sypnosis : you were supposed to die for a crime you didn’t commit. instead, you’re pinned beneath the very sin they accused you of—blood on your thighs, your name on his lips, and no god listening.
a/n : i applaud writers who can make headers for all of their one-shots 😭 i scrapped like four and just gave up. i would like to thank some fellow freaks from the server for hyping me up to write this <3
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mind the tags, y’all !! never thought i would ever have to use ‘dead dove: do not eat’ but here we are …
warnings (mdni !! 18+) : dub-con (coercive undertones/reader ‘owes’ a debt), dead dove: do not eat, period-typical misogyny, monsterfucking (fully vamped out remmick), power imbalance, predator/prey dynamic, rough sex (reader does bleed), virginity taking, unprotected sex (p in v), gore (descriptions of slaughter of townspeople), religious trauma/witch trial themes, sacred defilement, pain/pleasure overlap, mild degradation, marking (biting, bruising, bleeding), body worship/cock worship, breeding kink/creamipie, overstimulation, fluid exchange (drool, blood, cum), primal/feral behavior, biting (vampiric feeding), drool/spit, oral (f!receiving), fingering with claws (f!receiving), almost execution (reader is almost hanged), who let me write this ??
It had been only a night ago when he first appeared—his voice low and trembling, asking for help.
Your family had long since gone to bed, their snores drifting like uneasy hymns through the cracked windowpanes. The house was still, but you weren’t. You sat outside on the front porch, shame curling in your chest like smoke from a smothered flame.
You knew the hour was wrong, that a woman had no business sitting out alone in the dark—least of all you, unwed for only a few more hours. The town would call it wanton. Your father would call it foolish. Your minister would call it sin.
And still… you could not bring yourself to sleep. Not with the knowledge that come morning, you would be passed from one man’s house to another’s. From your father’s word to your husband’s rule. Like a parcel. Like livestock.
So you sat there, clutching your shawl, listening to the night whisper things no one dared say aloud. The air was cool, damp with mist and the scent of turned soil. Your heart beat fast despite the stillness. A flickering candle burned beside you, its light throwing trembling shadows across the wood.
Dawn had just begun to break—a faint silver line easing its way across the sky—when you heard it.
Panting.
Loud and ragged.
Footsteps pounding fast across the dirt road.
You stood without thinking, fear crawling up your spine. And then you saw him.
He stumbled into view, half-collapsing near the porch steps. His shirt was torn and stained dark with dried blood, clinging to a body marked with bruises and claw-like gashes. His hair was tangled, and his eyes—wide, wild—flashed with something not quite human.
You didn’t know who he was.
You should’ve screamed.
You should’ve run back inside, locked the door, and prayed like a good daughter would.
But you didn’t.
Because there was something in his face that stopped you cold—something wounded, something pleading. And maybe… something familiar.
And in Salem, when anything unfamiliar came crawling out of the woods—wounded, bloodied, alive—you were supposed to name it devil.
But you didn’t.
Not yet.
He didn’t ask. He just moved.
One foot stepped onto the porch, the wood groaning under his weight, and you instinctively stepped back—putting distance between you and the stranger, even as your body stayed rooted to the spot.
Then came his voice—quiet, but edged with urgency.
“Please,” he said. “They almost got me before. Don’t let them hurt me no more.”
He practically begged, his voice cracked and trembling with something raw, and unfortunately… you felt it. That tug. That foolish, dangerous ache in your chest called pity.
You weren’t supposed to feel sorry for strangers. Especially not ones who came crawling from the edge of the woods with blood on their shirts and no god on their tongue.
But you did.
He didn’t give you specifics—didn’t say who had chased him or why. And perhaps it was better that way. Easier not to ask questions when you knew the answers might brand you guilty by association. Aiding a fugitive could get you hanged. Or worse—called a witch.
Still, you led him around the side of the house, past the trellis and the roots of the old pine, toward the small shed where your father kept his tools. The sun was beginning to stretch across the land, weak morning rays slipping over the fields—but he avoided them. You noticed the way he moved, trailing you with silent, frantic steps, almost like he was chasing you—not to catch, but to escape with you. From the light.
He entered the shed without hesitation, crouching in the corner like an animal that had known too many lashes.
You left the door cracked—just enough. And before you turned to go, you looked at him once more. Bruised. Silent. Eyes that glowed faint in the dim light.
“I’ll come back,” you said softly. “Later. To see if you’re alright.”
And then you left.
Just like that.
You didn’t see the way his eyes followed the curve of your back as you walked away. You didn’t see how his fingers twitched—like claws longing for flesh. You didn’t see the hunger bloom across his face, dark and ancient.
Because while you offered him mercy,
he had looked at you like he wanted to tear you open and feast on the warmth inside you.
That same day, you were wed to Marcus.
He was older and already a man of means. He owned a wide patch of land, tilled by others and praised by men at the meetinghouse. The match had been arranged swiftly, without courtship, without affection. It was, as most unions were in your town, a transaction blessed in God’s name and bound in practicality.
Marcus was… respectful, or at least as respectful as a man could be in these times. He didn’t leer at you in church. He spoke with a steady voice. But he made one thing very clear the morning your father finalized the terms:
You were to be a good wife.
You were not to embarrass him.
You were his, and the world would see you as such.
The ceremony was plain. No flowers, no music. Just the minister’s voice echoing off wood-paneled walls and the shuffling of heavy boots on the dirt floor. Vows were spoken as if repeating scripture—cold, rehearsed, obligatory.
Afterward, you were floated back to your father’s home like a ghost caught in a current, your new husband beside you. There, supper was laid out—bread, roast root, boiled corn—and you sat stiffly at the table while the men laughed and spoke loudly around you. Their voices clanged like hammer to iron.
They spoke of the move. Of Marcus’s land. Of how you’d wake the next morning in a different bed. In a different life.
You kept your eyes on your plate, nodding when needed.
When you excused yourself—your voice soft, your tone rehearsed—no one batted an eye.
You slipped away, collecting a good portion of the food into a cloth—enough for a starving man, or something like him—and moved through the house toward the small back door. You stepped out into the evening, the warm air still touched with the scent of supper and grass.
The sun was beginning to fall. But the rays still burned bright and low across the land, stretching long shadows over everything. They painted gold across your path as you made your way back to the shed, the cloth bundle pressed tight against your chest.
You didn’t look back.
You didn’t dare to ask yourself why you were going.
Only that you were.
When you opened the shed’s door, you expected him to be slumped in the corner, half-conscious, maybe groaning from fever or starvation. His condition had been so pitiful the night before—bruised and torn, as if beaten by the Devil himself. You had imagined him weak, maybe even near death.
What you didn’t expect… was blood.
It coated his lips, slick and dark like spilled wine left too long in the cold. Feathers clung to his hands—tufts of white and rust-red, matted and stuck between his fingers like wet hay. His chest rose and fell with shallow, slow breaths, his shirt still torn but his wounds now mostly closed, like something had stitched him together in the dark.
Your eyes snapped to the corner, to where a broken chicken neck lay limp against the dirt floor—its body half-consumed.
The bundle of food in your hands dropped, thudding softly against the packed earth.
He wasn’t half-dead.
He had fed.
But not on what you’d brought.
Your stomach churned, the metallic scent of blood and feathers coating the air like incense, thick and cloying.
He didn’t speak. Not at first. He only lifted his head slowly—unnaturally slow—and locked eyes with you.
They glowed in the dark like embers in a dying fire.
Not brown. Not black. Not human.
Red.
A sound stuck in your throat as your body jerked backwards—instinct, maybe. But before your heel could find purchase in retreat, he shook his head, soft and deliberate. Not pleading. Not desperate.
Commanding.
And then, with one small motion, he beckoned you closer.
You didn’t know why your feet obeyed. Whether it was fear, or curiosity, or something stranger. But the moment you crossed the threshold of the shed—just one step, your skirts brushing the earth behind you—he was suddenly there.
In front of you.
Close.
Too close.
It was as if he moved faster than sound, faster than thought, materializing before you like a whisper you couldn’t stop hearing. You felt the air shift, felt the rush of something unnatural as your breath caught in your throat.
Your heart beat like a hammer in your chest, and yet… you didn’t scream.
Your mouth parted as your voice rose—a trembling whisper of the Lord’s Prayer crawling past your lips. You recited it like armor, each word a shaky plea. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”
You thought, maybe, if the words were strong enough—if your faith was strong enough—this thing before you would vanish. As if God might peer into that shed and cast the demon out with a breath of wind.
But there was no wind.
Only the sound of your pulse in your ears.
Then, his hand rose—slow and soaked in dried blood—and pressed against your mouth.
The flesh of his palm was warm. Too warm. It smelled of iron and dirt, and it muffled your prayer with cruel ease. A shadow of a grin twisted on his face as he leaned in, voice a gravelly murmur that rasped through your bones.
“Ain’t no God here,” he said. “Just me.”
You inhaled sharply beneath his hand. A sob tried to rise from your chest but had nowhere to go. You turned your head, inching backward—but your spine hit something solid. The door. Closed.
You hadn’t closed it.
The summer heat still clung to the air, humid and slow, and no breeze that night could have swung the latch shut. But here you were—trapped, pressed against splintered wood.
He leaned forward again, his nose grazing your throat. Inhale. Deep. Savoring.
You flinched as the scent of him filled your nostrils—earthy like the grave, sharp like copper, and foul with sweat.
Still, you couldn’t move.
Not yet.
You were frozen—not by magic, but by something deeper. Fear. Confusion. A chilling sense that this wasn’t just a man. That you had let something into your father’s land you could no longer explain away.
And then… his tongue—unnaturally long and wet—slid across the side of your neck like a serpent tasting sin.
It broke you.
You shoved him back, hard enough to make the shed creak in protest. He let you. He stumbled backward a step and only watched with gleaming eyes as your trembling hand scrambled for the latch.
The door flung open under your weight, and you stumbled out into the falling dusk.
But you stopped.
Standing just a few feet ahead, framed in the gold-tinged light of the setting sun, was a girl no older than twelve.
Her hair was tied with a ribbon, and her bare feet were stained with soil.
She clutched something tightly in her small hand—too tightly. You couldn’t see what it was, but your heart sank.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t speak.
But her eyes drank you in—your wrinkled dress, your flushed face, the sheen of sweat on your brow and neck.
Recognition flickered behind her gaze. No fear. No innocence. Just calculation.
She was one of them.
One of the girls who had spent the past few weeks pointing fingers at neighbors, crying “witch!” with wide eyes and voices sweet as milk.
And she had seen you.
And worse—she had seen enough.
She backed away, her eyes wide but her expression unflinching. Whatever she held in her palm vanished deeper into her fist, and her fingers curled around it as if it were a weapon forged just for this moment. You took one cautious step forward, hand lifted—gentle, pleading.
“Wait—”
But her mouth opened before your words could even finish forming.
“Witch!”
It rang out like thunder in the still evening air—shrill, terrified, and deliberate.
The word struck you like a blow to the chest.
Your mouth parted in a sharp, choked gasp, but nothing came out. You turned—heart leaping into your throat—eyes snapping back toward the shed.
It was empty.
Utterly empty.
Not a single feather. Not a drop of blood. Not a footprint.
The man—no, the thing—was gone.
Vanished like mist at sunrise.
No trace, no sign. As if you had conjured him from madness.
But he had been there.
The back door slammed open.
The heavy sound of boots and frantic voices followed. The back porch flooded with faces—your father, your sister, and Marcus, your new husband. The light from the house spilled out behind them, casting long shadows that stretched over the garden and across the trampled dirt. The smell of roasted meat and smoke clung to their clothes, mixed now with sweat and alarm.
They all stared at you.
Your hair, disheveled. Your dress, wrinkled and half-falling from your shoulder. Your hands, streaked faintly with grease from the meat you'd carried. And your eyes—wild, startled, brimming with something they didn’t understand.
You tried to speak.
But the words caught in your throat.
Marcus stepped down first. He looked at you like a man already betrayed, though you had done nothing but breathe. The girl pointed again, her voice cracking now with false sobs and trembling hands.
“She came out of the devil’s shed!”
Your father looked at you like he no longer recognized the child he’d raised. And as your sister drew your shawl tighter around her own shoulders—protective, suspicious—you realized what had already begun.
The devil hadn’t dragged you down screaming.
He had smiled and left you in the light.
And the ones who once claimed to love you… were now your judges.
The trial was long, pitiful, and more humiliating than anything you could’ve imagined. The church where it was held—small and packed with townsfolk—felt colder than any wind you’d ever walked through. The walls creaked under the weight of God-fearing judgment, and every breath you took seemed to betray you.
You stood in the center, shaking, hands clenched so tightly at your sides they’d gone numb.
“I—I only gave shelter to a man who was hurt,” you said, voice trembling as you stepped forward. “He said someone was chasing him. I thought—he looked like he’d been mauled! I thought he might die.”
Your words were cut off by the shrill, rehearsed voice of the girl who had screamed witch.
The girl was there, tear-streaked and trembling, flanked by the others of her little group—faces innocent, pale, and hollow like porcelain dolls who whispered only lies.
“She lies!” she cried out, pointing at you with trembling fingers. “I saw her… standing outside that shed. Her hair undone, her dress wrinkled like she’d—like she’d lain with the Devil himself!”
A gasp rippled through the room like fire on dry grass.
“That’s not true—” you tried, stepping forward again, but one of the ministers slammed a hand on the bench in front of him.
“Silence!” he barked. “You will speak only when asked!”
The courtroom smelled of sweat and dust and judgment. The judges sat high above you, like they were gods on a crooked throne—old men with white hair and eyes that had stopped seeing truth long ago.
You flinched.
“She bewitched the chicken pens,” another girl wailed. “They say a beast came in the night, and the hens were left torn apart. It was her! Her eyes were glowing!”
“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. “Please, I didn’t—”
“You disobeyed your husband!” one of the judges interrupted, leaning forward with a slow scowl. “You walked alone at night. You disrespected your place. And now—there are witnesses to your consort with unholy things.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, but your voice cracked through the quiet.
“I helped a man who was bleeding. He said he needed shelter. That was all.”
“You opened the door to evil,” another judge said. “And you invited it in.”
Your father finally stood, slowly, his hands shaking at his sides. His voice was low, but steady enough to reach them.
“She’s young. Foolish,” he said. “Her mind’s soft like her mother’s was—always reaching to help, always trusting. I—I don’t believe she meant harm.”
You turned to him, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes.
One of the judges leaned forward, gray hair powdered and curled beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
“Would you stake your soul on her innocence, Goodman?”
Your father hesitated. Just for a second.
“I would stake only that she was misled.”
It was all they needed.
A gavel slammed against wood.
“The court finds you guilty,” the head judge said, voice like thunder.
You were to hang.
For the crime of adultery.
For the sin of laying with the devil.
For the act of witchcraft, of plotting, of being touched and left alive by something no good soul could’ve endured.
They said the devil’s mark would be carved out of you by rope.
And the crowd applauded.
“No,” you whispered.
Two men grabbed your arms.
“No, please—!”
Your voice was buried under the sound of rising voices. The girls who had accused you fell to the floor in practiced hysterics, trembling and crying into one another’s arms.
You were thrown into the holding quarters like an animal, the heavy door slamming behind you with a finality that rang in your bones. The air was thick—of fear, of stale breath, of rot and dust.
There were others in the cell. All of them marked.
An elderly woman sat on the far end, rocking gently with her hands wrapped around her elbows. She glanced up when the door creaked shut. It took you a second, but you knew her. She used to gift your younger sister scraps of ribbon when your parents couldn’t afford cloth.
Next to her, huddled together on the damp stone floor, was a woman and a boy. The child’s cough rattled low in his chest, and his mother’s hand never left his back.
Two girls sat in the shadows near the wall. You recognized them, too. They’d dared to speak against the others—to challenge the “visions.” They were here for their defiance.
Your chest ached. They were all here to die.
You sank to your knees in the straw and grit, the weight of it all finally pressing down on you. There was no trial to wait for. No family to speak up. It had already been decided.
You would hang.
Tonight.
Your hands trembled in your lap, and for a moment, your ears rang with the memory of the judge’s voice as they dragged you from the church.
“When the moon is high,” he had said, without hesitation. “She shall meet her punishment under the Lord’s eye, and let her sins be judged in the shadows.”
You had stumbled then, your knees buckling as you were pulled out beneath a sky that hadn’t yet darkened.
Now, the minutes passed like a cruel joke. The walls didn’t move. The moon rose.
And no one came.
Not yet.
A girl’s voice broke the silence.
“They sometimes come before the hour. To ready you,” she said, her voice dry, almost gone.
You turned your head toward her.
“They’ll wash your face. Bind your hands. Tie the cloth around your mouth if you cry too loud.”
“They gag you?” you asked, surprised you still had a voice.
“If you scream scripture,” said the other, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. “They don’t like that.”
You swallowed hard, bile rising.
You didn’t know if you should pray or beg or scream.
You didn’t do any of it.
Instead, you stared at the floor, at the ragged edge of your skirts, and waited for the man to come.
And when the door finally opened again, and the torchlight spilled into the cell, you didn’t flinch.
“Get up,” the constable grunted, stepping toward you.
Your mouth opened but no words came. Your legs shook as you rose.
You wished you had more time.
Just another hour.
Another breath of fresh air.
Another moment to tell your sister you were sorry.
That you’d done nothing wrong. That you weren’t a witch.
That you had only tried to help someone.
But they were already pulling your arms behind you.
The ropes bit at your wrists. You took one last look at the boy in the corner. At the girls. At the woman who had once tied ribbons in your sister’s hair.
And then you were led into the night.
—————
You try to drag your feet, to resist in even the smallest way—to earn yourself a few more seconds—but the constable’s grip is iron, his fingers digging deep into your arms with no mercy. He hauls you forward with a grunt, each step closer to the gallows sends panic crawling up your spine.
The tears prick at your eyes before you even reach the stairs, but once you are standing at the base of them, staring up at the wooden platform under the pale moonlight, they begin to fall. You tremble as your foot lifts for the first step, the coarse wood scrapes against your bare soles. It feels like a walk to the heavens and hell all at once—upward into judgment.
The townsfolk are there. Most of them. Hushed and unmoving in the dark. Children are not permitted out of their homes after dusk, and so it is only the adults—the elders, the watchful, the pious and proud—who stare up at you with stone faces and sharp, burning disdain.
No one meets your eyes.
Not your husband, not your father.
Not even the preacher.
You open your mouth as the rope is pulled tighter around your wrists behind your back, biting into raw skin. The man tying it doesn’t flinch at your wince, and when he steps in front of you, he wastes no time slipping the noose around your neck. The coarse rope scratches your collarbone. Your chest starts to heave.
The pressure in your throat builds until it aches.
And then it breaks.
A sob sputters out first, helpless and wet. Your shoulders tremble, and soon, it isn’t just one—it’s all of them. The kind of crying that doesn’t come from the throat, but from somewhere deeper—from marrow, from soul. Sobs rack your chest like thunder cracking through old wood. Your legs buckle slightly beneath you.
You try to speak, try to plead—anything—but all that comes out is a desperate mess of sound, unintelligible and thick with despair.
“I—please, I didn’t—God—please—”
Your cries spill over your tongue like blood. Nonsensical. Childlike. The kind of sound that makes no difference, no matter how much it begs to.
Still, you weep, your shoulders heaving as the townspeople stare.
As the hangman takes his place.
You open your mouth again, the air sharp in your lungs, and begin to pray.
Not to God alone—though His name crosses your lips first—but to anything, anything, that might hear you. Your voice is barely audible at first, your lips trembling as you mouth sacred words through gasps and salt-slick breath.
“Our Father… who art in Heaven…”
Your lashes flutter against your tear-drenched cheeks, and then slam shut, darkness pressing against your eyes as you whisper into the thick summer night. The rope scrapes the soft skin of your throat each time your chest rises. It feels like burlap and iron, like death’s fingertips pressing too gently before the squeeze.
“Please… please, please,” you murmur into the hush. “Deliver me. I don’t want to die…”
The world holds its breath with you.
Then—
A sound.
A sharp, visceral cry splits the air like lightning against a tree trunk. It doesn’t come from the gallows. It comes from the crowd—sudden and strange, high and raw, too deep to be a child’s voice and too broken to belong to someone still whole.
You freeze, breath hitching.
Another sound follows—a scream—shrill, panicked, dragged from the gut.
Your eyes remain shut, but your ears open like windows to a storm.
Feet pound the dirt—dozens. The soft thud of slippers, the frantic scrape of boots. Sandals dropping. Wood clacking. People are running, pushing, fleeing.
You don’t dare look.
The crowd has become a stampede. You hear it: the shriek of splintering wood as benches are overturned. The sharp crunch of someone stepping on a dropped lantern. The crackling roar of fire somewhere nearby. Screams build like a choir of agony—men and women alike crying out for mercy, some cursing, others weeping prayers into the earth.
“Devil—the Devil is here!”
“He’s got her—he’s come for the witch!”
“God help us—run!”
You tremble violently, lips still moving. You can’t stop praying now. You barely hear yourself over the chaos. Your voice is threadbare and tight, but it doesn’t stop.
“Lead us not into temptation… deliver us from evil…”
Your knees want to give. Your heart batters against your ribcage like it wants out.
Still, you whisper, shaking.
You feel the gallows shift beneath you—wood creaking like it’s groaning under a new weight.
The noose loosens.
Ever so slightly.
Your chest heaves, throat raw from whispering the same half-finished prayer over and over again—words tremble and crumble as they spill from your lips. Each breath you take burns through your lungs, like they are inhaling fire and ash instead of air.
The scent hits you before anything else. Blood. Thick, coppery, and metallic—so potent it seems to crawl up your nose and nestle itself behind your eyes.
Then the scent of something old.
Like soil soaked in centuries of rot and ruin. Like the breath of a cave that had never known light. It slides into your nose like silk and shadow, sweet and wrong all at once.
Your stomach turns, but you don’t dare open them. You stay like that, lids squeezed tight, arms trembling, begging whatever was out there to let you wake from this—if it was a dream, a nightmare, anything but real.
Then, a voice.
Low. Drawling. Drenched in something not quite human.
“Come on now, darlin’,” it murmurs. “You know it’s me.”
There is something wet in his tone, like his throat is thick with blood. Like he is gargling it between every word. Your prayers halt, lips part in disbelief, and the silence around you becomes deafening. The town square—the gallows—is still. Unnaturally so. A void, hollowed out of noise except for the faintest sound of wet, gurgled breathing nearby. You think you can hear something sliding across skin, or bone cracking like branches underfoot.
Your eyes stay shut.
“Open your eyes.”
It isn’t a question. It is a command. Tense. Sharp.
Hands touch your face—hot, trembling, and soaked. You flinch hard, trying to recoil, but his palms cradle your cheeks with a hold that tightens when you pull back. The sticky warmth of blood smears across your skin, seeping into the corners of your mouth and staining your chin.
“…Look at me.”
His voice is tightening now, and his fingers dig in, almost trembling from restrained impatience. His breath, hot and ragged, falls against your lips like steam from a boiling pot. You can hear the wet squelch of his boots in the blood pooling at his feet.
You open your eyes—slowly, like lifting a veil—and you gasp.
There he is. The man you helped that night.
The man from the shed.
But not like before.
He stands before you, soaked in death. Blood mats his shirt, his chest, his neck—his very skin seems stained with it. It clings to his cheeks and mouth like ink smeared across paper. A thick stream runs down his chin and drips onto his chest in rhythmic plops. His lips, slightly parted, reveal rows of teeth too sharp, too wrong, gleaming beneath the flickering torchlight. And those eyes… glow a vivid, haunting red that pierces through the night, brighter than any flame.
His hair is drenched, sticking to his forehead in dark, wild strands, and sweat glistens along his brow as he swallows audibly—gulping down the last remnants of blood still pooling on his tongue.
Your gasp comes like a sob, shaky and full of disbelief, and still, he only stares at you.
He just stares at you.
Silent.
Unblinking.
His eyes burn through the dark like blood-fed embers, glowing brighter each time your body jerks with a sob. There’s no remorse in them—no kindness, no understanding. Only hunger. The kind that doesn’t fade with food or flesh. The kind that settles into something deeper, darker. Eternal.
You gasp again, trembling from the inside out, your sobs tearing through your chest like splinters. You’re shaking so hard your knees threaten to buckle, the rope still loose around your neck. Your breath catches in stutters, and your body jolts with every one.
He tilts his head—slow, measured. Like a predator studying prey that won’t run.
His mouth is parted just slightly, his lips slick with blood. Some of it’s dry, but some of it still glistens, smeared thick along his jaw, dripping fresh from the corner of his mouth. He licks at it absently, as though it’s just the remnants of a meal, not the lives of half the town.
And he still says nothing.
Just watches.
The wind picks up, finally—moving through your hair, stirring the bloodstained strands on his brow. The gallows creak behind you. The ropes sway.
Then—he adjusts his hand again.
Not toward the noose.
Even though your entire body flinches, even though instinct screams to run, you don’t move. You can’t.
He brushes the back of his knuckles down your cheek, and it’s not gentle. It’s slow. Curious. His hand is cold. Slick. The blood on his skin smears across your face, and you suck in a breath like it’ll cleanse you somehow.
“You cried for God,” he murmurs, his voice low, guttural—wet with the blood still clogging his throat. “But I came.”
The sob that escapes you is ugly. Raw. You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.
“Why?” you whisper, your voice a cracked, broken thing.
His expression doesn’t change much—but something flickers. A twitch in his brow. A shift in the tightness of his jaw. Then, a breath.
“Because you showed me mercy when no one else would.”
He steps closer, the air thickening around you, colder now despite the heat radiating off the blood on his body.
He leans in, and his next words are whispered against your lips.
“And I never forget a kindness… no matter what I am.”
His teeth peek through his parted lips, stained red and jagged, not like a man’s at all. His pupils dilate, drowning out the red. And for a moment, you can see it again—that hunger.
It doesn’t matter that he spared you.
He’s still starving.
His tongue darts out again—quick and slick—and this time, you catch the shape of it.
Forked.
Split right at the end like a serpent’s, both tips twitching ever so slightly before disappearing back behind bloodstained teeth.
A gasp chokes in your throat. Your breath stutters out in one sharp hitch, and your lips part with shock you can’t swallow down.
He leans in closer, slowly—like he has all the time in the world—his eyes dragging across your face with a quiet, unnatural intensity. Not the way a man looks at a woman. No. It’s colder than that. Hungrier. As if he’s trying to read you—not your thoughts, but the stitching of your skin, the tremble of your pulse, the heat beneath your flesh.
His head tilts slightly to the side, birdlike. Curious. Unnerving.
You can feel it now, the shift in the air between you—heavy and electric. Something ancient curling at the edges of your gut. It coils tighter with every second his gaze lingers, like it knows you’re being studied not by something human, but something older.
His lips part just slightly, and you see it again—his tongue moving behind his teeth, restless. The memory of its forked tips still dances across your skin, as though he touched you with it instead of the air.
He hums, soft and low, as if he’s decided something.
His head tilts again, eyes never leaving yours, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and wet—slick with blood and something darker beneath.
“You saved me,” he says simply, like it’s a fact carved into stone. “Dragged me from the edge when I should’ve burned alive in that shed.”
You swallow hard, your lips trembling, but you don’t speak. You can’t. Not when the heat of his breath ghosts over your face and the blood on his skin seeps into the air like smoke.
He leans in closer—closer than he should be—and presses his brow to yours, just barely, enough that you feel the stickiness of whatever coats him.
“And I saved you,” he murmurs, tone shifting—more weight behind it now, like something owed. “Dragged you from the rope. From their fire. From their lies.”
His forked tongue flashes again between his lips as he inhales, as if tasting your skin. You feel the shiver start in your stomach and crawl up your spine.
“Now,” he says, pulling back just enough to let you see the hunger in his eyes, “that makes us even.”
A beat. Then another.
“No… no, wait.” He smiles, and it’s wrong. Sharp and gleaming and too wide. “That makes you mine, doesn’t it?”
His bloodstained fingers trail down your jaw, leaving a tacky path of red in their wake.
“You owe me now, little lamb.” His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible. “And I always come to collect.”
Your breath catches at his words—mine, owe me, collect—and the weight of them settles heavy in your chest like stones dropped into water.
“I… I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice small and thready, like it barely belongs to you.
You mean to ask him what he means—what he wants—but the look in his eyes turns your question to dust. There’s nothing kind in his gaze. Nothing human. Only want. Possession. Hunger.
Not like before.
Worse.
He moves suddenly, too fast for your eyes to follow—one moment standing inches away, the next his entire form flushes against yours, slick chest pressed to your bodice, wet blood soaking through the linen. His hips pin you to the wooden frame behind you and the shock knocks the air clean from your lungs.
You gasp, trying to recoil, but your arms are still bound tight behind your back. The coarse rope bites into your wrists as you jerk against it, panic flaring in your gut like flame to dry grass.
“Please—” you choke out, but your feet shuffle awkwardly on the gallows and you stumble.
The noose.
It pulls tight against your throat the moment your weight shifts, and a strangled cry rips from you. The rope burns across your skin, cruel and unforgiving, and the jolt sends stars bursting behind your eyes.
His hands flash out, catching you by the waist with bruising force, steadying you. His mouth splits into something almost amused—almost delighted.
“Careful now,” he murmurs, tongue flicking out across his lips. “Would hate to lose you so soon.”
His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he pulls you closer.
Your breath shudders in your chest as he steadies you, fingers digging into your waist like claws only just restrained. You feel the tremor running through him—not from fear, but from something deeper. Need. Desire. Like it takes effort for him not to devour you where you stand.
The rope still kisses your throat, unforgiving, and you dare not move again.
He leans in slowly, far too slow for comfort. His breath ghosts over your cheek—hot, wet, reeking of iron and rot. Your skin prickles at the sensation, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the closeness.
“Open your eyes,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-wrapped with something darker beneath. “Don’t you want to see the man who saved your life?”
You shake your head weakly, but your body betrays you. The scent of him overwhelms your senses, and when you do open your eyes, he’s watching you with a look that isn’t kind—it’s possessive. Like you’re a thing he stole from death and now refuses to give back.
“I pulled you from the noose,” he breathes, one hand moving—slow and deliberate—up your side, knuckles grazing the swell of your breast, slow enough to feel every ragged inhale you take. “And you tremble for me now. Not Him. Not God.”
Your mouth parts but no words come. The world is quiet now, too quiet. No more screams. No footfalls. Just the creak of the rope when you breathe wrong and the press of his blood-warm body against yours.
“What… what are you?” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from fear and rope-burn.
He only smiles—lazily, horribly—as if the answer isn’t important. As if you’ll know soon enough.
His tongue flicks out to taste the sweat beading at your temple.
“Yours,” he says. “And you, mine. It’s simple, really.”
Then his hand comes up behind your head—not gentle, not harsh—and he leans in again, lips so close you can feel the blood-slick heat of them hover just over your own.
“But first,” he murmurs, “you need to ask me to cut you down.”
And that’s when you realize—you’re still tied. Still caught in the noose. Still held in this half-life between death and something worse.
And if you want to live, you have to ask him.
You have to choose him.
Your lips part, but for a long moment, nothing comes out.
You’re trembling. Not from the cold—it’s still a summer night, and the air clings thick with heat and blood—but from the unbearable weight of his presence, the nearness of his body, and the rope biting into your neck with every tiny movement.
He waits.
Not patiently. His fingers twitch against your skin, the tension rolling off him in waves—like an animal holding itself back from pouncing. His glowing eyes flicker between your mouth and your throat, as if he’s not sure which he wants more.
Your voice is barely above a whisper when it finally pushes past your throat:
“P–please…”
He leans in, ear tilting toward your mouth, as if he’s savoring it. As if he wants to hear every stuttered syllable spill from your lips like a prayer.
“…cut me down.”
The second the words leave you, his smile blooms—dark, wide, wrong. There’s blood in his teeth, and something older in his gaze.
“Atta girl.”
His hand disappears behind you, fingers brushing your bound wrists. The rope creaks above your head as he lifts one arm, and for a brief second you fear he’ll bite it clean through.
But instead—shnk—you hear the sound of something sharp slicing through the binds.
Your arms fall limp at your sides, aching and numb.
Then, his claws move to the noose at your neck.
The tension lifts.
And you collapse forward, into him—too weak to stand, too afraid to pull away.
His arms catch you easily, one slipping around your back, the other curling beneath your knees.
“Now,” he says softly, like a secret pressed to your temple. “You’re mine.”
He begins to walk—away from the gallows, from the moonlit square, from the blood-stained air and the silence that followed slaughter.
You press your face into the damp fabric of his shirt—what’s left of it, trying not to smell the iron-rich blood or the dirt clinging to his skin—but it clings anyway. Everything about him does.
But something tugs at you, something morbid and magnetic. You open your eyes.
And then you see.
Bodies. Dozens of them. Men you recognized from church pews, from town meetings, from your wedding just yesterday. Faces frozen in terror, mouths agape, necks torn or throats crushed in ways no human strength could manage. A few still twitch—barely alive, gasping like fish in the last gasp of a dream.
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t look down. His eyes stay forward, unreadable, jaw locked, as if this is nothing more than a routine walk in the woods.
But you can’t stop looking. A woman lies in a heap at the edge of the square—her apron soaked with blood, hand still reaching toward something long gone. Another man, one of the judges, is propped against the gallows post. His eyes are wide open, unseeing.
Your throat tightens as nausea crawls up it.
And yet—your arms stay looped around his neck, trembling but holding on.
He carries you like something claimed.
The deeper into the night you go, the quieter it gets—until all you hear is the slow beat of his footsteps through the dirt, the whisper of leaves, and the wet shift of blood against his skin.
Your home appears at the edge of the trees. Familiar. Too familiar. The little house with the sloped roof and the white shutters.
His boots hit the porch with a dull, deliberate thud. The wood groans under his weight, the stillness of the night holding its breath around you.
But he stops.
Right at the threshold.
He doesn’t reach for the handle. Doesn’t push forward.
Instead, he turns his head toward you—slowly. His jaw is tight, eyes darker now, the red glow reduced to a simmering coal at the center of each one.
“You need to invite me in.”
The words are low and quiet, but they drag through the air like smoke, curling with something that doesn’t feel like choice.
Your lips part, the words sticking in your throat.
You hesitate—because you remember the way he looked covered in blood, the pile of bodies you just passed, the way he moved when he tore men apart like wet cloth.
But your body aches. Your wrists burn from the rope. Your neck still tingles from where the noose nearly took your breath.
And you are so tired.
Your gaze meets his, and you whisper—so softly you barely hear yourself:
“…you can come in.”
It happens instantly.
He moves with that impossible speed again, crossing the threshold like smoke funneling into a fire. The moment the house allows him in, it changes him.
The tenderness with which he once carried you drains away in an instant.
Without a word, he strides through the dark house, straight into your bedroom. You barely register the familiar surroundings before you feel it—his fingers tightening around your waist.
And then he throws you.
You hit the bed hard, the mattress creaking beneath you as you gasp, stunned.
His body looms in the doorway now, the low candlelight flickering against the blood still smeared across his skin. His shadow stretches long across the floorboards, swallowing the rug beneath your bed, crawling toward your legs.
Your breath catches as the mattress shifts beneath you. Without thinking, you scramble upright, the back of your gown twisted around your thighs. Your hands press behind you for support, trembling as you push yourself backward until—
thud.
Your spine meets the headboard. Nowhere else to go.
Your eyes never leave him.
He’s moving—slowly, purposefully. A predator that knows its prey is cornered.
The bed dips beneath his weight as he climbs onto it, one knee at a time. His movements are deliberate, like he’s enjoying the fear trembling across your skin. Like this is part of the meal.
His palms plant on the bedspread as he crawls forward, over you. You try to flatten yourself against the headboard, but it’s no use. His frame blocks the candlelight now, casting you in shadow.
He stops only once his body is hovering over yours, so close you can feel the weight of him in the air. His breath fans over your cheek—warm and thick with something metallic beneath it.
You can’t speak. Your throat tightens with fear, with the desperate, unspoken question hanging in the space between you:
What do you want from me?
He doesn’t answer it. He just stares down at you, mouth parted slightly, a drop of something red slipping from the corner of his lip to your neckline.
And then, quietly, he whispers, “You’ve got nowhere left to run, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitches—sharp and shallow—as his shadow swallows yours.
He’s not touching you, not yet. But he doesn’t have to.
The weight of him above you is crushing enough.
You press your back harder into the headboard, trying to disappear into the wood, to shrink beneath the intensity of his stare. But he only leans closer, tilting his head as if he’s studying you like a curiosity. Or prey.
A low sound hums in his throat. It isn’t a growl, not quite—but there’s something inhuman in it. Something that makes your stomach twist and your skin prickle like frost had settled there.
His hand lifts slowly, and instinct makes you flinch—but it doesn’t stop him. His fingers graze your cheek, trailing blood along your skin where his nails cut earlier. The pad of his thumb drags over your lower lip, slow and deliberate. Testing the shape of your mouth.
Your lips part on reflex, a tiny, stuttered gasp escaping. His eyes darken at the sound.
“You’re still afraid of me,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a certainty.
And he likes it.
You try to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Your throat is too tight. Too raw. You manage, finally, to whisper, “What… do you want from me?”
He leans closer—so close now you feel the scrape of his breath along your collarbone, the damp heat of his presence like fire trapped beneath your skin.
“I told you,” he murmurs. “You saved me. I saved you. But we’re not even yet.”
He brushes his nose along your jaw, inhaling deep.
“There’s still a debt to be paid, darlin’.”
His mouth hovers just over your throat, lips parted, breath warm, and you feel the tremble work its way through your limbs. You can’t tell if it’s terror—or the slow, confusing churn of something else.
His lips finally press to your throat—wet and warm, and slick with blood not your own.
You suck in a gasp, your body tensing as the sticky smear coats your skin, seeping into the hollow beneath your jaw. The kiss is slow, deliberate. Not tender. Not loving. It’s a claim.
You try to pull away, but his hand rises—steady, unshakable—and cradles the side of your head. Fingers dig into your scalp just enough to keep you still.
“Stay,” he murmurs against your pulse, voice low and thick, tongue brushing the blood as he speaks. “You move again, I might take it as a challenge.”
You can feel his breath as he drags his mouth along your throat, smearing more blood across your skin. It’s warm. The scent of iron is sharp and cloying in your nose, filling your head with a dizzy fog.
He kisses you again, just under your jaw this time, slower, wetter. His tongue flicks out briefly, tasting your skin like it holds the answers he’s starving for.
Your hands clench the sheets beside you.
He presses his nose to your neck—just above the frantic flutter of your pulse—and inhales deep.
A low, guttural groan spills from him, hot and damp against your skin. The sound vibrates through you, setting every nerve alight.
You feel him then—his hips shifting forward, grinding into your thigh with deliberate pressure. He’s hard. You can feel it, heavy and insistent, even through the bloodied fabric of his clothes.
His breath stutters as he ruts against you once, twice, like he can’t help it. Like the scent of your fear and heat has unraveled what little restraint he had left.
“You smell like life,” he murmurs, voice husky and ragged. “Like fire beneath flesh.”
His mouth skims your jaw, sticky with blood and slick need, and his hips roll again—slow and filthy. The hand at your head tightens just slightly, not cruelly, but enough to remind you who holds you still.
“Tell me no,” he whispers, “and I’ll stop.”
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t pull away.
Just waits—panting and trembling against your skin—while his body thrums with monstrous want.
You’re about to shake your head—your breath trembling as it catches in your throat—but then he lifts his face from your neck.
His eyes, still glowing faintly red, lock with yours.
He stares for a moment too long, and something in you stills. Like a rabbit caught in the gaze of something far too hungry to be human.
“I’m so thankful you helped me,” he murmurs, voice low and syrup-thick with emotion. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”
His thumb brushes your cheek now, tender, as if he hadn’t just smeared blood across your skin. As if he hadn’t slaughtered the people you once knew and loved.
“And I was happy to help you,” he says. “To save you. I’d do it again. For you.”
You’re breathing harder now, chest rising in shallow waves. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know if you’re more frightened of what he’s done—or what he’s doing now.
His eyes soften, just enough to make you question the fear clawing at your ribs.
“We were meant to find each other,” he continues, his voice dropping to something more fragile, more human—though the monster still lingers in his gaze. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
He leans closer, so close his nose nearly brushes yours.
“You belong to me now. That’s what this is. You saved me, I saved you. That means something.”
Your mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.
His fingers slide down your neck, slow—possessive.
“This world turned on both of us,” he breathes. “Let me give you something good… something real. You don’t need to be scared anymore.”
His lips hover just above yours, and his hips shift again—subtle but weighted.
“Just let me,” he whispers. “Say yes, and I’ll be gentle.”
But the look in his eyes says he’s not asking. Not really.
You stare at him for a long time.
Too long.
The air between you thickens, weighed down by the scent of blood, sweat, and something darker—older. Your heart thuds violently behind your ribs, like it knows something your mouth hasn’t yet spoken.
The hesitation builds in your chest like a fire—flickering, choking, desperate for air. You don’t know what part of you it’s burning away: the fear, or the voice that told you to run.
He waits, unmoving.
Patient.
Predatory.
And you’re still frozen beneath him, lips parted slightly, your breath shallow and hot against the space between your bodies. His eyes don’t waver. They hold you there, like he’s already claimed you, and this—this moment—is just formality.
Slowly, your head begins to nod.
It’s barely perceptible at first, just the smallest tremble of motion. But he sees it. You know he does. The corners of his mouth twitch, something like triumph—or hunger—flickering through his expression.
Your lips part. A breath escapes you, shaky, thin.
“…Yes.”
The word barely leaves your mouth before he moves.
His mouth crashes onto yours.
There’s nothing gentle about it—no softness, no pause for breath. It’s all heat and hunger, his fangs clashing against your teeth like he’s trying to devour you whole. The taste of iron smears across your lips as his mouth moves with a desperation that feels less like a kiss and more like a claiming.
You gasp against him, and he takes it—draws it in like it belongs to him.
At first, you’re still, rigid beneath the weight of him and the overwhelming wildness of his kiss. But then—slowly, almost helplessly—your lips begin to move with his. Guided by his mouth, his hunger. His rhythm. As if something inside of you recognizes the language of his want and answers back in kind.
His hands frame your face now, blood-slicked palms holding you still as his kiss deepens, grows messier. You can feel the sharp graze of his fangs against your lip, and the heat of his breath as he exhales through his nose—shaky, trembling with need.
One of his hands drifts down from your face, gliding over the curve of your body until it finds your hip. His fingers dig in—tight, possessive—like he’s trying to mold your flesh to fit beneath his palm. You gasp at the sudden pressure, your breath hitching sharply in your throat.
And he takes it—takes you.
The moment your lips part, his tongue pushes into your mouth, slick and hot and demanding. He tastes of copper and something darker, something old. His tongue moves with purpose, curling against yours, exploring the inside of your mouth like it belongs to him.
The grip on your hip tightens as his body presses more firmly into yours. You feel the slow, grinding weight of him, the way he cages you in, the way your body responds even through the haze of fear and confusion. His kiss grows deeper—sloppier—and he groans low into your mouth, like your taste is enough to unravel him.
Teeth scrape against your lower lip, his fangs threatening to pierce as they press too close. A sound tears from his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and his hips roll hard against yours. There’s no mistaking the shape of him—thick and hard through the rough fabric of his trousers, grinding against your soft, yielding body like he can’t help himself.
His hand leaves your hip only to grab at your thigh, lifting and forcing it around his waist as he settles more fully on top of you. He feels inhuman in his strength—like bone and sinew stretched tight around something not made to be here. Something wrong.
His voice comes hot against your jaw. “you feel that?” he grinds harder. “That's all for you, little lamb. mine now.”
His fingers move up, skimming the underside of your dress. not gentle. not kind. rough hands that tremble from restraint—like he’s holding back something animal and barely leashed. The fabric tears when he grows impatient, the sound ripping through the room like a warning. He hisses in delight at the sight of your bare skin, slick with sweat, trembling beneath him.
“So warm,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your collarbone. “like something begging to be ruined.”
Your breath catches when he bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting. To threaten.
You don’t know if your body is burning from fear or need, but your thighs part all the same when he presses between them.
His hand slides higher beneath your gown, slow like a promise or a threat—you can’t tell which. The fabric gathers at your hips, baring your thighs to the cool air and his greedy touch.
His fingers trail the soft flesh of your inner thigh, feather-light at first, but filled with purpose. A tremble rolls through your legs, and he hums at the way your body reacts—how it anticipates him now.
“So soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself, the tip of his nose brushing your cheek. “like you were made for this.”
You barely get the chance to breathe before his fingers reach the place where the ache pulses hot and steady.
A sharp gasp tears from your throat the moment he squeezes—tight, possessive—and something stings.
Pain blooms bright and sudden in your skin, not deep, but there, and your eyes snap wide as the pressure sharpens.
You glance down just as his claws—no longer fully hidden—dig gently into your thigh. not enough to draw blood… but enough to threaten it.
His smile turns wicked. “Whoops.” he doesn’t sound sorry.
The heat between your legs flares at the sound of his voice, dark and rough with desire.
“Shouldn’t be scared,” he whispers as his nose presses into the crook of your neck again, inhaling deep. “You said yes, remember? I'm just gettin’ what’s mine.”
And still—his hand doesn’t move. it lingers right there at the edge of your ruin, fingers twitching, claws grazing, daring you to beg.
His hand lingers. Unmoving. Heavy with intent.
You can feel the heat of his palm radiating just inches from where you need him most—so close it makes your thighs twitch. But he doesn’t touch you. not yet.
Instead, his claws—those wicked tips—trace slow circles along your inner thigh, a whisper of sensation that sends goosebumps skittering up your spine.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick and unholy against your throat. “shakin’ like a sinner in the rain.”
His tongue darts out again—forked, you remember now, serpentine—and it licks a slow line up the column of your neck, tasting you like a promise.
You gasp, chest stuttering against his. Your hips shift upward—an unconscious plea—and he laughs, low and breathless. It’s not kind.
“You want it,” he says, and there’s no question in it. just fact. “want me to play with you… open you up real slow.”
Your lips part, a shaky breath hitching in your throat, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. You just nod—small, trembling.
“Good girl,” he breathes, and then—
His fingers move.
Slowly. Deliberately.
One clawed finger curls beneath the band of your panties, and he wastes no time—tugging them down in one slow, deliberate pull. The fabric peels away from your heat-damp skin, dragging over your thighs as he goes.
The slickness clings and catches, smearing along your inner thighs as he lowers the garment inch by inch, until it pools loosely around your ankles.
His breath brushes your bare skin as he leans in, admiring the sight of you now fully exposed, and you feel your chest rise and fall like a trembling wave.
His hand returns—slow, deliberate—settling between your thighs like a promise. One finger lingers at your entrance, hovering just long enough to make your breath hitch. And then—he slips just inside.
A slick, gliding motion up through soaked folds.
He groans.
The sound is guttural, unrestrained, like the feel of you has undone him completely. His head drops against your shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, as if the wet heat of you alone is enough to shatter his composure.
“So warm,” he murmurs, tongue flicking against your skin as he speaks. “So wet.”
He doesn’t push completely inside you—no, not yet. Instead, he drags his finger up and down your slit in torturously slow motions, letting the pads of his claws skirt over your clit without ever pressing in.
your hips jerk, breath hitching, and he chuckles darkly.
“Beg,” he whispers. “say you want it. say you want me to ruin you.”
You hesitate—just for a moment.
Your breath stutters, caught in your throat like a prayer. The weight of him, the heat of his body pressed so close, the slickness between your thighs—it’s overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.
Your fingers curl into the sheets.
“Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible—hoarse and trembling. Your voice breaks as you say it again, louder this time, needier. “Please… go further.”
His breath drags out, thick with hunger, and you feel the way his shoulders tense at your plea. A low sound escapes him, something dark and pleased—as though your begging had been what he was waiting for all along.
Without a word, he shifts, and you brace yourself as his hand moves again—broad, streaked with gore, the pads of his fingers still damp from teasing you. He drags them slowly back through your slick folds, spreading the wetness, smearing it across your skin like oil to flame.
You twitch beneath him.
He hums at that. Low. Dark. Amused.
Then he presses the tip of a single finger in.
You tense instantly.
It’s not the stretch—yet. It’s the feel of it. Cold. Smooth. Not entirely human.
His claw.
You feel the way it curves ever so slightly—natural, bone-deep—just enough to make your breath catch.
He pauses.
Not out of mercy.
Out of reverence.
Like your cunt is something sacred, and he’s been denied it for far too long.
“You’re tight,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for you and no one else. “Still scared?”
You don’t answer.
Your hands fist the sheets, breath coming in shallow gasps. Not from fear. Not fully. It’s something more than that—something deeper. Wound tight behind your ribs.
His clawed finger presses in farther.
A slow, deliberate thrust. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you what he is. What he’s capable of. What you’ve owed him since he saved you from death.
You suck in a breath through your teeth. Your body clenches, involuntary, around the intrusion.
He groans.
Deep. Rough. Like your walls fluttering around just one finger wrecks him more than any throat he’s torn open.
“Still soft,” he says, dragging it back out with the same aching slowness. “Still warm.”
His thumb grazes your clit as he thrusts back in again—this time deeper.
You arch.
Your hips rise to meet him without meaning to.
And he stills.
“Mm.” His head tilts slightly as he watches your body respond, like he’s studying it. Studying you. “You’ll take more.”
It’s not a question.
It’s a sentence.
His voice drops lower, almost tender—almost.
“You owe me.”
Your throat tightens.
His hand is steady, patient, as his finger moves again, careful of the claw—pumping in and out at a rhythm just slow enough to drive you mad.
He leans down, lips brushing your jaw.
“I’ll take my time.”
He doesn’t move faster.
Just deeper.
The tip of his finger curves with every pump, dragging along the soft, untouched parts of you no one’s ever reached.
He watches the way your body reacts—how your thighs twitch, how your breath stumbles. How your walls keep fluttering around him, trying to draw more in, even as your shoulders tense.
His mouth brushes your ear.
“You’ll stretch for me,” he whispers.
It’s not just words—it’s a prophecy. A vow. A threat wound in velvet.
His thumb returns to your clit again, no pressure, just presence. Circling. Watching. Waiting.
“You’ll take all of me, even when it hurts,” he says, his voice hushed and rough. “Even when you’re begging me to stop.”
You flinch—whether from fear or need, you don’t know.
His finger pushes in again. Deeper this time. Firmer.
“You’ll beg again,” he murmurs, and his smile is audible now. “But not like you just did.”
Another slow curl of his knuckle, and your hips jolt.
“You’ll beg for me to finish inside you. To spill into you until it sticks.”
Your breath catches hard.
You’re trembling now—quiet, barely breathing, pinned to the bed by nothing but the pressure of his hand inside you and the sound of his voice in your ear.
He drags his mouth down your throat—presses a kiss to the skin there, where your pulse flutters wild beneath his lips.
“And when I do…” His voice is low. Hungrier. “When you’re marked on the inside… swollen from what I gave you…”
His nose brushes your cheek. Blood still streaks his mouth, dried in the corners.
“…You’ll carry it for me. Every drop.”
His finger curls again.
You moan—quiet and broken.
His lips part in a pleased sigh, like that sound was all he needed.
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t add another finger yet.
Just keeps working that same one inside you—slow, knowing thrusts, letting your body shape around him, letting the air grow heavy with heat and inevitability.
The promise of what’s coming.
Of what you’ll take.
Of what he’ll leave inside.
And when you clench again, when your breath slips out in a shaky sob—he moans back.
Like he feels it too.
His finger slips out of you with a soft sound—wet and obscene in the silence.
You gasp at the loss, your hips lifting slightly in a wordless plea, but he doesn’t respond. Not with touch. Not yet.
Instead, he lowers himself between your thighs.
The mattress shifts.
His breath ghosts over your inner thigh, dragging a shiver straight up your spine. He doesn’t speak this time. Just spreads you wider, his bloodstained hands pushing gently at the backs of your knees until you’re laid open for him.
You feel the air brush your slick folds. Feel the weight of his stare.
And then—
his tongue.
One long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit.
Your whole body arches.
It’s not just his mouth—it’s the groan he lets out when he tastes you. A deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your skin, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.
He moans again, sloppier this time, mouth dragging down to press hot kisses against the inside of your thigh—right where your blood pulses.
His fangs skim there. Light. Teasing.
But he doesn’t bite.
Instead, he spits—just a little—against your cunt, watching it drip down between your folds.
“Slick already,” he murmurs, voice reverent. “Just from a finger.”
You barely manage a sound. Just a soft whimper, desperate and unformed.
And then you feel it again.
His fingers.
Two this time.
He doesn’t warn you.
He just pushes in—slow but firm, stretching you open with more pressure, more weight, the curve of his claws dragging just right along the softest parts inside.
Your breath shatters. Your legs twitch.
He groans into the inside of your thigh as he fucks you with his fingers, the pace slow but deep, like he’s mapping you from the inside out.
“Look at that,” he breathes. “Takin’ both. Tight little thing.”
Your hips jerk. His mouth finds your clit this time, licking once—slow and lazy—while his fingers press deeper still.
“You’ll take my cock next,” he growls. “Every inch. And you won’t be able to close your legs when I’m done.”
He pumps his fingers again. Steady. Wet. Deep.
“And you’ll thank me for it.”
He groans again—quiet, but raw.
You feel it in the way his fingers curl deep inside you, pressing up until your back arches sharply off the mattress.
“There,” he says, almost gently.
“Right there.”
He finds it again, that soft, hidden place inside you, and strokes it.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
And again.
Your legs start to tremble. Your breath shatters.
His mouth returns to your clit—hot, open-mouthed kisses, slow laps of his tongue between the pulses of his fingers working inside you.
Sloppy. Focused. Worshipful.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs between strokes. “Let me feel you come on my hand.”
You choke on a gasp. Your hands claw the sheets.
Your body feels stretched tight, everything burning and wet, the heat of it building in your belly, climbing with every push of his fingers and every pass of his tongue.
You whimper.
That only spurs him on.
He sucks your clit into his mouth and groans, deep and low, his tongue flattening over it just as his fingers pump harder—curling with more pressure now, more purpose.
The tension snaps.
Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your ribs—sharp and hot and all-consuming.
Your thighs lock around his head, hips grinding up against his mouth as you sob out something that barely sounds like his name.
He holds you there.
Lets you ride it out.
Fingers still stroking deep.
Tongue still moving, slower now, coaxing every drop of pleasure from you.
“Good girl,” he breathes, lifting his head, lips shiny with your slick.
His voice is ragged with hunger. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”
Your body trembles.
You’re soaked. Wide open. Panting.
And his fingers are still inside you.
You’re still trembling.
Your thighs twitch where they fall open again, slick with sweat and the mess of your climax. The air feels too thick, the bedsheets too hot. Your pulse pounds between your legs—and in your throat—and everywhere else he’s touched.
He pulls his fingers from you slow.
Your walls clench around the loss, fluttering as though they could drag him back in, and you hear the soft, wet drag of your arousal clinging to his skin.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
Instead, he brings those blood-streaked fingers to his mouth and sucks them in, slow and deep, lips wrapping around the taste of you with a low, obscene groan.
You watch. You can’t look away.
And then he moves.
Crawls up the bed until he’s over you—his body heavy, shadowed, warm despite the blood dried against his chest. His scent is thick with iron and earth and something that still smells like your cunt.
He leans down.
Mouth beside your ear. Lips nearly brushing your skin.
One hand plants beside your head. The other drops low—palm pressing over the hard shape of his cock, still trapped behind his pants.
You feel it.
The size of him. The heat.
The tension in his arm as his hips twitch, just slightly, against his own hand.
He groans again—low—like the weight of it is almost too much to hold back.
“I should make you beg again,” he whispers, voice thick, soaked in something primal. “Make you cry for it.”
His hand rubs down the length of himself, slow, deliberate. You feel the bed shift beneath the movement, the air growing warmer as he exhales into your hair.
“Should keep you like this for hours. Open. Shaking. Dripping all over my cock without ever gettin’ filled.”
You moan—quiet and aching.
His lips graze your earlobe.
“But I think I’ve waited long enough.”
He palms himself again—more pressure this time, the drag of his hand slow, teasing. You can hear it now, too. Hear how wet he is from you. How soaked the front of his pants are.
“You feel how hard I am, don’t you?” he breathes.
You nod.
His mouth trails along your jaw, lips brushing blood-streaked skin. “I’m gonna tear this cunt in half, sweetheart.”
You shudder.
He presses his hips into you—just enough for you to feel it. The length of him, thick and aching, ready to push in and ruin you.
“But not yet.”
His fingers trace your mouth, smearing a mix of your slick and his spit across your lips.
“I want you to remember every second before it happens.”
He kisses your temple once, strangely gentle.
Then he moves back.
And starts to unbuckle his belt.
The buckle clinks.
Loud in the quiet, like the toll of a warning bell. Like the sound of something final, and coming.
You watch his hands—blood-caked knuckles, the dried gore at the bend of his wrist. His fingers move unhurried, practiced.
The leather slides free from the loops, slow enough that the soft pull of it against fabric makes your stomach tighten.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t have to.
The air between you says enough—thick with your scent, with blood, with the lingering weight of everything he’s already promised to do to you.
His pants hang open.
He presses his palm flat to his cock, rubbing once over the soaked front of his briefs. He hisses through his teeth—his jaw tight, head tipped back for a single breath.
Then he pushes them down.
And you see him.
All of him.
There’s no flourish. No pretense. Just heat, and want, and the slick glisten of precum painting the tip of his cock—dark and flushed and heavy, already so hard it twitches when the air hits it.
You can’t look away.
He’s thick. Long. Veined with something that looks almost wrong under the low light—like it’s alive in a different way than a man should be.
He sees your stare.
Smirks.
“Bigger than you thought?” he asks, voice dry, rasped.
You say nothing.
You can’t.
Your mouth is dry. Your thighs wet. And your body—already open, already aching—tightens around nothing as if it can feel him there already.
He wraps a hand around the base of himself, slow, languid.
Strokes up once.
You flinch at the sight of it—not from fear, but from knowing.
He’s going to ruin you.
He leans forward, eyes never leaving yours, and murmurs—
“You sure you want this?”
It’s not a question of consent.
If anything, it’s a question that gives you a false sense of control.
And you answer the only way you can—lips parted, legs still wide, cunt fluttering from the memory of his fingers.
He doesn’t speak again.
Not when he climbs over you, the bed dipping beneath his weight.
Not when his hand slides beneath your knee, lifting your leg just enough to open you wider for him.
Only his breathing changes—
deepening.
Thickening.
Turning hungry again.
His cock presses to your entrance—hot, slick, heavy—and your breath stutters the second you feel the blunt head notch against you.
You’re still wet.
Still pulsing from the last orgasm.
Still stretched—but not enough.
Not for this.
He holds himself still for a moment, just… there—the heat of him burning against your folds.
“Relax,” he murmurs, the words barely a breath.
Then he pushes.
Just the tip.
You tense—your walls tightening reflexively as they struggle to accommodate him.
He groans through his teeth, like the squeeze of your body already has him seeing stars.
“Fuck,” he rasps, head bowing. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He gives you another inch.
Slow.
Measured.
Unforgiving.
Your jaw falls open, eyes fluttering.
He’s thick—every ridge, every vein dragging against your walls in slow motion. He moves like he wants you to feel it. Every inch. Every stretch.
And you do.
Your body trembles, helpless under him.
Your nails curl into the sheets.
He bottoms out on a breathless moan.
“Just like that,” he pants. “Took all of me.”
He doesn’t move.
Not yet.
You’re too full. Too stretched. Your cunt spasms around him, slick and tight and overwhelmed, and you swear you feel your heartbeat in your core.
He leans in—mouth at your ear, voice wrecked.
“Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s mine now.”
Then he rolls his hips—just once.
And your whole body shatters open.
He stays deep.
Buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours, cock pulsing inside the tight, wet clutch of your cunt.
Neither of you moves.
Your chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths, sweat beading at your collar. Your thighs tremble, parted wide around his hips, your muscles strained and twitching from the stretch of him.
It’s too much.
You try to speak—but all that comes out is a shaky breath, your eyes fluttering closed, jaw slack with the effort of staying open for him.
Remmick watches you.
Eyes dark.
Mouth parted.
Throat working like he’s barely holding something back.
His body is trembling above yours. Not visibly. Not to most. But you feel it—his tension, the restraint in his muscles as your walls pulse around him.
And then—
He bucks forward.
A sudden, involuntary thrust—deep, sharp, too much—and the sound that rips from your throat is raw, startled, halfway to a sob.
But before you can speak—before you can breathe—
his mouth crashes against yours.
He kisses you hard. Not rough—but consuming.
A kiss that devours your cry, swallows the noise in your throat.
His hand cups your jaw, blood-warm and steady, as his hips hold deep inside you, pulsing, unmoving again.
When he finally pulls away—his breath stuttering across your mouth—his forehead stays pressed to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice low.
But he isn’t.
You hear it in the curl of it.
The breathlessness.
The way his mouth twitches like he’s tasting the echo of your cry and savoring it.
He nuzzles closer, voice quiet.
“You’re just… fuck,” he breathes, cock twitching deep inside you. “You’re too tight. Too warm. I couldn’t help it.”
The words sound gentle.
But there’s no guilt in them.
Only want.
Only the promise that he’ll do it again.
And when his hips shift just the smallest bit—just enough for you to feel him still hard, still throbbing—he groans against your throat and murmurs:
“Don’t tense up now, sweetheart.”
A pause.
Then—his lips at your ear, soft and cruel:
“You’re gonna feel every inch again.”
His hips shift.
Not a thrust. Not yet. Just pressure.
The slow grind of his cock dragging along your walls, stretching you in that same unbearable fullness—but with movement now. With friction. With promise.
You gasp, the sound punched out of you before you can catch it.
He hears it. Feels it.
And he smiles.
Not soft.
Not kind.
But slow—and satisfied. The kind of smile a man wears when he knows he has time. When he knows you’re not going anywhere.
He draws his hips back.
Only an inch.
Then pushes in again.
Deep. Unhurried. Intentional.
You moan, thighs twitching around his waist.
His hands frame your hips now, holding you in place like he’s anchoring you to the bed—like he’s the only thing keeping you from floating off somewhere too bright, too much.
He leans in again, nose brushing yours, lips nearly touching.
“You feel that?” he murmurs.
Another slow thrust.
Another sharp inhale from you.
“Every inch,” he breathes. “You’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”
Your fingers claw weakly at the sheets, nerves frayed with overstimulation. He’s so deep, so full, that your body doesn’t know what to do except take it.
And he knows that.
He watches your face as he fucks you slow—eyes locked to every flicker of pain, of pleasure, of tension trying to hold on.
“You were made for this,” he says. “To be filled. To be bred.”
He thrusts again—just a little harder this time. Still slow. Still measured. But enough that it presses deep, kisses the part of you that makes your toes curl.
You cry out again—soft, desperate.
His thumb brushes your lower lip. Blood smears from his knuckle to your mouth.
“You wanna come again, don’t you?” he whispers.
Another thrust.
Long. Heavy. Grinding.
“You want me to make you soak this cock—over and over—until I’ve filled you so deep it leaks for days.”
You nod. It’s all you can do.
He moves again.
A sharper buck of his hips this time—still deep, still slow, but with weight behind it. You gasp, body jolting beneath him, fingers grasping blindly at his forearms.
He does it again.
Then again.
Each thrust steadier. Harder. Dragging the thick length of him out just enough before slamming back in, until your gasps become a rhythm of their own—soft, punched-out sounds he seems to be chasing with every movement.
You can feel him growing hungrier with it.
Not just in the way he fucks you—but in the sounds he makes. The way his breath goes ragged at your ear. The way his hands tighten on your hips. The way his cock pulses inside you like his body is starving for release.
Another thrust—deep, unyielding. Your back arches.
“You did that. That’s you.”
His hips snap forward again, harder.
And again.
Until there’s no mistaking what this has become.
He’s rutting into you now—thrust after thrust, the rhythm no longer gentle, no longer careful. It’s claiming. It’s brutal. It’s the kind of fucking that leaves bruises deep where no one can see.
Your breath comes in ragged whimpers, the stretch of him constant, overwhelming. Your legs shake where they wrap around his waist. He reaches down, grabs the back of your thigh, and hauls it up higher over his hip, opening you wider.
You cry out at the angle.
“That’s it,” he growls, fangs scraping your cheek now, breath hot and wet. “Take it. Let me ruin this pussy the way I was meant to.”
He slams in again, and your whole body rocks with it.
He groans—deep, guttural—and his voice slips low, almost reverent as he fucks into you, faster now, chasing something dark and inevitable.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he pants, hips relentless. “You’ll be dripping with me for days.”
He doesn’t hold back.
His hips slam into yours with punishing force, cock driving deep again and again, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room like thunder. Each thrust punches a sound out of you—gasps, moans, strangled cries as your body surrenders under him, trembling from the force of it.
He’s grunting above you now—low, growling sounds, rough with effort. With hunger. With something darker still.
You clutch at the sheets. At him. At anything.
But he doesn’t notice.
Or—he doesn’t care.
Something’s shifting in him.
You feel it in the way his hips move—more erratic, more brutal. There’s nothing tender left in the way he drives into you. Just raw need. Just power. Just the demand to be felt—to be remembered inside you.
He snarls suddenly, and you flinch—not from fear, but from instinct.
His head jerks back.
And that’s when you see it.
His mouth is open—lips curled, fangs fully descended, sharp and slick. Drool spills from the corners, thick and shining in the low light, trailing in slow ropes down his chin.
It drips onto you.
Hot.
Wet.
Lands on your collarbone with a soft splatter, and more follows—warm streaks of saliva painting your skin as he fucks into you like an animal in heat.
You stare up at him—chest heaving, lips parted, eyes wide.
His eyes don’t meet yours.
They’re half-lidded. Unfocused. Wild.
His tongue swipes across his bottom lip, catching the next drop of spit—but another trails right after, falling from his mouth to your throat like he’s starving and you’re the feast he doesn’t dare bite yet.
“Mine,” he snarls, voice guttural. Barely human. “You’re mine.”
His hips snap forward again—harder than before—and your whole body jerks from the force.
The mattress creaks beneath you. The headboard knocks faintly against the wall. Your nails dig into his back now, desperate for something to hold onto.
And still—he keeps going.
Cock thick and heavy inside you, drool slicking your chest, fangs glinting just inches above your skin.
There’s no man left in him now.
Only the monster.
Only the thing that waited. That hunted. That took.
He pulls back.
Not fully—not out of mercy, and not to give you any relief.
Just far enough to look.
His thrusts slow, but stay deep. He shifts his weight onto one arm and lifts his torso slightly, gaze dropping between your bodies.
And then—he groans.
Low. Heavy. Shattered.
Because he sees it.
The thick, slick mess coating his cock, shining in the dark.
Your fluids—the aftermath of your orgasm, still glistening where you’ve soaked his fingers. His own precum, smeared in milky strands along the base. And now—blood.
Bright.
Wet.
Where the relentless drag of him forced your body beyond its limits.
He watches it all—entranced.
Watches the way your cunt stretches around him, fluttering helplessly as he pushes back in. Watches how the mix of blood and slick gathers at your entrance, squelching as he thrusts.
A string of it clings to the root of his cock when he draws back again, sticking to your folds, then snapping as he drives home with another sharp thrust.
You gasp.
Your legs jerk.
And still—his eyes stay fixed on the spot where your bodies join.
“Look at this pussy,” he growls, almost to himself. “Fucking dripping for me.”
He grinds in again, slowly this time, like he wants to feel every inch drag through the mess.
Your body quakes beneath him.
Your walls tighten in pulses, trying to keep him there, milk him deeper.
Another low moan leaves his throat—wrecked, shaky, like the sight is unraveling him faster than he can control.
He rocks into you again.
Deeper.
Slower.
Until blood and slick spill from your cunt in slow drips, painting the backs of your thighs, the sheets below.
And still—he doesn’t look away.
“You see this?” he rasps, glancing up at you through his lashes. “You see what I did to you?”
You can barely nod.
He leans down then, tongue dragging up the blood-smeared column of your throat.
“I haven’t even come yet.”
He doesn’t hold back now.
His restraint breaks all at once—like something in him snaps—and suddenly, he’s slamming into you with full force, hips snapping forward in hard, merciless thrusts that make the bed frame groan beneath your bodies.
Your cry catches in your throat.
He buries himself deep, over and over, and each time the drag of his cock sends a jolt through your spine. He’s not just fucking you—he’s consuming you. Devouring every sound, every shiver, every flutter of your body trying to keep up.
You feel it again.
The pressure.
The tight, hot build of release curling deep in your belly.
Your thighs start to shake. Your nails claw into his shoulders.
And he feels it too.
Feels the way your cunt starts to flutter around him—too wet, too tight, too close to the edge.
“Fuck,” he pants, mouth at your ear. “That’s it. Just like that. Squeeze me—fuck, baby, you feel that?”
His voice is a mess now—deep, breathless, ruined.
You try to speak, but it turns into a gasp as he drives in deeper, harder, his cock punching into the softest part of you until your whole body arches.
“You gonna come for me?” he snarls. “You gonna come all over my cock? Let me feel it?”
You sob out a yes—barely a word, barely a sound—but it’s enough.
He pistons into you, chasing your climax, chasing the way you tighten around him, the way your walls start to convulse, wetter with each thrust.
And then it hits.
Your orgasm tears through you like fire—legs locking around him, body trembling as you clamp down on his cock with a slick, vice-tight grip that makes him groan loud against your neck.
“Shit—just like that—”
He keeps thrusting.
Rougher now. Harsher.
The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together are soaked and obscene, echoing off the walls as your cunt milks him through the aftermath of your release.
And he’s cursing with every thrust now.
“Fuck— so tight—fuckin’ perfect—gonna fill you up—”
His voice breaks.
His thrusts falter.
He’s right on the edge.
He doesn’t last another second.
Not with the way you’re pulsing around him, cunt still spasming from your climax. Not with the way you cry out again—soft, broken, desperate—as he thrusts through it like he’s drowning inside you.
His breath punches from his lungs.
His hips slam forward one last time—so deep you swear you feel him in your throat—and then he growls.
A vicious, guttural sound that comes from somewhere deeper than his chest. Something ancient. Something monstrous.
And then—
He sinks his teeth into your neck.
Hard.
His fangs pierce deep, past skin, past the bruises already blooming across your throat. The pain is sharp, white-hot—and then it’s drowned in heat.
Because he comes.
Hard.
His cock jerks inside you, and then he’s spilling himself—thick, endless pulses of hot cum filling your cunt, spilling past the tight clutch of your body as he holds himself buried deep, grinding through every pulse.
Your breath stutters—choked by the sting of his bite, by the warmth flooding your core.
You feel everything.
The stretch. The weight. The claiming.
His cock twitching inside you. His tongue lapping at the blood seeping from your neck. His hips rolling slowly, shallowly, wringing every last drop of release into you.
And still—he doesn’t let up.
Doesn’t pull out.
Doesn’t stop.
He growls again against your skin, quieter now, mouth still latched to the wound as he licks over it. You feel him swallow.
You feel him stay.
Even as the spasms slow. Even as your body trembles beneath him—wrecked, open, slick and full.
Even then, he stays buried to the hilt, cock slowly softening.
And then you hear him whisper—against your bloody throat, voice rough:
Are you gonna write anymore david camp camp headcannons or fics 😏
I've been working on a smut shot I just haven't gotten to finishing all my wips cause I keep piling on too many. I got a couple pages of it in my notes app so it shouldn't take much longer though pooks <3
those people who say the same thing about every horror movie and it's like "i would've killed myself immediately wouldn't even have tried to survive" me about movies where a character gets pregnant
I forgot how fun headcannons were, especially smutty ones. My David kink is never ending. I know I legit posted minutes ago but IDGAF!
He's so twitchy, he can't help it. His thighs jump and jolt, his fingers clench and twitch, his head can't decide which direction its going with every wave of pleasure. His twitchy self is all over the place. Sometimes you just gotta hold the man down. (He loves being pinned anyway.)
He is so touchy. The only time he pulls your hair is on accident, when his needy hands find there way on your head during a blowjob. Sometimes he'll tug you when he doesn't feel you're close enough when he's doing you from behind. He'll grip his hands onto your back while you ride him, making it impossible to pull away from him. This twink has needy strength!
Speaking of blowjobs, he doesn't exactly know his stance on them. They feel incredible, and he enjoys the closeness. Yet, at the same time he hates making you swallow. You're very adamant about it, especially since he's such a healthy eater, you enjoy it. At the same time he would be disheartened if you spit, so there's no winning. He'll always accept one, but it isn't the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks about getting freaky with you.
Now, on the other hand he loves 69ing. It's the best of both worlds to him. It's harder to think about the guilt of you swallowing his unborn children when his tongue is busy. Plus if he cums prematurely he still has his mouth to work you. He loves the way your wetness drips down onto his face and the way you taste, that added onto the pleasure of your mouth wrapped around his cock- there's nothing better. Well, expect actual sex of course.
His tongue is always busy, and I mean busy. He has an obsession with giving rather than receiving. Something about the way you coo and praise him, the way you moan. He loves when your toes curl, when your thighs turn into earmuffs, and being practically waterboarded by your wetness. If he hasn't made you cum once from shoving his tongue inside you during a sexual rendezvou, he has failed. And Davy ain't no quitter. It goes on and on if you don't stop him, so watch out.
David doesn't enjoy being tied up. He hates not being able to run his hands all over you. Wether its having a death grip on your ass, thighs, or even your waist he wants it. He worships you from top to bottom, and that's hard to do with his hands tied. Now, he has found out on the other hand he enjoys tying you up. He still isn't the most dominant when he does, but he does get revenge for all those "one more" s you've given him.
David gains more confidence in the bedroom over time, which is natural for most relationships but when you say confidence you mean it. The more sure he is that he can make you orgasm, the more excited he is for the session. When you taught him how to properly finger you (hes not a virgin, just none of his exes talked him through it), he kept asking you to be his test dummy for weeks. Hes quite the quick learner. Once he learned the basics he became utterly focused on mastering them, and he has. Which has lead to his sexual confidence, at least towards you.
David comes with a nasty habit. He anxiously bites his bottom lip, always leaving it sore and red. This upsets you since he's got such a pretty mouth. He does this in and out of the bedroom. You basically have to shove your fingers in his mouth to make him stop, which has awakened a whole new kink within him. He's started doing it on purpose just so he can feel your dominant hand stop him and fingers press on the bottom of his tongue. Something about the weight and intimacy of it turns him on.
This boy just can't stop saying please. He's so polite even when he's asking to cum. It's such a cute habit of his. "Please let me cum." "Please, you're so tight. I can't do it." "Baby, please." He finds a new use for the word every time you fuck.
He sure knows how to beg. Davy has started looking for the keywords you like the most in bed. Learning what to plead for and what to subtlety demand. You haven't even noticed it over time but his every word is catered to your needs and lust. Oh mommy can't he cum early just this once?
Oh yes he says mommy, look at that cute little face. He just wants to babied every once in a while. Let him lay back with a goofy grin on his face covered in wetness as he patiently waits for more from his mommy. David doesn't say it often cause it makes him feel emrbassed, but when he gets really into it, it just slips out. You first learned about his mommy kink on accident. He was pumping deep inside of you squeezing his eyes shut with an agape mouth on the brink of an orgasm when it slipped. When he said his first mommy you couldn't help but make him cum again and again, hearing it was so cute!
David has no problem exploring any interesting kinks or fetishes you have. He makes you deal with his (you do more than just deal, you enjoy), so of course he'd willingly try yours. Wether its a night when he ends up blindfolded and covered in wax, or a more subtle fetish like spitting into his mouth, he'll try it. Getting you off gets him off. He's a pleasure bottom all the way.
David isn't exactly packing. He isn't huge but he isn't small either. He's working with a perfect 6 inches, average across the board. It's not so big that it'll hurt or take too much preparation, but it's not so small that you don't feel a thing. Like a dirtier version of goldilocks you think his dick is just right.
The base starts out the color of his skin and slowly fades into a dusty pink. It's like the perfect shade to you. He's your multicolored fun stick. He isn't very veiny, he doesn't work out much afterall. His job is athletic enough (herding kids is cardio, for sure). And yes, the carpet does match the drapes.
I have not found any smut related thing to this man, and to me that is a crime. I carnaly desire him, I long, I pin for him. Gimme David smut. This is mainly for a female reader but feel free to ignore any gender related comments and enjoy regardless of your sex. Anyways I'm lazy so here's some Headcannons.
No titties, Itty bitties, or big ol' honkers he doesn't care. David has never been one to have a specific fetish or type for his partners body. Hell he's just happy someone like you wants to have sex with him. As long as he can bury his face into your chest while you fuck, regardless of wether he's pressing against a flat board or being muffled by your mounds, he's a happy camper.
David isn't one to shave often. He's always sporting some kind of bush down there, he loves nature afterall. His pubes don't worry or bother him since he doesn't grow alot of body hair in the first place. For hygienic reasons he does trim, working in the sun all day does make him sweat.
Once again David is all about nature! He doesn't care if you're all smooth like a baby's bottom or if you're Becky with the good hair, a meals a meal. He nearly cums when you cum, even without contact, so he does enjoy a good session of oral. Picking pubes out of his teeth later isn't a concern.
David surprisingly isn't much of a moaner. All those years of working as a camp consular has trained him to be quiet. He's used to thrusting into his hand while biting his bottom lip, keeping himself silent for the campers sake. This has turned him into a whimperer. He's all whines and hushed begging. Whenever he shoves his head into the crook of your neck during the heat of the moment, it's like being given a private concert.
Davy loves a good pet name. Call him sugar, sweetness, darling, or even pretty boy. He doesn't care. As long as it's a term of endearment it sends a pang to his heart and heat to his dick in the bedroom. Expect alot of silent pleads, he just wants to be called a good boy.
David is easy to have his feelings hurt. Pretty please be nice to him! Degradation just isn't his thing. He would always try for his partners sake, if that's your thing, but he doesn't enjoy it. Being called a hurtful thing just makes him wanna cry. It's even worse if you request he do it. You remember what happened when he last pretended to be tough. This doesn't mean he's utterly vanilla though.
Overstimulate him. Oh does he adore becoming a whiny mess. As long as you warn him before hand that you're going to do it, he's down. He especially loves when you claw the amount of times he's cum into his back (be careful with your marks though, yall don't need any nosy campers asking questions. Always keep it under the shirt.) David has been extremely sexually repressed throughout his life, he's got plenty in the tank to spare.
David's libido isn't insanely high. He'd much more enjoy a sweet picnic, or a romantic hike in the woods compared to sex. He'd never reject it though. This does mean most of your sexual ednevours will have to be initiated by you. You learn pretty quickly as long as the area is clear he's down to bone, so it isn't much of a problem. Just crawl in his lap late at night while all the campers lay asleep, and it is on like Donkey Kong!
David surprisingly doesn't do porn. He's always had an overactive imagination. Who needs adult entertainment when you have the perfect titties in your mind? Better yet, who needs porn when he has you? You learned this by asking about his porn taste, only to find out he doesn't have one. He does do strippers on the other hand, you learned this before you were in a relationship. Having to drag his drunk ass home from Muffin Tops.
Thighs, utterly delectable. Wiggle your thighs at him and his mind goes south. He just can't help it, they're tempting him. Especially in those little shorts (as long as he ignores the sexist implications of the women's camp consular uniform) he can't help but stare. Expect alot of thigh grabs, thigh hugs, and small little hickies hidden on the inside of your thighs. Delcious~
His favorite sex positions are the ones where you have to be close, which means any positon. He'll find a way to make it work. Riding him while pressing your forehead to his, a mating press with his face hidden in your shoulder, doggy as he pants against your back, spooning while he's inside you. As long as he can work his way near you, and I mean really near you, it's his favorite. He especially enjoys a nice romantic night of missionary since he can see your face, kiss you whenever he pleases, and when you lock your ankles behind his back it feels like heaven.
He's such a sweet boy. He may be on top of you, fucking into you in a dominant position but he's a bottom. No matter how you have sex, you're the one in control. Feel free to swap the position or flip him over and rock his world. He doesn't mind it, whatever you say goes. He loves when you're really dominant, those nights where you're beyond frustrated from bratty campers are his favorite.
David preens when you mark him. It does sadden him that due to the nature of his job you can't mark him more, but it's understandable. He'll take whatever he can get. Scratch marks down his back, check. Hickies hidden on his chest, check. Bitemarks on his thighs, for sure check. Mane him however you please, just keep it under his clothes.
I adore this man. Obviously love him. Keep your eyes out for an actual smut shot, or even normal one shots. I just want my little work husband.
The white haired man doesn't get much praise in his life. He's so strong that everyone just assumes he'll do it, that he'll be good at it, or he'll ace this, ace that. Everyone's high expectations leave Gojo working hard for no praise. All work and no play makes Gojo a very dull boy.
So late at night when it's just you and him, he begs you to praise him. Gripping your hips dangerously tight as you ride him. Your delicious juices dripping down his cock and onto his thighs.
"Please- mmmpf I'm your good boy." He whines needily. He rocks his hips upward, desperately meeting your thrusts. "Please-please praise me." He moans out with small tears pricking the sides of his eyes. Begging for you to praise him as you fuck him through another orgasm. Overstimulating him again and again.
"That's right baby you're my good boy." You moan on top of him, digging your nails into his chest. Throwing your head back as he cums inside you again. "That's it baby, is all this for me? Awee what a good job, from such a good boy." You coo, rubbing over the nail marks you made into his chest.
He smiles lazily and his abdominal twitches, his balls tightening up as you don't stop. Aiming to get more out of him. "I can't- oh please please, I'm all out." He whines and whimpers. Acting like it's too much when he truly enjoys it. You milk him dry all night.
