh! And just because I know everything does not mean I cannot be confused every once in a while.â Itâs like they read your mind. Creepy.
They barely give you time to wonder how that would work before they push the clothes into your hands, âGo ahead now, try them on!
Grumbling, you throw the clothes onto the bed and grab Verityâs shoulders, pushing and causing him to stumble backwards out of your room. You stop once heâs fully outside and put a hand on the door, ready to close it. âNever do anything like this again, got it?â
âAye aye captain!â He chirps, putting a hand over his heart, or where you assume his heart is.
At that, you slam the door shut in his face and turn back around to look at the clothes. As much as you would hate to admit it right now, he was right, you do like it. The colors are nice, it all matches, and itâs something you could see yourself wearing on a normal day. You justâŠ
God, you wish he wouldnât be so creepy about it.
He knows so, so much about you, yet he doesnât account for how weird youâd find it that he knew your measurements? Thats just so frustrating. If you didnât know any better, youâd think he did it on purpose.
You begrudgingly put on the outfit and look at yourself in the mirror afterwards. As expected, it fit perfectly and made you feel fantastic. If only you were a little more stubborn, you couldâve pretended to hate it just to get Verity to never do this again.
Letting out a sigh, you approach the door only for it to be opened by Verity instead. Their unsettling smile seems to widen just slightly as they slowly look you up and down, taking in the sight.
âYou- you canât just do that!â You stammer, feeling as though you had just suffered a mini heart attack, âWhat if I was still changing?â
âYou werenât,â They respond, stepping inside, âI heard your footsteps.â
You really donât have it in you to argue with him about how weird that is, so you simply let him do as he pleases, maintaining eye contact as he comes closer and straightens out your shirt.
âI knew youâd make this look goodâŠâ He murmurs, âYou always do.â
Curse his manufacturersâor whoever the hell made himâfor making him so stupidly hard to hate.
You hope to god that people remember you as a saint when you die.
You may be snippy at times and you may make some wrong decisions, but who can blame you with the situation youâre in? You donât know many people that could handle Verityâs constant badgering without snapping.
Currently he is lying on top of you, contorted in a weird cat-like position covering most of your torso. Theyâre very committed to this bit as well, a purr vibrating through their body. It couldâve been cute if it didnât literally feel like having the weight of the world on your chest.
Not even in a cute way, Verity is just heavy as fuck!
âVerity.â You say, pushing on their shoulders. Unfortunately for you, that only seems to make them heavier as they let out an acknowledging hum. âShit-! Verity get off!â
âYou didnât have a problem with this earlier.â He says, acting like that fixes whatever he thinks is bothering you.
âYeah, well, it didnât feel like you were crushing me earlier, so!â
He giggles at that, the sensation feeling weird on top of you. âI couldnât even crush your skull, silly⊠Thatâd take 235 kilogramsâor 520 poundsâof pressure, Iâm not that heavy!â
You donât like that he knows that. You also donât like how he can say it so easily.
âGross.â Is all you say, but they take it as a sign to keep going.
âAt most I might be able to break a few of your bones, but thatâd only be if I were really trying!â You squirm underneath them, uncomfortable with the imagery. âThatâs not crushing, though, so you donât have to worry!â
âQuit!â You say, wiggling until you can finally manage to sit up, pushing him down into your lap. âI donât wanna hear about that!â
Verity sits up, keeping his eyes on you. âIâm sorry, I was just trying to reassure you that you werenât going to get crushed.â
âOh yeah, so you tell me you could break my bones instead?â You scoff, rolling your eyes at him.
âIâm not going to.â He says. Despite the words being so simple, the way he says them makes you pause. He seems so serious, his voice sounding almost foreign when compared to just a second ago.
âUh⊠I was just jokinââ
âDo you really think I would do that?â They ask.
Oh, well, way to ruin whatever vibe you guys had going on. Despite being weirded out by his fun fact, you werenât actually taking it that seriously. Should you have? It didnât seem like such a big deal.
You donât get the chance to think to yourself much more before Verity chuckles, the sound releasing you of the pressure that had snuck onto your shoulders.
âBecause I wouldnât!â They say, reaching over to boop your nose.
You turn around to face the source of the singsongy voice, finding Verity standing there with his arms behind his back, leaning down to be closer to your height.
It is way too early for thisâŠ
âI dunno,â You respond, mustering up a tired smile, âWhatâd you find?â
âDrumroll, please,â They say, standing up to their full height as a very convincing drumroll comes from their open mouth. You count exactly three seconds before they reveal a small journal. âTa-dah!â
You feel the blood rush to your face before you can even say anything, staring dumbly at the journalâyour journalâin his hands.
How did he get his hands on that? You open your mouth to ask, but the words are lost before you can even say them. You couldâve sworn you hid it away! Even you find yourself losing it on occasion!
âI- You- How did you-?â You stumble on your words, trying to find the right ones as a wave of confusion and irritation hits you.
âI know everything, that includes where youâre most likely to hide your things.â They say, waving your journal around like itâs some kind of toy.
With an indignant sputter, you snatch the journal out of their hands, surprising them for a moment. Then, they put their hands behind their back once more, simply looking at you.
âThis- This is private, okay?â You say, gesturing to the book. âDo not read it!â
They let out a small âoh!â before tilting their head to the side, their smile widening as they stare at you with something you hope to god isnât fondness. You canât do this with them right now.
âDonât worry about that!â They say, âI donât need to!â
âYouâ Sorry?â
You had expected more of a fight from him, maybe a small argument. You hadnât expected him to listen just like that. Some part of you was relieved, maybe even proud of him for respecting your boundaries.
âMhm! I already know what you wrote in there anyways!â
Ah. There it is.
âYou know you canât hide things from me, right?â He asks, pinching your cheek like youâre a child. âIâm your friend, so thereâs really no need to try!â
Thatâs the problem! Even if he is your âfriendâ, you still want to have something that is your own, which is proving to be impossible with him constantly taking what is yours.
With a glare, you slap his hand away. You can tell he doesnât like that you did that, but you donât really care what he likes at the moment. You donât even give him the satisfaction of being able to voice his complaints as you make your way to the door.
Sometimes it feels like Verity was only sent to you to piss you off.
Seriously! You donât know what you did to deserve such a punishment, but whatever it was mustâve been horrible if it warrants Verity finding your location.
You didnât exactly need a secret base, but it was something you wanted. Itâs something you think everyone wants. Oh, but not Verity, of course! Never Verity.
Heâs basically hanging off of you as you stand with your arms crossed, pouting like youâve committed the worst crime known to man. To him you probably have. He always gets so pissy when you try to have one thing to yourself.
Whining your name, they try to shake you, wanting a response to whatever they had said while you were busy thinking about how annoying they could be.
âWhat? What do you want, Verity?â You ask, wondering if you could maybe get them to let you have this if you talked.
Your tone doesnât seem to help much, but itâs not like you can hide it! He knows everything, yeah? Then he knows how upset you are.
âWhy do you hate me?â They mumble, sounding so small as they lean into your back.
You groan, hating how dramatic he is. âI donât hate you, Verity, I just-â
âYou wouldnât have a secret base if you didnât.â They argue.
âYeah, well, itâs not very secret anymore, is it?â You bite back sarcastically.
They donât respond to that, instead forcing their head into the crook of your neck. Itâs an uncomfortable feeling; their breath on the back of your neck. It makes the hair on your neck raise.
You open your mouth again, though youâre unsure of what you might say. Maybe youâll ask how he knew where to find you, or maybe itâll be some sort of thinly veiled threat. Either way, a part of you is glad he interrupts you.
âI donât like when you keep things from me.â He mumbles, his voice sounding a tad rougher, as if he were straining himself.
âIâmââ You attempt a rebuttal but you flinch as his hands tighten until they feel like theyâre bruising you.
âI donât like it. I thought you- I thought we were getting closer. I-I thought you were starting to like me!â His voice wavers as his volume rises. âI was going to find out anyways! You couldâve just told me!â
You flinch as his hold grows stronger and stronger, trying to wriggle out of his grip but to no avail.
âWhy donât you like me?! Why do you always- why are you like this?!â
âVerityââ
âAm I not enough? I can be smarter! I can be so much more, I swear! If youâd just-â
âVerity, that hurts!â You finally manage to blurt out. Almost instantly, Verity lets go of you. Itâs like he teleports away from you, his hands up in an attempt to be nonthreatening.
Thereâs silence for a few seconds afterwards, the two of you simply staring at one another. A part of you is livid that they have the gall to look like theyâre the scared one.
Despite having a very simple face, they could be quite expressive. Their eyes are wide and their ever present smile is strained like theyâre nervous. You donât know if youâd rather punch that stupid grin off their face or run off and leave them to grapple with the consequences of their actions alone.
Eventually, the silence is broken by a small giggle and the sound of Verityâs footsteps retreating towards the door.
âWow! Iâll leave you to building our secret base then!â He says, the cheer in his voice so fake it makes you sick.
You canât have shit to yourself, can you?
It feels like everythingâs against you nowadays.
All the villagers youâd normally trade with? Oh, yeah, theyâre gone. Verity? They were getting on your nerves like you were a jungle gym. Do you know how difficult it is to live in a world where you have to travel for literal days to find villages that were actually lived in? Now you do! Itâs really hard!
You were actually preparing for another one of your village runs now, grabbing your armor, some food, and even materials for a bed to ward off phantoms. You really wish there was some easier way to repopulate the villages literally right next to your house but the world doesnât work like that.
âAre you ready, Verity?â You ask over your shoulder as you dig in your chest.
The creature behind you lets out a small hum, one that lets you know they have information and are basically dying to share.
âWe canât go to the village we visited last time.â They say.
You groan dramatically, throwing your head back to really display just how sick and tired you are of this. âLemme guess, something passed through again?â
âSomething hungry.â You both say at the same time, though your voice is much more mocking than his.
âVerity, I seriously canât keep doing this with you.â You say, slamming the chest shut and pushing yourself out of your crouched position.
âDoing what?â They ask.
âThis! This whole vague story you keep repeating about something coming through!â You turn to face him, only mildly surprised by how close heâd gotten when you werenât looking. Itâs a habit of his to gravitate towards you, a habit that is becoming annoying.
They donât respond, only staring at you as their smile turns into a thin line. Itâs unsettling. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
Seeing as they arenât keen on talking yet, you continue on. âFor all that knowledge you claim to have, you really donât wanna share any of it with me, huh? Maybe if you told me what was passing through, I could stop it andââ
âYou canât.â
You let out a crazed chuckle at that, âIâm sorry?â
âYou canât stop it.â He says, his voice deathly serious. âIt is hungry and it will not stop no matter what you try.â
âOh yeah, thatâs real helpful considering you still wonât tell me what it is.â You grumble, pushing past him and heading towards the door.
Verity attempts to follow you but you place a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He looks down at you, waiting for you to say something.
âYou are staying here.â You start to explain, but they suddenly speak up once more.
âWhat? But I always come with you! We- You always bring me along!â They whine.
And theyâre right; you have always brought them along. No matter where you went, you always had Verity somewhere nearby. They keep you company and serve as a guide to find materials you need.
âWell, not this time, Verity.â You say, not giving them an opportunity to even open their mouth before you all but rush out the door.
Youâll be fine! Itâs not like Verity is a necessity or anything. Youâve lived years without him there, so whatâs a few days going to hurt?
Itâs day two of your journey to find a new village and you already feel like you need to collapse.
You hadnât realized how much you depended on Verity for your sanity until you no longer had him. No unfunny jokes, no old tunes, and no conversations. Before you left you really didnât think youâd miss them, but you do.
Add an extreme level of paranoia to the ever growing list of why you may need to see a therapist, actually, because you swear something is staring at you, but every time you turn to look, you see nothing.
Maybe you should just turn back around and go home. You can apologize to Verity and ask him if he knows any other way to get enchantments, youâre sure that he does.
Itâs settled then, youâll go back home.
You turn around with the intention of sprinting home, hoping to cut your trip back in half, but the color of the sky catches your attention before you can commit to that.
The sky is shifting from its baby blue to a pretty mix of oranges and pinks, the moon now visible and rising as the sun sets opposite to it. Itâll likely be dark before you can even build a small hut to stay the night in. Is this the worldâs way of torturing you?
Itâs fine. Itâs whatever. Youâll just think of it as⊠Sleeping under the stars. Thatâs calming, right? Youâve done it before, youâre sure you can do it again.
You set down your crafting table and prepare your bed for the night. You consider smelting some of the ore that seemed to be a permanent fixture in your inventory, but the faster you get to sleep, the faster you get to go home.
Only half of the sun is visible when you place your bed down and it just continues to go down, slowly painting the sky a very dark blue. You reckon itâd be much prettier if you were seeing it from your balcony or window.
You arenât the type to be afraid of the dark and you havenât been since you were little, but that doesnât mean it canât be unsettling. So many monsters wait out in the night, just looking for their next kill. Anyone would be a little cautious when spending the night camping, basically just a sitting duck until morning.
Shaking your head in an attempt to dispel the thoughts, you sit down on the edge of your bed. That seems to be all you can manage though, unfortunately, as you stare off into the dark of the night.
You feel like youâre being watched. You always feel like youâre being watched, but something about this is just wrong. It makes your skin crawl and you just know you canât go to sleep like this.
Standing up once more, you find yourself pacing around your small camp. You donât want to go too far away from your bed, but at the same time you want to ease your mind by proving that thereâs nothing nearby.
You look to the left. Nothing.
You look to the right. Also nothing.
You turn to look behind you, but not before the sound of an arrow flying through the air catches you off guard.
You see it before you actually feel it, shock momentarily nullifying the pain of having an arrow pierce through your arm.
While you were busy pacing around, a skeleton had somehow snuck up behind you. You feel a little stupid for not hearing its bones rattling beforehand, but thereâs no time to think about that as you shakily pull out your sword, silently cursing the skeleton for injuring your dominant arm.
The skeleton couldnât care less about your feelings or readiness, once more shooting at your injured arm.
âShit-!â You gasp, turning to the side and just barely dodging the arrow.
Oh, who are you kidding? Even with a diamond sword, you canât fight this thing! You feel pathetic admitting it, butâ
Monsters donât have the awareness necessary to be patient enough to wait for you to finish thinking. The skeleton shoots once more, nicking your side and causing you to hiss in pain.
Fine! Whatever! Youâll just think in little thoughts!
Your first little thought tells you to book it, so, with little regard for your bed and crafting table, you do just that. You ignore the throbbing pain in your arm, praying that hopefully some adrenaline will kick in and make that tomorrowâs problem.
Another arrow whizzes past you as the skeleton gives chase, falling a little behind you.
Maybe if you just keep running, youâll lose the skeleton. Maybe youâll manage to somehow stumble upon a shortcut and make it home. Thatâd be nice. Unlikely, but nice.
You start heading right instead of simply running straight. Itâs harder to shoot at a moving target, right? So long as youâre careful, the dumb mob shouldnât be able to hit you again. Youâll lose it soon, you know it.
Running in a zig-zag pattern, you hear as the sound of rattling bones gets progressively further behind you. Just a little bit longer of this wild goose chase and youâre in the clear. So long as you donât fall or anything, youâll beâ
You let out a yelp as your ankle rolls at an uncomfortable angle. The joint gives out beneath you at the pain, causing you to crumple to the ground.
Your fall was less than graceful, leaving you with a mouthful of dirt. You didnât even have time to process how gross that was before the skeleton shot once more. You were lucky that it had only hit the ground next to your head.
Well, this is it. This is how you die; miles away from any civilization to a mob youâve fought plenty of times before. It wouldâve been more embarrassing if you werenât terrified at the thought of your death.
Turns out they werenât lying when they said your life would flash before your eyesâimages of Verity pop up as you slam your eyes shut, waiting for the eventual arrow to the heart. Maybe, if you were lucky, it would be a headshot instead, end your suffering quicker.
. . .
That skeleton sure is taking its time. You didnât think they knew how to rub salt in the wound.
After a few more seconds pass with no sign of pain, you open your eyes.
âWhaâ?â You startle backwards when youâre met with Verityâs face right in front of your own, him crouched down in an awkward position to look down at you.
âIs this what happens when you donât have me around?â They ask, voice stupidly chipper for the moment, but you donât find it in yourself to care as you throw your uninjured arm around their shoulders.
He doesnât hesitate to return the hug, letting out a happy hum as he buries his face into your shoulder, though he retreats when you let out a soft âowâ.
âVerity,â You say his name with such awe that it doesnât even sound like you. Youâre so full of gratitude and regret that you donât know if you should be thanking him or apologizing first.
âHow⊠Howâd you get out here?â
The question slips past your lips before you can even think about it. Your brow furrows once it processes, though. It was a good questionâhow did he get out here? You were hours away from the house.
You donât get the chance to overthink it as Verity scoops you up in their arms without warning, giggling to themselves.
âI knew you were gonna get hurt and I didnât want that to happen!â They say, holding you close to them.
âUh⊠How?â Is that the only word you know how to say?
Luckily for you, Verity doesnât seem to mind answering your questions as he begins walking in the direction you were running towards.
âYou know this, sillyâŠâ They say, bouncing with every step, âI know everything.â
âI know what clothes you like, I know silly trivia, I know what you write about, I know your little ideasâŠâ
Oh. Right. Youâre really living up to that nickname, huh? You do feel silly for forgetting that, especially after all theyâve done so far.
âAnd I know weâre gonna have to take that arrow out at some point, just so youâre aware!â
Your gratitude is gone. Youâre filled with hatred for what is to come as you glare up at him, earning you another giggle.
Hai guys! Sorry this took so long I got sucked into Criminal Minds and then got sucked into Spencer Reid x Reader fanfics (theyâre so fire I love my man)
Anyways⊠requests r open⊠if that interests youâŠ.
'When fine shyt said "I'm busy working" so you pull out your most skimpiest outfit, and send her a photo of yourself wearing said outfit in the most whorish and sexiest pose ever just to have her attention on you'
HOT MAMA ITS TIME TO OLAY HSR MORE that slutty waist is asking to be grabbed
summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.
But the night you finally say come inâhe breaks.
Now that heâs inside, heâs never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.
wc: 5.4k
a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333
warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
You've never let him in. Not once.
And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockworkâbarefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.
Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hungerâs rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight heâs feral.
You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.
âYou cruel little thing,â he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.
âYâgonâ make me crawl again, huh? âCause I will. Iâll fuckinââIâll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.â
His jawâs slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.
âLet me in,â he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.
âPlease, IâI cainât stand it no more. I cainât fuckinâ breathe without you. Let me in. Iâll behave. Iâll worship you. IâllâIâll starve if you donât.â
Your just watch him, tilt your glass.
âYou've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?â
He nods, drooling harder, trembling.
âYes maâam. Iâd beg for thirteen more if it meant youâd finally say the word.â
You donât answer him at first.
Just lift your drinkâslow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargicâand watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.
The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva thatâs already puddled beneath him. He doesnât even wipe it away anymore. Doesnât flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer heâll be to what you want.
Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.
Your bare toes flex against the doorframeâpropped up, exposed, painted peachâand his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like heâs fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.
âYou gone quiet, sugar,â he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. âYou planninâ to kill me out here?â
You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.
Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what youâre doing. You always know.
âYou look like shit, Remmick.â
He moansâmoansâlike the insult made him hard.
âIâI know, baby. I know,â he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. âIâd tear out my fuckinâ ribs if it meant youâd give me one more breath. Just one. IâmâIâm so close to beinâ bones out here.â
His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.
But he wonât cross the threshold. Canât.
Not unless you say the word.
You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesnât beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chestâpart growl, part sobâand his head drops forward.
He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.
âYouâre a goddamn sickness,â you whisper, soft and cruel.
âI am, baby,â he breathes. âYou made me sick. Ruined me good, didnât you?â
And oh, how he sounds ruined.
You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like itâs the only one he remembers anymore.
A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of youâhibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it allâand Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like heâs fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.
âLet me in,â he begs again, softer now. âLet me in before I do somethinâ wicked.â
You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.
âYou already are wicked.â
He smiles, wild and ruined.
âYes maâam. And Iâd be worse for you.â
You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.
Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.
But you say nothing.
You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.
And Remmick?
He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasnât meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.
| six months ago |
You didnât move here expecting silence.
You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a waspâs nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.
But not the silence.
Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like itâs trying to time its own.
The houseâyour house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you donât rememberâis old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.
But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.
And the silence? Youâve started to like it.
Until one night, it breaks.
Itâs not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighborâs dog. Itâs slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.
You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. Youâre sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robeâs open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You havenât seen a soul all week.
And thenâ
âEveninâ, darlinâ.â
You look up.
Thereâs a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere youâve never livedâboots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like itâs been carved from heartbreak.
You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.
You donât move. Neither does he.
Heâs handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. Thereâs a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.
In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.
Still, you donât get up. You donât speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.
He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.
âYou look like you could use some company.â
You donât invite him in.
You donât say much at all.
Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like heâs trying to look harmless.
But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.
You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.
First, itâs flowers.
Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.
Then itâs peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.
Then itâs a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.
Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you donât recognize scribbled inside the cover.
Then the sound of hummingâjust past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.
You donât see him again for a week.
And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like heâs been summoned.
You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. Youâre not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.
Ripe.
He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.
âYou ainât said my name yet.â
âI donât know it,â you say.
He smiles like that hurts him.
âYou donât need it,â he says. âYou already own me without it.â
Itâs hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.
The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is aliveâdense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.
And there he is. Again.
You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonightânot all the way, just ajarâand the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.
He doesnât knock.
He never does anymore.
Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But itâs not. You know itâs not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.
You donât speak.
You just watch.
The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You donât. You could invite him inâbut thatâs not the game.
Youâve seen how he suffers.
And you love the way he suffers.
Heâs filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hairâs a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like heâs been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.
When he drops to his knees, itâs not a performance. Not anymore. Thereâs no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.
He whispers something you donât quite catchâyour name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like heâs trying to carve your initials into the floor.
âI dreamed of you again,â he rasps.
His voice is shredded. Used up.
âYou were wearinâ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlinâ and I almost cried.â
You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You donât think he notices, but he does.
His eyes flick to the motion and he moansâsoft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like itâs consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, youâll take pity.
âPlease.â
The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.
âPlease, IâI donât care what you do to me. Donât even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethinâ. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.â
You shift in the doorway.
Then you speakâfinallyâvoice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.
âWhy do you keep coming here?â
He whimpers.
ââCause I cainât not. âCause youâve got me chained up in hereââ He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. ââand I like it. I fuckinâ like it, baby. Ainât that sick?â
You donât respond.
Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.
âYou want to come in?â you murmur.
His breath catches.
Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.
âYes. Yes maâam. Please.â
You tilt your head.
âWhy?â
He blinks. Heâs confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.
âBecause IâI need you. Need whatâs inside. I cainât smell nothinâ else but you. Youâre in my fuckinâ blood, sweetheart, and I ainât never tasted you but itâs killinâ me just knowinâ youâre behind that door.â
He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts outânot quite licking it, but closeâand you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like heâs ashamed of it, like he wasnât supposed to let you see that part of him.
Your stomach flips.
You almost say it. Almost.
But then you pull back.
And he breaks.
He wasnât always like this.
You remember that. You remind yourself of it oftenâbecause it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.
Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like maâam and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, donât you, sugar?
Now?
Heâs a wreck.
On all fours.
Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog thatâs been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.
His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.
You can see the way it splits when he pantsâlike he canât decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.
He looks up at you through his lashes, and itâs not seductive.
Itâs pleading.
Pathetic.
Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. Heâs shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.
You tilt your glass. Take a sip.
He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.
âGod, please,â he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like heâs drunk on the smell of you. âPlease, I canâtâI canât take it no more, baby. Youâre killinâ me. Killinâ me soft and slow and I fuckinâ love it.â
You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.
His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.
âIâll be so good to you,â he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. âYou donâtâyou donât know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayinâ for a dream of your fuckinâ voice.â
You raise an eyebrow. But you donât stop him. And thatâs all the permission he needs.
âIâd eat it for hours,â he blurts, voice breaking. âIâd keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. Iâd fuckinâ cry for the chance, darlinâ. You donât know what Iâd do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.â
He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.
âIâd make it good for you,â he groans. âBetter than anyone. Iâd hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. Iâd tear my fuckinâ throat out if it made you wet.â
You stay silent.
Let him spiral.
Let him beg.
Let him drown in everything youâll never give him.
His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesnât even seem to notice. His hips rock forward onceâpatheticallyâlike heâs rutting against the air just from being this close.
Thenâ
âSay it,â he croaks, wrecked and delirious. âSay the word. Just the once. Just once and Iâll die happy. Iâll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up âtil Iâm nothing but bones and thank you for it. Iâll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.â
You watch him twitch.
You donât speak.
And that silence?
It undoes him.
He presses his face into the porch and sobsâone sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clenchâand you think, maybe next time.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
Itâs late.
Later than you usually sit up for him.
The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. Youâve just bathedâskin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.
The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moonâs a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.
But heâs louder.
Heâs already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkillâon his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.
But when he hears the door creak, he moves.
Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moansâlow and open-mouthed, like heâs just caught your scent for the first time all over again.
âSweetheart,â he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. âSweetheart, IâI dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.â
You say nothing.
He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darkerâsomething old. You donât ask. Heâs trembling.
You step forward.
And he growls.
Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes outâforked, twitchingâand he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.
âYou smell like soap,â he whimpers. âLike youâre clean and warm and wantinâ. You did it on purpose, didnât you? You always do.â
You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.
He chokes.
You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.
And then you whisper it.
Soft. Small.
The word.
âCome in.â
He doesnât believe you at first.
His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.
âWh-what?â he croaks.
âYou heard me,â you say, voice low. âYou can come in.â
And thatâs all it takes.
He lunges.
Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurtsâbut in a way he wants.
He weeps.
On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.
And he wailsâthe sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man whoâs tasted Heaven and is terrified heâll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and youâre seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.
âIâll be so gentle,â he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. âIâll be good. Iâll be sweet, sugar, I swear itâI wonât bite unless you ask. Iâll eat and eat âtil you shake and sob and soak my chin and then Iâll fuckinâ beg for seconds.â
You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.
He sees it.
And loses whatâs left of his composure.
He goes slow at firstâpainfully, reverently slow.
Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.
And you do.
Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:
âSo sweetâso sweet, fuckânever tasted anything like youâplease, let me die hereâlet me drownâlet me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckinâ leash, baby, Iâll be anythingââ
You come on his tongue once, and he doesnât stop.
Doesnât even pause.
Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and heâs been crawling the desert for years.
You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.
âCan I fuck you?â he begs against your cunt. âPlease, can I? Iâll go slow. Iâll go soft. Iâll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? Iâll give you rough. Want it sweet? Iâll make you sob. Iâll bite your throat open and make you scream my name âtil the walls crack.â
He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.
âTell me I can fuck you.â
You nod.
He breaks again.
And thenâ
He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groansâchoked and low and obsceneâwhen the head of it brushes against your entrance.
He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.
âYou sure?â he whispers. Like heâs asking permission to live.
You nod again.
âThen hold on to me, sugar,â he says, voice raw and trembling. âI ain't never cominâ back from this.â
And he pushes inâ
Slow. So slow. Like heâs scared youâll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.
He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.
âFuck,â he whimpers, voice shattered. âYou feel likeâlike you were made for me. IâmâIâm not gonna last. I ainâtâplease donât let go of me.â
You clutch his shoulders.
He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man whoâs finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.
He doesnât move at first.
Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside youâthick, hot, leakingâand for a moment you think he might cry again.
Then he growls.
Low. Deep. Possessive.
And moves.
One slow pull outâalmost all the wayâfollowed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.
âFuck,â he chokes, already shaking. âOh, sugar. Oh, baby, youâyou donât know what youâve done. What you let loose.â
He doesnât wait for permission anymore. Doesnât need it. You gave it the second you said come in.
Now heâs fucking like itâs all he knows how to do.
His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.
Youâre soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like itâs the only prayer youâve got.
âYou wanted me like this, didnât you?â he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. âWanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckinâ am.â
He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.
He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.
âYou feel that?â he whispers against your mouth. âThatâs me in you. Deep as I can go. Youâll feel me for days. Iâll make sure of it.â
And he does.
He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he canât stop. Like if he slows down, heâll die.
You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.
âLet me taste you,â he begs. âLet me drink while Iâm inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.â
You nod.
He doesnât even hesitate.
His mouth opens wide and you feel the biteâsharp, electric, perfectâright where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.
It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.
You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like itâs sacred, like heâs breaking apart inside your body.
You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.
âGonna come,â he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. âGonnaâfuck, sugar, Iâm gonna fill youâgonna mark youâmake you mineâmineâmineââ
And he does.
Hot and thick and endless.
He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into youâclaiming you, over and over, like his body doesnât know how to stop. Like his need has no end.
He finally stills, trembling.
Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like heâs worshipping it.
And thenâ
He kisses the bite.
Soft.
Gentle.
His hands cradle your face like youâre glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.
âYou saved me,â he breathes.
And for once, you donât correct him.
You donât know how long you lie there.
Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The stormâs long gone, but you can still smell the rainâsweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.
You feel it when he finally starts to move.
Just a shift.
The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like heâs reminding himself youâre real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like heâs afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.
You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.
He makes a soundâsmall, shatteredâand curls tighter against you.
âDonât go,â he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. âDonât make me leave. Not after that. IâllâIâll be good. Iâll be so good.â
You donât answer. You donât need to.
Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.
Thereâs blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, rawâbut it doesnât hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.
You glance down.
Heâs watching you.
Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almostâfaint and strange, like heâs lit from within. Thereâs a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesnât wipe it away.
You wonder if heâs ever looked more peaceful.
âYou taste like sunlight,â he murmurs, dream-drunk. âLike nectar. Like the end of the world.â
You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.
âDonât get poetic on me now.â
âI ainât,â he slurs, eyes fluttering. âJust honest.â
He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like heâs still trying to memorize it. His hands roamâslow, aimless, like he doesnât know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.
âI ainât lettinâ you go,â he mumbles. âNot after this. You said it. You let me in.â
You nod. You did.
And you meant it.
He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.
âIâll be good,â he repeats, softer now. âYou just tell me what to do, and Iâll do it. You want a house? Iâll build it. You want blood? Iâll bring you the whole fuckinâ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as Iâm yours.â
âYouâre mine,â you whisper.
And he moans.
Like the words filled him with something heâs never had in thirteen centuries.
You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you donât move.
Neither does he.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You know because the grip he has on you loosensâbut only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.
And you?
You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.
The blood on your neck has dried.
The slick between your thighs has cooled.
But his body stays warm against you.
And outside, the sky hasnât yet begun to lighten.
No birds. No blue.
Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.
Because he canât survive the sun.
And tonight, for once, you donât want the morning to come either.
using naoya while he's drunk and submissive
unfortunately heâs fine, it canât be helped
since you were born, you had been promised to be sold off the zen'in clan, to marry one of the many male counterparts, and the one who you were married off to was jinichi zen'in. he's about 20 years older than you, which is blah. but he's never home, out on missions, or doing god knows what.
so you spend your days and nights dilly-dallying around with your personal servant. she kept you company for the most part. on this particular night, it was the start of many nights for you .. and him.
you quickly shoo the servant away as you watch the most disgusting of them all stumble towards you from the end of the hall. dragging himself on the traditional japanese walls, clearly drunk. he slowly but surely found himself to you mumbling something under his breathâdropping to his knees, he looked up at you with glossy eyes. he clung to your kimono, still spilling drunken slurs, letting little 'pleases' slip.
with pure disgust, you hissed, "what the fuck are you doing?" he winced at your words, snuggling closer to your legs. with his slurred speech, he finally spoke, âtell me .. tell me iâm good please..â like instinct, you kick him off, and almost immediately, he came crawling back. the heat of his face burning through your clothesâburying and whining into your thigh, sliding his hands up your kimono, gripping onto your skin for more security.
you flinch at his nails digging into your thighs, making you grab a fist full of his dirty blonde hair. the grip made him squirm a little, his whines grew louder at the painâthe whines started bouncing off the walls of the halls, making you nervous that anyone could find you and him like this.
naoya lets out a nasty groan as the grip on his hair was suddenly strongerâit was like the world was spinning around him as he tried to steady his uncoordinated steps. throwing him into a small roomâwith the alcohol in his system, he still couldnât catch his step, and with your throw, he ended up with his back slamming into the wall, making him âackâ.
sliding the door shut, you turn around to find him looking at you like a lost puppy. âgod, you make me sick.â letting out a soft whine, his feelings hurt at your harsh words, âplease .. please donât say that, y-you donât mean it..â you scoff, âoh yes i do.â
you continue to watch him as he squirmed at your words, and then you noticed his raging bonerâthe lighting was dim so you didnât notice at first, his breath hitched as you came to notice his obvious stiffnessâhe tried to cover it up, but it was too late.
covering his boner, he droops his head to avoid your gaze. he peeks up as he felt your footsteps come closer to himâhe bit his lip as you kick his hands away and then pushing his legs open. slowly putting pressure on him, a soft whimper escaped from his lips. grabbing onto your legsâhe bucks against it, chasing more friction. ugh.
taking your foot off, you wave him up. âget up.â and as obedient as a dog, he stood up, stumbling back just a little, looking at you for the next command. leaning against the wall, you motion him on the groundâand again without hesitation he complied, âcrawl to me.â he moved with grace as you made his way towards youâstopping at your feet, he looked at you with those puppy eyes.
taking off your panties, you throw it at his faceâas they fell to the ground, the wetness leaving a trail. lifting your kimono, you put your leg on his shoulder, his face leaned into your inner thigh, still looking up at you. âever eat pussy before? or are you too high and mighty for that?â he answered with his eyes darting away from you, âyes, yes i have.â
âwell, letâs put the mouth to use then.â dropping the rest of the length of the kimono over him, you feel his body heat fill up the space. his large hands gripped at your ass for stabilityâhis wet lips kissed and teased at the spot where he once lay his head. he placed kisses on your clit, rotating between sucking and licking.
the room was filled with the soft noises from naoya, and your wetness as he continued to eat. his tongue worked slow, deliberate circles before flattening into youâhis breath hitching as he vibrated a ragged moan into you. his hips jerked into the air, the friction from his straining cock against his pants making him moan a broken sound into you.
with trembling hands, he muttered against you, âplease-tell me iâm good .. tell me-ah-plea-â the rest of his words dissolved into a muffled moan as his hips jerked again. lifting your dress back upâcrushing him with your thighs you hissed, âdid i say you could rut into the air like a dog?â his cock twitch at your wordsâa soft whine slips out, you watched as he shook his head ânoâ. âdidnât think so.â releasing him from the thigh hold, you caressed his lips, smearing your juices across his cheek. âget back to work.â
ây-yes .. fuck, yes, maâam.â as the dress surrounded him again, his tongue continued to drag flat and firm against your clit, before sealing his lips tight around it.
the sloppier his mouth work, the closer you were, and he knew that. naoya's body jerked as you pushed him in deeper, holding him in place as he moved in frantic, desperate circles. âfuck, fuck, fuck.â
then all movements stoppedâhe withdrew from under your dress, his face covered and glistening in your slick, looking at the wet floor, then up at youâdrenched from your squirt.
rubbing his face against you again, âiâm glad i could please you.
It's cute, you think, how Dan Heng has refused to go to sleep without you cradled to his chest ever since returning from Amphoreus.
Though he hasn't outright said it, it doesn't take a genius to realise. Not with the way he scuttles into your room on nights where you've fallen asleep there instead of the archives.
He's bigger now as well, taller, broader, warmer when he curls around you. His tail has practically made a home for itself around your waist and thigh.
One thing that hasn't changed, however, is the way his sleeping form tends to gently rut against you once he's got you pinned. That and his soft groans against the back of your neck always had your heart flutter.
But the feel of not one but two bulges rubbing against your rear? Now that was enough to have your face heat and your body squirming.
You gasped at the realisation that wetness was slowly seeping into the fabric of your cotton shorts.
đđđđđ. uses his Lovely Assistaff like an extension of himself. That much should be obvious though, right? But you don't understand just how much it's woven into his every action until you're completely, hoplessly, in love with each other.
He likes to use it to keep you close.
If you're just out of reach, just a fingertip out of his reach, he's sliding the curve around your waist and tugging you back close to him.
When he wants your attention, he'll push the end of the handle against your lower back. Itâs more effective than just calling your name, he says.
He also likes to use it to protect you.
When he senses danger, he'll throw the staff across your middle, the same way he would with his arm to protect you from harm.
And whenever he needs to reach out for you in battle, he'll swing Lovely Assistaff out for you to grab before his hand.
But he also likes to use it when he thinks heâs being slick.
Lovely Assistaff is his shield. But...not really. He tries to cover both your faces whenever he leans in for a kiss...but it's still a staff. The others can still see you clear as day.
Prompt: Everyone at the SDN knows one universal truth: Sonarâs brain stops working the moment boobs enter the equation. Put him between a pair and he becomes a drooling, touch-starved mess.
Pairing(s): Victor (Sonar) x Reader
Warnings: NSFW, smut, boobs, boob jobs, cum marking
A/N: so um đđŒđđŒ the other sonar fic is taking particularly long soooo here's my treat for not finishing that yet đ
You are a menace. Truly.
Sonar was supposed to be on call, Robert having continuously pinged him through comms, yet he wouldn't answer. Couldn't, really.
Heâd told him he was âbusy.â
And he wasnât lying.
He was just busy doing something Robert absolutely did not need to know about.
A rough, desperate moan escaped him, smothered somewhere between your breasts. His breath was hot against your skin, his nose dragging along the swell as he buried himself deeper, like he was trying to suffocate on purpose. Goosebumps prickled up your arms, your teeth sinking into your lip as you watched him cling to you like an addict finally getting a fix.
All it took was one message.
âGot a surprise for you.â
And then the photo: the edge of a black lace bra hugging the perfect curve of your chest, just enough of a tease to fry every neuron in his stupid bat brain.
Genius Boy saw one glimpse of cleavage and came running like you rang the dinner bell.
At least you kept your word.
Small mercies.
âSonarâŠâ you giggled breathlessly.
He peeked up at you, white eyes glazed. âFeels goodâŠâ he mumbled, almost slurring. âYouâre so pretty.â Then, softer, like he was asking for oxygen, âCan I⊠can I lick âem?â
You giggled again, nodding before he even finished.
He dove back in immediately.
His tongue slid over your skin, slow and hungry. A groan rumbled through him, the vibration buzzing against your chest as he rubbed his face all over you, snout dragging over the lace. The texture made him shudder, fur brushing the fabric in a way that had him practically whining.
His hands gripped your waist tighter, like he thought youâd vanish if he didnât anchor himself. His breath came hot against your skin, every exhale sounding like a man seeing god for the first time.
âFuckâŠâ he muttered under his breath, licking harder, âyou smell so goodâŠâ
You were already panting, chest rising and falling under the onslaught of his obsession. One hand slid into the fur at the back of his neck, stroking once before you curled your fingers and pulled him back just enough to make him whimper.
His white eyes flicked up at you, pleading, then froze when he saw what you were doing.
A slow, wicked grin tugged at your lips.
You lifted a hand, hooked a finger beneath the center of your bra, and yanked it down in one sharp motion. Your breasts spilled free, nipples hardening instantly in the cool air.
Sonarâs whole body jolted.
His eyes practically turned into cartoon hearts.
He didnât even try to play it coolâhe lunged, latching onto one nipple with a desperate, needy groan, tongue swirling around it like heâd been starved for weeks.
âThank you⊠thank youâŠâ he whined against your skin, voice muffled and pathetic in the best way.
He switched sides without warning, burying his face in your other breast with an eager, breathless sound. He mouthed at it like he worshipped it, each lap more frantic than the last, hands squeezing the sides of your chest like he couldnât get enough.
You're pretty sure he wouldâve cried if you pulled him off again.
You were barely managing to breathe with the way he worshiped your chest, mouth buried between your breasts like he was trying to ascend to a higher plane. One hand braced against a metal shelf behind you, the other slid into the fur at the back of his neck, tugging just enough to keep yourself steady while he left dark, messy hickies across every inch of exposed skin.
He didnât even realize he was doing it.
His hips kept jerking forward helplessly, rutting against your thigh like he didnât have a choice, straining hard beneath his uniform pants.
Your breath hitched, the cramped supply closet feeling ten degrees hotter.
Finally, you tugged on his hairâgentle but firm.
He whined at the interruption, giving your nipple one last desperate lick before lifting his head. His eyes were glazed, lips swollen, chest heaving. He looked like heâd die if you told him to stop.
Perfect.
You leaned down, voice low and sinful.
âWanna fuck my tits?â
He froze.
Then nodded so fast you genuinely worried about whiplash.
Your grin turned wicked. You slid off the overturned storage crate youâd been half-sitting on and sank to your knees on the dusty floor, the cleaning supply smell completely overwhelmed by the scent of him.
You reached up, fingers closing on the buckle of his belt. The metallic clink echoed obscenely loud in the tiny closet. You tugged it open, unzipping him slowly, deliberately, watching him fall apart before youâd even touched him properly.
He was already panting like you were suffocating him with nothing but possibility.
Your hand curled around him, easing his length free from his pants with a care that made him shudder. He was already painfully hard and the moment your fingers wrapped around him, his breath stuttered like heâd forgotten how lungs worked.
You stroked him once.
Twice.
Slow, deliberate, watching the way his hips jerked helplessly into your palm.
Then you leaned in and dragged your tongue in one long, unhurried stripe up the length of him.
Sonar choked on a moan, biting down on the back of his hand to keep himself from yelping loud enough to alert the whole floor.
You didnât give him a break. You took him into your mouth, bobbing your head just enough to make him whine, making his knees tremble under your hands. His nails scraped the wall behind him, desperately trying to anchor himself.
When you pulled off, saliva clung to him in messy, obscene strings. You didnât wipe them away, simply letting them shine.
Then, with a slow, teasing confidence, you wrapped your hands around your breasts and pressed them together, sliding him between the soft heat of them. He let out a sound youâre pretty sure wouldâve gotten the two of you kicked off the premises.
You leaned forward, tongue flicking across the tip to lap up the bead of precum gathering there, tasting him, savoring the barely-controlled tremor that ran through his whole damn body.
Then you looked up at himâeyes half-lidded, breath warm against his skinâand gave him the slightest nod.
A green light.
He cursedâlong, low, and brokenâbefore grabbing for purchase, his fingers scraping the wall beside your head like he needed something, anything, to ground himself.
Then he finally started thrusting.
Slow at first, like he was testing the feel of you. Testing the squeeze of your breasts around him. Testing the way his length slid between your soft skin, the press of your cleavage enveloping him so tightly he let out a strangled whimper.
And then the testing phase ended.
He jerked forward, hips snapping harder, faster, like he couldnât stop himself once the sensation hit him full-force. His breath stuttered into little gasps, his white eyes fluttering halfway shut as he lost his rhythm, finding it again, losing it again, completely at your mercy.
âFâfuckâŠâ he choked, voice cracked and nearly silent as if speaking at full volume might make him fall apart.
You pressed your hands tighter, squeezing your breasts around him just a little more, and he full-body shuddered. His thighs trembled. His grip on the wall slipped.
Then you raised your chest the slightest bitâlifting him, guiding himâand stuck your tongue out, letting it graze his tip every time it peeked out between your cleavage.
Thatâs when he really came undone.
A sharp, helpless noise ripped out of him, somewhere between a gasp and a whine. His hips stuttered like he forgot how to move entirely, then thrust forward again in a desperate, jerky motion.
He didnât care how messy he sounded or looked. His mouth hung open, his breathing ragged as he tried to hold himself back and failed spectacularly.
âW-wait⊠waitââ he stammered, voice too thin and wrecked. He was trembling from head to toe. âI⊠Iâm close⊠too closeââ
You didnât even let him finish.
âItâs okay,â you whispered, soft and devastating. âI want you to. Cum all over them.â
His whole body answered before he didâhips pushing forward in a shaky, involuntary thrust, chest arching as though the words alone short-circuited his brain.
âAhââ
A guttural sound tore out of him.
âThatâ donât say it likeâ I canâtââ
His tip nudged forward again, poking out between your breasts, twitching violently before spilling.
It wasnât a quick release, it was long, messy, and overwhelmingâspurts coating your chest, striping across your cleavage, dripping between your breasts until the warmth of him spread down your skin in slow, languid trails.
Sonarâs knees buckled so hard he had to brace himself with both hands on the wall, forehead dropping down toward you as he groaned through the thickness of it, riding each pulse with small, helpless thrusts.
By the time the last shudder worked through him, he was panting openly, chest heaving, mouth slack with the dazed satisfaction of someone whose entire nervous system just short-circuited.
Even then, his hips gave a tiny, instinctive pushâgreedy and unashamedâpressing himself between your breasts one last time like he needed the contact or heâd collapse.
He just stood there, flushed and trembling, staring down at the mess he left on you like he wanted to worship it. Like he wanted to drop to his knees and lick every drop off your skin.
âWhatâs your fav ship?-â âWhoâs your fav rare-pair?ââ
You think I come on here to see another man be blessed with a bountiful amount of hoes?? NAW TWIN. I arrive at the devils sacrament to collect concubines like a corrupt emperor.
This is MY harem and these are MY bitches, and if anyoneâs doing the bending itâs ME đŁïžđŁïžđŁïžđŁïž
"It wouldn't be right for me to enter in a lady's quarters"
You look to Varka with your head tilted to the side, a small pout playing into a frown as you hum.
"Its really okay. I've had Flins in here last night"
Varka's eyebrows shoot upwards,
"Flins...? You mean, the lightkeeper? He... stayed the night?"
You nod, "yes, of course. He slept on the table over there"
Varka looks over to the smaller table where you kept most of your luggage. He looks a little confused for a moment before he sighs, "ah, I see. I forgot you were aware of his... true nature. I assume he turned into a lamp"
You nod quickly with a smile, "yes, he doesnt sleep much, but when he does, he turns into one. Its very interesting"
Varka hums along in agreement before biting onto his bottom lip.
"Even still..." he starts, his eyes on yours, his stare is a little hot, "you shouldn't invite him over again. You're a lady, its not proper."
You smile softly and shake your head, "that I am, but I care little for those nonsense rules."
"They're not nonsense" he huffs, "you should take better care of yourself"
"Are you worried for me, sir Varka?"
Varka blushes at the way you've addressed him, your teasing tone has seemed to do a number on the elder man who groans softly.
"Of course i am" he hushes, "You're impossible sometimes"
"So is that a yes? You'll join me in my room?" Your eyes sparkle as you smile from ear to ear, looking at the man who frowns at you.
"Its a no." He states blandly before tugging onto your waist, pulling you in so you bump into his chest. Your heart pounds as you feel your bodies collide.
"But-" you look up to his eyes, they're stern, yet you notice them wavering as he leans in. His breath hitches, just as yours does,
"Behave" he mumbles into your lips before he lightly nudges your nose with his.
"You're no fun" you huff, your palms on his chest to push away at him, but he holds onto them instead.
You gulp a little when you feel him take a hold of your palms, only to place them near his lips.
Its your turn to fluster when Varka leaves a soft, tender kiss on your knuckles. His eyes, never leaving yours till hes leant back into your ear, whispering,
"Be good and I may just pay you a friendly visit. No more visitors till then, even if they transform into an inanimate object"
So bad that even if you two are already in a relationship he still looks at you like he never got to touch you for years.
Like he didn't had his hands on your waist, kissed you senseless when he arrived home, or that he didn't just made you scream his name an hour ago.
Seeing you just standing there in his shirt doing your skin care routine makes want to kiss you, bad.
"I want you"
He didn't even think twice.
"... We just did it an hour ago"
"No, no, not like thatâ I mean yes like that but not right now... I just... You look so gorgeous I want you" You turn around to look at him, face mask on and a frog headband pushing your hair out of your face, resisting the urge to visibly react to not ruin your hard work and started to communicate with your eyes.
"Yes, even like that" Came his answer. He wants you so bad that he didn't even need words to communicate with you.
"Phai, I love you"
"I love you too"
note: very short and random because I'm bored and procrastinating. Not proofread will most likely edit it for grammar sake but I do hope you still enjoy reading it.
soft teasing first time sex is a NEED rn. he knows exactly what heâs doing, knows how to get you almost to your breaking point but then calming you down so the funâs not over just yet. he would love to watch you get closer to your orgasm for the first time but idk if he wants it to be from his fingers or dick đ€ IDK BUT i do know he loves how your legs shake and your words become jumbled up gibberish. your hands are just trying to push him away because itâs to much but heâs stronger so he dosent budge! making teasing remarks as he gets faster and rougher with his actions. then when you finally cum heâs helping you ride it out, slow yet calculated movements till your pushing him away from sensitivity.
I JUST MEED HIM SO BAD like this is the first time iâm craving him in all my years of play twst đ
When the Demon King strolls into your apothecary to collect his debt â your literal soul â you do what any reasonable witch would do: you poison him. Problem is, youâve only just inherited the family business, and potion-making isnât exactly your strong suit. So instead of killing him, you accidentally erase his memory.
Now the once-mighty ruler of hell is nothing more than a giant, terrifyingly pretty, clingy baby, who knows nothing other than youâre his master and your word is the law.
Well.
Whatâs a girl to do but teach the Demon King how to be a good boy?
demon king!sukuna x witch!reader
warnings: 18+ (will have some dark themes and smut), fantasy au, true form!sukuna, f!reader, some violence, dark themes, dubcon, power imbalance, unethical behaviour, specific chapter warnings will be available at the beginning of relevant chapters, uploads might be irregular and sporadic but I'm aiming to do it every Friday, maybe more often, details on this masterlist (including chapter names and layout) are subject to change
If you'd like to be added to the taglist, you must be 18+ and have your age visible on your blog.
RULE I No collecting souls (especially not mine)
RULE II No going to bed dirty (and don't expect me to clean down there)
RULE III No calling me master (in front of the customers, at least)
RULE IV No saying Hell in front of him (he might remember)
