can I request....v!lumberjack perhaps.....I don't care what scenario I just wanna read them fuck nasty.....plea,se,,
You've come to the right place my dear for fucking nasty! I wanted to write v!lumberjack for months I just never had an idea until today. The idea was very simple: muzzles :3
Modern day au or something, still very much vampires, but writing this I forgot they were supposed to be in Oakhurst...
Tags: Muzzle, Pet play (kinda? I think one day I'm gonna learn), praise
The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of the apartment, striping the polished hardwood floor. Owen leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching. Pyro was a whirlwind of restless energy, pacing from the couch to the window and back, a low, playful growl rumbling in his throat every time he passed.
“What’s gotten into you today, huh?” Owen asked, his voice calm but edged with a familiar authority.
Pyro stopped, turning his head. A sharp, mischievous grin split his face. “Bored. Need to burn some energy.” He took a slow, deliberate step towards Owen, his eyes glinting. “Your energy.”
Owen didn’t move. “You bit me this morning. Hard.”
“You liked it,” Pyro countered, taking another step closer, now within arm’s reach. He leaned in, his breath warm against Owen’s neck. “I felt you shiver.”
“That’s not the point.” Owen’s hand came up, not pushing him away, but settling firmly on Pyro’s chest, holding him at a precise distance. “Scott saw the mark. Told me I should ‘control my dog’.”
Pyro stilled. The playful light in his eyes flickered, replaced by something hotter, darker. A challenge. “Did he now.”
“Mhm.” Owen’s thumb stroked a slow circle over the fabric of Pyro’s shirt. “Said it was embarrassing. That a well-trained pet shouldn’t be so… mouthy.”
The air between them thickened, charged. Pyro’s gaze dropped to Owen’s lips, then back to his eyes. “I’m not a pet.”
“Aren’t you?” Owen’s voice dropped to a murmur, a private sound meant only for the space between their bodies. “You get that look. The one where you want to be told what to do. Where you want to be good for me. But today… today you’re all teeth. No discipline.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be good,” Pyro breathed, but the waver in his voice betrayed him. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary shift forward, seeking the pressure of Owen’s restraining hand.
Owen saw it. He always saw it. That silent plea beneath the defiance. Scott’s stupid comment echoed in his head, not as a criticism, but as a spark. An idea. A delicious idea.
“I think you do,” Owen said finally, his tone shifting into something smoother, more deliberate. He pushed off the counter, forcing Pyro to take a step back. “I think you desperately want to be my good boy. You’re just having trouble remembering how.”
He turned and walked toward the hallway closet, his steps measured. Pyro followed, a magnet drawn to its pole. “Owen…?”
Owen opened the closet door and reached up to the top shelf. His fingers closed around smooth leather. He pulled it down, the straps whispering against themselves. It was a muzzle. A simple, human-grade, breathable leather muzzle with a padded interior. They’d bought it as a joke, a prop for a costume party last Halloween. It had never been used for its intended purpose.
Until now.
Owen turned, holding it up. Pyro’s eyes went wide, his breath catching audibly. He didn’t step back. If anything, he leaned closer.
“This,” Owen said, his voice a low, resonant command that vibrated in the quiet room, “is for biting.”
Pyro stared at the muzzle, then at Owen’s face. A flush crept up his neck. “You’re serious.”
“Scott thinks I can’t control you. I think he’s wrong.” Owen took a step forward. “I think you’re going to be so, so good for me. Aren’t you, Pyro?”
The use of his name, coupled with that tone—firm, expectant, brimming with unshakable confidence—unlocked something deep in Pyro’s core. His shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of him, replaced by a throbbing, immediate heat. He gave a single, shaky nod.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes,” Pyro whispered. “I’ll be good.”
“Good boy,” Owen praised, and the effect was instantaneous. Pyro shuddered, a full-body tremor of pure want. His eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Now. On your knees.”
Pyro sank down gracefully, the denim of his jeans whispering against the floor. He knelt upright, hands resting on his thighs, head tilted back to look up at Owen. The submission was beautiful, total. Owen approached, the leather cool in his hands.
“Open,” he instructed softly.
Pyro parted his lips, his breathing already coming faster. Owen guided the muzzle into place. The padded bar fit comfortably behind his teeth, the leather cups settling against his cheeks. Owen’s fingers were deft, gentle but firm as he buckled the straps behind Pyro’s head, checking the fit. He tucked a finger under a strap, ensuring it wasn’t too tight. “Comfortable?”
Pyro nodded, the movement restricted but clear. A muffled sound, an affirmative hum, came from behind the leather. His eyes were huge, dark pools of surrender and arousal.
Owen stepped back to admire his work. The sight was profoundly erotic. Pyro, strong-willed and fiery Pyro, brought to his knees and silenced. His expression was one of deep, abiding trust, mixed with a wild excitement that made his chest rise and fall rapidly.
“Look at you,” Owen murmured, crouching down to be at eye level. He ran a thumb over the leather covering Pyro’s cheek. “So perfect. My perfect, muzzled boy. No more biting. No more trouble. Just you, being good for me.” Each word was a caress, a reinforcement. Pyro whined, a desperate, hungry sound, and nuzzled his face into Owen’s palm.
Owen’s own desire, a slow-burning coal, burst into flame. He stood, his hand sliding into Pyro’s hair, gripping firmly. “Stay.”
He walked to the living room, Pyro’s eyes tracking his every move. Owen settled into the armchair, spreading his legs. He unbuttoned his jeans, the sound obscenely loud. He didn’t hurry. He took his time, pulling down the zipper, pushing fabric aside. He was already hard, his cock springing free, thick and flushed.
“Come here,” he said, his voice rough now with need.
Pyro scrambled forward on his knees, the leather of the muzzle brushing against Owen’s inner thigh as he moved into the space between Owen’s legs. He stared at Owen’s cock, then up at his face, a question in his eyes.
“You want to be useful, don’t you?” Owen asked, his hand back in Pyro’s hair, guiding him closer. “You want to show me how good you can be?”
Another muffled, eager sound. Pyro nodded, his hot breath washing over Owen’s skin.
“Then show me.”
Owen didn’t force him down. He applied just enough pressure to guide, to direct. Pyro needed no more encouragement. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out first to lick a broad, wet stripe from base to tip. The sensation, the visual of his muzzled partner trying to lavish attention with only his tongue, sent a jolt of pure lust straight to Owen’s groin.
“That’s it,” Owen groaned, his head falling back against the chair. “Use that tongue. Show me how sorry you are for being so mouthy.”
Pyro moaned around the muzzle, the vibration traveling through Owen’s cock. He set to work with a focused desperation, his tongue flattening against the underside, lapping at the bead of pre-cum that had gathered at the slit. He couldn’t take Owen deep, couldn’t use his lips or teeth, and the limitation made every swipe, every circling pass of his tongue, feel infinitely more intense. It was all sensation, all wet, hot, silken friction.
Owen’s grip in Pyro’s hair tightened. “Such a good boy,” he rasped. “Look at you, trying so hard. Your tongue is so clever, so pretty.” He used his free hand to stroke Pyro’s cheek, his thumb rubbing over the strap of the muzzle. “My good, pretty boy. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to kneel and serve.”
Pyro’s answering whimper was broken, overwhelmed. His hips began to rock against empty air, seeking friction of his own. The praise was like fuel poured on the fire of his arousal, making him dizzy with it. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving and swirling, bathing Owen’s length in slick heat.
The pleasure built in a slow, relentless wave. Owen could feel the tension coiling tight in his abdomen. He watched, mesmerized, as Pyro worshipped him, the leather straps framing his face, his eyes screwed shut in concentration and bliss.
“Not yet,” Owen breathed, pulling Pyro back by the hair. A string of saliva connected Pyro’s tongue to Owen’s glistening cock for a second before snapping. Pyro looked up, dazed, panting through the muzzle. “Stand up. Take your clothes off. I want to see all of you.”
Pyro rose on unsteady legs, his own erection straining painfully against his jeans. His fingers fumbled with his belt, his button, his zipper, movements clumsy with urgency. He pushed his jeans and boxers down in one frantic motion, kicking them aside. His t-shirt followed, tossed to the floor. He stood naked before Owen, trembling, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach.
“Beautiful,” Owen said, the word a reverent exhale. “Every inch of you. Come here.”
Pyro moved back into the space between Owen’s legs. Owen’s hands went to his hips, pulling him closer, until the head of Pyro’s cock brushed against Owen’s still-wet length. The contact made them both gasp.
“You’re dripping for me,” Owen observed, his voice thick. He reached between them, wrapping his fingers around both of their cocks, squeezing them together. The feeling was electric—hot skin, slick with spit and pre-cum, the thrilling contrast of his own hand and Pyro’s muffled cry.
He began to stroke, a slow, tight glide that made his vision blur. “This is what you needed, isn’t it?” he gritted out, his hips pushing up into the friction. “To be put in your place. To be shown who takes care of you.”
Pyro could only nod frantically, his hands braced on Owen’s shoulders for balance, his body bowing over him. Every slide of Owen’s fist pulled another choked, desperate sound from behind the muzzle.
“You’re being so perfect,” Owen whispered, his pace increasing. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, a wet, rhythmic slap. “Taking your muzzle so well. Letting me use you. My perfect, good boy. You can come. Come for me.”
It was the final permission. The praise, the overwhelming sensation, the psychological surrender of the muzzle—it all crashed over Pyro at once. His body locked, a sharp, guttural cry muffled by leather as he came, stripes of white painting Owen’s stomach and chest in hot pulses. His knees buckled, but Owen held him up, his stroking hand never stopping, now slick with Pyro’s release.
The sight, the feel, the smell of it pushed Owen over the edge mere seconds later. His own orgasm tore through him with a force that stole his breath. “Fuck—good boy—so good—” he chanted, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled over his own fist and onto the mess already on his skin.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing. Pyro slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest against Owen’s shoulder, his body shaking with aftershocks. Owen slowly released his grip, bringing his soiled hand up to cup the back of Pyro’s head, holding him close.
He reached up with his other hand, fingers finding the buckle of the muzzle. He released it with a soft click and gently pulled the leather away. Pyro’s face was flushed, his lips reddened, his jaw slack. He licked his lips, taking in a deep, gulping breath of free air.
Owen tilted his chin up. Pyro’s eyes were glazed, sated, utterly peaceful. “There’s my good boy,” Owen murmured, leaning in to kiss him softly, tasting himself on Pyro’s tongue. “You did so well.”
Pyro melted into the kiss, a soft, contented hum vibrating in his throat. “Owen…” he breathed when they parted, the word full of awe.
You get used to taking what you can get. You get used to it when you're Pyro. When your body belonging to you is a distant memory, when people take what they want from you: violation after violation till you learn to internalise it: accept it because it will just happen. Called disgusting and filthy enough times it must be true, why bother acting otherwise, why bother making an effort to undermine fact. It's the only attention he gets: being spat on, fingers in his mouth, slapped about, having his clothing torn, punched and kicked in the stomach, and used as a worm place to bury someone else's stresses and worries. The only attention he's worthy of. There was a time he put up a fight feeble as it was, but by the time he came to Oakhurst, Pyro knew it was faster to tolerate it and take what attention he can from it. It would be over quicker. Just lay there and take his beating, let whoever use him till they were happy, and it would be over soon enough.
Doesn't matter if it's Czeslaw, or if it's Scott, the universal truth of his life remained the same: he was a filthy thing made to be used and he should be happy he even got that.
It's why, leaning back on the fuel tank of a motorbike, pants abandoned in the dirt of the woodland track they rode up on, shirt riding up past his chest, lights of the summer camp shuttering in the distance, that Abolish's bluntly flat question haunts him so.
"So, what do you actually like?"
Pyro, with his dark monstrous eyes and face horrific and scared by holy water and claws of his becoming, blinks at Abolish sitting on the bike seat, feet on the ground keeping the bike steady, hands lingering on the dark motorcycle trousers by Pyro's shoes - his legs spread inviting Abolish to take what he wants and pressing into his thigh to balance himself against the bike.
"What did you say?" In the night, Pyro's eyes are haunting - so he's been told: terrible crimson orbs swallowed up by dark sclera straight out of the abyss - and yet Abolish never breaks eye contact. He's annoying like that, looking at him while talking to him, not through him or past him, he looks at Pyro and none one else. It makes his skin shiver.
"You, the vampire leaning on back on my bike with your cock and behind out, you: what do you like?" Again, Abolish might as well be speaking a different language the way Pyro's face is bereft of clarity. Abolish's dark borderline soulless eyes narrow imperceptibly as Pyro stills like the world is just a ringing in his ears and it has all been swallowed by the dark.
Why would he ask him that? Why would he even care - just get it over with.
"I can stop if you want?"
"No!" The panic that rushes through him hasn't been felt since he was flailing through the lake by the obelisk, torn into and gutted before being dragged under it's current and disappearing in the red mist of his own death. He very well almost bites through his lips his mouth snaps the words out. And then he realises his misstep, his rudeness, he has forgotten his place and the hysteria filling his cold dead heart is like another stake driven through it-
"Okay. Alright. But I'm not doing anything till you give me the go ahead." Abolish states, voice cool and calm and Pyro appreciates it more than he can express. The characteristic unflappable nature of his, unchanged, even now, accommodating him, even now. Being listen to is strange, doesn't feel right - but it feels nice.
His hands come to his face and rub, a deep breath rattling his ribs, and when he brushes his hands into his ashen mop he half expects Abolish to be gone - like batman: he's done it before - but no, he's still there. Still waiting patiently for him to approach at his own pace. Great now he feels like a wounded deer being gently encouraged towards a human for help… but is that so bad?
Pyro breaths deep and he turns to look at the distant camp where he and Abolish - mostly Abolish - had killed a bad 80's slasher of a vampire an hour prior: this was meant to be celebration sex, but it was something more. Something dangerous formative that threatens to disrupt the foundations of his self.
"Can you touch me with your gloves on… I like the feel," Pyro admits, sheepish, bracing himself for the mockery or the disregard or a slap or -
"And where can I touch you?" Abolish follows up, an effortlessly controlled serenity on his face as he makes sure his leather riding gloves have no chance of slipping off. They never would, but Pyro finds the act a comfort.
"Where ever you want-"
"Pyro."
His hands return to his face, each choice and declaration of autonomy it's own little agony.
"You can touch my thighs and cock and arms and chest and my face if you really want to but who would ever want to-" the gentle caress of expensive black leather runs along the scruff of his jaw with military precision and a tenderness that breaks him more than any torture could. The leather feels nice, down right has him purring from the gentle roughness of it's grain and warmth, but when Abolish's thumb drifts up towards his lip, Pyro snatches his wrist.
Abolish startles, not enough to do anything, but Pyro can see the way his eyes focus. He feels horrible. It's more on instinct that anything, but the feeling of fingers threatening to press into his mouth makes his calcified stomach threaten to inverse.
"Not mouth… sorry I should have, I didn't know I just-" the words stumble over themself as they leave Pyro's mouth and again Abolish remains stalwart, sat secure on the seat, a cliff of utter acceptance the turbulent waves of Pyro crash against. "Sorry."
"It's okay. Thank you for telling me." And Abolish stays clear of his mouth, just runs his hand along the vampire's jaws and lets him bask in the gentle affection.
He had a dream about Scott doing this once, of holding him tenderly while saying how proud of him he was, the perfect fledgling, soaking in the admiration of his sire… but it was just that, a dream.
Abolish's hand move with a militarily precise sensualness - at times it's a little awkward: as if Abolish has a errant thought that he is petting a dog and Pyro finds a charm and warmth in that - travelling along his jaw and cheeks and instead of revolting at the stain of holy water or the scars of Owen and Scott, his fingers dance around the borders. And when Pyro says he is okay with them being touched, it is devastatingly soft to have the ugliness of his life admired as if they were jewels.
And with each drag of Abolish's hand, each tender touch, Pyro feels his breath weighing down his chest, his pallid cheeks warming effervescently, and a strangle tingle across his breast and dancing up his back. First he thinks it is the wind, a chill, but that hasn't bothered him in many moons.
This is something else.
"Can you…"
"I can if you ask."
"Can you touch my…" Pyro pouts, a sudden almost boyish embarrassment colouring his face, "can you touch my cock, please." Instantly he wants to dig himself back into the grave he pulled himself from.
"Of course, it would be my pleasure," Abolish responds with a collected coolness, perfectly masquerading the abject horror that the way Pyro was beneath him let him know this was the first time he had actually been asked to be touched.
"Just gentle, I-" something catches on Pyro's tongue and his voice comes meeker than he might like, "I don't like it when it's super rough."
"Understood." A hand remains on Pyro's face, a gentle caress he can lean into at his leisure, while his other hand winds down to his crotch. But first he reaches into his pocket and flicks the lid of a petite lube. Pyro blinks at him.
"Always prepared. And don't want it to hurt," Abolish states as a gentle sheen of lube covers his gloved hand.
The anticipation and anxiety is burning white hot in his chest and Pyro mumbles to himself that it is okay, he asked for this, over and over again until the reassurance is echoing in his mind. And then Abolish's hand closes gently around his cock. A gruff noise of surprise slips out as Pyro slumps back on the bike.
It is strange - someone else touching your cock, someone else wearing gloves touching your cock, someone else wearing gloves touching your cock gently because you asked them - quite strange in a way he isn't sure how to process it. It's familiar, he's touched himself plenty, but it's also not him and when the initial rush of panic seizes him that he has no control, he meets Abolish's dark eyes and remembers that he does.
After a brief moment, acclimating to the savoury feel of the leather around his cock, Pyro gives Abolish a curt nod and he starts to gently stroke the vampire. Slowly, the delicate roughness of the leather clad hand slides down his cock, pulling back his foreskin to expose the pallid rosy head already - embarrassingly - drizzling pre and Pyro immediately grimaces behind his palms. But the mockery doesn't come.
"Hmm. You really like being touched don't you." Abolish says with a soft charm, more of a observation than question.
"I guess so."
Abolish's finger meet his base and gently rise back up his cock, appreciating the curve and every facet of him in the most delicate manner. It is better than he deserves, Pyro can't help but think it every time Abolish makes a whiny groan or sound of genuine pleasure spill out of him with his hands. A gentle stroke, and a finger that presses to the back side of his head as it rises makes him moan in a way he never has and this thighs shake like he's caught a fever. All from a gentle touch.
Who knew gentleness could feel so good...
His cock is so shiny with lube now and it looks good, it feels good - it feels really good to be touched gently, to be slowly worked over while he is caressed like he isn't filthy, like he isn't a monster, like he is loved. Maybe he is.
Maybe he could…
As his chest settles from a devastatingly lovesome moan, head back on the handles of the motorbike sinking into the gentle oblivion of Abolish's touch, Pyro looks at the damphir with a nervous sort of excitement.
"Could you kiss me, if you want," he asks, breathless in a way that doesn't make his throat hurt and doesn't make him grimace at his own pathetic ness.
"I would want to. Nice and gentle?"
"Please…" and Abolish leans up across his bike, his hands still occupied with the soothing rhythm of stroking Pyro, and hovers just above the vampire's lips. The agency is on his. If he wants this kiss, he has to meet him.
And Pyro wants it.
He leans up and tenderly presses his lips to the half-vampires.
There's no hunger, no hurt, no forcing in to dominate his mouth with their own, Abolish just leans into him and brings his lips to meet Pyro's in kind. An uncharismatic warmth graces the undead as their lips press against one another in a tender embrace, and his chest sings like song bird bones dancing. Like fire consumes his ribs and crackles up through him, like he's worthy of love and basking in that knowledge.
A little moan breaks his lips from Abolish and the man laughs, downright giggles at him in a way that has Pyro's eye wide and dewy like he's seeing a sunrise again and not burning up in it.
"Is this okay?"
And every time that question is asked, Pyro feels something old ache, something like a malignancy stained on his very soul, but perhaps in time it will fade every time he says -
Vampires being able to smell every emotion on a person, including lust, and Scott berating/threatening Pyro for the first time and realizing he’s fucking turned on???
Vsmp majorscythe in honor of them coming back tomorrow
chastity.
they have the toxic vibes of like. Scott will put Pyro in a cage and then forget he did that and Pyro will be like fawning over him -- service kink too tbh -- and begging Scott to fuck him and Scott's like "oh my god can you leave me to drain chickens and build my enormously out-of-style castle in peace?? fine I'll stick my dick in you if it will make you go away"
