I recently read "all he needs is a little training, really," by jinx69 on ao3, and it's… oh my god, it's so good!!! I'm very obsessed with near the end when Owen says this to the doc, and I quote:
"...You might even want to get yourself off when you're feeling all tired and sleepy in your bed, and be unable to stop thinking about me when you do."
Please, please read the lovely fic by jinx69 beforehand, it's amazing. I can't even compare, but I just had to write this solo doc scene. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I would say this is like an aftermath of it
This makes no sense whatsoever. Just my very normal ramblings, but I thought it would be hot for the hypnosis to have a different affect then imagined.
Tags: Edging, powerplay (kinda), sleep deprivation (caused by Legundo himself), hypnosis, hypnokink, masturbation, solo male, the voices (as a side effect of the hypnosis), cum description (I'm never doing this again) pet play (gets called pup, a lot), technically domOwen (I should write him as a dom more this and the fic that inspired this was hot)
Days blur together after the day he went to see Owen in the forest. Not in the way they usually do, full and purposeful, each hour accounted for, but in a strange, uneven rhythm. Moments slip. Thoughts trail off halfway through. Legundo finds himself standing in rooms without remembering why he walked into them, tools in his hands he doesn’t recall picking up.
He tells himself it’s exhaustion.
It has to be.
Because whenever he gets close to that gap, whenever he tries to linger on the edges of it, there’s something in his mind that gently redirects him. A soft, almost comforting insistence that there’s nothing there worth worrying about. That everything is fine.
So he lets it go.
There are too many other things demanding his attention anyway. The town doesn’t let him breathe long enough to sit with the unease, even if he wanted to.
Oakhurst is restless. The militia is stretched thin, running patrols longer than they should, doubling routes they can barely cover. Reports come in pieces, never the full picture, shadows moving where they shouldn’t, livestock found drained and abandoned, whispers of red eyes watching from the treeline. Vampires, pressing closer. Testing. Waiting. Legundo throws himself into the work because it’s the only thing that feels solid. If he keeps moving, keeps thinking, keeps doing, then the strange gaps in his memory don’t matter. The way his thoughts sometimes feel… nudged, guided away from certain places, it doesn’t matter.
What matters is finding something that works.
A defense. A cure. Anything.
And if he runs himself into the ground trying—
At least he would be useful...
Sleepless nights at his workbench, grinding ingredients down into fine powder, hands stained with herbs and ash. Bottles of cloudy liquid line the shelves, failed attempts, half-finished remedies, something close to holy water that still isn’t quite right. Notes scribbled in the margins of older notes, theories crossing over each other in restless loops.
He looks worse with each passing day. By the time Cleo finds him, he barely registers her at first.
“Doctor.” Her voice cuts clean through the fog, sharp enough to anchor him for a second. He turns, slow, like his body is lagging behind his thoughts. She takes one look at him and her expression tightens. “You look like shit.”
Legundo manages a faint, lopsided smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah… I guess there’s still a lot to do.”
“No.” Cleo steps closer, firm, unyielding. “No, there isn’t. Not like this.” He sways a little where he stands, and that’s all the confirmation she needs. “You need sleep, Legs.” Her tone softens just a fraction, but it’s still not negotiable. “We’re going back. Now.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t really have it in him. She drags him along, half-guiding, half-hauling, through the quiet streets and up to the clinic. He barely notices the walk, his head dipping, steps uneven. Inside, she stops at the bottom of the stairs.
“I can’t go up with you,” she says, glancing toward the upper floor. “You’ll manage, yeah?” Legundo nods automatically, that same slow compliance surfacing again without him thinking about it. “Good. Then go.” She pauses, studying him for a beat. “Please sleep.”
And then she’s gone, already shifting, dissolving into the flutter of wings before disappearing into the night. The silence she leaves behind feels heavier. Legundo stands there for a second longer than necessary before turning toward the stairs.
Up.
Each step feels like it takes more effort than it should. His hand drags along the railing for balance, his body swaying faintly. By the time he reaches his room, he’s already half-gone, caught between waking and
something softer, deeper. He doesn’t bother with the lamp. He just makes it to the bed and collapses onto it, limbs heavy, eyes slipping shut...
...and then opening again.
Sleep doesn’t come. Not fully. His mind won’t stay quiet long enough. Thoughts drift in loose, disconnected fragments at first, unfinished formulas, half-remembered conversations, the sharp smell of crushed herbs, but they don’t hold. They slide away, replaced by something else.
Someone else.
Owen.
It happens without warning, without intent. One moment Legundo is trying to focus on anything else, anything, and the next, the image is just… there. Clear. Too clear.
The shape of his face. The way his eyes catch the light, red, vivid, impossible to ignore. The faint scatter of freckles across his skin, soft against the sharper edges of his expression. Legundo exhales slowly, his head tilting back against the pillow.
It’s strange.
He doesn’t remember much, nothing concrete, nothing he can pin down, but the feeling lingers. Warm. Heavy. Good in a way that doesn’t quite make sense. Safe, even.
His brow furrows faintly at that. Why does it feel like that? He shifts slightly, restless, trying to shake it off, but it only makes him more aware of himself, of the tension still coiled in his body, of how awake he feels despite the exhaustion dragging at him.
His thoughts circle back. Owen again. Always Owen. The memory isn’t there, not really, but the impression of him is. Hands in his hair. A voice low and steady, saying things that felt… important, even if he can’t remember the words.
Legundo swallows, his breath catching just slightly. This is ridiculous.
He turns his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if that might help. “Just sleep,” he mutters to himself, voice barely above a whisper. But his mind won’t listen. It drifts again, pulled back like there’s something waiting there for him.
Owen’s eyes. That’s what sticks the most. Red. Bright. Unnervingly beautiful. Legundo lets out a quiet, uneven breath, staring up into the dark. “…what is wrong with me,” he murmurs. There’s no answer.
Only the slow, creeping realization that no matter how hard he tries to turn away from it, his thoughts keep slipping back to the same person. He was so hard it hurt. A dull, persistent ache that had settled deep in his groin, a throbbing reminder that refused to be ignored. Legundo shifted on the bed, the sheets tangling around his legs, his breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. Every time he closed his eyes, the image was there, seared onto the back of his eyelids: Owen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the softness of his lips, the fangs he’d felt once, just a ghost of a memory, a press against his skin that made his whole body shudder now with a confusing, desperate heat.
Pathetic, a distant, rational part of his mind whispered. You’re lying here aching for a vampire. A monster. You’re pathetic.
But the thought dissolved like sugar in water, sweet and meaningless. The need was louder. It was a physical pull, a cord tied around his spine and yanked taut, centering everything on the swollen, leaking weight between his legs. He’d tried to sleep. He’d tried to think of supply lists, of patrol routes, of the formula for that damned holy water. It was useless. His mind was a river, and every current led back to the same red-eyed pool.
A low, broken sound escaped him, a whimper. He pressed the heel of his hand against his erection through his trousers, and the jolt of sensation was so sharp it bordered on pain. Oh god. He bit his lip, hard, trying to stifle the next noise. His hips jerked up, seeking more pressure, and the friction of the rough fabric was a cruel tease.
“Owen…” The name was a prayer, a curse, a plea, torn from his throat without his permission. It hung in the dark room, shameful and raw.
He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. This was insane. But the ache was becoming a torment, a tight, coiling spring in his gut that demanded release. His fingers, clumsy and shaking, fumbled with the fastenings of his pants. The button popped open. The zipper rasped down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet. Cool air hit his feverish skin, and he gasped. He didn’t push the fabric down, just freed himself, his cock springing up to slap against his stomach, already wet at the tip.
Just a touch. Just to take the edge off. Then I’ll stop. I’ll sleep.
He wrapped his fingers around himself, and his whole body bowed off the bed. A choked-off moan ripped from his chest. He was so sensitive, every nerve ending screaming. His grip was tight, almost punishing, as he gave a single, slow stroke from root to tip. His thumb smeared the bead of pre-cum over the swollen head, and the slick, hot slide was so good, it made his vision blur.
Think of anything else. Anyone else.
He tried. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing the clinic, the pages of his notes. But the images warped, melted. The ink on the pages swirled into the pattern of freckles across a nose. The scent of herbs became the clean, cold scent of the forest, of damp earth and… him.
“Owen,” he moaned again, louder this time, his hips beginning a shallow, helpless rhythm into his own fist. The stroke was rough, urgent, fueled by a frustration that was quickly swallowing the shame. “Please…” He didn’t know what he was asking for. Relief. Permission. Something.
His mind began to fog, the edges softening. The exhaustion, the relentless arousal, the hypnotic pull of that singular focus, it all blended into a heavy, warm syrup in his veins. His movements became less coordinated, his strokes uneven. His mouth fell open slightly, a thin line of drool escaping the corner of his lip to trail down his chin. He didn’t notice.
That’s it. Just like that.
The voice wasn’t his own. It was a smooth, dark ribbon of sound woven directly into the fabric of his thoughts. It felt like a memory. It felt like the present. It felt like... Owen.
You’re so good for me. So desperate. My good pup.
A full-body shudder wracked him, a convulsion of pure, electric pleasure that had nothing to do with his hand. It came from obeying the voice, from the praise that sank into him like a warm stone. His hips stuttered. Pup. The word should have jarred him, should have broken the spell. Instead, it settled in his gut, warm and right. A soft, high whine vibrated in his throat, an animal sound.
You can’t come yet, can you? the voice murmured, a phantom breath against his ear. You need to hear it from me.
A door swung open, and all the resistance, all the confusion, poured out. What was left was a simple, hollow space, waiting to be filled. His hand slowed, then stilled, just holding himself tightly, trembling with the effort of stopping. Tears of frustration welled in his unfocused eyes. He was so close. The pressure was a burning knot, a star about to go supernova in his core. But it was stuck. Held back by an invisible wall.
“O-Owen…” he slurred, the word thick and wet. “Please… let me… I need…” He couldn’t form the request. Begging was too complex. He just needed.
Show me, the voice commanded, gentle but absolute. Show me how much you need. Be a good pup for me.
His mind, blank and pliant, latched onto the command. Show him. His free hand, the one not glued to his aching cock, moved. It was a slow, uncoordinated motion. He brought his fingers to his mouth, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He sucked two fingers into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly, a clumsy, lewd imitation of something he couldn’t quite remember. A memory of a tongue, of fangs. He drooled around his own fingers. Then, guided by an instinct he didn’t question, he dragged those wet fingers down his face. Over his parted lips, his chin, through the mess of drool already there. He marked his own skin. He did it again, whining pitifully. Showing him. Being good.
Good boy Legundo, the voice purred, and another bolt of pleasure, sharp and sweet, lanced through him. His cock twitched violently in his hand, leaking a fresh stream of pre-cum that dripped onto his stomach. Now touch yourself. But don’t come. Edge for me. Be my good, obedient pup.
His hand on his cock moved again, slick with his own spit and pre-cum. This time the strokes were different. Not the frantic, desperate pulls from before, but a measured, rhythmic pumping. It was torture. Exquisite, mind-melting torture. Each upward stroke brought him racing to the brink. His balls drew up tight, his thighs tensed like stone, his toes curled. The orgasm built, a tidal wave gathering force, ready to crash.
Stop.
His hand froze. A sob hitched in his chest. The wave crested… and hovered, suspended in an agony of denial. He trembled violently, every muscle locked. A tear finally spilled over, cutting a clean track through the mess on his cheek.
Again.
He stroked. Five perfect, devastating pulls. The world narrowed to the feel of his fist, the pounding of his heart, the voice in his head.
Stop.
He stopped, whimpering, his body screaming in protest. The denial was a physical pain, a deep, throbbing ache in his soul. He was crying openly now, tears and saliva mixing on his face. He was a mess. A desperate, horny, sobbing mess, and the only thing that mattered was the next command.
You’re so beautiful like this, the voice cooed. You beautiful, stupid boy. All mine. Completely broken for me. Do you want to come, pup?
He nodded as best as he could.
Then ask properly.
He didn’t understand. He was past understanding. He just needed. A deep, guttural bark erupted from his throat, a sharp, canine sound of pure distress. He followed it with a high, continuous whine, his hips making tiny, abortive thrusts into the empty air where his hand was no longer moving. He was reduced to this. To sounds. To need. "Please?" he repeats. "Please, Owen, Owen?" he begged.
Good. Very good. The approval was a drug, flooding his system with warmth. Now, pup. Come for your Master. Let it all out.
The permission was a detonation. With a raw, shattered cry, his body unlocked. His back arched violently off the bed, every muscle seizing. His hand, almost of its own volition, gripped his cock in a brutal fist and pointed it upward, toward his own face.
The first rope of cum wasn’t a spurt; it was a blast, a thick, pearly jet that shot through the air with a soft, wet sound. Landing in a hot, sticky stripe across his own forehead, painting his hairline white. He was still screaming, a continuous, mindless sound of release as the second eruption followed, just as voluminous, splattering across his cheekbone and into his hair. The third pulse was a massive, glutinous load that landed squarely on his chin and dripped down his neck.
He couldn’t see, couldn’t think. He was a vessel, emptying himself on Owen's command. The fourth and fifth bursts were slightly weaker but no less copious, splashing across his collarbones and chest in warm, sticky ropes. The final pulses were thick, oozing dribbles that coated his still-throbbing cock and his trembling hand, a final, messy proof of his obedience.
The climax seemed to last forever, wringing him out completely, leaving him hollow and twitching. He collapsed back onto the sodden sheets, breath sawing in and out of his lungs, covered in his own spend. The room smelled of sex and submission. His mind was a blissful, empty static. The voice was gone, but the feeling remained, the warm, heavy, owned feeling.
He lay there, spent and ruined, a sticky, tear-streaked puppy who had finally been allowed his reward. His eyes, glazed and content, stared at the ceiling. A slow, dopey smile touched his ruined, cum-spattered lips.
“Thank you...” he whispered hoarsely to the empty dark, before the blackness of true, obedient sleep finally pulled him under.
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 -
