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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 ℑ𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔒𝔲𝔯𝔰

◈ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: vampyr!osamu x fem-bodied!reader (no pronouns)

◈ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: strangers to friends to lovers, modern setting + hidden supernatural world, forced proximity (he serves as your protection), non-traditional vampire!au elements + fox!hybrid elements, original characters, two-year time-skip, age gap (on par for this au; reader is 20+), very minor beauty and the beast allusions, mutual pining, mutual suppressed feelings, pwp, scent kink, grinding/dry humping, mentions of masturbation/pillow humping (m. & r.), oral sex (r. receiving), hand jobs, frottage, mention of menstrual cycles, unprotected + penetrative + intimate sex + reader on top, cream pie (he’s sterile), slight power dynamics due to a contract, implied aftercare

◈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: briefly dub-con (not sexual: osamu loses control and pins you), angst, mentions of child abuse from osamu’s father, depictions of blood (biting + other wounds), minors dni

◈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 11.0k

◈ 𝐚/𝐧: for those who are in uni and starting classes again this monday, I wish y'all the best of luck and enjoy this piece as a bit of a stress reliever! (also phragne is pronounced frag-nuh)

Once, Osamu died as a young boy, laid beside his unconscious brother by the hands of a beast. And though he remembers little of that night, he continues to reap its foul consequences: a punishment of an indeterminate time, a renewed glutton for humanity, a monster. He is nothing but half a corpse and no more a man; he is going to die again.

On an old, familiar porch he’s laid himself down by a wooden rocking chair, beneath the round leaves of a potted plant as the cicadas scream. They cry, shrill and monotonous, pitched against the furred ears of this animalistic form of a fox’s body as Osamu tries to rise from the scarred boards of the porch, needing to reach the cottage’s front door. Phragne, he pleads silently within his mind for the witch who saved him and his brother as children to open her door for him once more. Even so, Osamu wonders if Death has finally come to take her due, over a hundred years too late.

Phragne, please, I beg of you.

The door opens. Osamu whines pitifully, a shallow breath that scarcely pulls at the lacerations along his body, blood of his own and of another creature matts his fur to his ribs, along his spine, and he lifts his head.

“Oh, fuck.” From the threshold, your eyes widen, a stranger to the fox you find.

You’re not her.

He means to move backwards, away from you, startled by your presence, but his paws slip and Osamu bares his teeth. Animalistic, indeed. You bend down slightly, and he watches with rapt attention as you set the heavied trash bag in your hands on the porch.

“Little Osamu,” you murmur, a mere whisper, but he hears it nonetheless.

A torrential onslaught of questions and worriment sluice through his pain-addled mind. You know his name somehow, and you speak it for a second time.

“Phyllis told me about you,” you hum, more so to yourself than to him. “Said you were friendly.”

Phyllis? His ears pin further.

A divot creases sadly between your brows as you apprehend him and his wounds. “Poor thing.” And you straighten to your knees, exhaling deeply when you take the trash up in your hands and leave to set it in the bins around the side of the house. Osamu would know, he’s been here numerous times to visit the witch in the past who kept the bins in the same spot, never misplaced. A minute or so later and you’re stepping up the porch, briefly turning to where Osamu observes you with caution before walking into the house—only to come back with a white bowl and a tin of herbal salve he recognized by scent to be the ointment Phragne used to often give him as a juvenile to keep him from wandering to her doorstep like a wounded little stray.

He doesn’t understand what’s happened here in his absence.

“Here,” you say gently, as if you truly are speaking to an animal, “she told me you liked blood best.”

———

Two Years Later

“I really wish you would just call for once.”

It’s near midnight when you saunter to your living room, having heard the telltale signs of Osamu entering your home; he could be quiet, if he wished it so, but his moderate footfalls were for your less acute ears to recognize, not from his lack of care. You see him on the couch with his head bowed over the backing, a hand rubbing with weariness at his eyes. He says, “Sorry. Hope I didn’t wake ya’.”

You turn on the hallway lamp. “Don’t you have some woods to be prowling?”

“Decided to come back early—I wasn’t feelin’ well.”

The overhead fixture remains off, leaving softened shadows against his and your bodies from the hallway light that bleeds into the living room. Briefly, you think to the very first night you had met him, unknowing; a distressed fox, darker in coloring and larger than the typical species, bloodied and curled on your front porch. He had let you apply the salve to his wounds as he lapped from the shallow bowl of ox blood curated from the town’s butcher, your hesitance made present in how your hands trembled lightly with each press of your fingers and his subsequent grumbling of displeasure.

Phyllis, who you now understand to be a practitioner of the supernatural and properly named Phragne, had been a good friend of your unassuming parents. How they met, and if there may have been prior connections, you’re unsure, but a day had come to fruition only two years ago when Phragne offered to let you reside in her winter home up north due to unforeseen circumstances.

“It’s a lovely little cottage in the woods and mountains,” she had told you over the phone one evening, “and I need someone to watch over it and its pests while I’m away.”

“How long will you be gone?” you had asked.

And Phragne sighed in unease. “Only for a while.”

You left home a week later, your belongings packed in plastic suitcases and foldable boxes to travel up the country where Phragne helped welcome you into the small home. Though, her fatigued movements and voice weren’t lost on you as she led you into each room, giving respective information that she thought necessary to tell. And when she guided you back into the kitchen, Phragne sat you down, her grey hair beginning to slip from its knot, tall body slouching with listlessness.

“I know you and your parents think my ridiculous habits are a product of old age but, dear, I need you to listen.” She took your hand, squeezing gently across the table. “Whatever you hear at night, no you didn’t; whatever you see at night, it’s not there. You mind that well and you mind that good—I need you to promise me.”

At her sudden shift in demeanor, you nodded with uncertainty to a promise you hadn’t understood.

“Only trust the brown fox that comes around these parts. I helped raise that little beast and his brother. He’s a sweet thing though, potty-trained too if you want to let him in the house.” You remember she laughed at that particular end of her sentence before she continued. “But he’s mean enough to keep the bad things away from here; he’ll protect you.”

“The bad things?” you asked her, leaning back in your chair. “Like bears and wolves?”

And Phragne smiled, eyes wrinkling at their corners in a manner you thought almost looked forlorn. “Yeah, like bears and wolves and other things.”

“Does the fox have a name?”

She said, “Osamu—he also responds to ‘Samu.”

Phragne had been right, he was certainly house-trained. She had also forgotten to mention he was a man, a vampyr of a different kind, a hybrid. Phragne had forgotten to inform you of many things: of the reality of the supernatural and its creatures, of how her superstitions weren’t for naught, of how she had retained her immortality for over three hundred years through the means of a darker summoning. However, this information hadn’t come to attainment through simple means.

Osamu shifts on the couch, the peak of his throat bobbing when he swallows, then tightens his jaw. For all the time he’s spent with you over the past two years since you moved into Phragne’s old home, Osamu still feels the need to brace himself at the touch of your scent to his nose.

“Are you okay?” he hears you ask, listening as you come around the couch to settle yourself gingerly beside him, though far enough to create a palpable distance. You smell different, he realizes. Osamu lifts his hand, peering over at you when you raise your brows in return.

You smell different because you’re wearing an old shirt of his that he had left here a week ago after having forgotten to fetch it from the laundry. It’s moments like these that he’s grateful you’re human; you can’t hear his cold heart beat a little faster, you can’t pick up the underlying scent of how his body instinctively reacts to you, a natural inclination he holds no control over. But he’s been in your presence, both as friend and protector, for long enough that you can catch his minute change in expressions.

“‘M fine, just a bit worn. Needed a break.”

Your responding hum is indicative of your disbelief, though you don’t push for a proper answer. “So, you came all the way out here just to sit on my couch in the middle of the night?”

“You hold my debt in Phragne’s absence; I fulfill my end of the deal, everyone’s alive ‘n happy.” In the darkness of the living room, he can still see the pictures you’ve placed above the mantel where embers have long died away, no longer do the flames lick into the chimney and dispel smoke above the cottage roof.

His debt: another crude staunch in an old wound. The morning after he found you in what had once been Phragne’s home, Osamu awoke at the peek of dawn on your porch, his body that of a man’s and bare of clothing, the lacerations having healed to pink scars that carved themselves into his flesh. He had shifted his anatomies in his sleep, panicking shortly in fear you would see as this had never happened before; Osamu let the fur cover his body again, let nails give way to claws, as he loped through the underbrush to his own home left untouched in the depths of pine and oak. It was there that he found Phragne’s letter tied to a large crow’s leg that perched in waiting on the wooden rails siding the front entrance staircase. One of Phragne’s compelled animals to complete her more tedious work, he thought most likely.

‘My Dearest Osamu,’ it had read, ‘I am deeply sorry for not having told you prior, but I’ll be long gone when you find this; something of import came up. In my leave, someone will take residence in the cottage, and it will be them that holds your contract in my temporary absence. Protect them, and perhaps make a new friend. You seem low on those nowadays.

Sincerely Yours, Phragne.’

Osamu had sat on the ebony wood stairs of the estate, alone, dressed once more, looking a man but being far from one as he read the letter.

Now, he lets his body slacken further into the fabric cushions beside you. His hand returns to rub harshly at his temple, eyes closed with a degree of finality. “Just wanted to come check on ya’…took care of somethin’ outside.”

“Osamu?” you say, the half-hearted exasperation lost to concern because his responses are much too short, unnecessarily drawn out as if they’re difficult to form on a weak tongue. “‘Samu?” Only when you touch his arm does he start, the hand at his forehead moving away immediately in favor of grabbing your wrist before he just as quickly lets go.

He feels the change in his body the moment you lean back, and he fears he may have accidentally hurt you. As so, he tries to speak again, to apologize, to move away from you—to get away, away, away. But it’s almost painful to keep himself from your reach when he begins to feel the fatigue that clutches his throat, wearies his mind. Because for all the years he’s had to learn the world and the intrinsic rights of nature, for all the mistakes he’s made and lived long enough to right, for every death and birth and limbo and soul he’s bore witness to, his ultimate mistake will not be to rot in immortality, or gorge himself in maliciously founded hunger. His fatal mistake will be you.

A human, reared in a different time, having been told to live with an awareness that you do not have forever, though constantly reminded by mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles that ‘this is humanity’s greatest gift.’ You were taught to live knowing you would die, knowing it to be the singular truth. And for that, he envies you.

For that, he’s also come to love you. His beautiful, humanistically devastating mistake.

An aberration that doesn’t present itself until it’s far too late. A fault that had formed with each night that you let Osamu stay in the cottage as man, rather than outside as animal; with the frequency in which you addressed him by name, and smiled more in his presence instead of startling when he moved; with the way in which you let him into your life, and he let you in his, even if the initial revealment of the complete truth had been nothing short of disastrous with your, albeit warranted, minor mental break.

He hasn’t loved anyone for a very long time. He only wishes he could have saved himself from this fate—to save you from him. And, perhaps, he’ll never tell you.

The heat of your body disappears momentarily before it’s brought back to him. You’re closer now, and Osamu is growing weaker. His skin is cooler than your own when you bring his head toward you, using that same hand to part his lips.

“Osamu, open your eyes,” you hiss out of frustration and fear, a contrasting difference to the gentle way you attempt to handle him, bringing a short canteen of chilled animal blood to his mouth and tipping the metal edge, continuing to hold his head in place. “Osamu, please.”

The cloying taste of the blood spreads over his tongue, down his throat, and he inhales sharply, nostrils flaring, black lashes pushing open to see you hovering above him as he continues to drink with a newfound hastening. His hand that reaches greedily to grab the canteen, inadvertently catching your own hand beneath his palm as he swallows.

There’s the distant, pathetic thought that he wants to look at you again, needing to see your face, your eyes, as he drinks—like some confirmation from you that this is okay, as if you don’t understand he needs this. But he knows his own eyes have turned that garish shade of red, the iridescence of the color intermingling with the slate-brown of his irises, pupils thinning to sharp slits; he knows that you’re watching him drink, can see the pointed tips of his canines when he pauses shortly to breathe. Osamu doesn’t understand why his reaction to the consumption of animal blood has become so utterly fervent in comparison to past feedings, but he can scarcely fucking think. His hands tremble, chest rising and falling unevenly. A trickle of blood traces down his lip, to the point of his chin, and he moves the canteen away, your hand still beneath his.

He feels your pulse on the soft flesh of your wrist, and then you say his name.

Oh, why did you have to do that?

In the brevity of a single moment, you’re kneeling beside Osamu, until you’re not. The sound of the canteen hitting the floorboards reverberates sharply in the living room as your mind finally returns to be in tune with your body: how Osamu has you pressed into the couch, near panting as he rests his forehead against your chest, arms braced on either side of you to listen to the quick little pitter-patter of your heart.

You’ve never seen him like this.

Osamu begins to nose beneath your chin, effectively tilting your head back before he lowers himself to the pulse point on the side of your throat. He makes an appraising sound in response, one that has you murmuring his name carefully—though the tail of it breaks into something breathless when he licks his tongue along the carotid artery, relishing in the warmth of you, the taste, the smell.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He hears his name once more. Osamu finally raises his stare, looking at you and your staggered features as your chest pushes against his when you breathe, errant, beneath him. His face falls almost instantaneously as the urgency of what he’s just done sobers him from the maddening need to have you. And Osamu can’t hide how his brows furrow in horror, how he regards you with disconcertment and distress. He closes his eyes again.

Though, by some mercy he doesn’t deserve, he feels your hand cup his face, a request to turn toward you. “Please look at me,” you tell him, only the barest wavering in those words, and Osamu shudders in restraint.

Why don’t you run from him? he wonders. How have you not grown to hate what he is?

Eyes of red, the color of welling blood, find yours.

“When…when was the last time you fed?”

He tells you, honestly, hoarsely, “I don’t know.” His body is still shaking from the spate of adrenaline. “...I don’t know.” Unsteady, he pushes himself away from you, out of your palm where it had held his cheek, to sit himself as far from you as possible like a beat dog with its tail between its legs. Osamu winces at the shift in movements, bringing a hand over his stomach when a lacing of pain tightens his features.

Your legs bend to aid in propping yourself to a sitting position, to remain facing him, attention falling to where he covers his abdomen. And though you have yet to even the slight waver to your voice, you say, “Osamu, I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

Fear has an acrid scent, a reaction similar to an animal releasing its bladder when caught in a predator’s teeth, and his nose twitches when he smells it on you; then the scent of concern, soothing like ginger is to an upset stomach; there’s something maudlin there as well, warm, disarming with its saccharine scent. Osamu touches above his navel, where he believed the maiming to his stomach had healed already when he killed a rusalka in the nearby lake only hours prior—he had caught its scent almost a week ago, coming too close to the outskirts of the cottage as if it had been watching you when Osamu wasn’t present in the daylight.

He lifts up the hem of his shirt. The contusions had only worsened; egregious green and black now line the cuts, any blood having coagulated in the wound. And it hurts as the adrenaline ebbs, no longer nulling the pain. He needs human blood to mend this, even as the thought alone has him wanting to be out of your presence.

Osamu breathes out, “Shit,” and replaces his shirt over the wound, but you’re already hurrying from the couch, opening drawers and cabinets to find the salve that Phragne left you.

“A heal-all,” she had said, showing you the stack of tins in the cupboard before she left. “It’s almost like magic, I would say.”

You find a half-used tin tucked into the corner of the kitchen counter, returning to Osamu when you dip the tips of your fingers into the thick, yellow-tinted salve.

“It won’t work,” he says between his teeth when you lift his shirt to see the contusions once more. His breathing has fettered to something shallow, a greyed pallor to his skin, dark hair stuck to his brow by sweat, almost brushing his eyes.

You’re near fraught when you look to him. “Then tell me what to do—tell me how to help you.”

His returning expression is wordless, though you understand it well enough.

Human blood, you realize. He needs human blood. Because though he can slake his hunger with the blood of an animal to sustain, the rich potency of man is a damning thing as much as it is fulfilling; the carnal form of a necessary evil, to take from another what one does not have. And you’re willing to give.

Osamu watches as you touch your throat, your collarbone, in a subconscious manner. You’ve made your decision and he wishes you hadn’t. For all his caution, for the nights he kept away from you to feed himself in fear of losing the trust you confided in him after many painstakingly slow months, had been in vain as you finally see him in his most deplorable state, and Osamu is scared. He feels like a boy in the forests again, his brother’s hand held tightly within his own, a round face wet with tears, as he tries to run from the inevitable.

In that old moment, he had still believed in the singular truth of Death. It had been truer than the peat moss beneath his feet, truer than the very leaves that covered the night above. He hadn’t known that something so utterly definite could be taken from him and Atsumu.

You’re in front of him and Osamu has begun to drift into senselessness, mumbling words you neither understand nor properly hear beneath his breath, unresponsive when you call his name, chin falling to his chest as his face twists and changes with strong emotions to invisible factors. You lift your wrist to place it beneath his nose, even as he reveals little to no awareness of your proximity; his head is held by your hand once more before you shake his large shoulder, though this yields no response.

“God—don’t fucking do this to me,” you say, something between a plea and a reprimand.

His mouth tightens as he stares, unseeing, into his lap. Desperately, you decide to reach into the front pocket of his jeans where you know he keeps a small collapsible knife, and when you find it, unfolding the clean blade, you wonder momentarily how this may end. But the blood wells beneath the tip of the knife where you cut into your finger with a wince, a small bead of red, before you open his mouth with your other hand and press the blood onto his tongue, abandoning the blade to a side table.

Osamu’s eyes squeeze shut as he tastes the wound on your finger, his mouth closing around the knuckle until you pull away, coaxing him forward to place his lips against your inner arm as you lift it, his palm encircling your wrist with haste. And he looks at you, such bare sorrow, a remorseful hunger, that you think he might push you away when his canines nick the skin and do not bite down. Until you feel a numbing sensation, both in body and in mind, something that Osamu must see as well when he pierces into your flesh only then.

It’s a difficult thing to watch, though you experience no pain, and you find that your head rests comfortably atop his shoulder, tucked away into his neck as your fingers hold tight to the back of his shirt. Even so, you peer back for a moment to see a smear of blood where he drinks, a droplet on the verge of falling from your arm’s edge before he licks it away, swallowing. There’s the distant realization, as well, that you’re no longer scared, a certain repose encompassing your body.

Osamu knows you’re looking at him; his right arm holding at your waist to ground himself moves upward to coax you back into the safe curve of his throat, murmuring breathlessly, “Don’t watch, darlin’.” And you let him move your head, the disquiet that had settled into the marrow of your body is no longer. At your waist where his hand has returned to steady you, his rectitude is betrayed by that very hand as it grasps at the fabric of his shirt that you wear, releasing, burying back within the cotton that pools and folds above your hip, releasing once more.

He drinks from you. The cicadas do not wail their violent song tonight, tucking their wings and gathering low on the branches outside; all is quiet in the forest as a predator makes himself known from the little cottage just west of the lake with its brass hare knocker and gabled roof.

The warmth of his mouth is removed from your arm as he lowers the palm at your wrist to wrap around the punctures he created, an attempt to staunch the blood while your body continues to disseminate and filter the enzymes from his saliva that had entered your circulatory system: a conjunctive blood thinner with anodyne-like qualities. Your body settles against his as you sit between his legs, still holding to his shoulder, your gentle exhales pushing along the line of his neck. Osamu’s head rests upon your own now, his lips smudged with your blood as he says, “Don’t fall asleep on me—I need ya’ to keep talkin’, need to make sure you’re alright.”

You nod, speaking tiredly, “I’m okay.”

For the remainder of the night, Osamu cares for you in a different way than from beyond a dark corner or prowling beneath the boughs. He mends the small breaks in your skin, cleaning, applying the salve, dressing it; fruit and honey, he offers, to help lift your blood sugar; a bath, he draws, even at your protestation for him to sit, to let himself recover.

“It’ll be healed by mornin’,” he tells you over the sound of water that pours from the spigot. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Why?” you deign to ask, seated haplessly on the cold tile where Osamu had placed you, an unfocused gaze regarding him.

“Your temperature needs to be raised,” he offers, lifting your body to lean you against the counter, keeping you stable with a firm hand to your shoulder—such horrid strength, reduced to nothing more than the touch of another human. “Are you able to undress yourself?”

You swallow, eyes flitting to the tub instead of meeting his own that are no longer red, but the lovely brown with irises like the new moon you’ve come to recognize, to always find when he greets you, minds you. “I can try,” you say, even as embarrassment prods along your flesh. How ridiculous, you think through your stupor, thumbs pulling at black shorts beneath, to be abashed now, after everything.

“Do you remember,” you stumble over the breathy words, shaking your head in frustration when you address Osamu, though he remains facing an opposite wall as he listens, “before you revealed yourself, when I’d let you in as a fox?”

He smiles, a bittersweet thing, though you don’t see this. “I remember.”

With your shorts left to the tiles, you begin to remove your underwear. “You’d…roam around on your own accord. Sometimes, I’d catch you sitting on the couch, watching the TV, and you would just lay there.” You pause, huffing slight laughter. “You liked the cooking shows the best.”

Osamu hums amusedly, even as the scent of you becomes heavier.

“And you’d sit on the porch with me to watch the sun go down; I’d tell you about my day at work, because I thought you couldn’t understand me. Still can’t believe you let me think for three months that you were just some docile little animal Phragne kept around.”

“If I recall correctly,” he hears your underwear slide to your ankles, nose twitching, “you threatened me with a rifle the next time I came around. I figured it was the mornin’ before that you saw me shift. It was my fault I caught your scent a second too late.”

There’s a short respite where you take his shirt from your upper body, laying it beside the other articles of clothing.

You still smell like him.

The thought comes, unbidden, preening as it nudges with enticement. Though Osamu sets his jaw, understanding this innate and inner dance around his emotions. This old malediction that has altered his body, twisting it into something unearthly and beautifully grotesque, bestial.

“Would you have shown me the truth if I hadn’t caught you?”

Such a heavy question that lingers in the bathroom’s humidity and touches along your bare body as you lower yourself into the tub with weakened arms.

Osamu parts his lips to speak; he recalls, for those three months, having been wholly…content. He recalls, after his own initial and guarded hesitance, scratching at the cottage’s door like a begging dog, following at your heels before lounging in the day bed at the large window to peer out on the dark surrounds. And Osamu would lie on his belly on the cold kitchen floors when you cooked, watching lazily; nights spent in the quiet company of one another when he would rest at your side on the couch, listening to the sound of thin paper being pushed and flipped in the book you held. As so, he had never infringed on your privacy, keeping well away from your bedroom, turning his furred head elsewhere when you ambled around the home only partially clothed because you hadn’t known.

“You ‘n I both know what happened after ya’ figured it out.” Your sheer horror, your panic, your wide eyes and trembling body; Osamu’s confusion, his hurt and understanding, his pinned little ears that tucked back with his haunches, a human expression on the body of an animal.

“That’s not an answer,” you whisper as your knees lift to your chest, breaking the water. It’s difficult to imagine a life carved in these forests and mountains without him: a friend, a companion, a protector.

He moves away from his place in the bathroom’s corner, crossing gently to you, and he sees how you lift your head, curling into yourself at his approach. Osamu lowers to his knees at the tub’s porcelain flank, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead to feel your temperature when he tells you, breathing out, “I hadn’t meant for you to find out like that, but…yes, I would’ve told ya’—eventually.” Your head pushes slightly into his touch, as if you’re leaning into it.

“No,” you laugh shallowly, “you wouldn’t have, Osamu.”

His resulting smile is only a slight curve, thin and conceding when he lowers his arm, knuckles briefly running over your temple, a light enough touch to be seen as accidental. “You don’t know that.”

“Then tell me something that’s true.”

He looks around the bathroom in thought, turning to sit with his back against the tub to grant you privacy once more, his legs stretching out in front of him as he folds long arms over his chest. “My family ‘n I used to live in this town when it was nothin’ more than dirt roads and a handful of buildings; when everyone’s noses were stuck in someone else’s business because there wasn’t much to do but work. Me ‘n my brother—Atsumu, the one I told ya’ about a while ago—we’d go runnin’ in the woods and scavenge for berries, pretendin’ that we were runaways, only to come back home and give our poor Ma’ a heart attack when we’d be all scraped up and bruised.” He sniffs indignantly before he continues. “She’d chastise us, tell us to be more careful. But our dad hated it. He’d take us by the scruff and throw us in the yard, yell at us that if we wanted to act like animals, we could live like ones too.”

You shift in the tub, laying your arms over the white lip where you prop your chin there, dreary with sleep, listening to him.

“‘N then one day we really did run, all the way down to the cliffs where you could just barely see some caves across the valley. It was stupid, but we were just kids.”

“What did your parents do?” you ask, ever so soft.

“I don’t know,” he says. “That was the night we both got turned. I don’t remember much.” Except for how he was forced to watch as the creature bled his brother, a slit in the soft skin of his throat, before wresting Atsumu to drink its own thick blood. “That was also how we met Phragne. She found us in the woods afterwards, helped us, but I imagine it’d been difficult for her to explain to two eight-year-old boys what they now were.”

You still, a falling of your features at this revealment. “...You were eight?”

He nods but doesn’t turn to look at you. “Phragne offered us a deal out of pity, told us that she could lessen the effects of it for a price: our promised, indefinite, servitude and loyalty to her when we became men, so we could continue livin’ our lives like normal boys until then. And we agreed to it, of course, we just wanted to go back home to Ma’.” Osamu snorts with little humor. “The witch conveniently forgot to mention that when we reached maturity, the damned curse would come back even more violent after havin’ been suppressed for so long.”

Another break in the conversation until he speaks again. “That deal—it’s the same one you now hold while Phragne’s gone. You’ve got me at your beck ‘n call, sweetheart.”

You exhale, and Osamu turns just enough to see the profile of your face, the line of your nose and lips and chin laid upon your hand. You’re closer than he had assumed, though granting enough distance to maintain casualty.

“What’s your brother up to these days?” you ask, and Osamu finds that he hadn’t been expecting it. He had thought you might apologize as many did when told of a bad memory.

“He’s down south in some big city. ‘Tsumu prefers the noise of it—he can’t stand how quiet it gets out here, or comin’ back after everything that happened.”

Tucking your head toward him to rest on your cheek, you say, “So, what are you doing here if Atsumu has a debt to pay just like yourself?”

He laughs, a short breath that evolves into a bodied chuckle. “Misery loves company, and Phragne is the most miserable person I’ve ever met. Either way, I’ve got my life settled here, and Phragne fixed up the old manor off of Netley Street a long time ago for my family and I to live in. But ‘Tsumu works his debt in other ways: acts as her eyes, ears, and hands where she can’t be. As far as I know, you hold his debt, too.”

“I still don’t understand why she had me take her place.”

Osamu shifts to better observe you, his shoulder against the cold tub when he says, “She trusts ya’.”

It’s been two years, you think as you regard him, the thick of his brows that twitch nervously at your sudden silence. When will she return?

“Do you? Trust me, I mean.”

“Yes.” It’s an answer of finality, wholly determinate. It surprises you; he can tell.

And then you laugh: a quiet sound, prettily yours. Osamu watches as your cheek pushes against your hand, the soft of it rising beneath your eyes. The atmosphere has changed once more for this strange night, and Osamu finds that it’s equally jarring as it is soothing.

“I trust you too,” you confide, like children exchanging secrets behind little palms and fingers.

———

He sits in the daybed beneath the windows, the hallway lamp now dark and untouched as he waits and listens for nothing, for everything. You sleep soundly in the bedroom across the way, blankets pulled over your body, tucked under your chin. The bath has long been drained, the warmth with it now dissipated.

Two years, he’s been in your company; two years, you’ve gotten to learn one another. And Osamu still wants to learn more. He wants to learn beyond the amicable, he wants to learn the way a lover might. This yearning isn’t based in loneliness or desperation, from the many decades spent wondering what purpose life serves if not to ultimately cease in death.

Osamu has found you by some form of fate. And you, him.

The following morning, before the sun rises, Osamu takes pen and paper and begins to write.

‘I’d like to show you something when I come back tonight,’ reads the post-it he places by the small coffee machine, where he’s already brewed a heavy pot for when you wake up. He leaves shortly afterward.

———

“The lilies are prettier in the day, but…” he lets his sentence peter, vaguely gesturing to himself as he walks beside you, past the stone fountain in front of the manor.

“This whole time,” you begin, shaking your head when you look at the architecture of the home, the intricacies still present after so long, “you’ve been living here?”

Osamu smiles, his countenance near vaunting with how you regard the manor, how your hand holds the arm he offered upon arrival. “Such a gentleman,” you had crooned in mirth at his gesture, though you still threaded your hand around him, careful with the wound on your forearm even if its already begun to heal.

“Phragne restored it for us years ago, when ‘Tsumu and I were eleven or twelve—I forget,” he speaks idly, leading you up the short staircase to the front doors: hand carved with iron detailing.

“Is this the home you were raised in?” you ask.

Osamu pulls one of the large doors open, nodding toward the threshold for you to enter first. “Not quite,” he says, “our first home was a tiny thing, barely enough for the four of us. Then our dad died sometime later; it didn’t take long before we had nothin’ and went running to Phragne for help again. And we begged ‘n begged until she finally caved.” He breathes out. “We had only wanted to help Ma’.”

You turn to face him, the bittersweet fondness that graces his expression.

He coaxes you forward with a hand settled between your shoulder blades. “I promise I’m not as interestin’ to look at as the house.”

Though you believe Osamu wrong, you don’t argue, instead returning to note every feature and niche of his home when you step inside: the curving wood staircases, the mezzanine, paintings and thick curtains, Persian rugs and glass blown light fixtures, browns, reds, greens, golds. And on the second floor, at the head of where the staircases converge onto a platform, is a larger painting of a creature with an opened maw thrashing in the sea. It’s there that your eyes give curious pause.

Osamu moves to stand on your left. “That was a gift from Phragne—said it was some mythical creature with deep symbolism.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

He snorts. “‘Tsumu and I hated it when we were kids. Always got nightmares that it would come and eat us; after a while, I started to think the painting was a punishment more so than it was a gift,” he says, though he speaks quietly, large body bent just close enough toward you.

Soon, Osamu leads you through the lovely foyer, watching you with thinly veiled raptness as you see his home for the first time. Do you like it? he wants to ask, though he thinks nothing in his home could quite hold a light to you.

There’s a drawing room and a parlor, a kitchen and a library, the powder rooms and long hallways. You imagine a younger Osamu with his brother and mother, gallivanting through these very halls; such a house must hold a rich history in each old scratch of the floorboards. And though Osamu would be content to let you wander around his home, he guides you to the upper floors where you pass the painting of the creature, walking in pleasant silence until he stops at a closed door.

“What’s in there?” you ask, regarding the chiseled edges of the wood and its subsequent design; each piece of the manor tailored with such minuteness that one might not catch the small motifs of animals hidden throughout.

He nudges open this door as well, a wordless offer for you to walk ahead. “The thing I wanted to show ya’.”

Your shocked amusement is evident when you say, “There’s more?”

“There’s more.”

The threshold leads into an empty bedroom where a four-poster bed sits against the center of the right wall, an unlit hearth opposite it, and adjacent glass-paned doors that likely lead to an overlook. Though, modern elements nestle with obvious starkness around the bedroom: outlets by the baseboards, a small photograph on a bedside table, and many more. A palpable allegory to the man who’s begun to cross to another corner of the bedroom where a large shelving of old and rare books remains.

“C’mere,” he offers softly when he finds your eyes have returned to him, the spine of a book beneath his finger before he removes it.

“What’s all this?”

“My own personal collection. Thought ya’ might like to see it.”

Osamu takes your hand, setting the old book in your palm. And though it’s worn—corners frayed and colors muted—the embossed title within the leather is legible. Grimm’s Fairy Tales, it reads within goldleaf, and your eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, shifting the hard cover open to find the publication date of 1903.

“S’not an original copy, but it was Ma’s before she gave it to us.” Osamu finds it difficult to keep himself from taking in your every expression and awe. “She’d read it to us at night before we’d sleep, tell us to listen closely or else the monster in the woods would get us if we weren’t careful. It was one of the few things I brought here from our old house.”

You continue to rifle thoughtfully through the thick pages before Osamu says in a facetious mumblage, “We probably should’ve paid more attention to those stories.”

Your hand halts when you peer up and he looks as if he hadn’t meant for you to hear with his sudden and stiff composure.

“‘Samu,” you breathe, closing the book, “you were just a kid.”

He opens his mouth to speak, offering a small, thinned smile in lieu of the words he can’t bring past his teeth. But you replace the book on its shelf, between two tomes yellowed with age, facing him once more.

“You were just a kid,” you repeat, like a surety for him, your attention now directed fully at Osamu.

And he hums, thoughtful. “Well, at least one of us had a normal childhood.” He’s deflecting, and you both know it, but you let him and he’s ever the more grateful for it. Because beyond Atsumu, beyond Phragne, beyond his own mother, Osamu has never told anyone of these aspects of his life. Even his previous, and very sparse, lovers through the decades had been kept in the dark before Osamu would eventually leave in fear of them discovering something not meant to be seen.

You give an appraising tilt of your head. “Up until I met you, I thought I had a decent grasp on normalcy. Obviously, I was wrong.” He laughs at this, the line of his shoulders beginning to loosen.

“You changed some things for me too.”

It was a slip of the tongue, now spoken aloud, a multitude of implications hidden in each enunciation. Osamu almost wishes to rescind it when you blink at him.

Of course, you ask, “Like what?”

Like many things, he thinks, so many unchanging things that just simply yielded to you.

“My perceptions.” A vague enough statement.

“Your perceptions?” You sound as if you don’t believe him. “What could I have possibly done to change that?”

Osamu swallows and you catch the short peak of his throat. The unsought memories of the previous night return, brushing cold lips to your throat, your stomach; his brows tick together as they often do when he’s hesitant.

The tick disappears, returning to placidity. He’s not telling you something.

You watch in place as Osamu steps away from the shelves, reaching down for your hand when he says, “Why don’t we go downstairs, huh? ‘M sure ya’ had a long day and—”

“Osamu.” With his hand still enveloping yours, you hadn’t moved. “Is something wrong?”

Moonlight, pale and bleak, runs along his skin, as it does to yours. He shakes his head. And then you pull on his hand, wanting him to come back; he heeds you, as he always does, to stand in front of you. An arm’s length from one another, interlinked by differing hands, until Osamu takes a careful step forward.

“You know,” you begin, “don’t you think it’s a little unfair that you can guess my feelings through scent alone, and I have no idea what you’re thinking beyond whatever you decide to show me?”

He’s inclined to agree; he’s compelled to agree with anything that comes from you: words worthy of worship. Osamu inhales, squeezing briefly, gently around your hand. And you feel his gesture, waiting for him to speak. Though, he doesn’t, merely moving into your space when his unoccupied hand lifts to touch your jaw, holding.

You keep still as he regards you with such adoration, such reverence, that you begin to understand what he reveals to you now, and you wish to know more. Alone, in this bedroom, he tilts your head up further when he whispers, “Darlin’, forgive me.”

Forgive me for loving you.

His lips press against your own, chaste and tentative, slow, as his thumb smooths across your cheek, a shuddering inhale that he takes with haste at the warmth of you. Osamu scarcely breaks away before your hand within his own is pulled gently from his grasp, and he believes he may have made a mistake. But it returns to his body, holding at the breadth of his shoulder when you bring him toward you again. This second kiss is deeper, flush against one another—a desperate beginning.

You separate first and Osamu tries to follow your mouth, though the tips of your fingers rest themselves over his cupid’s bow as he nudges his forehead against your own.

“How long?” you ask, quiet as if someone might hear. How long have you waited?

His chest rises and falls unsteadily. “A year,” he says, before reaching for your wrist to keep your fingers in place when he kisses them briefly, like an apology.

Your nails move down to catch on the part of his mouth, pulling slightly at the soft skin that has his eyes fall shut. You had always thought him handsome, kind and passionate, strong-willed and merciful—even despite your tumultuous start. Despite Osamu being a palpable reminder that you truly know nothing of this world, he’s shown you how to learn with each night spent together, each smile brought forth from one another.

Osamu, overwrought by your silence, continues. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’.” It’s the first time he’s ever asked you that question.

You open your mouth, close it, watching as pink tinges along his cheeks, warmth burning your own. “I’m wondering how I didn’t notice.”

“‘M real good at keepin’ secrets,” he murmurs, an attempt at light-heartedness. You bring your hand down from his lips to his chest, the heart within that beats urgently beneath your palm. “…I wanna be yours, if you’ll have me.”

At his verbal confession, you catch his restless stare, feel the knuckles he runs down your side.

“Tell me no, and we don’t ever have to talk about this again, I promise.”

His shirt creases beneath your fingers when you grasp it, and Osamu knows you can feel the very restraint he tries to steady. He hears his name, the way it’s spoken: a plea. It withers his inhibitions near instantaneously, because it’s you who calls for him, who he then kisses again and again, lost to unforgiving time, intent on giving you his very life’s breath. What use does he have for it, if not to offer it to you?

Instinct, barren and severe, rears its head as he maintains what little grounding is left in the presence of you and how you feel against him, how you smell and taste, his hands that touch along your waist, spine, hips. Even so, this need is far different than the need he displayed the night prior; it’s insatiable, possessive, caressing your body in utter devotion.

And when you discern it too, like an unseen tongue that licks from your cunt up to between your breasts, Osamu catches the scent at the same moment. The heady tincture of your arousal, now intertangling with his own—a glut of pheromones, unrecognized by your own senses, though they flood Osamu’s.

You swallow, not understanding this sudden intensity, how your head lolls against his own, nails digging into the muscle and fat of his shoulders as your legs weaken at the fucking ache between them; giving into Osamu from the simplicity of his kisses. He shifts his head, placing a kiss to your cheek, beneath your ear to speak by it.

“I know you feel that,” he says, depravity lacing his words, a greater desperation. “I can smell it, sweetheart.”

He leans back, still supporting you as your body preens at the pet name, a hand coaxing your chin up. “Need ya’ to look at me,” he asks of you, voice strained. His own want is just as potent as yours, if not more, but he’s never had a partner be so…responsive to the stimulative pheromones that this inhuman body produces once aroused. And when he sees your eyes open, he explains such, needing to hear your consent to continue, that you wholly understand; he attempts to provide space to think, to gather your thoughts when separate from him, but you grip pleadingly to the slope of his bicep. ‘Don’t let me go,’ you seem to tell him, and Osamu listens, waiting for your verbal agreement that comes in a dulcet response.

With newfound haste, you’re taken into his arms once more, guided toward the bed as Osamu moves backward, his lips laying kisses to your forehead and nose, your temple. A small, contented smile presents itself on your mouth at his honed gentleness, one that Osamu kisses too.

“I meant what I said,” he brings you to sit on the heavy comforter upon his bed, soon following behind, “I wanna be yours, for as long as you’ll let me.”

The plush pillow gives way around your head, allowing you to push yourself into it as he presses those very words along your skin, body curled over your own to offer his promises, full of genuity, to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft of your stomach.

“Wanna take care of ya’.” Like a friend, a companion, a protector, and now a lover.

Your fingers thread themselves into his hair to cup his crown when he kisses upward: the same path of that previous sensation. Parting your legs, you bring him to the cradle of your thighs, one knee resting over his hip to serve as encouragement; Osamu gives in, letting your hands pull his upper body toward you when his clothed cock inadvertently presses against you. The minute stimulation alone has him groaning lowly, looking down at you beneath him, how your foot hooks around his thigh because you need more. He moves again, rolling his erection into you with intent, eyes fluttering shut as he does it over and over, petting along you until time becomes indefinite to your mind as it is to his. Your resulting whimper is just a slight sound, but Osamu catches it. Recognizes it.

He knows that pretty sound because he’s heard it before: sitting in the living room, or rifling through the kitchen, as you bathed behind closed doors, believing the idle din of running water would cover your quiet noises. It hadn’t, and Osamu could always smell you, the remaining tinge of sex, no matter how hot the bath or which fragranced soaps you cleaned yourself with. Ergo, the excuses he would often make to go outside, even if it was for naught as your scent ingrained itself into his very nature. He should’ve known then what he felt for you.

And he certainly knows now, lowering himself to your lips, cupping a hand beneath your nape, as he pleasures yourself and him, entirely clothed. Listening for that whimper to bleed into the whine he feels in his mouth. Osamu then uncurls his body from around you, retracting downward until he’s kneeling between your inner legs; he slips a hand beneath your shirt to expose your abdomen as he says, almost slurred, “S’this okay?” The implications of his position hold enough meaning; you nod, and Osamu apprehends you.

Your pants are taken off deftly by him, only for Osamu to pause, a hand braced by your hip as the other halts where it’s been hooked into the band of your underwear. You’re painfully wet already and, utterly transfixed, he runs his thumb down the darkened gusset, feeling you beneath the cotton, how you writhe in turn. He doesn’t need to nose at your cunt to better smell the wetted fabric, instead tugging it down your legs with haste, the vigor returning at the sight of you bare.

Osamu offers respite when he looks up at you, a large presence perched and waiting.

Then you breathe a contrived, “Please,” and his head is tilting down, tongue laving through you to lick at your sensitive clit. He wants to tell you that there’s no need to beg for him, there’s no need to plead for what’s already thoroughly yours—he had only wanted to look at you for a bit longer, to fully grasp that you’re here with him, letting him touch you like this.

That you’re here, and not a figment of his previous guilt-inducing thoughts; the mornings he would return home before daybreak to shower in cold water, even as his cock would remain hard and leaking, the smell of you burrowed into his body, forcing him to fuck his hand. And when that wasn’t enough to satiate the need to be with you, he’d hold a pillow beneath him to hump it fervently, panting against the fabric as if it was your throat.

You’d driven him mad in that cottage, unknowingly, and you continue to do so as you give him broken moans, his name tucked in the keens he brings forth when he holds you tighter against his mouth and nose, eating you out with little to no regard for the mess he’s making. Osamu rests the bend of your knee on his shoulder to allow his other hand to palm at himself before returning to guide your cunt over his face.

Use me, he thinks, use me, use me for as long as you need.

You don’t know how many minutes pass as Osamu laves at you, humming against your clit with every whisper of his name between your teeth. Shakily, your fingers tighten in his hair, a soft tug to get his attention. He lifts his head, debauched, pushing into your hand before you urge him upwards. The lower half of his face wet from you and his own saliva, eyes alight with blown pupils; you tilt your face, kissing him, tasting yourself, tasting him.

“‘Samu,” you murmur, placing your lips to his nose, the small freckle on his jaw. His hips buck into yours when they twitch, wanting to be pressed into you. Metal smooths against your fingers, unclasping the button at his jeans, lowering the zipper to place your hand along his cock, feeling the head of where it wets the thin black fabric. His resulting moan is one you may never forget: full of need, wanton, a verging whine. He catches your eye, much as he did the previous night, for confirmation that this was okay; and Osamu must find what he’s searching for when he grasps your hand settled over his hard-on, supporting it as he ruts into your palm and fingers. The point of his nose moves along your jaw to press against your temple as he pants.

He could climax like this, with the taste of your pretty cunt lingering on his tongue, grateful for how you let him use your hand that feels so much better than his own. But Osamu pulls away to slip out of his shirt, to push his jeans and briefs down leaden legs. Your sight on him feels like a palpable thing as you watch, like your very eyes could touch him. When done, he returns to you easily, dragging more loving kisses down the column of your neck, reaching the shirt’s collar before he removes that from you, displaying more care than he took with himself.

“‘M clean,” he tells you, keeping himself suspended atop your warm body. “Sterile, too.”

You feel along the blatant strength of his arms, the dips of muscle and fat, to his nape, nodding in acknowledgment of his words. It’s difficult to speak when you want nothing more than him; his love and his touch and everything he’s offered you tonight. Osamu sees the minor tuck and rise of your chin, wanting to watch as your hand falls down over his chest, following the center line of his stomach, nails grazing curiously through the dark line of hair that thickens when it reaches the base of his shaft. His abdomen constricts and twitches at your demure ministrations, cock bobbing, flushed red and mauve where the smallest sheen of white pools at the slit.

His arms very nearly buckle when you take him into your hand and stroke once, twice. Though his head now hangs between his shoulders, chin tucked to his chest, transfixed on the way you look holding him, how good it feels. He watches this, too: slowly fucking the tip of himself into your fist, brows knitting together and dark hair clinging to his forehead from sweat.

“S’all yours,” he finds himself mumbling without thought, your thumb dipping against the wet slit. He whines, almost woundedly, moving himself into your palm until he feels you at the heavy base before Osamu maneuvers your bodies quicker than you can anticipate and with a strength you recognize from last night.

Beneath you, he breathes unevenly, lips parting like he means to make sound when you move, your body only now regaining itself, because you’re no longer holding his cock—you’re pressed atop it, sitting on the shaft and pinning it to his stomach.

“Darlin’, you gotta take the lead with this. I don’t wanna hurt you.” His words are veering a restrained whimper, blunt nails digging into the soft give of your hips.

It’s then that you truly see it: his yielding restraint to the instinct that splices at his heart mercilessly. He’s held his composure this long for your sake, your safety and understanding. And for that, you lean over his upper body, taking his face in either hand to kiss him, long and drawn, as you rock yourself along the underside of his cock. The hands already at your waist keep you moving, nearly beg you with how they pull and squeeze, simultaneously causing your breasts to push against him. At a particular slide of your cunt over him, the tip of his cock rubs at your clit in a way that has your moan muffle into his mouth—bodies moving on intrinsic need alone to pleasure one another.

Osamu’s callused palms drag to your waist, wrapping broad arms around you as he licks at your throat, up to your ear, moving his cock through your slit to help you fuck yourself along the shaft better. “Drove me insane,” he breathes, a tinge of urgency in his voice as he continues to babble. “Could always fuckin’ smell when you touched yourself; when you were on your cycle, when you were ovulating and pent up.”

At his words, you tighten around nothing but your own need. Osamu feels it, tilting your hips to help arch your back, knowing that, like this, he can use his cock to keep stimulating your clit, feeling the slick viscosity that accumulates from his and your arousal below his navel.

“‘N then yesterday—you were wearin’ my shirt, fuck, sweetheart, why’d you go and do that?”

The question is rhetorical, slurred into the shell of your ear, and it holds no malice, simply a torment laid bare for you to witness.

“I—” his tip catches at the small opening of your pussy, causing you to keen and fumble over your words “—I missed you, ‘Samu. Barely saw you for almost three weeks.” He’d be outside while you were still awake at night, only coming inside when you could scarcely hear through your sleep, and leaving before you woke.

Your thighs tremble where they bracket his hips. The precipice of an orgasm begins to re-emerge, having already staved off your last one in favor of wanting Osamu closer to you rather than using his mouth to play with your clit.

“I missed you. Missed having you around, missed listening to you,” you pause, eyelids fluttering and features pinching in pleasure when you feel Osamu’s canines drag along your skin, careful to not nick, before he soothes it with his tongue. It’s near impossible to continue, but you do anyhow, the lewd sounds of his and your bodies reaching your ears; though, Osamu could hear them this whole time. “Just wanted to see you again.”

He feels how your limbs begin to tighten and he lets you tuck your head beneath his chin, the vibrations of your moans against his throat, the warmth of it. Osamu relinquishes one arm to slip between your bodies, and you must understand what he’s trying to do as you lift your hips just enough to let him place the tip of himself against that opening, his hand wet from the arousal you used to slide yourself over him. The image very nearly has him cumming when you settle yourself on the flushed tip, working down his cock as Osamu helps ease himself into your cunt, breathless and muffling his own sounds on the crown of your head, nose pressing into your hair.

“Didn’t mean to push ya’ away,” he says, a pitiful sound following his confession as you begin to fuck yourself on him, satiating this culmination of heightened emotions in both him and you. “I just…” His sentence trails, mouth parted dumbly open when his hips meet yours in fluid movements, rutting into you when you’re settled at the hilt. He continues, “Thought it’d be better for me to be around ya’ less. Thought I could get it under control before I saw ya’ again.”

You know he’s not referring to his shifting into a vampyr; the fingers of one hand trail down your back, and you lift your face to rest your forehead against his, nose to nose as he nudges at yours, regarding you with half-lidded eyes beneath his heavy brows. He wants to see your face, your every expression, as he makes you come undone. And this time, you don’t notice the hand at your back lower itself to stroke your clit until you feel his fingertips there; how he then travels down, as if out of curiosity, to touch where you stretch around his cock, before returning to your clit once more, fully enamored with you.

Your orgasm is sensed first through a shift in scent that Osamu knows will be nothing short of damning as he fucks you with fervor from beneath your body. “Right there, huh?” he asks, because you have yet to notice your impending climax with the way he works you, eyes falling closed with each shallow thrust that pushes you upward, your hands holding tight around his shoulders.

Your culmination is felt second around his cock, constricting tightly enough for Osamu’s head to near bow back into the pillows in tandem with the way you smell right now, prurient. And it’s felt third when it overcomes your tired body, tautening limbs and forcing a breathless moan of Osamu’s name from your kiss-pinkened lips as he helps you through your orgasm, cupping your cheek and keeping you impossibly tight against him. He murmurs a quiet, “I’ve got ya’, darlin’, I promise,” when you reach that final crest, limbs weakening once it settles, urging you to lay in the comfort of his arms, still holding to Osamu while he ruts himself into you once more.

His own climax is purely reeling. Your lips press kisses to his cheeks as he tries to keep his eyes on your own; another droplet of sweat falls from his temple and back into his mussed hair; your soft whimper as he accidentally overstimulates you, his cock twitching and buried deep; that primal sense of pride at cumming inside of you with each buck of his hips; his hand that cups your nape, face pressing into the crook of your throat as his stuttering praise pulls into a deep moan.

You lay there with one another, in the bliss of this moment, the heightened need finally nulled. Osamu pulls tresses of hair from your forehead and cheek, smoothing it as he hums in contentment, his cock softening inside you, though his cum drips down his shaft. From the aftershock of finishing, you tighten briefly around him and listen as Osamu inhales from the sensation.

“I didn’t go too hard on ya’, did I?” he asks, quiet, fingers now combing through your hair.

“No,” you say, pushing yourself up on his chest to lay a lazy kiss at his lips that he smiles into, “you didn’t.”

When he hums again, this time from appraisal, he says, as if to himself, “So beautiful.” His thumb holds your chin, palm lowering to rest at your throat loosely; though he can hear your pulse, it’s a grounding thing to be able to feel it, the very beat of you—his lover, his utter devotion.

Your hand follows the length of his, holding it.

He tells you, words of adoration, a smile that sits lopsided on his features to reveal that little piece of his true being, “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

His greatest mistake; you, he bleeds for, loves for. Lives for.

No longer a corpse, but half a man with your hand in his.

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