You shouldn’t be in the basement. But damned if you aren’t curious. Incensed at being forbidden from parts of your own home. And bored.
The door opens with a creak. The key, worn and unassuming, twists with a groan. The dust is thick with years of neglect, and rises with little puffs as you step through it.
It’s a small basement. Lab equipment to one side. Bookshelf and mouldy works to another. So your eyes land on the creature quite immediately.
“What on earth,” you whisper. But you’re moving before you can consider the answer.
The creature before you is unlike anything you’ve seen, and while it’s covered in a layer of fur and its eyes are large and insectoid (are those wings tucked tight against its back?), it's clearly no beast.
Curled in on itself, one of it’s legs tethered to the ground, hands (fuck, those hands are too human) caging an injury on it’s torso: it’s a pitiful sight.
It shuffles back when you near it, but you kneel, pausing only a moment as it chirps at you, the sound a question – and a warning. It’s large, and even sitting with its knees clutched to its chest its head sits above yours.
“What did he do to you?”
Because it’s no question that this is why you’ve been forbidden from the basement. This is why your grandfather forbade you from leaving your room at night, and why he’s always ignored certain questions you’d asked.
For a moment you’re torn between going for the injury and going for the rope. You hesitate, going over your options.
The wound is clotted and old, and you know little about first aid, other than stopping the bleeding.
The rope, however, is mundane in appearance. You wonder why the creature hadn’t set itself free until your fingers graze the fibres, and your hand jerks away with a sting.
A red welt raises where you’d touched the rope. You stare at the creature’s ankle with horror – the fur and flesh beneath the tether is blistered and burnt. The fur is missing in patches, damaged badly.
“I’ll be back,” you promise, before eyeing the lab equipment.
Glassware, a burner, metal instruments – none of it is particularly familiar to you, but the set of tongs and the scalpels look useful.
You snatch them up and return to the creature – it looks more and more like a giant moth upon closer inspection. It’s wings which twitch and shudder at your scrutiny, are beautifully patterned, and covered in a thick later of some kind of dust. The creature – also unnervingly humanoid in shape – wears no clothes, but its short fuzzy fur is thick enough to obscure its bodily features.
It chirps again the sound higher in pitch, almost alarmed when you return, and rears back as far as the tether will allow.
You wince at the implication, and hold one of your hands out in supplication. “I’m going to cut the rope. Will you let me?”
It grows still at your words, and you wonder how much it understands.
It’d be easier to cut from where you are, but then that’d leave the moth creature with a ring of potentially magical rope stuck around its ankle, and you doubt it’d let you close enough to help once it’s loose.
Slowly you close the distance. It allows the movement, though visibly tenses when you pick up the tongs. You use the metal to lift the rope from its leg, and it lets out a hiss.
The scalpel is a poor choice, but it does the job. Frustratingly, slowly, you pick at the threads until the rope comes apart and falls from the creature.
For a moment the pair of you are still.
You dare to meet its eyes, curious as to what it’ll do next. It seems equally hesitant to break the tension, staring at you with an intensity that’s almost unnerving.
A thump from upstairs jolts you from the moment, and like a bolt the creature is standing, fur on end and wings fluttering with unease.
“There should be a back door,” you whisper, scanning the area with mounting unease.
The basement is small, but you’d seen external door during your trips around the grounds. With three of the walls apparently bare and the fourth leading back to the house, you frown.
You eye the bookshelf and move to shove it aside. Several sheets of paper flutter to the ground, and you curse, bracing yourself and pushing harder.
The shelf moves with a sudden lurch when a set of hands appear above your own, and the heat of another body slots behind yours. You don’t have any time to start at the creature’s proximity, though, because the door comes into view. It’s not locked – thank god – but the bilco doors at the top of the stairs are barred shut.
There’s more noise from upstairs, and your breathing hitches. You’d be in trouble if he knew you were poking around in the basement. And you shuddered to think of what he’d do to you if he found out you’d freed his ‘pet’.
You claw at the wood – it's nailed to the door and you let out a despairing whimper.
The creature pushes you aside, digs its fingers into the rotting wood, and pulls it free with a loud groan and a crack.
Those are footsteps on the stairs – your grandfather is entering the basement.
“Go, go, go,” you whisper, shoving the creature on the arm.
The bilco doors shudder open, creaking in protest, just as your grandfather swings the basement door open and lets out a shout.
You don’t really have time to process what happens next. The creature wraps an arm around your waist and holds you against its chest. You don’t have a chance to marvel at it’s strength, or kick your legs as your feet leave the ground.
Then it moves. With unnatural speed it bounds a few steps across the estate grounds before jumping into the air, wings snapping open before launching you into flight.
You’d shriek if it weren’t for the hand that presses against your face, covering you nose to jaw. Crushed against the creature you still loop your arms around its neck, terrified of the sudden drop beneath you.
The fear doesn’t abate, but after a few minutes of flight you grow used to the position, and your trust that the creature won’t drop you grows. You realise that it had saved you from your grandfather. From having to explain away your misdeeds. Your guilt.
When the creature sets you down at the edge of the estate grounds, you know you can still go back. That if you sneak into your bed right now, you can continue your life of moderate luxury without fear of consequence.
Nobody has to know what you’d done.
You hesitate to step out of its grasp.
It chirps a question at you and you swallow.
Grandfather will have discovered the creature is missing. What will he do first? You’re not that great a suspect. He won’t go to your room immediately. Will he give chase? Summon a tracker? A mage?
Either way, morning come he’d be making your life miserable. You might escape blame but he’ll still be in a rage for gods-only-know how long. Breaking your things. Beating the staff. Perhaps even locking you in your room again.
“I don’t want to go back,” you murmur. Further consideration isn’t really needed.
The creature tilts its head. Lets out a low grumbling chirp, accompanied by a shrug. And opens its arms to you.
You loop your arms back around its neck and it lets out another noise – this one more like a purr. Apparently you’re welcome to go with it.
You’ve done your time in the abyss. Tempted and tortured and toiled until your time in devilry is nothing but a dutiful blur. Nose to the grindstone, you’d never had time to seek out the finer things in life (or your arguable mimicry of it). It changes today. Your time is up. Retirement is on you. At least until the next Epoch.
It’s lonely. Your neighbours are humans and while you enjoy causing low level mayhem in your little cul-de-sac, you find it hard to relate to anyone in the time period you were assigned. Until one evening you’re sneaking a cigarette on your back porch when you hear a shriek from next door. There’s a small commotion: running footsteps, a door slamming, a sudden THUNK as something hits your fence with force. By the tremors in the wood and the entangled struggling from your border hedge, you presume that something is alive.
Curious you sidle over, parting the leaves of the shrub to investigate what kind of wildlife might have sent Bettie-from-the-HOA screeching. Even with your darkvision, it takes a moment for you to spy the source of the incident, as its fur is an inky black; supernaturally so.
You curse softly (and one of Bettie’s prized roses withers) as you eye the hellhound. It’s a runt, patches of its fur missing, also bereft a chunk of its ear and one of its front legs. The thing looks heartbreakingly alone, stuck in a dense patch of greenery, and when it meets your eyes it stills before letting out a whimper.
Source ingredients as close as possible to original origin
Double check measurements. Conversions may be inaccurate.
The circle:
Precision. Measure angles. Line thickness. Density of ink. Practice.
Clean floor. No contaminants.
Incantation:
Precision
Pronunciation > intent. Practice.
Pain meds. No electronics. Sound proofing.
Memorise in case of fucky lighting.
Dismissal:
Portal MUST close before erasing circle
Engagement:
Speak only necessary words
NO NAMES
You review your notes one last time before locking the door and drawing the curtains. Candles are on standby, the entrances to the room are salted, the passage is memorised, your negotiation points fresh in mind-
Everything is as ready as it can possibly be.
You activate the circle.
You light the candles. Pour your mixture. Say the words.
They hurt to speak.
Your throat contracts uncomfortably around some of the consonants. Your joints start to ache as the pressure in the room changes. You become too aware of your teeth, feeling almost loose in their sockets as you force infernal phonics past them.
Then it’s done and the creature appears.
You don’t look closely. You never do. You made the mistake once and suffered a week long migraine afterwards.
Besides, it’s not polite.
You keep your gaze low and bow your head in greeting. It’s enough to catch a flicker of it’s silhouette. The smoke that pools and pushes from beneath it’s skin, searching for a way out, a way to change shape, a way to go back to the immaterial-
Why dost thou call?
This one is to the point. You can appreciate that. Perhaps you won’t spend the next day or so deafened, waiting for the ringing in your ears to stop.
You open your mouth; ready to speak, ready to explain when-
- the front door opens.
You whip your head to the side, growing horror at the sound of footsteps through the apartment, eyes trained on your door. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the creature occupying your circle doing the same.
They’re not supposed to be back this soon-
They’re not even supposed to be in town-
You can’t call out and warn them, can’t say their name, can’t call attention to your workings-
You have to dismiss the demon. It’s the only way.
You start the chant.
The creature roils. Presses against the circle. Leans forward, stretching as close as it can to your field of view. A rumbling noise begins to build from it’s chest: of protest, of aggression, you can’t say.
The footsteps close. There’s a soft knock on your door and you know you’re too late.
Your room mate calls your name.
They keep talking, something like “Are you still up?” but you pay them no heed, dread sinking through your gut like you’ve swallowed a stone, eyes instead drawn to the creature and the whites of its teeth.
It’s smiling.
For the prompt: demon summoning gone wrong. Had the epistolary part of this written like a year ago and decided to finish it tonight. Happy with how it turned out. Divider by saradika-graphics.
Your breath is sharp in your chest; lungs aching with each gasp and pant. The roots that wrap around you – firmly, lovingly – do nothing to assuage your panic. It lifts you from the ground, the vines forming a cocoon; carefully as not to jostle you, as not to frighten you. It doesn’t work and a shuddering sob escapes you. You close your eyes, unable to watch the edge of the forest be snatched away. You’d been so close. A dozen more steps and you’d have been free.
Instead, you feel the brush of bone against your cheek. The rough scratch of a tongue along your jaw. Pulled against its chest you hear it rumble and purr; the noise meant to console you only adding to your hysteria. The Leshen takes you deeper into the forest. You’re its favourite, after all, and it doesn’t intend to let you go.
You’ve been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he’s in need of help too.
-
Reader (GNC pronouns, AFAB, asexual spectrum) x incubus (cis male). Situationship. Allies to lovers. Zombie apocalypse AU. Slow Burn. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 3800.
Content Warnings: apocalypse setting, chronic fatigue depicted, detailed discussions of sex, kink, sexual dysfunction, consent, monster cock anatomy, etc. Very brief discussion implying sexual assault and sex with somebody dying has happened to Veron since the apocalypse. Please let me know if you’d like anything else added.
This chapter was very cathartic to write, but a pain in the ass to edit.
Masterlist - A03 - Previous
Regardless of your newfound ability to nap in unfamiliar places, the sound of the door opening still startles you awake.
Veron takes in your raised hands and defensive posture with a huff and a smirk. “You alright?”
You take a moment to orient yourself. To let your heartrate settle, and wipe the sleep from your eyes before nodding. “Yeah. Sorry. Dozed off.”
His wry amusement is immediately replaced with a creased brow and a frown. He bridges the gap between you. Puts the back of his hand against your forehead for a moment before withdrawing it suddenly; rethinking the impulse to touch you, or perhaps not actually knowing how to check a human’s temperature. “Is that normal?”
It’s your turn for amusement, seeing a new side to the demon. With the impassive and steady front he’d shown you yesterday, you’d assumed he wouldn’t be the type to fret.
“I’m fine. Feeling refreshed already. Having to take breaks is pretty normal for me.” You don’t tell him that the nap is an outlier.
Even with your assurance, he looks bothered. “Did I take too much from you this morning? Do you want me to carry you home?”
“God. No.” At that you push to your feet. Your cheeks blaze. You’re not going to let a stranger carry you home because you took a nap.
But he might be right.
“I mean. Maybe you did? I don’t really know. But I can walk. If you really want to fuss, then you can help me carry everything back.”
He intercepts your movement and swats your hands away. “I’ll get it. Don’t push yourself.”
You hide your amusement and let him load up on supplies before leaving for your apartment.
He stares at you on the trip back. Frequent little glances, with that crease still in his brow.
You let out a huff when everything has been delivered and he still hovers. “Look, I fatigue easily. I promise. It’s normal.”
He crosses his arms. Gives a noncommittal grunt. But doesn’t move.
“Let’s see how I feel tomorrow. If it becomes a problem, maybe we can change our schedule or something. Feed you in the evenings so I can take the night to recover. Yeah?”
Some of the tension seems to go out of him. Enough so that he takes a seat on the couch. “Alright.”
Still, he doesn’t relax. Even as you sort groceries in the kitchen and rearrange your new supplies.
You leave him there, putting things away in the bathroom and the linen cupboards. Making the rounds through your space until you return to the lounge and find him waiting on the couch, still stiff. Still stewing in some unnamed emotion.
Thinking it’d be better to nip the problem in the bud before it develops any further, you join him in the lounge.
“What’s wrong?”
He works his jaw. Opens his mouth to speak, but takes a moment to find the words.
You let him.
“You’re the first living person I’ve seen in weeks. The first friendly one in... months. I don’t want to hurt you on accident.”
The first words that jump to your mind, the first assurance is ‘you won’t’. But you can’t promise that, can you? You don’t know this demon. Don’t know his temper or his strength. His patience or his moods.
He could hurt you.
It’s a thought you’ve already accepted. It contributed to why you agreed so readily to feed him. Why you’ll keep feeding him. Because a part of you knows: he needs you. Literally. Needs.
And it would be better to help him willingly, than to have the choice taken away. Something you’re sure he could do. You saw him go against the zombies outside. If he wanted, nothing would stop him from taking control. Dragging you away from your home and using you as a portable snack.
You realise he’s staring. A miserable look on his face, almost as if he can read your thoughts.
You banish the worst case scenarios from your mind. Return again the crux of the hour. That Veron is worried. And that he doesn’t want to hurt you.
You close your eyes in a grimace. Visualise where the rest of this conversation is going to have to go. “Alright. You’re my new roommate, nearly everyone else is dead, we might as well skip the small talk and jump right into the deep end.”
Without further ado you drop onto the couch beside him. Stare at the black screen of your now defunct television while you direct your speech towards Veron.
“Tell you what. I promise that from here on out I will make an effort to communicate with you. In particular, if things are- If you’re hurting me. If you’re about to hurt me. If things are about to go too far, or I’m out of energy, if you’re- going too deep or using too much force or- whatever. Okay? I’ll complain and whinge until you wish I’d be less communicative.”
You don’t want to look at him. Don’t really want to be perceived right now. Instead focusing your attention on the demon’s reflection. How comically big he looks on the couch next to you.
He lets out a long breath. “Right. I appreciate that. But what if... you’re not sure? If I’m going too far. Like.” He pauses. Considers. “Have you ever been for a massage?”
You humour him. “I suppose.”
“And they ask how hard you want it, and you say..?”
“Medium.”
“Okay, so they’re giving you a massage, and they’re getting it right. It’s feeling good. And then suddenly, just in this one spot, it’s a little bit too hard. The rest of it is fine. But, just this one spot is a bit unpleasant for you. Not unbearable, but not relaxing anymore. Right?”
“Right.”
He meets your gaze, “Do you say something?”
And then you get it. Because in a situation like that, if it’s not outright hurting, if it’s only a little unpleasant, why not push through? You know it’s not good to do so during a massage. But communicating precisely is hard enough without telling a stranger how to touch your body. What if you get up the nerve to tell them ‘that spot hurts, go lighter,’ and suddenly the rest of the massage is too light?
Is this how Veron feels when he’s fucking people? Like a masseuse, wondering if something he’s doing isn’t right? If people are just pushing through?
“Can you tell? When somebody’s holding something back? With your... abilities?”
He leans back into the couch. Expression somewhere between resigned and properly upset. “Was it a good massage?”
“Huh?”
“If it only hurts a little, do you still have a good time? Find yourself relaxed?”
You consider. “I guess it varies. I usually appreciate any massage, enough to put aside a temporary discomfort.”
He shrugs. “Then I probably can’t tell. I can sense arousal. I might notice it dip a little, but I’m not going to know why unless you say something.”
It’s weird, his morose tone. You weren’t expecting him to get vulnerable with you, but that’s how he looks right now, staring fixedly at the ground.
“Does that happen a lot?”
He blinks, breaking from stupor. “The massage thing? Just a metaphor. But. Sometimes I’ll have some really good sex and then I’ll find out my partner didn’t like it as much. And it’s really upsetting. Because I wish they’d said something. Asked for more. Told me what wasn’t working. I like making sure my partner has a good time.”
He crinkles his nose. Brings himself to glance your direction. “And I don’t want to be rude, but, like. You’ve got this... feeling. Where, you’re not... inexperienced, but, like. Not interested? Just. I know you’re doing this because you have to. And I appreciate it. But I still want you to tell me if you’re having a bad time. Yeah?”
You’re taken aback. You wonder if all concubi would be so good at reading you or if Veron is just particularly perceptive. Because he’s not wrong.
And now he’s staring down at you, lip bitten and arms wrapped around his knees, like he’s bracing for you to hurt him.
You let out a long breath of your own. Sit back. Try not to fidget.
“I have a... complicated relationship with sex. Some days I can’t stand the thought of it. Other days I’m completely neutral. And some days I’m all for it. None of those things are a problem by themself, but. It’s completely unpredictable. I never know what to expect.” You stare down at your hands. “My partners never. Get it, I guess. Or, sometimes they do. But they just don’t have the patience to deal with it. Make it feel like my fault when I don’t want to fuck. I guess as a result, I tend to do that thing. That you worry about. Where, if I’m not having a great time I don’t say anything. Because. I don’t think there’s anything they can do.”
He’s silent for a while. You don’t blame him. It’s a heavy confession. What do you even say to somebody in response?
He starts with, “I’m sorry people have made you feel like that.”
It’s enough to get you to look at him again. Knees tucked less against his chest. Sitting cross-legged now, facing you. Still lip bitten and frowning, but less afraid. Less anxious.
“You could have a sexual dysfunction.” He shrugs. A little smile appears on his face for a moment before fading. “Or, just straight up could be asexual. But. That’s not the point. Neither of those things would be your fault. Neither of those things are shameful either. And your partners shouldn’t have made you feel like they were.”
You have to look away again when tears spring to your eyes. It takes you a few breaths to banish them. To hide your... what are you feeling? Relief? Embarrassment? You’re feeling seen, mostly.
“I’m not the best at communicating what’s precisely what’s on my mind, but-” the words are out of your mouth before you have a chance to think them through. “I assume you’re familiar with the stoplight system.”
“Yes.”
“I can give you a bunch of yellows. As a ‘slow down and let me figure out how to tell you what’s wrong.’ Yeah? I might not know how to perfectly express when something’s not working, but I can at least be honest and tell you when it’s starting to happen.”
He’s silent.
Perhaps for a moment too long, because it has you anxious. “Will that help?”
He lets out another breath. And then suddenly your hand is enveloped in his.
You startle at the unexpected contact, meeting his gaze. He’s giving you another of those small smiles.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think that will help. Thank you.”
You smile back. Squeeze his hand for a moment before scrambling off the couch, trying to pretend you aren’t psyched out by that one piece of contact. Nervous rambling returns in place of your carefully thought-out confessions.
“And hey, worry a little less about hurting me. I could be into it.”
You regret the jest immediately, face pulling into a cringe. Is it too soon to make weird kinky sex jokes? It’s definitely too soon for that, right?
You escape towards the kitchen.
Veron is frozen, temporarily shocked out of his budding anguish.
He laughs. A winded, raspy sound.
“You-” he glances at you. Shakes his head and stares down at his hands, steepled between his knees. Rubs his face, still smiling. “Sure. Whatever you’re into.”
“Don’t say that,” you open the pantry. Wielding manic banter to hide your embarrassment. “You don’t know what I’m into.”
He sits back. Stares up at the ceiling with that small smile at his lips. “I promise I’ve seen kinks far more scandalous than yours.”
He’s probably right. But the change to the atmosphere is nice, so you let yourself scoff at him in mock indignance. “I might have an unpredictable sex drive and difficulty coming, but I can still be into weird stuff.”
He lets you make self-depreciating jokes about your kinks, occasionally quipping back until you start lunch and the pair of you fall into companionable silence.
He joins you on the other side of the counter. Watches you eat.
You finish your barebones meal and tidy up. You’re ready to call it there. To give him a pat on the shoulder and get back to work.
He breaks the silence.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you did want me to hurt you during sex.”
You drop a fork in the sink and let out a groan. “I just managed to break the tension. You really want to build it again?”
“You’re very kind.”
“I’m averagely kind. Why don’t we wait until we’ve actually had sex before discussing that kind of stuff.”
You watch from your peripheral as his whole demeanour changes. The seriousness returns, though his gaze is no longer anxious or fretful.
“It’s important for me to know my partner’s boundaries. Along with the things they want and enjoy.”
You don’t quite meet his eye. Partner. The word is pretty intimidating in this context (He’s referring to you, after all).
But not inaccurate. You’re working together, for better or worse. He’s trying to be forthcoming. And you can appreciate that. So you suck it up and make yourself participate in another hard discussion, this time hunched over either side of your kitchen counter.
It’s more confronting now. More obvious when you’re avoiding his gaze.
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself first?”
Your question only hangs in the air for a moment before Veron shrugs. Eyes brightening at your concession.
“Well. I like oral sex. I especially like giving it.”
Your cheeks warm and you hide a smile. Yeah, you’d gathered that much.
“I like fingering, but have to use magic to get rid of my claws. It’ll probably won’t be worth the energy cost in the coming days.”
At his words you can’t help but glance in his direction. Peek at his hands.
“I like touching, and being touched. I’m very tactile. Most stimulus is good stimulus. So if you want to get a bit rough with me you can. Pulling hair, tail, horns. Though when you pull somebody’s tail you should grip close to the base to avoid injuring it.”
“Like hair pulling,” you add.
“Like hair pulling,” he nods. Then gestures to his legs, “though my fur is short enough that you’d be hard pressed to not pull near the base.”
You glance over his shoulder. “What about your wings?”
They twitch under your stare, the stubby things flexing and unflexing.
“They don’t get in the way too much. I can put weight on them. But I don’t like to do it for long periods of time. So laying on my back for more than a few minutes gets uncomfortable.” He flexes again, leaning forward so you can see the membranous expanse. They have a wide base, jutting out into prominent stumps and ranging along the slope of his back. Despite this they don’t span any further than Veron can reach his arms, looking more fit for gliding rather than proper flight.
“Are they sensitive?”
“Yes,” he tilts is head. “But not particularly erogenous. Still, if you’re going to be rough with them, I’d work up to it. Don’t just yank them around out without warning.”
You glance up at Veron’s face before looking away again. Making yourself engage with the topic, you clear your throat. “I, uh, feel the same. About roughness. Mostly. In that I don’t mind it, but need to be... eased into it, I guess. Every time, I mean.”
“Of course. That’s generally how bodies work.” He pauses. “Do you have any other preferences? At least when it comes to the basics?”
It’s weird to let your mind wander towards sex when you’re having a serious conversation. To actively ask yourself how you want it while trying to maintain appropriate eye contact and body language.
“Um. I suppose. I don’t mind being gagged or restrained? But not both at the same time.”
“So you can communicate?”
“So I can communicate,” you nod.
“Do you like being gagged or restrained?” He adopts an almost flirty tone.
You have to drop your eyes again. Shrug. “Yeah, sometimes. It depends on my mood I suppose.”
“Do you ever dislike being gagged or restrained?” He sounds more curious this time. No longer flirty. Relaxed.
You’re surprised at the question, and realise you appreciate it too. “Yes. If I’m having a high pain day, bondage can make it worse, or just be very unsexy. And being gagged when my mouth is dry is unpleasant.”
“Fair enough. Does pain impact your vanilla sex too?”
You find your answers coming easier now. These are the type of questions you actually wish your previous partners had thought to ask. “It can. Like... if I’m with a spontaneous partner. Being manhandled is hot, but I don’t like it if I don’t know what position they plan to put me in, because I worry it might hurt.”
He nods, thoughtful, taking a moment before replying. “So what I’m getting is: discuss how you’re feeling before starting any sexual acts, check if there’s anything you distinctly don’t want to do, and communicate before any changes.”
You take a moment to think it over. Then, “Yeah. That sums it up nicely.”
“What about your pussy?”
You sink back into embarrassment. “What about my pussy?”
“How’s it work?”
You bark out a laugh at his question. “Like any other, I assume?”
“You do alright with penetrative sex?”
“Yeah. I can enjoy it.”
“Do you like being stretched out beforehand?”
You’d never considered it before, and shrug. “I mean. If I’m horny, I like foreplay. If I’m just getting my partner off, I rush a bit more. Provided I’m wet enough, I don’t need to stretch.”
He seems to consider that answer, brow creasing. “Well, I can get you wet easily enough. But I’m a bit bigger than the average human. Will that be a problem?”
You raise your brow. “I mean. The most I’ve felt is discomfort, at trying to put a toy too far in. So I’ll let you know. But the problem is the other thing. I don’t always get wet enough.”
“My saliva is literally designed to arouse and lubricate. We should be fine on that front.”
His frankness might embarrass you any other time. But having him stay calm and serious in the face of an uncomfortable discussion is a relief.
“What about you?”
“Hmm?”
You gesture towards his lower half. “Is demon anatomy different to human?”
He grins. “Oh. Yeah. Though it varies from species to species. Personally, most of my stuff is internal.”
Before you have a chance to respond he steps back from the counter, shoves his coat back, and runs his hands up his belly, moving some of the fur out of the way.
Your eyes fly upwards, practically scandalised. You know he’s been walking around without anything beneath the coat, but you hadn’t tried to get an eyeful.
“Just a sheath. And my cock pops right out when I get aroused. See?”
You keep your eyes averted. “A verbal explanation would have sufficed.”
He lets the coat drop and leans back against the counter. “Right. Sorry.” He looks more sheepish than apologetic.
You roll your eyes. “So. Do I need to worry about pregnancy? STDs?”
He regains some seriousness at the topic. “Pregnancy, no. Well. You’re one hundred percent human?”
“Yes?”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Non demons can only get pregnant while they’re in Infernus, as a general rule. And unless I’ve caught a disease from sitting on a toilet seat or whatever, you should be safe on the other front.”
“That’s a myth you know.”
“Sure. Point being, I know I was infection-free before,” he gestures towards the balcony, “you know. The world ended. So. Seven weeks ago. And since then I’ve not put my dick inside of anyone. Or put my mouth on anyone for that matter.”
It wasn’t a large concern, but you can’t deny that it was still there, in the back of your mind. Still, you can’t help but frown. “Have you really gone that long without feeding?”
He winces. Then shrugs. “I’ve had some... encounters, I guess you could call them. Two of them were more self-defence than feeding. Seducing myself out from a gun to the head. They were both in group settings, and I didn’t feel safe enough to stick around with those survivors. And then, maybe two weeks ago I found somebody else. I... couldn’t do anything to help them. But they helped me. I used up most of my reserves just- ...it was bad. I don’t want to get into it.”
You give a slow nod. There’s a long moment while you process what he’s left unsaid. While you contemplate just how hard Veron has actually had it.
You bring your fist to his shoulder. Bump him gently. “It’s been hard for me talking about sex. But, like. It’s not a big part of my life, you know? I can just opt out. I’m sorry you’ve. Literally, got to deal with it. That you’ve had those experiences. That you had to have them.”
He takes your hand again. Squeezes it. “It’s over now. But thanks.”
The atmosphere is heavy again, and you wish you could do more to banish the tension. Instead, you push through. “I don’t really have any more questions. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
He drops your hand. Adopts one of those flirty smiles. “I mean. We could compare kinks and fetishes. Or, I could joke about putting the things we’ve learned to the test.”
You squint. “Is that your way of using a pickup line without committing to using a pickup line?”
He shrugs and the smile turns apologetic. “More like, this is where I’d use the pickup line if I weren’t on sex rations.”
You can’t help but laugh at his phrasing.
He blinks and tilts his head. Staring, like he didn’t think he’d been that funny, that he didn’t expect you to laugh at his joke.
“I trust you’ll think up a new one to use tomorrow, yeah?”
His eyes soften and he makes a smooth recovery, pulling up another smile. “Sure. One corny pickup line, made to order. I’ll have it ready tomorrow.”
A handful of f reader insert scenes with m demonic love interests. Fluff, hurt/comfort, and smutty shenanigans that lean kind of poly.
You (kind of unnecessarily) tried to save Ludwig’s life. Out of pity, he lets you crash at his place for a few weeks after. It probably wouldn’t be so bad, but he doesn’t live alone.
Reader stays with the triplets until she gets back on her feet. Smut, family shenanigans, and possibly even romance ensues.
Mervin is kind of crabby after his heat he gets sick. You begin searching for employment. And Ludwig helps you out on a high pain day. 5900 words.
Content warnings for this chapter include: mild isolation, some blame from the resident pride demon, pain and sickness during menstruation, the briefest and undescribed animal death (Obie eats a pigeon), and smut.
Smut warnings include: consensual fingering and groping whilst menstrating, brief joking/discussion of menstural oral (does not actually occur), soft stuff that turns a little rough, unintentional and unplanned breath play (hand over mouth), nonconsensual biting (from both parties), dry humping, semi-public sexual stuff, lack of aftercare because of an interruption.
Divider by firefly-graphics. Characters by @eldritch-spouse.
Masterlist - A03 - Previous
You get used to living in Perdition.
Well, it would be more accurate to say you get used to living with Ludwig and his brothers. You’re not allowed to leave the house by yourself; the triplets make no secret of the fact that they live in a bad neighbourhood – a bad ring, as Ludwig puts it.
It’s frustrating, but you don’t doubt them. It only takes a few brief tours around the area for you to understand. You attract stares everywhere you go. Leers, really. And watching what demons do to each other (both strangers on the street, and the brothers among themselves), you hate to imagine what they might do to a human.
It’s as if everyone here speaks several additional languages that humans just aren’t fluent with (literal infernal aside). Greed. Hunger. Violence. The first time you watch Mervin and Ludwig descend into a proper argument, you’re horrified. Nothing you’d seen at home – and you were no stranger to domestic scraps – could prepare you for it. Teeth and claws and broken furniture. Mervin draws a gods-damned weapon. You’d seen people fight before. But not like this. You’d dismissed yourself and locked yourself in the spare room the first time it had happened.
Obie had dragged the two upstairs by the horns and made them apologise for scaring you.
It’s not the only thing you notice. You don’t put your finger on it for a while. It takes several outings with the triplets, several more incidents and scraps before you start to suspect another key difference between demons and humans.
It has something to do with their priorities. Their sense of self. Their interactions within a community. Humans aren’t selfless, by any means. But bonds form fast between them. Connections are quickly made, common goals are easily worked towards, and interconnectedness is practically built into our genes. The human instinct for empathy, to help those around us, to lean on each other for support – it's as if demons lack it.
It truly is survival of the fittest for them. You suspect that if a demon can’t survive alone, they won’t survive at all. You see it in the way they think of themselves first. How Obie might reach for your food, before hesitating. Or Mervin opens his mouth to speak, before thinking better. That consideration, cohesion are learned traits. Conscious choices to practice, and not instinct.
It scares you more in strangers. That the curiosity is not the first thing demons look at you with, but hunger. You’d feel like prey if you didn’t watch them do it to each other too. Like every person is a mark; looked at with the question ‘what can I gain from using you’ before asking something more basic, like ‘who are you’.
Long story short, you don’t mind keeping to the house.
The first time you go anywhere without them, it’s to Sloth, to stay with Katia. The circumstances are odd. Mervin had just come back from one of his extended trips. He’d strode through the door, seen you in the lounge and frozen for a moment, before stamping straight to his bedroom, and shutting the door with a slam. Ludwig had come home early that day and explained that Mervin was sick and needed the house to himself for a week.
It didn’t make sense to you. But what did you know? Mervin was almost never around. You didn’t know what he was like when he was sick. Still, the hesitation when Ludwig had explained the situation, the look he shared with his mother when he dropped you off at her place – it led you to suspect that a key piece of information was being kept from you.
It fills you with paranoia. But Katia is lovely. Spending time with her helps ease the anxiety in your chest. Most of her hours are spent at work or sleeping, but the moments of lucidity she spends with you are enjoyable. She shows you how to cook a few new meals. Lets you go through her photo albums and look at baby pictures of her sons. On the weekend she even takes you clothes shopping, and for the first time in almost a month you feel at ease, wearing clothes that you’ve chosen for yourself.
When Katia returns you back to the common ring, Mervin is still home. He’s currently your least favourite triplet, but you make an effort to smile. “Feeling better?”
He scowls, and you’re surprised at the amount of vitriol in his expression. “As if that’s your business.”
You try not to visibly deflate.
Katia tsks and frowns at her son. She pats you on the back. “He’s just embarrassed, sweetie. Don’t you pay him any mind.”
She gives you a peck on the cheek before leaving, and sound of the door closing sends a wave of dread through you. You really don’t want to be alone with Mervin.
But when you turn his expression has softened. If only marginally. He tilts his head. “She likes you.”
You’re not sure what to say. You shrug as you take your shoes off. “We had fun.”
You feel his stare on you, even as you cross the room. You head towards the kitchen, hoping for something to eat.
“She bought you clothes.”
His tone is almost accusatory. You can’t help but flush, shame starting to weigh on you. “She’s very kind.”
To your dismay, he follows you to the kitchen. He crosses his arms and watches when you pull out the materials for a sandwich. Uncomfortable, you ask, “Do you want one?”
He scoffs. “How long are you going to keep eating our food? Wearing our clothes?”
You don’t let it show, but his words strike deep. You’re more than aware of the position you’re in. You cast your eyes towards the task at hand. Prepping food. “I don’t like it either. But it’s kind of hard to find a job when I’m forbidden from leaving the house.”
He crosses his arms. “Excuses.”
“Did you want to escort me to Earth every morning?”
“Now you’re asking us for transport too?”
You’ve had enough. It’s either cry or snap. And you are not going to cry in front of Mervin. Instead you slam your knife to the counter.
“I didn’t ask for this. I did not ask to be shunted from place to place my whole damn life. I’m sorry if that inconveniences you,” your tone is in no way apologetic.
He’s silent as you leave.
Immediately upon returning to your room, you regret the encounter. The last thing you need to be doing is antagonising your benefactors. But still. Ludwig was the one who invited you here, and if Mervin has a problem, he should be taking it up with his brother.
--
You finally get a new job.
It’s not without its difficulties – transit mainly. One of the triplets has to take you through a series of rifts. One to Earth. One to continent you hail from. Another to a large town. Ludwigs talks about establishing a proper route, about using the most stable rifts, and being prepared for a disruption to travel if any of them close. There’s a lot of jargon you don’t really understand. But he gets you back to Earth. Back to ‘gainful employment’.
Mervin straight up refuses to be your escort. He’s not around enough anyway. Ludwig handles it most days, but Obie is always available to fill in when Ludwig is busy elsewhere. Neither seem to mind your spotty hours. You tell the triplets when you start and finish, and they’re usually able to have you delivered on time.
Sometimes you take an afternoon for yourself. Spending time in a human city is good for you. You visit a library. Buy yourself necessities. Even do some grocery shopping. Nobody seems to fault you for it, and Mervin certainly complains less when you start bringing home your own food.
And so you fall into the new routine. Working four to six days a week. Ludwig or sometimes Obie walking you there, chatting about your day or your plans. Finally starting to feel at ease in their home, now that you’re less of an imposition.
You’re a shift worker, usually working mornings at a cafe. Your customer service is without fault and you know how to use a coffee machine. It was enough to get you the job. That and your eclectic resume.
There’re still moments that throw you off. Behaviours from the triplets that take you by surprise, or the occasional week when you’re banished to Katia as one of them comes down sick with something. The three of them are rarely united about anything, but they all seem intent on keeping you in the dark regarding that odd ritual.
One morning you wake up and are immediately torn over whether or not you should go to work. It’s a little late to call in. And Obie had already promised to take you. But your underwear are saturated with blood and your gut is torn up in cramps. Your period isn’t usually this bad, but you can already tell that today is going to be a hard one.
You decide to suck it up. It’s just a bit of cramping. Of pain in your joints. Sure, it’s nauseating, and it takes a few minutes before you can stand and walk without limping. But you’ve done this before, and you can do it again. You didn’t survive this long by flaking out of work when things got tough.
You almost miss the odd look Obie gives you as you head downstairs. Perhaps you mistake it for sympathy. You wear a grimace and make no effort to hide your discomfort. Still, Obie doesn’t say much on your way to work. He seems distracted, focusing his attention on the details around him, often picking up items to chew on.
You try not to gape at the number of small things that disappear as you pass. A handful of bark flakes from a pot plant. A table number at an outdoor cafe. A pile of junk wrappers from his pockets. (Garbage from the pavement. A handful of leaves and twigs and flowers from any trees you pass. An actual bird that doesn’t have the fortune to flee in time.) He’s not hidden his gluttonous habits from you, from what you can tell, but today he consumes far more than usual. You wonder if he’s unwell.
You put it out of mind when you get to work, saying your goodbyes and clocking in for the day.
You don’t last long. It’s probably only an hour or two before you’re curled up on the couch in the break room, banished there after the manager spotted you limping. She tells you to go home. You’re torn between humiliation and gratitude. You send a message off to Obie.
Unwell. Can you bring me home early?
He sends you a thumbs up and you’re left to wait.
His behaviour on the way home is almost distraction enough from your pain. There’s pretty much always something in his mouth; this time he’d brought food from home with him. You watch curiously as he pulls out several sticks of gum when his food is gone. He only chews for a moment before he’s swallowed them too. It’d almost be funny if he didn’t seem so distracted. Ravenous to a degree which you’ve never seen.
“Are you alright?” You ask at one point.
He finally glances your way. Shrugs. “Smelt something tasty.”
The explanation makes sense, if a little understated. You give him a sympathetic nod.
Obie drops you off at the door before mumbling his excuses and leaving.
You make a beeline for the lounge, planning to lay down and watch some tv. You grimace as you round the corner – Ludwig is already sprawled across the couch.
“Is there room for me?”
“Thought you had work?” He doesn’t quite straighten, but he does change his angle, leaving enough space for you to squeeze in beside him.
Carefully, you do. “I was sent home sick.”
Ludwig tenses and turns your way. “You smell like blood.”
You grimace.
You know that demons have superhuman senses, and that such things are normal to them. But you still can’t help but feel self-conscious around them. Every time your heart speeds up, or your breath hitches, you have to wonder if anyone notices. If anyone overanalyses it. If they can tell when you forget to wear deodorant or can smell your lunch on your breath.
You’d go crazy if you let yourself worry about it too much. After moving in with the triplets you decided to believe that they might notice these things, but they likely wouldn’t care. The same way you’d react if you saw a customer with a large zit, or a coworker having a bad hair day. You choose not to make a big deal about the things people can’t change.
But if Ludwig is going to bring up the little details, if he’s going to speak without tact, why should you?
“Probably because I’m bleeding from my vagina.”
Ludwig winces. “Oh. Oh.” He snorts. "Guess that explains his behaviour.”
“I don’t follow.”
Ludwig gestures to the door. “Obie. Your blood. The smell.” He shrugs. “Delish.”
Your nose crinkles. “Gross.”
He grins. “I thought humans loved the blood drinking gimmick. Ya’ll go mad for vampires.”
“Pop culture aside, I doubt many of us want to consider period blood in that context.”
“Why? Blood is blood.”
Your lip curls. “It’s different. Different composition. Different texture... Full of waste products... I really don’t want to think about it.”
“I’ve seen that demon eat literal garbage. I don’t think he’s worried about your waste products.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
He doesn’t get a chance to tease you further, straightening when another series of cramps has you tucking your knees to your chest, gripping your abdomen to ease the pain.
“You alright?”
Your reply is hoarse. “Just peachy.”
He touches his hand to your back. “What usually helps?”
“Heat pack. Pain killers.”
“I can have Ob bring some home. What else?”
You clutch a cushion to your chest and rest your head against the couch end. “It’s fine. It’s just pain. I don’t want-” you stop. Restart. “You don’t need to do anything else.”
Your eyes spring open when Ludwig grabs a fistful of your hair. Starts tugging on it. Gentle tugs, reminiscent of schoolyard teasing. Until a sudden yank that leaves your scalp stinging.
“Ow!” Impulse has you slapping his hand away. “The fuck is your problem?”
His voice doesn’t hold a drop of concern: fastidiously sweet. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” The tone drops and becomes resolute. “You should let me make it up to you. Tell me how to make you feel better.”
You scoff at the ploy. “There’s nothing to do. Unless you want to spend the next few days waiting on me.”
He pinches your cheek. “What, you want some coddling?”
You swat him away again. “Your words, not mine.”
“Hmm.” He rearranges himself. Before you have a chance to protest, you’re pulled between his legs, your back to his chest in an awkward embrace. “How’s this?”
Your eyes are wide open now, and you’re stiff with surprise. Ludwig hadn’t struck you as the cuddling type.
You’re still formulating a reply when he wraps an arm around your midsection, his forearm coming to rest against where your cramps are strongest. You note the heat, normally oppressive, seeping through the back of your shirt to relax your muscles.
“That’s... that’s actually great. Fuck.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh.
You frozen, still unsure how to respond to the proximity. You haven’t been hugged in... a long time.
He pinches you again. “So what’s this shit about you imposing?”
“I didn’t say-”
“You implied.” He adopts a higher pitch, in mockery of your voice, “’You don’t need to do anything, being here is enough because I’m so sad and pitiful, wah.’”
You mumble out a curse. “I don’t sound like that.”
“You going to answer the question?”
Your nose crinkles and you cross your arms. This isn’t a conversation you want to have. “I don’t like relying on other people.”
“Obviously. Why?”
You shrug. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
There’s a silence before Ludwig sighs. His fingers tangle in your hair again, this time to scratch at your scalp. It feels nice.
“Are you always like this, or did Mervin say something?”
You scowl, not pleased to have been read so easily. Your silence is answer enough.
“I’ve lived with those two for decades. Believe me when I tell you that you’re a perfectly pleasant housemate in comparison. You’re tidier, quieter, more polite-”
You shrug off his words. He’s not wrong. But years of living precariously has instilled into you a deep wariness of getting comfortable.
“-and I told you that Mervin would talk shit.” He pauses, just enough for smugness to creep into his tone. “He likes you, you know.”
You huff. “Doubtful.”
“Yeah, he’d never tell it to your face, but I know my brother. And he’s said some pretty interesting things when you’re not around.”
You almost turn to check his expression. Your stillness has probably given away your interest.
“I don’t believe you.”
Ludwig shrugs. “Believe me or don’t. But I know he likes you.”
You chew on your lip, considering your recent interactions with the demon. If he likes you, he isn't very good at showing it.
“Not as much as Obie though.”
You get the distinct impression that you’re being teased. It’s hard to be mad with Ludwig kneading your shoulders, but still, you feel ill at ease. “You’re just making fun of them.”
“I’m serious. Why else would he be so jittery today?”
“You said that I smelt tasty.”
“Do you think everyone smells good to him?”
You scrunch your eyes closed. Lean your head back to rest against his shoulder. He’s starting to give you a headache. “How would I know?”
“I guess you wouldn’t. Good thing I'm here to keep you informed.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s such a Mervin thing to say.”
He crinkles his nose. Flicks you on the forehead.
And despite yourself, you start to relax. It’s incremental. You’re still uncomfortable. You’re in pain and leaning against an absolute furnace of a demon. But your muscles loosen, and your breathing evens.
You could probably sleep off the worst of your cramps if Ludwig stopped fussing. His ministrations aren’t particularly disruptive, but they do hold your attention. He squeezes your shoulders. Presses the flat of his palm above your mons, where the pain is worst. Gently scratches at your scalp and massages the back of your neck.
You haven’t been just touched in a long time, and there’s a walled off piece of you that stirs to life at each point of contact.
When he wraps his hand around your throat, the heat and firmness of his grip nearly have you melting. It’s enough to have you forgetting yourself, and you let out a hum of satisfaction.
“You know, I’ve heard orgasms relieve pain.”
Reality slams back into you, leaving you hyperaware of how you’re draped across Ludwig’s lap. The work he’d put into relaxing you is completely undone as you thrum with tension. Your mouth shuts tight with embarrassment.
Your jaw is stiff when you reply. “Are you coming on to me?”
He huffs a laugh. “Maybe. I guess.”
You struggle to process. “Weren’t you just telling me that Obie liked me?”
“Mm. You do have a knack for charming my family.”
That doesn’t answer your implication. “Wouldn’t he be upset?”
Ludwig shrugs. “First come, first served. And if he really has a problem, I don’t mind sharing.”
You almost sit up, thoroughly scandalised and shocked.
Almost.
Ludwig is silent. Patient. Awaiting a response. Or perhaps just content to watch you reel.
You take a breath. Try to consider his suggestion.
It has its appeal. You haven’t gotten off in a while. Long enough that just sitting in Ludwig’s lap is enough to set your heart racing. But thinking about any form of intimacy ties your stomach up in knots that have nothing to do with your period.
“I don’t want to fuck this up.” You’re thinking of your position here. Your welcome, and the things that could change if you were to start a casual fling.
His lips brush your ear, raising goosebumps on the back of your neck. “No strings attached. I’m just offering to help out a friend. Relieve some pain.”
“Get your dick wet?”
His hand creeps upwards, dipping under the hem of your shirt. It's hard to concentrate on anything else. “Not even.”
You bite your lip, frozen with consideration. Anticipation.
You like Ludwig well enough. He’s handsome, even. Rough around the edges, sure, but disarming with his occasional teasing and laid-back behaviour.
“No strings attached?”
“None.”
“No further expectations?”
He lets out a huff. “You can say no.”
You shake your head. You’re not opposed. Just wary. Scared, even.
But if he’s being genuine- if you have nothing to lose from accepting his help-
Your knees fall apart and you relax further into Ludwig’s grasp.
Then why not?
“Okay.”
Given permission, his hand disappears beneath your shirt. Traces the contours of your stomach. It almost tickles, how gentle he’s being. Something you hadn’t expected. With his free hand he squeezes your thigh. What limited area he can reach in this position is subject to deep, massaging touches.
It helps to relax you, until your head is lolling back and your muscles are going slack again. And at first it seems like he’s content to just explore. Mapping out your abdominals. Your ribs. The underside of your breasts.
He thumbs at the bra and tsks.
“That can’t be too comfortable.”
You hum your agreement.
“Are you attached to this bra?”
You shrug and shake your head. It’s just a plain white bra, one of multiple you own.
“Good.”
You’re pulled out of your lull by the sound of tearing cloth. Air touches your breasts, and you realise what he’s done.
“You shit-”
He grips you by the jaw, movements taking on a hint of force. Impatience or desire, you’re not sure. But your words are cut off when he crushes his lips to yours, tongue invading your mouth.
The tips of his claws dig into your flesh where he grips your thigh. The sudden intensity has you reeling. Fuzziness closes in on your thoughts, enough to keep you pliant. There’s a part of you that’s indignant about the bra. The rough treatment. But mostly, you just want to see what he does next.
“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips. “Wanted to see you. Feel you.” He emphasises with a squeeze of your breast.
He goes back to kneading your thighs and you can’t help but squirm. You need your pants off. Now. You need to feel him against your skin.
Impatient, you unzip them. Manage to shimmy them down to your ankles before giving up. But Ludwig gets the idea.
Teasing, he runs a single digit up the inside of your thigh. The point of his nail prickles against your skin, hard enough to hurt.
You can’t stop your hips from twitching. The shuddering intake of air. Your murmured little, “Fuck.”
The sound must do things for Ludwig, because he stills. Then takes hold of your throat, nuzzling your neck and grinding against your back. You become aware of his erection.
“You sound good,” he says against your ear.
He palms your core and huffs a laugh when you shudder. “Feel good too.”
You’re wet. When had that happened? Slick to the point where it’s too easy for him to stroke you through the cotton. It’s impossible to miss when he runs a claw directly over your clit.
You buck, biting back a little groan. It’s getting harder to think. To control yourself.
Ludwig chuckles at your response. “Someone’s keen.”
You want to retort, but only manage a whine in response. He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last time somebody touched you like this.
Almost as if to punish you, his hand leaves your underwear. You do whimper this time, when he takes hold of your throat. The grip is solid, but not choking. Enough to scare you. Thrill you. But still light enough to keep you at ease. Even if you wish he’d go back to stroking your clit.
He presses his lips to yours again. Starts to knead and squeeze at your breasts.
You protests slip away as he fondles you. The pain too- you're too preoccupied by the cold air on your chest. The scrape of claws against your skin. At the hot breath on your face, the kiss with entirely too much teeth, and the tongue that keeps stuffing into your mouth.
He’s more intense than you’d expected; the hand around your throat drifting up to grip your jaw. He ignores your attempt to break away for air. Steers you back towards him, insatiable and eager. The heat of his skin turning the kiss sweltering. Sweaty. Almost too warm. Too crowded.
But damn if you aren’t into it.
Finally you grab him by a horn and yank his face away, desperate for air, for an inch of space.
It doesn’t deter Ludwig. He just reaches back towards your underwear, pressing kisses against your neck instead. Sucking hard against the tender flesh of your shoulder. Relishing the gasps he draws from you. Rubbing between your legs again.
You’re deeply embarrassed by the way your underwear are starting to stick to you. It has you torn, the desire to be touched combatting your reluctance to be vulnerable. An instinctual compromise has you covering your face.
“None of that,” Ludwig intercepts you by the wrist, pinning your arm to the couch. “I want to hear you.”
You’ve no choice but to let your head slump back. It’s an effort not to clench your jaw, to let your body relax. To allow your composure to fall, and a string of soft gasps to escape you.
It’s a blessing when he pulls your underwear aside. The cold air shocks you out of your self consciousness. Pulls you out of your own head a little more.
There’s a moment of tension before he touches you, your knees spread as far as you can manage, trying not to cant your hips with how desperate you are for friction.
He doesn’t touch your clit straight away. Your control breaks pretty easily, and you find your hips leaving the couch, seeking out his touch.
He huffs a laugh against your ear, stilling his hand and waiting for you to settle.
With the softest little huff you do, nearly vibrating out of your skin with the effort it takes to keep still as he places his hand on your mons. Strokes across your vulva. Spreading you open and exposing your wetness to the air.
“If I’d known we’d be doing this, I’d have filed down my claws."
You become hyperaware of them. Tense. With anxiety, with anticipation. Part of you is afraid of pain. Of a possible misstep. But mostly you just want to be touched.
Ludwig flexes his hand. Rubs you with the pads of his fingers quite harmlessly. His free arm wraps around your chest and holds you in place when he finally touches your clit.
You arch at the touch, inhaling shakily.
It’s nothing fancy. It’s not like you haven’t touched yourself the same way before.
But the breath on your neck, the change of scenery, the erection pressing into your back-
“Shit,” you murmur.
Then you’re coming against his fingers, far too quickly.
Ludwig clamps a hand over your mouth. Your moans come out muffled; still entirely lewd. You grip his forearm, nails digging into his skin as you arch against him.
His chest rumbles at the contact and he grips you tighter, grinding against your ass. In a moment that both startles you and extends the aftershocks of your orgasm, you feel teeth clamp down on your shoulder. Hard, jagged, just shy of breaking the skin.
Your moans turn into whines and you buck against him. He only grips you harder, hand skewing enough to cover your nose too. You’re not getting any air, and while part of you panics, another part of you melts. Light headedness kind of feels nice when your heart is pounding and pleasure is still rolling through your being.
Still, all things in moderation.
Soon you can hear your heart in your ears and your chest is aching for air. Your wriggling doesn’t dissuade Ludwig at all, but you desperately need to breathe. You could probably communicate this to him, could probably just tug his hand away from your face. But your limbs aren’t really back under your control yet, so instead you do the next best thing and bite him.
“Oh- f-fuck.”
His hand leaves your face as he grips you by the hips. Holding you in place as he grinds against you, lowly groaning against your shoulder.
He stills.
You both pant heavily in the following silence.
“Did you just...”
He relaxes back against the couch. “Oops.”
“Ludwig!”
Your embarrassment at how quickly you came is immediately washed away. You turn to stare your disbelief, but Ludwig isn’t even looking at you. His brow is raised, and he’s looking up towards the doorway-
The front door opens.
“Hey, sorry, I forgot my phone-”
Obie only takes two steps into the room before his head whips towards you and he freezes.
You’re still hazy, and for a moment nobody reacts. Then shame rushes in and you’re yanking your shirt down, clamping your knees shut. Your mouth opens, and you want to speak, to explain, but nothing comes out.
Ludwig wipes his hand on his pants and snorts. “I guess you caught me... red handed?”
Eyes wide, you turn to him, incredulous. How can he be joking right now?
A noise escapes the glutton. The sound of air- a hiss or perhaps a sharp inhale. You don’t have a chance to identify it further before his brows crease and his shoulders square. He reaches towards the wall, blindly groping for the first object in range. He rips a poster from its place. And stuffs it into his mouth.
Ludwig straightens. “Really? You’re going to be like that?”
Obie's jaw sets. He swipes one of the t-shirts hanging off the back of the couch – one of Ludwig’s. And swallows it whole too.
Ludwig sighs. “C’mon man, that was a collectible.”
Incensed, Obie continues, grabbing at knickknacks across the room and stuffing them into his mouth. You notice all of them belong to Ludwig.
You’re surprised that Ludwig doesn’t move from his spot. Doesn’t act to stop his brother, only grumbling at each disappearing item.
You wince at the crunch of ceramic as Obie chews on a mug. Otherwise you’re still frozen in place, not sure what to make of the scene.
“I told you he liked you,” Ludwig mutters.
“You did what?” Obie says around a mouthful of pottery, his voice shrill.
“What? It’s not like you were being subtle.”
Before you have a chance to blink Obie is striding across the room. Mouth still full of ceramic, he starts to cuss Ludwig out, reaching out to grab him by the shirt, heedless of your proximity.
Ludwig just keeps smirking.
You wriggle out of his lap, unnerved by the prospect of being caught between two warring demons. Still jelly legged, you yank up your pants and stand, not wanting to be anywhere near them if they’re going to have it out.
But you stagger.
Pain flares through your abdomen and a hiss escapes from between your teeth.
Obie and Ludwig fall silent, still. Before-
“I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?” and “Hey, we didn’t mean to scare ya.”
They both miss the mark, but share twin looks of remorse.
You shake your head. “Just period pain. Standing hurts.”
They reach for you at the same time.
“Did getting off help? Do you want more?”
“Have you had any meds? Or some food to settle your stomach?”
The fretting is short lived however, when Obie pauses and shoots Ludwig what you can only assume is his version of a glare.
“Seriously? That was your excuse?”
Ludwig shrugs. “She needed a little pampering.”
“Pampering. Is stuff like a foot rub. Or brushing her hair. Or carrying her bag. Not sticking your fingers inside of her!”
You bite your lip at the statement. You’d convinced yourself that a short fling with Ludwig wouldn’t be a big deal. But Obie might be right. You’d done it in the house they shared. In a space they shared. After having been told that the glutton had feelings for you.
It really was a dick move. You should have considered what might happen if you were caught. Taken things to a private room. Turned him down completely. Anything but what you’d done.
Obie and Ludwig don’t look like they’re going to come to blows. But you don’t want to stick around and listen to their bickering. It’d only embarrass you. Guilt you.
“I’m going to lay down,” you mutter, heading for the stairs.
The pair fall silent.
Obie follows you upstairs. You really hope he won’t stop you. You don’t know what to say.
“Hey.”
You do your best to wipe the discomfort off your face before turning to face him. “Hi.”
His cheeks are red, and he twiddles his thumbs, before stuffing his hands into his pockets. And pulling them out to fidget again.
“I- uh. There’s chocolate. In my room. If you want some.”
Standing there, pain creeping up your back, loose bits of your bra hanging limp under your shirt, and a mess of blood and slick in your underwear, you try not to grimace.
“That’s sweet of you Obie.” You’re tired. Tired of being perceived and fussed over. Of being embarrassed. Of feeling gross. But you get the feeling that if you blow Obie off right now, you might damage something irreparably between you. “Normally I’d love some, but-”
“I’m sorry.”
You blink. “Huh?”
“I wasn’t trying to shame either of you. I was just... jealous. Mad. That he made a move before I could. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
It takes you a few moments to decide your reply.
“I need a shower. And to change.”
His face falls and he steps back. Forces a little laugh. “Oh. Of course. I’ll just be-”
“I’ll come by after? If you want?”
He stills, as if surprised by your reply. The embarrassment leaves his features and he straightens, “Yeah, okay. I’ll just tidy up a bit. See you in a bit?”
You drudge up a smile and reply before turning back to your door. “See you in a bit.”
You’ve been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he’s in need of help too.
-
Reader (GNC pronouns, AFAB, asexual spectrum) x incubus (cis male). Situationship. Allies to lovers. Zombie apocalypse AU. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 2000.
Content Warnings: apocalypse setting, oral sex, reader has chronic pain, discussion of chronic pain affecting sex. Please let me know if you'd like anything else added.
If you noticed the continuity break, no you didn't <3
Masterlist - A03 - Previous
You’re startled awake by the knock at your door. Sleep has been fitful ever since the world ended. Every sound startles you awake; ready to face a horde breaking down your door.
But this knock is polite, and it’s enough to remind you of the events of yesterday.
“Just a second-” you call, sitting up and giving yourself time to breathe. To settle your heart.
You stand with a groan. It seems one night of bedrest isn’t enough to erase the pain of three nights sleeping on cold concrete. But it’s a start.
You cross the room on shaky legs and unlatch the door. Squint up at Veron, eyes still adjusting to the morning light.
He smiles down at you. “Good morning. I thought you might want to rise early today. Take advantage of the light.”
He’s chipper. You’d assumed he’d play a more passive role in clearing the building. Waiting for you to take the lead and make the plans.
Still. His initiative doesn’t bother you. You just wish he’d waited until you’d recovered from the ordeal on the roof.
You wipe the sleep from your eyes. “Sure. I’ll get dressed.”
His hand catches on the door. “Before you do...” He tilts his head, polite smile turning strained. “... might I...?”
Yesterday had been such a blur. You know what you agreed to, but you haven’t had time to properly process it. To think about the salacious details, or to let your anxiety grow.
“Have breakfast?” You supply, voice a little faint.
His smile relaxes. “Yeah. That.”
“How do you want to-”
He nods towards your bed. “You could lay down and I could go down on you again. Make it nice and relaxing for you?”
You let out a long breath and nod. You’re glad he’s content to take things slow. You hadn’t let yourself consider the details yesterday, but sexually gratifying a stranger is intimidating. Especially when you have little choice in the matter.
You shuck your pants off and climb back onto your bed. Take comfort in the texture of your blankets. The curve of your pillow.
Veron kneels at the foot of your bed, and you close your eyes to block out his imposing figure.
You expect weight. Too large hands wrangling your legs into position. Attention to your slit nearly immediately.
Instead he huffs. His voice is gentle when he speaks; “Let’s clean you up first, yeah?”
You hear the click of his fingers and feel a tingle against your skin. It only lasts a moment, but afterwards everything feels... lighter? Clearer? It’s hard to describe.
You open your eyes and look down at yourself. It’s almost indistinguishable but... you’re clean.
You sit up and stare.
Veron chuckles. “First prestidigitation?”
Arms out, you touch your skin. “Yeah.”
“It won’t fix any itching or reactions you’ve had to being dirty. Nothing like a wash to do that. But it will remove surface dirt and sweat.”
He nudges your shoulder. Claws circle your ankle. “Now lay down. Make yourself comfortable.”
You do as he says and close your eyes again. It’s noticeably easier to relax. Even your sheets feel cleaner. You press your cheek against your pillow and exhale. Perhaps he’d cleaned your bed too.
He doesn’t release your ankle, instead working his digits into the meat of your calf. Probing your muscles and rubbing soothingly over your sore spots. You realise he’s settling in to give you a massage, and can’t help but relax further. You definitely could do with one.
He takes his time, turning your legs into jelly without even making it sexual, kneading your flesh and banishing the worst of the pain in your lower half. You're so relaxed by the time he makes it to your hips that you don’t even tense as he removes your underwear. Instead your legs loll open when he starts massaging your groin, firm touches lightening as he strokes your labia and your mons.
He ignores your clit, taking a more sensual approach, thumbing your folds and encouraging blood-flow.
Your arousal sneaks up on you, leaving you in ignorance until your clit begins to swell, and you become slick.
“There you go,” Veron murmurs, almost coos at your pussy, before spreading it open.
You flinch, only just noticing how badly you need to be touched. To feel some kind of pressure, some friction between your legs.
Veron shushes you before leaning in to kiss your clit. A chaste string of pecks that quickly devolve into messy, sloppy kisses. He punctuates them with little sucks and brushes of his tongue.
You can’t help but tremble and pant. It’s about all you can do in your relaxed state.
He’s in no rush to get you off. If there’s any desperate hunger, it’s impeccably disguised. Everything about his touch is worshipful; reverent. If yesterday’s oral was entirely for him, then in comparison, today’s is entirely for you.
You lose track of time, entirely focused on the heat between your thighs and way it makes your thoughts fuzzy. Until your orgasm, like your arousal, sneaks up on you, and you’re suddenly cresting a wave of pleasure you hadn’t noticed looming.
Your knees clamp shut around Veron’s head and your hands fist in the sheets. You come louder than you think you’ve come in years.
He doesn’t seem to mind, gripping you by the hips and repeating that little motion with his tongue – the one that has you arching off the bed – prolonging your orgasm for all it’s worth.
Until finally you fall silent, body turning limp.
Like yesterday, Veron doesn’t pull away immediately. He takes his time releasing you, going back to rubbing your legs, working his way down to your feet until you’re luxuriating in the high of endorphins.
When he thinks you’ve basked enough, he drops your feet to the bed and gives your leg a pat. “How was that?”
It’s a struggle to even speak. The best you can do is give him a weak thumbs up.
He huffs a laugh and makes himself comfortable at the foot of your bed. You might be bothered by his insertion into your room and private space if it weren’t for how good he just made you feel.
Minutes trickle by and you suspect Veron is waiting for something. Regardless, you take your time, grounding yourself again and waiting for the rush to dissipate. Until finally you speak into the silence.
“I don’t remember the last time it felt that good.”
His brow furrows, but he still pauses to consider his words. “It was a... nice size. A good long orgasm. Not what I’d consider spectacular.”
You close your eyes. Yeah. You don’t want to look at him if you’re going to have this conversation.
“It didn’t hurt. And you were... patient.”
The silence is heavy.
His words are careful when he breaks it. “Does it usually hurt? When you come?”
You give a noncommittal shrug. “I just mean. It’s nice not to have a crick in my neck from staring at my phone, or a sore hand and wrist from taking too long. Coming is nice, but not usually worth the pain I experience trying to do so.”
His hand rests on your ankle again. Soothing motions made with his thumb against your skin. His attempt at comfort.
It’s... nice.
“I’m sorry you deal with that. I’ll do what I can to make sure all your orgasms feel worth it.”
You don’t know if it’s the sentiment or the seriousness of his tone, but suddenly there are tears trying to squeeze out from your eyelids. The world has ended, and somebody still has it in them to be mindful of your chronic pain.
You smile up at the ceiling. “Thanks.”
-
It’s terrifying, leaving the safety of your room.
Veron goes ahead of you, searching two of your neighbouring apartments. He’s thorough. You’d specifically instructed him to check under beds and tables, inside cupboards and wardrobes; basically anywhere a person could fathomably fit and hide (and turn into a zombie and climb out to surprise you).
Once the apartments are deemed clear you follow behind, bringing boxes and bags. You do a brief survey of the spaces, jotting down on paper what kind of supplies are present. Your sense of relief grows with each opened door and cupboard.
The kitchens are your first port of call. And though neither are abundantly stocked, both have clearly been untouched in the weeks since society collapsed.
Vernon tactfully ignores the way your eyes begin to water as you work. He keeps out of the way, searching other rooms, mostly snooping. You appreciate his discretion.
Most of the refrigerated foods are spoiled. There are a few sealed drinks that are salvageable, but it turns your stomach just opening the door long enough to fish them out.
You raid the linen cupboard. You haven’t been able to change your sheets in so long, and the prospect on sleeping on clean (if a little dusty) sheets has you giddy. Sure, Veron might be able to magic them clean, but his energy is another resource that should be carefully rationed. Especially when he needs to feed on you to keep powered.
But the true bounty of today is in the bathroom. You nearly start weeping again when you enter the room and spot multiple rolls of toilet paper.
Veron interrupts this time. “You good?”
You force your expression into something resembling neutrality (or just normal levels of relief and happiness instead of the teary-eyed mess you’re quickly becoming) before nodding at him. “Yeah.”
“Good. I’m going to take some of this furniture to the hall. We should have enough to build a partial barricade.”
You nod your agreement. “Can you check in later to escort me back? I don’t want to make trip alone. At least not while my hands are full.”
His eyes flick to your already growing pile of supplies. “Sure.”
It doesn’t take you long to assemble what you what to take back home. Food, water, toiletries, sheets. A book, some sturdy looking bags, some medications. Stationary, a screwdriver, some duct tape... Until there’s a pile by the door and you’re categorising everything else in the apartment. Thoughts ablur about your future plans. Because suddenly you have a future.
And yeah, there are a bunch of survival things to think about. Habits you need to stop and adjust, to be sustainable long term. Waste management, long term food solutions, building on your water catchment system... But they’re good problems to have. Significantly better than starving in your house and dying in your bed.
Left with nothing to do with your hands, you sit on the couch and wait for Veron to return. You’re just thinking of fetching more paper and starting a to do list when you hit a wall and your legs turn leaden. Standing to fetch a pen suddenly seems like a monumental effort.
You’ve never been a font of endless energy, and you’ve been so hyper-fixated on the task at hand that you’ve forgotten to pace yourself, to stop and take your usual breaks. Besides, you’ve been cooped up for so long and you’re malnourished. You’re bound to have less stamina than you had before.
It’s okay though. You’re just tired. A few minutes of sitting will fix you right up. You can get up and write that to do list later. There’s no point burning through all your energy before lunch.
You loll your head back and let out a long breath. Yeah. You can afford a break.
Pep talk successful, you sink further into the couch, content to rest a moment. You turn your thoughts towards that to do list, barely noticing when your sluggish processes turn light and cloudy, slipping out of grasp.
Despite the unfamiliar setting, despite being slumped over a stranger’s couch-
You've been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he's in need of help too.
-
Crackfic? Zombie apocalypse AU? Reader insert? And honestly, why not make this really super indulgent? Lets make the reader on the asexual spectrum too. With a sex drive that varies on a day to day basis. I wanna see that in a character.
Reader insert is GNC regarding pronouns and backstory, AFAB. Incubus uses male pronouns and is penised.
-
Inspired by this post by @eldritch-spouse. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 330 (it's just a prologue, okay?).
Content Warnings: brief mention and dismissal of suicide, apocalypse setting, some bleak vibes
Masterlist - A03 - Next
It has been three weeks since Veron fed.
Three weeks since he last saw another living soul. Six weeks since the portals to Infernus were barred shut. Seven since day zero.
If he ever met the cursed creature who’d started this outbreak – who'd manufactured this necrotic plague – witting or not: he’d throttle them. Probably. If they survived his hunger.
But honestly, tracking them down isn’t really in his wheelhouse. He can barely find a meal, let alone the harbinger of the apocalypse.
He’s going to starve.
The only survivors left in the city would be hunkered down in too small rooms, behind barricades and living off dwindling supplies. It wouldn’t surprise him if the remaining people fell to starvation and thirst, rather than brave the hordes outside. If the desperate took their own lives, rather than letting time take them.
He’d considered it. Of course he had. You don’t live through the start of an apocalypse without considering all your options.
But ultimately, he couldn’t. He’d worked too hard. Lived through too much shit. Was too damn stubborn to give up at this point. Even as pickings grow slimmer.
He stops on an overpass. Takes a moment to survey the nearby buildings. Ignores the undead stragglers outside, searching windows instead for signs of life. Movement, distress messages, anything.
Nothing from the windows.
But there is one building in his line of sight that is teeming with unlife. Husks milling outside the ground floor. Inside it too – if he squints he can just make out the shattered windows, and the stumbling silhouettes from within.
They’re slow. Almost placid. Like whatever had drawn them to the area had long since stopped holding their interest. But you don’t get a horde of that size for no reason.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s somebody still alive in there. Somebody who’d be very grateful if Veron showed up; ready to swoop in and play the hero.
He glides down from the overpass, and heads towards the building.
