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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 1 month ago

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playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 5

author’s note: jayce is back (finally). so is porn (also finally). a wholesome little thing before i wreck your lives in the next chapter again. oh well. silly me

word count: 4,5k

p.s.

the smut part is to be read to libertango by piazolla.

—

Viktor had always liked emergency rooms.

He liked the way tangy dryness sprayed through his nose once he sucked in the acerbic air. How it popped the blood vessels in his whites so the iris became the feline color of sulphur. It was a cleansing, of sorts. A disinfectant baptism performed by the older nurse with kind, wrinkly hands and a frizzy perm. It reminded him of his babča’s first aid kit. Of bitter iodine crusting over a scraped knee and the ugly satisfaction of picking the wound to saccharine plasma.

His dislikes held no prose—just scarce variables, and watching you sob for him presided over the intolerable. That trifle threatened to rob him of the childish sanctity of being tended to: a single whimper of a devastated wife is what it takes to turn a mildly scathed kid back into a maimed man. And Viktor couldn’t afford it. Not with such horrific inflation.

Another proseless segment included spoon-feeding. But any marriage is grounded in bartering. He’d trade each slurp of soup for a flashy roll of his eyes. He’d strangle an irked sigh whenever you wiped chowder grease off his chin. And he’d hope, with all his meagre might, to make you strangle your apologies in return.

Dolorous, you had eyes like vitric film. Glassy retinas with bloodshot smears promptly lumping around the iris. A wept-out study in watercolor misery. Short in supply, its palette featured the following options:

The black of his suit, folded on the bruised puce of your knees—a dark merge of shared post-collapses;

The synesthetic nightmare of omnipresent white and its thousand medical flavors (each prescribed to a different disease, Viktor presumed);

The leathery brown of your coat and loafers, lovely if only for the haphazardness of their choice;

And, lastly, the chowder. Unapologetically yellow.

He opens his mouth for another spoonful and tuts when it bounces off his teeth with a pungent click.

“Když na to nemáš, tak to nedělej,” he sneers. If you can’t do it—don’t do it.

His hospital bracelet matches the soup. A stupid choice of warning, in your mind. Apparently, nothing screams this patient is a fall risk more than a cheesy shade of warm meals.

“The wristband’s ridiculous,” you announce. It is the first coherent thing to leave your mouth in an hour, and Viktor is stirred mid-slurp.

“How so?” he babbles, but the syllables come out of him all drooly, scorched consonants moving into labio-velar. Whwow wwo? Like he’s chewing a hot potato whilst high as a kite. And he is both. Incidentally so. It’s just that you are too high yourself to pick up on it. His kind nurse—bless her fried-off hair—might just be the local Diazepam dealer.

“It doesn’t work,” you say, leaning into your chair. It bends under your neck with a rusty squeak—has you flinching in a fleeting prospect of stumbling backward. But the angle is hardly tipping—merely dangerously acute. You open your eyes to the pupil-slicing blanch of the ceiling and close them again without ever trying to count the ripples. Today has been numb enough already. You shouldn’t squander your only intact sense.

Viktor remumbles his question.

“That’s just it,” you insist. “What does yellow have to do with fall risks?”

“Well, what would you use yellow for?”

That makes you think: hard, with leg-bouncing effort. Your forehead splices into upturned shrivels, taut skin pulling thick eyelids part-open. The view obscures, detached, its top half all lashes and murky veins. The bottom is slashed with Viktor’s head floating above the pillow. Mortifying, if not for the promise of a body uncoiling beneath.

Twenty ECG beeps and two kicked-off shoes later, you finally have your answer: “I don’t know. Jaundice patients?”

He rasps a blunt chuckle—unexpected, but not unwelcome. Spent and throaty, it comes out of him in a spitting cough, that artificial, creaky laughter hissing like a cartridge getting stuck in a scratched record.

His little spoon clinks at you: a disagreement to be acknowledged. Or, maybe, the sound’s culprit has simply finished his meal. Either way, you don’t flinch to check. If something actually happened, the pulse monitor would go crazy.

“Don’t you think it’s rather counterproductive, miláčku?”

The linen shuffling confirms it: his greasy feast is over. You can still hear the smile in his voice, possibly an ear-to-ear one.

“Whwow wwo?” You drawl, watching his floating head grow a tense, stringy neck when he sits up to sneer at you.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Now, to answer your question: a yellow wristband on a jaundice patient is a pointless trinket. It’s a—Er, I don’t know.” Viktor turns to stare at your knees. He swallows a candidate metaphor—once, twice. The final pick has him beaming, “A third wheel, if you will. Pun intended.”

“But why?”

His coughing chuckle spurts into a whistle. The ECG joins in on the mockery, hastening by a few digitized heartbeats. He could use them as a metronome if he wanted to. Something tender would be most fitting—like ‘Lieder ohne Worte’ or Debussy’s Arabesques.

“Let’s see.” He holds his wrist up, almost yanking the drop-counter out of a cobalt vein. “Yellow? Jaundice? It’s a dormitive principle.”

His delivery of that one is brutal, and you have to sigh like it finally dawned on you.

“Oh,” you feign.

But then it really dawns on you.

“Oh.”

Viktor sinks into his pillow, grinning. “It’s a good thing your doctorate wasn’t medical.”

“It is a very good thing indeed.”

“Besides, what do jaundice patients need wristbands for? Can’t one usually tell what is wrong with them, so to speak, at face value?”

“Was the pun intended again?”

“Evidently.”

“But what are they to do if they’re a jaundiced fall risk?”

“That, I couldn’t tell you. Ask someone who has jaundice. If those are still around, that is.”

You flay your eyes from beneath their veiny shield and leisurely roll them at him. The wonky graph of pulse on the little screen stutters a rigid skip when your chair ricochets with a squeal, sending you into a violent plunge towards his cot. Your mouth starts wriggling in a laugh—a wide open one, with saliva strings hanging off the pink palate. Viktor picks it up—a bit constrained, yet just as wry—and on you crack, spitting, wobbling, shrieking, so randomly compounded in this bout of homely, hyenic hysteria.

It lasts about sixty heartbeats, and then it’s over.

Breathless, you plow your elbows over his blanket. Raise your head and look at him from beneath spry lashes, as if beckoning to dip a long finger into the warm adhesive of pupils. To touch your perception of him—his angles, his sorrow, his smile-lines like semiquavers atop the fermata of wan lips.

The last peal of laughter bounces off his neck when you vault for it, swallowing a croak. “I don’t think I know what jaundice is anymore.”

“Lay off the sedatives,” Viktor whispers. The warning trickles between your hairs, fondling the very scalp.

“Why?”

“They make you conjure up funny things.”

“Big word. Sadly, I no longer know that one either.”

Suddenly, the door to the ward creaks ajar, and Viktor feels the draft of wind whistle inside, abetted by a cyan speck of light from the corridor. That upsets him—he is in no mood for visitors. He has only just let you throw an audacious leg onto his cot, fingers playing with the bloody concave under that funny round bone he likes—also a fermata, brutally engraved by a roughened loafer worn over a bare foot.

Hesitant, he taps you on the thigh—a stringent, sonorous warning. Which you concede, of course, albeit not without a tantrum. More rolling was in order: of eyes and voice boxes swallowing peevish curses as you slide back into your chair.

A crimped, citrine head clings to the door frame. Yellow is following Viktor around: you are sure of it, and the nurse’s mouth stretches agape to back up your suspicion. Her smile is ominous. Not inherently, merely by aesthetics—waxy, gaping teeth planted far too shallow, thus exposing wet, spindly roots and inflated gums.

Morbid aside, the omen proves good. “Your doctor will be with you shortly,” the woman promises in a sing-songy voice. “He is ready to get you discharged.” Then, she turns to address you, grinning reverently: “Honey, you look tense. Would you like another pill?”

“She’s had enough, thank you,” Viktor replies curtly. Your jaundice antics, however amusing, are wearing him out, and he wishes to hear no more of them.

He regrets the nerve right away. As soon as the nurse turns to leave, he breaks, snorting at the lovely violence in between his ribs—a cheeky knuckle, curved like a solid brass thing. Nudging him in the sternum with all its tender valor so he arches in an uncouth cackle, seizing you into a drooly kiss.

It excites him, that damp whack of lips over sweaty chins suddenly much too bulky. Numb taste buds cutting on crooked canines. His is a simple strategy: if he couldn’t talk the inhibition out of you, he shall kiss it away. Or, at the very least, push it to the side with his tongue—just the tip, just the flick, prying you laxer to make room for candor. He wishes you used your mouth with honesty. Wishes you said what you mean and meant what you say. But when he reaches for your throat, the words he’s digging for refuse to course. Instead, there’s just spit, tipping over and pouring out. Dribbling medicated froth onto his hospital gown.

“Why did you send her away? I could use more drugs,” you slur the last syllable so hard it serves an objection to your complaint. Viktor’s lungs sputter yet another hoarse laugh.

“That woman should get her license revoked,” he says. Licks a cautious smack against your brow and bows to your shoulder, sipping on a whiff. It rubs his nostrils—heady, provocative. Kindles a sneeze with that oxymoronic something. Sleepy sex, so clashingly cohesive. Dusty leather and dolent valerian, he detects. Dirty skin aquiver under his mouth.

You throw your head back for his gnawing. “I thought you liked her.”

“I did. Until she drugged you silly. I might need your wits for later tonight.” “Don’t you hate me?”

“Not exactly. Do you want me to hate you?”

“To an extent, yes. That would make things easier.”

“It’s not like you knocked me out. It’s an occupational hazard. Hunger and insomnia make one nasty cocktail when paired with panic.”

“You could’ve gotten a concussion. Or break your spine. Or—”

“Or a meteorite could’ve blasted into us to burn down the entire district. Where are you going with this?”

You reach for his chin, firm grip like that of a muzzle gently pushed in between bared teeth. God-like-dog-like sentiments, interchangeable. He inhales through his mouth and waits for you to proceed, leaning into the lead of your arms. The blinding bulb wags its tail of light from inside his pupils.

“I’m sorry,” you wheeze. The dog you’ve leashed regains his backward simile. God-like-dog-like. A pendulum of essentially identical euphemisms.

“What for?” Viktor asks. There’s a strange margin to his grin, one eager for the lack of admission so he can rub it in your face once you’re done blubbering.

But you strip him of the pleasure. “For intimidating you into unconsciousness, for a start. We can unpack my wifely failures later.”

He kisses you again. Attempts an abashed push-and-pull of unwieldy hair slickened to your forehead and shivers at the resigned endearment. Milova-čku. Like he failed to pick just one and chose to slam them together in his rush to deliver. It settles like a reproach. Of no one but himself, of course. He is but a libertine creature, taut vehemence dying, sibilant, at the clash of his teeth against yours. He knows that he’s opting semantics for saliva again. Aims for something he shouldn’t have been after in the first place. And his whim is anything but complex. So much so that it’s almost obscene and piteous, like the first delicious shock of a boyish orgasm. Because enmity is but a trinket against innocent passions, and Viktor’s might just be the simplest, truly invincible one. I missed you. No one will ever invent a remedy for that.

It ends just as abruptly as it has started. All impulses are triggered by commotion, and this one is no exception—something shiny strikes Viktor’s peripheral, goading a quick wince. Captious, he turns to assess the intruder, brushing your nose with his mid-pivot. You follow his eyes to their very destination, and when they reach it (the doorway, unalterably cyan), your lungs give a tapering hitch—something rather bronchitic, too stunned to pass for eupnea. Or maybe Viktor’s alarm was airborne. Marriage is grounded in bartering, he did say so himself, but sometimes these oaths dabble in unfair trades—such as bouts of panic in exchange for affection.

You draw your fingers back. There remains a fleeting phantom of Viktor’s hair under your nails, jagged as the debacle of his shoulder from when you gripped it, shouting into the mouthpiece. Everything feels lethargic now. Jayce’s voice on the other line, sincerely shouting back. His expensive suede shoes bumping your dirty loafers in the ambulance—a terrified, jittery high-five. The red and blue hues wailing in his thick lenses.

Now, Jayce is standing on the threshold, toying with his—how could you have missed it?—yellow tie.

The men regard one another with prudent caution, only Jayce’s is round-eyed—amicable. Viktor’s eyes dally in their morose little wince. He bites his tongue.

“I thought I was being treated by another doctor,” he says, stretching out in his cot. His gown slips, teasing a hollow clavicle.

Jayce gasps, preparing to dispel the confusion, but you snatch the honors out of his mouth.

“He is not a doctor. Well, not yours.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s mine,” you mumble. Viktor snorts at the wording.

“What on earth do you need a doctor for?”

“Everything,” Jayce cuts in. “Sadly, I am only able to provide counseling.”

At that, the men turn to face each other once again. Your eyes meander between the two, stumbling over their dissemblances.

It is strange to have both of them in one room. It weighs heavily on your throat, sticky sweat amass under your leather collar. You feel it percolate down your back like a gross little stream, large drops sagging down each sore vertebrae. Jayce extends a hand towards Viktor, and you are delighted by the coil of their fingers—a momentary shake of thick and sinew.

“Doctor Talis,” Jayce introduces himself. His yellow tie dangles before Viktor’s face, lighting a polite smile. “But you may call me Jayce. For how much shit I talk about you twice a week, it is only right that I become a family friend.”

Now that really cracks Viktor up. With a hurtled swing, he throws his head back and laughs, flashing both rows of slightly crooked teeth. You look at Jayce, mouthing a baffled thank you.

“Doctor Talis,” Viktor repeats. The last name bounces off his tongue in two lively rubatos. “You didn’t tell me you started counseling.”

“I didn’t get the chance,” you chide. “I was too busy screaming at you.”

“Which I don’t condone, by the way,” Jayce notes, throwing you a glare. You catch your tiny reflection in his glasses, mawkish as a child being scolded.

“Of course you don’t,” Viktor agrees. His hand bucks under your sleeve, grabbing mindless hold of one button. You notice that everyone is fidgeting with a trinket of some kind, and that endeavour finally pulls the strain to one last pre-intermission jerk—the pressure in the air snapping, the toothy smiles finally bubbly instead of gritting. And you want to keep them there. In the blinding white of the ward, bonded over your conic cries and inadequacies, with their clothes askew and kind, thin mouths agape. Two worn-out, agitated creatures. Two darlings, conditionally yours—one for the humble price of two hundred korunas an hour, the other billing in not-so-humble devotion.

“She hardly ever listens to me, you know,” Jayce complains, pulling up a chair beside you. The remark makes you elbow him in the pillowy side. Now that they’ve switched to third person, the guilty kid contrasts are inevitable.

“It seems we are constrained by the same misery,” Viktor bites back.

“Quit it.” You wrench your sleeve out of his grasp. “I’m still in the room and you’re being impolite.”

“That we are. Apologies, we should probably stop. Jayce, how come you’re not in the office?”

“Oh, Mrs.Knirsch gave me a distressed call. I came as quickly as I could.”

“I see. How very customer-centric.”

“I am very fond of your wife. And of you, in absentia. Speaking of which, how do you feel?”

“Why, much better, thank you. It was only a minor fluke. Something to do with hunger and exhaustion. I was fed and stuffed with pills—generously. They are sending me home as we speak.”

The familiar drowsiness seizes your eyelids. A flimsy thing, it comes upon you like an itchy counterpane, so different to your trite fits of queasy spasms. No, this one is anything but abject. It collates your thoughts into flimsy concepts. Stretches your mouth into a smile that matches Viktor’s lopsided snugness.

You hunch in that homely equilibrium, pushing Viktror’s fingers apart to make space for yours. But it’s not enough. You crave the closure of both husband and shrink. Sadly, your semantics are still out of reach, their placid urgency but a prickly lump on your tongue. So you simply drift toward Jayce’s shoulder. Permissive, it budges under your cheek. Round gentle muscle at your weary disposal. Such a far cry from Viktor’s twists and slants. And still, you claim it, and slide a little lower—to the stifling perfumed tinge of his chest, the inviting blur of soft, motley plaid. If you couldn’t ask to be fixed, you would take it as it comes. Slow, infusing, and placatory. Anything for the nostrum.

Because you know it: the instant Viktor steps into the apartment, you will be back at it again—to hell with fainting flurries and alert resentments. You’ll go at each other full-force—none of that half-cocked, glowering nonsense. No, this one will be meaty. Every entrail strewn inside-out to find out who made whom rot the most.

But for now, he just laughs, and you get to savor it. To blink, shutter-like, for the sake of taping a mental memo. And when Viktor’s doctor comes in with the last recommendations, you don’t listen to him much. You simply close your eyes and buzz into Jayce’s shirt—something loutish about feeling terrific, about your numb limbs, or sedatives, or the layer of sweat permeating under your coat.

“Who are you?” The doctor points to Jayce. “Only family members are allowed in the room.”

“He can stay,” Viktor answers. “He’s a family friend after all.”

The cataplexy pervades to the sound of their chuckles.

—

At home, you both become taciturn again. Not because you want to, but rather for the lack of drugged leverages. There’s no jaundice to pore over. No friendly shrinks telling you crude jokes. Just moderate insanity, back to cordoned-off square one.

The expected shouting turns out to be a death rattle. “It’s nice that you’re in therapy,” Viktor tells you. Crawls into the shower, just so. And you can only nod, helping him onto his stool. Turning the water on for him to pass for redundant, tranquil rectitude. One he doesn’t frown upon—not just yet, not while he’s too out on a limb to be picky with affections. Once the glass door is covered in vapor, you take your clumsy leave. Bare feet asmack on slippery tiles. He stares after you, sodden, with chlorine beads in his eyes.

The bedroom smells of wood and varnish, perhaps even more distinctly than in the morning. It’s almost like the instrument yearns for its owner, eager to lure you in with weird resin pheromones. And you’re so easy to entice, already hovering above the hip-dip-like slope of the cello and poking your fingers into the f-shaped holes.

The clock promises you three more hours of bow-slapping madness. It is plenty—for an amateur, that is. For you, it’s nearly not enough for the warm-up. And still, you falter—a taut, almost guilty sequence. Turn to the bathroom door in gobsmacked catatonia. Listen to the water running. Sit down and lay the cello on your shoulder, petting the fingerboard.

The pegbox greets you with a soft crunch, A-string snapping looser. But you don’t touch it. You simply stick the scroll where it fits into you most: always the nose bridge, your favorite concave to crush.

Fifteen ceaseless minutes later, he comes back with a towel around his hips, wet footprints soaking into the parquet. You watch the blood flow to his face in a faint, shy rouge—a momentary switch of tables, that very electric instance before his cheeks turn hollow again. “I’m only tuning it,” you slur. The word breaks in half, chopping off the gerund: tun-in. You swallow it, praying that Viktor misses this dimwit’s blunder.

There are clamp-shaped rosy dents in his skin from where his braces cling a tad too tight. One slices his collarbone into two wan dashes. The others are punctured, streaking up his right leg like tiny tick-bites. When he rubs a protruding rib, you notice just how glassy his skin has gotten. How visible have become the veins on his lanky arms, all stretchy weaves the seedy color of dusk.

He nods, turning to the mirror over a gaud shoulder. Swipes a wet strand out of his eyes and announces, “I need a haircut.”

You want to ask him about his diet. About the scary thing he’d mentioned about his lungs before falling senseless at your feet. But alas, the cowardice comes out ahead, and you settle for a flavorless: “I could cut your hair for you.”

“No,” he retorts. “Sorry, ah—Your tremor is too intense. I wouldn’t trust you with sharp tools any time soon. I might even ban you from cutting vegetables.”

You huff, looking at your hands. The bow almost slips out of your fingers, clattering against the bridge. “At least it’s good for vibratos.”

“I suppose.”

“So… How was England?”

“Do you truly wish to talk about England with me?”

“What else is there to talk about?”

“I don’t want to fight, is all.”

“What do you suggest that we do, then?”

Softly, he steps behind your back. Reaches for the partitures on his piano, flipping through them lazily. And just when you expect him to walk out, a soggy fingertip taps you on the neck, cueing you to scoot to the very edge of the seat. He props his cane on the keyboard and throws one leg over the chair, drawing up to lean into you from beyond. With a gasp, you watch his shins line up with your calves. Each prickly rib presses into your spine, buffing together like a bunch of wet gears. And not figuratively, either—his hair cries dampness onto your chemise. Leaves a dark, suffusing spot.

“Play me something,” he rasps. His chin fits into your shoulder, soaked temples brushing against your cheek.

“Like what?” You swallow, pinching the string.

“Dealer’s choice. I, er— I just want to stay with you like this. Please, let’s just play pretend tonight. This is for my sanity.”

He stills, unsure where to put his hands. As if boneless, they flay around like two tired appendages, still too skittish to be duly wrapped around you. But to his relief, you dig up the remnants of your mercy from where they sit dark and deep. Fingers twined, you lead him to the slope of your hip. Arch under his sternum to ease a wheezy gasp.

“How about Piazolla?”

He smiles against your ear. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early for a tango?”

“Dealer’s choice. Take it or leave it.”

“Of course. Tango it is.”

You place the bow on the D-string. Suck a breath. Feel your heart thump backward against Viktor’s chest in mezzo-forte. Quite fitting, considering the piece’s dynamics.

You take that slap of meshed pulses for a paragon and begin the slur of E to G—a bunch of jarring staccatos lordly smoothed into a single bow. Fascinating, if only such calculations came to you naturally. Every eighth proves a jab. Punches you in the fingers as the tango uncoils.

But Viktor is a puncher, too. A gentler one, perhaps, and his hands are after much softer swells—like breasts, or thighs, or stomachs. He hesitates between the three. Chews on his cheek mid-up-bow with committed violence. Sits through a few more slurs—G to the F, to the E, and again in a tilted loop.

“May I?” He stammers. Cups the delicious rise of your navel and squeezes it, tasting the flush of your ear with the very tip of his canines.

There comes a gasp at the strain of him along your lower back—his only smooth curve, snugly placed into its custom arc.

“I thought you wanted me to play for you—“

“And I do,” Viktor promises. “Play for me and I’ll play with you. A delightful transaction, no?”

“But what if I–“ your voice crumbles, “If I—“

He carves a sulky laugh into your hair. Twirls the peach fuzz running into your underwear. “If you cum? My, do you truly think me so rusty as to not regard me a when?”

“It’s not that,” you chuckle, glaring sideward to where the pegs are separating your face from his, “I can’t move after I cum. Your little concert will be over.”

“So be it. As long as I get to touch you,” he says, lining your bow with the strings. “Will you let me? Please.”

But you don’t answer him—not with your garbled words. You simply get back to the tango.

The next strikes lose their balanced accents. Instead, they turn forte, settling more like a link of stabs: D—rest—D—rest—D—rest. Getting filthier. Tachycardic. An audacious leap from foreplay straight to rigid thrusts. And Viktor matches it. Clusters your nightgown around the waist and crawls straight for the throat. Or, rather, straight for the lips—already swollen against the lace that he peels off you, choking on a whimper.

As lovely as it would be to rush inside, he keeps it steady for now. His index finds your clit in a downward tug, one almost identical to the dip of your bow. His left hand cradles your face, menacingly close to your teeth—too tempting not to suck in, spading into the phalanx. And when you weep, the cello weeps with you—E to F, finger to mouth, mouth to ear.

Erratic, you spread your legs wider—a filthy order to be obeyed. Which is exactly what Viktor does, gagging on some Czech counterpart of ‘fuck’. But you miss it, too full of his pliant fingers. Too fervently immersed in the altering strokes of your bow.

“Let go for me—“ He presses deeper; harder. “Please, milackú. Give me a good sforzando.”

The melody ceases, smothered.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #playing with this bow (and arrow)#viktor x f!reader #arcane fic #viktor x reader angst #viktor x reader fluff

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charliedawn · 9 days ago

Note

Hey Charlie, once again sorry for spam but I can’t stop thinking of Sinners. How about Reader making themself their beloved’s favorite flavors? Bo mentioned he liked sadness, so reader watches a movie where the dog dies as a treat 💜 get drunk and watch bad horror movies to get mad at the protagonist for Stack to get drunk too 💜 having McDonald’s so Cornbread can get his junk food💜 Trusting Remmick and staying calming so he gets the feeling of Chamomile like he mentioned 💜 letting Mary feast while yall are making out and you’re horny 💜 reassuring Annie that you don’t mind her drinking from you to make sure she doesn’t feel bad because she doesn’t like drinking blood 💜 just!! Remembering what they like!! Being willing and wanting to be fed on to keep them alive and happy!! Doing the little things to stay tasty. I’m a Legit Snack 💜

(There has been a lot of controversy around the characters of Bert and Joan. I will make it clear right now. When I write about them, I will not associate them with the group they were a part of in the movie for obvious comfort reasons. With that said, enjoy. ☺️)

Remmick

Remmick didn’t expect it when the first thing he saw in the morning was you—laid down so pretty in his bed. He usually tried to sleep away from you because he tends to move a lot in his sleep. But today was different. You had moved. You had decided to come to him. Your chest was rising up and down steadily. You looked so peaceful…Such a lovely sight.

He stared at this painting-worthy picture for a couple of minutes before he scooted closer to you. He was hungry and you looked so wonderfully relaxed…Just a taste would not hurt, right?

He climbed on top of you before raising his weight above your sleeping frame. He then used his thumb to cut a small incision on your shoulder blade…just enough to draw a little blood without waking you up. He then looked at the ruby red substance and pressed his lips against it. He closed his eyes and sucked and drank steadily while trying to remain gentle.

He didn’t want to wake you up. He wanted you nice and sweet. He hummed and smiled. The taste of creamy chowder soup filled his taste buds and he lapped at the blood. Such a beautiful start of a morning. His eyes turned deep red and once sated, he pressed a soft kiss to the remaining red line.

“…Mo chuisle. Thank ye.”

He then lifted a hand up your back just where your heart was. He smiled. He knew you were awake now, but you still attempted to remain calm to satisfy his urges. He licked his lips and pressed a gentle kiss between your shoulder blades, then the back of your neck.

“Good mornin’, mo ghrá. Breakfast?” He asked you as he peered up at your now opened eyes. He smiled before crawling up your body to kiss you. “Want me to give ye special treatment? I could cook ye scrambled eggs and toasts with honey? Would ye like that, me precious?”

Mary

Mary was scared she might lose control at first. But with enough gentle coaxing, she decided to take a chance and have a taste. You were making out on the couch and she was happy about having a little romantic night with just the two of you. She wasn’t even planning on drinking from you at first. But then you whispered the request in her ear while you were still gasping for air. She couldn’t possibly refuse. You were offering and she was hungry.

You then cut your own skin and offered your arm to her. She smiled before pressing her lips to your palm and slowly tracing a path to the cut. Once she reached it, she took a long sip and moaned before continuing drinking from you.

“Sweetie. Ya taste like my mama’s old sweet cherry pie.” She complimented you with a bloody grin.

You knew that she was enjoying the moment since she usually didn’t really talk about her mother. She preferred to stay secretive about her old human life, which you respected wholeheartedly. But…when she did open up? You were always happy to hear and know more about her.

She kissed your neck and giggled. “Did I already tell ya how much I love ya? No? Well, I love ya to the moon and back, sweetheart.”

She kissed your forehead and you preened under the praise. She then effortlessly sat you up in her lap to kiss your cheek.

“Thank ya for the meal, sweetie.”

Stack

You know his pattern by now. Stack doesn’t drink from you often—not unless your blood’s buzzing with something potent. Real rage. Real sorrow. Real heat. But frustration? Drunken, chaotic, slurred frustration? That? That’s like bourbon-glazed dessert to him.

So that night you cracked open a bottle of cheap wine and queued up the absolute worst horror film you could find. You were talking shaky cam, characters making dumb choices, and monsters with rubbery costumes.

Stack appeared halfway through your third glass, silently leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze heavy on you. Watching. You didn’t notice him at first and only shouted at the screen: “Why are you going into the basement, Tiffany?! What part of ‘don’t split up’ didn’t get through your 2002 highlights?!”

You threw popcorn at the TV.

Stack exhaled through his nose. It was not quite a laugh. But enough to make you notice him and see it—the twitch of his lip. That flicker of hunger in his eyes.

You turned and pat your neck.

“C’mon,” you teased, a little wine-drunk and a little flirty. “Let’s get you stupid tonight.”

That’s all it takes.

He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped behind you on the couch. He grabbed you, one arm tight around your waist, and sank in like a man starved. It’s messy tonight. You tasted of cheap wine, fury at bad acting and a little something else. And Stack drank it all up happily. He growled quietly. Not like a threat—more like he’s drunk on the flavor, the rhythm of your pulse, the twitch of your jaw as you yelled, “THAT’S NOT HOW GUNS WORK!”

“Mmm…” he murmured against your neck, licking lazily. “So bitter tonight.”

You laughed, head lolling back on his shoulder. “Yeah? I’m trying for ‘rage-wine slushie.’”

He chuckled. “It’s working.”

He drank deeper. Not just for blood—for mood, for emotion, for the whole chaotic cocktail of your anger and dizziness. You felt him sway, just slightly. Stack? Tipsy?

God help the world.

Eventually he pulled back, lips slick, eyes glowing a little too much.

“Next one,” he said lowly, “better be worse than this.”

You smirked. “You mean dumber?”

He smirked back. “Exactly. Knew you’d understand, baby.”

You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the glow of the TV flickering across your face. The movie was at that part—you know the one. The music was swelling, the dog’s limping, and you’re trying to hold it together, but your breath hitched as the screen faded to black.

Then—a sound.

Heavy boots. A creak on the floorboards.

Bo lingered in the doorway, silhouette all sharp shoulders and loose limbs, cigarette barely lit, jaw twitching like he’s trying not to smirk.

“You watchin’ that one again?”

You blinked fast, brushed your sleeve across your cheek. “You said you liked sadness,” you reminded him, trying to sound casual. “Thought I’d feed you good tonight.”

Bo stepped in slowly, eyeing the scene—tissues on the armrest, glass of wine half-full, the credits still rolling while the sad piano music haunted the room.

“Sadness, yeah. Not emotional self-immolation, sweetheart.” He teased you.

You shrugged. “It’s for you.”

He snorted, then went quiet. He moved closer.

“…‘For me,’ huh?” he repeated, voice lower now. He sat beside you and leaned in. Fangs brushed your neck, slow. And then he sank them in. His hand anchored itself on your thigh. He fed quietly, like he was sipping it out of you. He was enjoying himself and wanting it to last—to not let your little emotional sacrifice go to waste.

When he pulled back, he licked the blood from his lip and exhaled.

“…Damn,” he muttered. “You taste like pain and suffering.”

You smiled weakly. “That a compliment?”

He grinned and licked his lips. “To me? That’s foreplay.”

He didn’t leave right away. Just leaned back, draped an arm over the back of the couch, and watched the end credits roll with you.

He never said thanks.

But the way he stayed says it all.

Annie

Annie had been pacing for the last fifteen minutes. You sat on the edge of the bed, watching her twist the hem of her sleeve between her fingers. She looked sick and hadn’t fed in days.

“Annie,” you said gently, “come here.”

She paused, eyes darting to the floor, then to you. “I’m fine. I don’t need it yet,” she mumbled, though the tremble in her voice betrayed her. You stood and approached her slowly, like she was a spooked deer. She let you take her hands.

“Sweetheart,” you whispered, “you’re hungry. And I trust you. It’s okay.”

She flinched at the word. “But I hate it. I hate the way it makes me feel. Like I’m a monster. I don’t want you to think—”

“I don’t,” you cut in softly. “I don’t think that. You’re not a monster, Annie. You’re the gentlest person I know.”

You lifted your hand and brushed her cheek with your thumb. “You’re careful. You’re kind. You ask for permission. That already makes you different.”

Her lip trembled, and her dark eyes shimmered with held-back tears.

You pressed a kiss to her forehead and took a step back, then calmly rolled up your sleeve. “Take what you need. I’m here. I want to help you.”

Annie’s eyes locked on the exposed skin. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

She moved forward with slow, reverent hesitation. Her hands cupped your arm as if it were made of glass. And when her nail finally pierced your skin, you didn’t flinch. You tilted your head up and relaxed into her hold. Her feeding was careful. Gentle. You could feel her suppressing every instinct to drink more than she should. When she pulled away, she immediately pressed her hand to the wound and kissed it as if apologizing.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Thank you, child.”

You smiled and stroked her hair back from her face.

“You never have to apologize to me for surviving,” you told her softly.

Her breath hitched, and she clung to you like she’d fall apart otherwise.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice shaking.

You held her tighter.

“I love you too, Annie.”

Joan

Joan rarely asked. She didn’t like to. Drinking from you was…intimate. And though she usually didn’t care who she drank from, this? This made her hesitate. Tonight was different. You’d come to her room after noticing she’d been quieter than usual—sharper in her glances, tenser in her shoulders. She hadn’t fed properly in days. She was rationing, being careful not to fall into hunger’s trap. But you knew her restraint came at a cost.

You knocked once. She didn’t answer.

So you walked in.

Joan was sitting on the windowsill, looking out into the dark, moonlight glowing silver along her cheekbones. Her posture was still. Poised. But her eyes flicked to you—and in that flash, you saw it.

The hunger. The ache.

“Joan,” you called out gently, stepping closer. “You need to feed.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the window. So you took the final step. Came to stand beside her, and reached for your sleeve.

“You’re not a burden,” you whispered, baring your forearm.

Her lips parted. “You shouldn’t offer so easily.”

“But I want to. You’re always so careful. So strong. Let me take care of you this time.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, Joan reached up, cupped your wrist in her hand, and brought your arm to her lips. She didn’t feed right away. She looked at you first, searching your face—making sure. When you nodded, she finally cut your skin and drank. It didn’t hurt. It never did with Joan. She was precise, attentive even. Her lips sealed around the cut, and her eyes fluttered shut. You felt the soft pull of her feeding—slow, controlled, as if she were holding back even now.

You exhaled, your hand rising to brush her braid. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “Take what you need.”

A faint sound left her throat. Something like a sigh. Or maybe…a thank-you. She drank for a few moments longer. Then she stopped. Her tongue flicked out, sealing the wound, and she pulled away slowly—her hand lingering on yours, gaze lowered.

She thanked you and you smiled at her, thumb brushing her jaw. “Always.”

Joan closed her eyes and leaned into your touch just for a second. Then she turned her face into your palm, pressing a kiss there. The smallest, most tender thing. She didn’t say it, but you heard it in the silence:

I trust you. I need you. I love you.

Bert

Bert was having a bad day. He had just returned from a second feeding session, but the man he had picked had stabbed him with a silver fork. He came back and had lost a lot of blood. You noticed and immediately went to pick him up.

“Hey, Bert! Stay with me, bud. C’mon.” He needed blood and fast. You sighed and used a knife to cut your palm open. The moment you brought your hand to his lips, he drank frankly and steadily. That flavour…He had never tasted anything like it.

He could feel how worried and scared you were of losing him. He whined and grunted as his strength came back. But he didn’t let go of your hand. Once he was satiated, he pulled away and looked up at you with a dazed look. A drop of blood ran down his chin. He quickly licked it clean.

His eyes were glassy and he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Thank ya for takin’ such good care of me, baby.”

You huffed, but a smile graced your features. He immediately kissed that smile. His kiss was gentle at first until he slowly lifted his hands to cup your face and corner you. He then effortlessly lifted your legs to wrap around his waist. His usual childish crooked smile returned and he chuckled.

“But ya know…I’m immortal, sugar. Ya don’t have to worry ‘bout me leavin’ ya. ‘Cause this vampire? S’here to stay. Meant to be with ya and give ya goosebumps for eternity.”

You believed him. You smiled back.

Cornbread

You kicked the door open with your hip, cradling a huge, greasy brown bag and two large sodas like you were making an offering to the gods. The smell alone—fries, nuggets, a rogue hash brown you didn’t order but sure as hell won’t question—spread through the house like incense.

Cornbread appeared so fast it’s like he teleported. His massive frame filled the hallway, eyes wide, lips parted. “Now whatchu got there, baby?”

You grinned and shook the bag. “You said you missed junk food. Thought I’d bring you a little piece of heaven.”

He damn near glowed. His laugh bounced off the walls—loud, joyful, excited. He clutched his chest like you just proposed to him. “Ohhh, you tryna marry me or kill me? ‘Cause this here’s lethal.”

You chuckled while you ate—knowing he was just anticipating that bite of pure greasy joy.

Cornbread leaned in once you finished—barely able to contain himself. “C’mon. C’mere, pumpkin’. Lemme get a taste.”

He then sank his nail right in your neck and drank from all that junk food blood perfection.

“Lord have mercy,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “This what real love tastes like.”

Afterwards, he leaned back with a full belly and a little drunk on the afterglow.

You sipped your soda like it’s fine wine and chuckled. “You act like I just fed you blood from Jesus himself.”

You huffed and tapped his belly. “You did! This a sacrament! Ya anointin’ me! By the power of the fries, the double cheeseburger and the chocolate ice cream.”

“You forgot the toy,” you teased.

“Oh, I’m the toy,” he grinned while patting his belly. “Wind me up, baby.”

You both burst out laughing.

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #sinners 2025 #annie sinners #annie x reader #sinners mary #mary x reader #stack x reader #stack sinners #remmick x reader #remmick sinners #cornbread x reader #bert x reader #joan x reader #bo chow x reader

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