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nightbornevirus · 12 days ago

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The 'No Touch' Contract

Warnings/Themes: Male Demon x AFAB!Reader, monster x reader, dominant reader, mutual masturbation, fingering (Reader receiving) weird dick description, dirty talk, mentions of dub-con, mentions of rough use, rough handling, small mentions of blood.

Notes: Some of you begged for it and now it is here! Thank you for spurring my motivation into getting this written. I had alot of fun with this pair. I'll definitely be working on other scenes focused on this story-line. And hopefully, eventually, get a proper story flushed out.

As always! Enjoy! And feedback or constructive criticism is welcome!

“Oh, you poor thing.” You made your tone drip with honey. Trailing the tips of your fingers along the twisting horns- rewarding yourself with a guttural growl that made the very air around your core vibrate. “Look at you kneeling.”

Claws as black as polished obsidian ripped through the bed-sheets. The ear-splitting noise of silk and cotton tearing apart like butter added a rather thrilling edge to the scene between your legs.

Where your Demon’s head hung low between your thighs. His nose was so close to your slick folds you could feel the heat radiating off of him.

When he had pulled you to the edge of the bed, hand as hot as fire wrapping around your ankle, tugging you effortlessly towards him; you thought you had finally made him snap.

Agoris had watched you - for what felt like hours - as you played with yourself. Nestled in a nest of blankets and pillows; naked - save for the silk veil that you had draped over your breasts. A tease for the Demon who was demanding you to break your contract and let him fuck you.

But instead of giving into your need, you made him suffer. Smirking every time that long thick tail of his twitched behind him. Coiling tightly against his legs while he watched your fingers slide between your folds.

Every whine from you caused his chest to expand with a hiss. You were sure his hands were clenched into fists to keep them from touching you.

But now, you left your pussy alone. Anticipating Agoris to lunge forward and encase your centre with his mouth.

Instead, a long, thick tongue dragged over his lips. The slow, deep pull of his breath made you want to whimper. But you clasped your mouth shut. Refusing to give Agoris the reactions he so desperately craved. Even if he acted as if he could taste you through the air.

When he spoke, Agoris’ words were barely distinguishable. Spat through the constant rumble in his throat.

“When you finally give in, I'm going to enjoy taking back what you've kept from me.”

A shiver ghosted up your spine. Grinning, you hooked your hand under his chin and forced his gaze to meet yours. Eyes full of brimstone and hellfire. Spite and hunger broiling in a pit of pure want.

“You’re so confident I’ll break first. But I’m not the one on my knees.”

The smouldering coals of Hell erupted into a blaze. But Agoris made no move to retaliate. His smirk did enough damage to your heart as it was.

“Yet.” That one word had your pulse galloping.

Pulling his chin from your hand, Agoris lowered his face back to his sanctuary between your legs, “You’re not on your knees yet.”

Another shiver ran through you when the breath of his voice fanned over your aching pussy. Accompanied by a layer of goose-bumps that rippled down along your arms.

Agoris watched the raised skin with a filthy grin full of fangs and a tongue that licked along the largest canines.

“Your body wants me. Give in and I’ll satiate every need that keeps you up at night.”

“Not without taking everything you want first.”

The laugh from him was nothing but pure sin. “When you let me finally plunder your pussy I’ll take everything you have and more.” He ripped his claws out of the bed, spilling feathers and stuffing all over the floor.

His eyes flicked up to you when he reached down to wrap a trembling fist around his engorged length.

“When you’re limp around my cock, those pretty eyes full of tears, I’ll still take what I’m owed.”

It was your turn to alleviate the dryness from your mouth. Your bravado became a puddle in your mind as Agoris stroked himself, slow and deliberate. No matter how many times you saw him- it was still a shock at how frightfully long he was. From the silky black fur that blanketed his thighs, a cock- mottled with black and red patches on smooth bare skin -emerged to hang heavily between his knees.

Bowed as he was, the round flat head rested against the stone floor. Bobbing in a pool of his own pre-cum that leaked from a long but thin slit.

And now, as Agoris shifted his hips and rubbed a tight fist along his own shaft, he could nearly lick his own bead of silvery excitement.

“Every second, I waste not buried inside you - tearing your walls apart to make this fit -is a second of agony, I will burn into your flesh when you’re folded beneath me.” His fingers squeezed the marbled cock so hard you feared it would pop.

“You think I'll throw you aside after a week of using you like a toy?” Agoris’ voice pitched on a gasp as he cupped his heavy balls with his free hand. Watching you with a gaze so hungry a fresh wave of warmth spilled from your core.

“Try mocking me after a lifetime of my cock molding your pussy to my needs. A thousand years of marking, branding- owning -your pleasure.

Your hands move on their own. Sliding down along your body to tangle with the mess between your legs.

Agoris’ eyes followed your fingers like a starved animal. Panting grunts rasped from his chest as the head of his cock bounced in rhythm to the iron-vice grip.

“I’ll make you warm my cock…Make you beg for it.” A string of demonic curses tumble from his lips when you part your pussy-lips for him. Allowing him to see your leaking hole. “Your pussy will be bruised by my tongue. Stained by my seed. When I have you- only my name will fall from those pretty little lips.”

Your thighs trembled and Agoris rushed forward as your climax spilled from your body. You kept pleasuring yourself. Feverishly rolling your clit between your fingers until your back arched off the bed and your mouth parted with soundless moans.

You heard Agoris suckling on something. Sloppy wet sounds pulled your mind from the blissful fog to the crown of horns that were pressed hard against your legs. Keeping your thighs apart. But no wondrous tongue ploughed your core.

Instead, Agoris’ lips were wrapped around a section of the blanket that was now stained with your finish.

His growls turned to needy whimpers. A sound so beautifully pathetic your voice shook on a whine- watching the delicious slide of his fist over the long expanse of his cock.

The dappled skin was slick with his own pre that was now dribbling seamlessly from the gaping slit.

The flat head had swelled. The very sight of it made your thighs clench around Agoris’ head and the Demon snarled.

The hand fondling his balls flew up and shoved your legs apart. You yelped as his claws scraped down your soft flesh, leaving red welts.

“Keep them open.” Agoris hissed. His gaze glued to your pussy as you slipped two fingers inside yourself. The ease at which your walls welcomed your digits caused a violent twitch to jerk Agoris’ hips. As if he was imagining it was him sliding in and out of you.

You made a show of your own pleasure. Rocking your hips, gasping and mewling- making noises you usually didn’t make while pistoning yourself with your fingers.

All the while watching Agoris fuck into his hand. Spilling pre all over the floor and fist until he struggled to keep a hold on himself.

“F-Fuck-”

Bracing himself against the bed, Agoris shifts so his hips snapped rapidly into his tight fist.

The bed creaked beneath you.

The entire frame shook and you laughed excitedly as Agoris rose so he towered over you on the edge of the mattress. Still kneeling between your legs but now angled so his abused cock hovered above your waist.

The tip slapped against your stomach with each pass of his fist. Leaving thick droplets of silver against your skin that felt as if they were burning into your flesh.

Then you noticed the changes.

He was transforming. The shell-like magic that compressed his large form was cracking. You spotted thick, spine-like ridges breaching through the smooth red skin of his jawline. Creating a mane of thorns that decorated the sharp lines of his face and down along his throat. His fist doubled in size, briefly swallowing his cock between his fingers until the shaft joined the shift and became thicker than your own leg.

The round flat head twitched, pre-cum oozing from the slit. And your eyes widened as the peak fluttered open. The flat crest spread apart from the glorious split to form a wide flower-like end. The petals of velvety skin bloomed with a bright red color, the centre now a sharp point that seemed to pulsate with need.

Nubs appeared along the mottled skin- rounded pebbles that you watched with fascination throb with every rapid pass of Agoris’ hand.

The Demon’s eyes were half closed. His mouth hanging open in a dazed expression that had your heart racing.

You didn’t care for your own pleasure anymore. Watching this creature of sin become undone by you and his fist was as exhilarating as any climax.

“Agoris!” You shoved two more fingers into your aching pussy, arching your back as you screamed the Demon’s name. Acting out another finish.

A roar had your ears ringing- a burst of blistering energy shook the room as Agoris pounced on you. A slick skinned hand wrapped around your throat. Nearly encasing your entire chest beneath his palm as his claws squeezed your airways until you couldn’t breathe.

“Give me consent!” His voice was a volcanic eruption. Fire and smoke choked his throat, billowing out the corners of his mouth as he snarled above you. You shook your head. Eyes bulging out of your head and your pulse bellowing in your ears.

But you didn’t give in. You writhed beneath him until you felt the blazing heat of his cock against your throbbing core. Greedily bucking against your own fingers just enough to mix his slick with yours.

Agoris’ voice rattled your chest. The harsh Hellish voice burning your ears with words you didn’t understand.

Beads of blood were dripping from his claws that punctured your neck. And you laughed almost manically- watching Agoris through your lashes; rolling your hips so his fist ghosted over your warm cunt as he still chased his finish.

“What’s wrong, Agoris?” You forced your voice through the constricted airways. Gasping for air whenever his fingers flexed. “Can’t cum on your own?”

You saw the snap.

The sudden feral gleam that took Agoris away and replaced him with a beast.

And in that moment, you almost felt true fear.

With movement too quick for you to register, Agoris flipped you onto your stomach and shoved your thighs so far apart he pulled a cry of pain from you. The claws around your throat wrapped around the back of your head, and you had to struggle to turn your face to the side so you could breathe.

Tears blurred your vision as pain sparked along your scalp from where he had you pinned.

Then you felt him mount you. The bed groaned as he crawled on top of you. Thighs as thick as tree-trunks encasing your human body beneath him in a blazing cage of heat.

And with one last wet slide of his fist, Agoris let his cock slap against your back. And your eyes widened as the weight of it rested against your spine.

“Give me consent.” His voice wasn’t one you recognized. It was heavy. Demanding. So full of hunger every inch of you became feverish.

“No.” You managed to say. Spit flew from your lips as you tried to fight the hand that held you down. “If you want me, you’re going to have to take me.”

It was getting hard to stay awake. You couldn’t pull enough air into your chest in this position; not with the weight of him crushing you into the bed and the hand trapping half your face into the thick blanket.

The heat from his body- his cock -felt like you were being branded by his skin. And the smallest twitch of his hips had your breath hitching- Then he was gone.

Cold wind swallowed your back, and you gasped for air, scrambling further up the bed until your back rested against the plush pillows.

Just as Agoris ripped open the chamber door and went to leave.

“Where are you going?” You demanded breathlessly.

“To find a warm hole to fuck.” Was his growling reply before the door slammed shut. The sound of it echoing through the room like a clap of thunder.

He left you alone in a room, reeking of fire and smoke. With your core still aching, pulsating for something to penetrate it.

You grumbled and threw yourself back against the pillows and began playing with yourself again.

But frustratingly, without your audience, another climax was beyond you.

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Ko-fi / Patreon

Requests are open on both sites! I hope you enjoyed this filthy piece of writing ❤️

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nightbornevirus · 1 month ago

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♡ TW: yandere, stalking, obsession, broke-ish reader, bully reader, revenge reverie

♡ FEM reader

♡ AN: thinking about nerdy loser boy, who grows up to be rich and successful after graduation, and who decides to use all his wealth to take revenge on you, his old bully, who’s still struggling with figuring her sorry little life out...

He car is cold to cool his nerves. No music, only the groan of leather each time he or his driver shifts in their seat.

He holds a glass of whiskey between his fingers—the bottle has become significantly diminished over the past days, two other bottles before it.

He takes a sip, but keeps his gaze fixed out the tinted window at the little drive-by diner.

Retro place, built before he was born. Industrial steel walls, red accents, one big glowing sign above the roof, all caps, spelling CHUCKY’S. He bought the place a few weeks ago, way over asking price—didn’t want any fuss, just wanted it done in one day, but for no reason pertaining to business.

No, this one was personal.

He sighs, swirls his glass, and takes another sip, all while maintaining his stare. He can catch a glimpse of you every time you leave the kitchens to take orders. Dressed in your uniform—an awful red and white checkered dress that you somehow make work. Princess puff sleeves, cinched at the waist with a white apron before jutting out into a mid-thigh frill-edged skirt, a tulle petticoat underneath giving it even more volume and making it look more like a tacky Halloween costume than proper clothes.

You always look so hard at work. It’s funny. Maybe if you’d just done your schoolwork instead of making him do it all for you at the threat of having your jocks rough him up, you’d be better off today and not running yourself ragged over minimum wage.

He must admit it’s pretty childish of him—stalking you like this as if that’s what he should be spending his free time on. His driver must think he’s insane, but he pays him too much for him to ask any questions, not even when he signals him to follow you once you finish your shift.

He would follow you into the subway, if not for fear of causing a commotion. Even though he’s not exactly a celebrity, it’s not so unusual for his face to be in a business magazine every now and again. A few people would certainly recognize him. And if not for that, he’d probably get mugged.

But it’s no matter. He knows where you’re going.

You live in a rundown flat across the street from a five-star hotel he’s taken to call home. The staff are always insisting he should move into the penthouse, but he has to turn them down, as he needs one of the lower-level rooms more aligned with your studio apartment.

You leave your uniform on the floor the second you’re through the door, and he immediately needs to grit his teeth. Naked except for your undergarments—a greyish bra that was once white, styled with a turquoise thong, both pilled from wear. It’s nothing anyone’s meant to see, but here he is, watching as you peel your underwear down your thighs and legs, leaving yourself bare to his prying eyes.

You swipe it up off the floor, stretching it out like a slingshot before shooting it across the room right into your laundry bin. You jump into a pair of short-shorts instead, relieving yourself of your bra next, exchanging it with a loose, cropped T-shirt—a silly cartoon cat print on the bust.

You use your toes to hook your sock, prying them off while you walk towards the tiny kitchen nook tucked away in the corner of the room. Opening the fridge, you grab the three-liter box of white wine you’ve been enjoying by yourself for the past few days, not so different from him. And then you plop down on your bed and switch on the TV, putting on some shitty reality show about overly botoxed women living in Beverly Hills.

He drags his hand over his face, sitting in his luxury suite with a pair of military grade binoculars, pulling his jaw with tired eyes. It should be enough revenge for him to see you living the way you do—broke and struggling. But for some reason, it just isn’t. Not even close.

More than revenge, he thinks, oddly enough, he still wants to prove himself to you. He wants you to see him—his worth—wants you to acknowledge it, that you were wrong to step all over him because, in the end, he’s the one in the million-dollar shoes, and you’re the one in the soiled apron taking orders.

But then again, and even stranger, he feels this weird amount of gratitude towards you. After all, if you hadn’t made him feel worthless, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to make himself priceless.

And, of course, there’s the fact that he still jerks off to you and has, on many desperate occasions, paid escorts with a passing resemblance to you to call him by those foul names you used to—among many other things he wishes you’d say.

“Aren’t yah a little too dressed up for this place?” you ask, head tilted to the side, hand on your hip with your notepad, popping your pink gum. “What—Michelin gettin’ too boring’? Or d’yah just feel like slummin’ it today?”

He doesn’t get you’re making a joke—feeling out of place sitting in the tight little booth he’d picked out for himself—plastic menu taped to the table in front of him with a bunch of stuff he hasn’t put in his mouth since college with prices he’d forgotten all about. It’s so cheap, he wonders for a moment if a zero is missing.

But that’s not all, or at least not the reason he’s so put off…

You raise a brow over his puzzled expression, looking up at you like a lost kid at the mall.

“I’m just messin’ with yah—no need to look so wired,” you laugh, flipping up your notepad and clicking your pen. “So then, what can I get yah?”

He blinks. “Oh, uhm,” clearing his throat, he looks down at the menu again and just picks the first thing his eyes land on. “I’ll have a—a breakfast sandwich. Thank you.”

You scribble it down, asking while at it, “No’n else? Big gun like you? No waffles, hashbrowns, sausages? I make a mean French toast, just so you know.” You look at him in wait.

He gets a little lost seeing you so up close, but manages to stutter out a, “No–no, thank you, that’s okay.”

You, on the other hand, don’t seem ruffled at all—all smiles and giggles, knuckles on your hip as you tilt your head at him. “You watchin’ yer figure, or somethin’? Guess you can’t let the money do all the talkin’, huh?”

He doesn’t know what to say, busy using every brain cell to comprehend the fact that you’re even talking to him, so familiarly as well. It all throws him for a loop.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just pullin’ your leg,” you continue at his silence. “It’s just that I’ seen your car parked outside so many times, always wonderin’ what rich fellow was brave enough to have business around here,” you explain, nodding at his black SUV out front. “I’m just happy to finally put a face to the wheels.”

He still can’t find the words to say. He’s not sure what he’s doing with his face either, but it can't be good. Feeling stiff as a board and dumb like one, too.

“I’m rambling, aren’t I? My bad,” you apologize, either thinking nothing of his strange behaviour or simply choosing to ignore it. “You want joe or juice with that?”

It takes him a second to realize it’s a question he’ll have to answer, but he manages to utter a curt, “Coffee,” before further pulling himself together enough to tack on a polite, “Please.”

You only nod your head, clicking your pen. “A’right then, big spender. Comin’ right up.”

And then, you turn on your heel, leaving him there with nothing but that dumb look he seems unable to wipe off his face, watching you march in tattered shoes that don’t go at all along with your diner uniform across the chess-checkered tiles before disappearing into the kitchen, without doing so much as a double-take.

And he’s hit with the unpleasant understanding, sitting like a lump in his stomach, making his throat feel tight.

You don’t even remember him.

He contemplates leaving at that moment. He pulls out the entire wad of bills kept in his wallet, not bothering with giving them a count, thinking he’d just leave them on the table to pay for the work and his rudeness. But even so, he remains seated.

Maybe you just didn’t recognize him?

He hardly looks like his old self. Hair gelled and professionally cut just yesterday, suit tailored expertly for him, body built with the help of a personal trainer. Yeah, of course you don’t recognize him. There's nothing of his old self left for you to remember.

Or maybe he was right the first time, and you have zero memory of him whatsoever. Maybe you only remember fun times—your girlfriends and all the parties you went to, the drinking, your handsome boyfriend who was captain of the varsity team, and the other jocks you used to cheat on him with. Maybe he’s just another loser lost in the crowd, unworthy of your attention, unworthy even of the tiniest spot in your recollection.

“Here you go, mister.” You announce your return, and he looks up, surprised to see you back already. His dish done, balanced in one hand, with his coffee mug held in the other.

You place both down before him, still steaming, the scent of butter and fresh brew attacking his nose at once.

It was basically free per his standards, but it looked good and was a lot bigger than what he would have been served at the hotel restaurant. And unlike that, this actually looks like it was made by a human being—uneven slices of butter-crisp bread cut diagonally before serving.

His mouth waters, and he’s glad he stayed.

“Did you make it yourself?” he asks for some odd reason before being able to stop himself.

But you just giggle, “Why yes, I did—with love and all. Hope you enjoy.”

And then you run along to another table, leaving him to it.

His arms lay resting on the table, hands idle as he stared at it for a moment longer as if he were waiting for someone to take a picture. He’s never been one to do such a thing, despite all the extravagant meals he’d been served at prices high enough that it should make anyone lose their appetite. This sight, however, almost had him compelled to pull out his phone and do it. But he ends up leaving it be.

His stomach growls. He swallows the pool that had swelled up in his mouth, giving your words a taste. “With love, huh…”

How about that… he thinks while picking one of the triangles up. You hadn’t given him any cutlery, nor was there any on the table, so—suppose bare-handed is the way it’s meant to go.

He takes his first bite, and the bread crunches between his teeth. Followed by still-sizzling crispy bacon, soft egg, and fully melted cheese—and oh my god, it’s greasy—melting in his mouth. And he knows you were only joking around, but… he thinks he might be tasting the love, too.

“How’d you like it?” You’re back again right before he’s done, now with a few coffee and grease stains on your apron, looking all dewy-faced with your hair a little messier than it was in the morning.

He’s still swallowing the last bite, fighting the urge to lick his fingers clean in your presence as he takes you in in all your hard-working glory.

“Michelin could learn a thing or two,” he says, more comfortable than earlier, reaching for the napkin dispenser across the table before wiping his mouth all neatly.

“You’re too kind.” You smile—the type of sweet smile you’d never flash back in school, looking a little giddy, asking, “Anything else?”

His meal sits warm in his belly, still tasty on his tongue. “Yes. When do you get off?”

You’re the one with the dumb expression now, face blank and eyes wide—but only for a moment before it turns cheeky. “Why? You’re not one of ‘em rich freaks who take all us poor gals for hookers, are yah?” you joke, snickering at him.

“And what if I am?” he questions, tone firm, the type he’ll use in business meetings. “I’ll pay you twice what you earn in a year for one night. What do you say?”

This time, you seem unable to wipe the look of surprise off your face.

Tone wiped clean of all service-inclined banter, stating plainly, though still with the accent of shock, “I get off at seven.”

He flicks his wrist, eyeing his watch to gauge the time before braiding his fingers together. Looking up at you again.

“I changed my mind,” he states then.

“I think I’ll have some French toast while I wait.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Shinso ♡ JJK – Yuuta, Higuruma ♡ HQ – Yamaguchi ♡ BLLK – Isagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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nightbornevirus · 1 month ago

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Knight escorting his prince/ss back to their bed chamber after a long evening of merriment and drinking. Prince/ss wobbles and struggles to stand up straight, leaning against their loyal knight’s muscled form. Knight ignoring the wandering hands and pleading coos of their prince/ss, desperate for touch. It’d be improper.

“Here we are, your highness, now let’s get you to bed…”

Prince/ss pouting and insisting that they are simply too helpless to undress all on their own, that they just need their knight’s assistance to disrobe. Knight holding his breath as he loosens ties and watches fabric fall to reveal prince/ss’s skin, soft and warm with blush. Knight clenching his jaw but letting eyes wander along the curves of their royal highness’s form. It’d be improper.

Knight tucking their prince/ss beneath blankets with a chaste kiss on their forehead and a gentle brushing of hair from their face. Knight closing the door of prince/ss room softly behind himself as he heads back to his own quarters. It’d be improper.

Knight, alone in his bed, sweaty and flustered, desperately bucking and rutting himself into his own hand. Knight growling and whining, utterly desperate, mumbling his prince/ss’s name again and again until he cums, shuddering. Knight panting and catching his breath, staring hopelessly up at the ceiling. He’s not sure how many more nights like this he can take before breaking…

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nightbornevirus · 2 months ago

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richotofen dempsey toxic oneshot

I <3 toxic yaoi..

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 (smut, angst, slowburn, romance(?))

Tank Dempsey x trans Edward Richtofen

2,213 words

Description: When a stalker meets its prey.

Contents: Angst, self-harm (briefly), blood, stalking, stockholm syndrome, trans male, p in v, choking, praises, dacrophilia, aftercare, toxic yaoi, AU (zombies are not in this AU), body worship, obsession, submissive Richtofen, old men, yaoi or whatever

Note: This one is a little dark. I am friends with the person who made this (we talked about this request in DM's)..you know who you are, enjoy xx

ALL CHARACTERS IN HERE ARE CONSENTING ADULTS.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.��⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔

The speakeasy smelled like smoke pain. The kind of place where jazz hid the many secrets.

I'd been drinking since the sun set, nursing a scotch that tasted like my regret. My boots were caked with mud from earlier that day. Didn't matter. Nobody asked questions in places like this. That's why I kept coming back. Like some toxic lover.

That's when I saw him.

He didn't walk, but glided. Like he owned the room, like he'd been painted in blood and velvet of his suit just for the occasion. Pale fingers held a glass of something red-wine, possibly-but the way he sipped it, made my stomach clench.

He looked too pretty for this world. European, I'd think. Sharp lines softened by an arrogant smirk. His dark hair was combed back. A hint of eyeliner. Or, maybe not, maybe it was just his long lashes.

I didn't think he’d look at me. I was all calloused hands and broken knuckles, the type that scared men and bored women. But he did.

God help me, he did.

Just one look, that was all it took. One look across the room, his mouth curling into a knowing smirk of me, and I was already undone. I didn't even know his name yet. Didn't know what kind of man he was, but I was in for a loop.

He didn't speak when he slid into the booth across from me, as if the people he was once talking to didn't exist anymore. Just ran his fingers along the rim of his glass and tilted his head like a cat amused with its prey.

"You look like you want to forget something,"

When he spoke, it was low, as if he knew the feeling well.

"Don't we all?"

I muttered, with a dry chuckle. That just caused his smirk to widen.

"Come. Let me help."

The next thing I knew, we were behind the building, the door clicking shut behind us. Darkness wrapped around us like a coat. He pushed me against the brick, lips hungry, hands needy. Like he'd studied anatomy and chose to dismantle me one nerve at a time.

He let me take the lead. Let me pin him, fuck him, ruin him. He begged, quietly, with dignity, but he begged all the same. His body was soft in the right places, firm in others. His voice cracked in the most perfect way. And when I pressed my hand lightly against his throat, he gasped like it was the answer to a question he hadn't dared ask before.

It was quick. And dirty. And perfect.

When I came, it wasn't just release. It was worship. Like I'd filled him with something divine, and he'd accepted my communion. He clung to me, panting, his nails digging into my shoulders like he didn't want to forget this either.

But then he left.

No goodbye. No name. Just gone.

I stood there, pants unzipped, body shaking, heart pounding like I'd just survived another war.

I told myself it didn't matter.

One night stand.

Done.

But then I smelled him on my fingers the next morning. On my clothes. I swore I could still feel myself inside him, wrapped around me like a sin.

It wasn't lust I had felt.

It was hunger.

I started seeing him in every crowd. Every shadow. I started going back to the speakeasy. Sitting in the same booth. Ordering the same drink. Hoping maybe he'd show.

He didn’t.

But that didn't stop the dreams.

I dreamed of his hands, his voice, the way he said "harder" like he was daring me to break him. I dreamed of choking him just a little tighter. Of making him cry for me. Not from pain-- from need.

And when I woke up, my sheets were soaked. My hands were shaking.

I couldn't get enough. I didn't even know his damn name. But I knew how he tasted. I knew how he sounded when he came.

I was ruined.

And I didn't want to be fixed.

I started showing up earlier. Not just at the speakeasy, but around the neighborhood. I didn't even have a reason to be in that part of town. But every alley, every lamplight felt like it remembered him.

I remembered everything.

The way he leaned into me. How his breath hitched when I whispered against his throat. The heat between us, slick and frenzied. My name on his lips-- he didn't even know it, not really, but he said it like it meant something.

And now I wanted more. Not just his body. I wanted him.

I started catching glimpses of him.

Not often. Not long enough. Sometimes just a flash of that dark coat, his gloves slipping into his pocket as he vanished around a corner. Once, I saw him browsing a bookstall. Fingers delicate, eyes skimming over the words like they were beneath him.

I didn't approach. Not yet.

I watched.

I memorized. The way he brushed his hair back with one hand. The way his shoulders twitched when he was cold. He didn't know I was there. And God, that made it better.

It wasn't just sexual anymore.

It was religion.

I dreamt of carving my name into his collarbone. Holding him still while I whispered promises I'd never break. I wanted him bent beneath me again, not because I earned it, but because he belonged there.

Sometimes, I'd trail him all the way home. From the shadows. Just far enough that he couldn't tell. I learned what building he lived in. Which window was his. How long his lights stayed on.

One night, I stood outside for hours. Just breathing. Just picturing him inside, maybe shirtless, maybe tired, maybe thinking about me.

I started stealing things.

Little things. A cigarette he dropped. The rim of a glass he left behind at the bar. A handkerchief.

The handkerchief was the worst. I kept it in my pocket for days. Took it to bed. Pressed it to my nose when I touched myself, pretending it was him. Pretending he was under me again, trembling and flushed.

I whispered his name into my pillow like a sin. I came hard, gripping the fabric, my body shaking with the force of it.

And afterward, I felt shame.

But only for a second.

Because I knew I'd do it again.

The next time I saw him, he was with someone else.

Laughing.

That was when I snapped.

It wasn't jealousy I felt, it was betrayal.

He didn't know what we had. He didn't understand. He was supposed to be mine. My hands shook the entire walk back. My nails dug crescent moons into my palms.

I wanted to hurt something. Someone. Instead, I drew a knife across my forearm, shallow and neat, just enough to feel something other than the boiling anger.

He looked so happy. Like I never touched him. Like I never ruined him that night. And I needed to fix that.

I started sending him notes.

Nothing threatening. Nothing obvious.

Just little things. Poems. Lines from books I found on his shelf when I snuck in that one time. I left a pressed flower in his mailbox once. A glove of mine, the scent still clinging to it.

I knew he knew.

I could see it in his eyes when he walked. The way he kept glancing over his shoulder. The way he started carrying something sharp in his coat pocket.

He was scared.

I didn't want him scared, I wanted him mine.

I saw him again. Up close.

He was standing at a newsstand, pretending to read, but his eyes were too quick. Too alert.

I stepped beside him, and he didn't flinch.

"You've been watching me,"

He spoke, his voice strained. And I didn't lie.

He turned to look at me. His lips parted slightly. His pupils dilated. Fear. Curiosity. Maybe both.

"You want me again."

I didn’t say anything. Just stared. Let him see how ruined I was. Let him see the craving in my eyes.

I wanted to kiss him then. Take him right there. But he didn't run.

He never ran.

That night, I followed him home again.

But this time, I knocked.

He opened the door, silent, his shirt undone. He was shaking, and not from the cold.

"If I say no, will you stop?"

His voice was thin, but mine felt rough.

"You won't."

He didn't, he instead closed the door.

I pressed him against the wall, kissing him hard, fingers tangling in his hair. He gasped, and I swallowed it whole. My hand slid down, grabbing his thigh, lifting him. He wrapped his legs around me like instinct.

I carried him to the bed. Threw him down like something I owned. Stripped him slow, kissing every inch of skin, memorizing every scar.

When I pushed into him, it wasn't violent like I was sure he thought I'd be.

He cried.

Beautiful, shaking sobs that made my throat tighten. I kissed his tears away. Called him perfect. Praised every breath, every sound.

"You're mine,"

I said, again and again, fucking him slow, deep, until he begged.

When I came, I stayed inside him. Holding him. Feeling him.

He looked up at me, broken open, and I saw it-- he needed me too.

I cleaned him up. Bandaged the bite marks I left. Held him through the tremors.

And when he finally fell asleep, clinging to me like he'd drown without it; I smiled.

Because now, he knew.

He was mine. But I let him go again. I left, as he did me, alone, silent.

I told myself I wasn't going to take him.

I swore I'd wait. Let him come to me. Let him realize on his own that he belonged nowhere else.

But patience isn't love. Patience is distance. And I couldn't stand that anymore.

So I made a plan.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't clean. But I didn't need clean. I needed sure.

He always walked alone on Thursdays. Right before sunset. Long coat, gloves, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself small. Maybe he sensed it-- what was coming. Maybe some part of him wanted it.

I waited in the alley.

When he passed, I stepped out. Gloved hand over his mouth, arm around his waist. He struggled for exactly three seconds before going limp. No one screamed. No one heard. No one ever does in this city.

I didn't take him far. Just a little apartment I'd been fixing up. Nothing fancy. Just a bed, a warm place, no locks; just me.

He woke up slowly, dazed. Confused. Beautiful.

I sat beside him, stroking his hair. He flinched at first, then stilled.

"You took me,"

He spoke with a tone uncertain, but not entirely scared.

I nodded.

"I had to. You kept running away."

He looked at me then. Really looked.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

I leaned in. Pressed a kiss to his forehead, my eyes soft and hands against his face.

"No. I’m going to love you."

It started slow. I cooked for him, sat with him, sold him stories of war and whiskey and things I'd never told anyone else. I watched the way his eyes softened when I praised him. Watched how he leaned into my hands when I touched him gently.

He didn't try to leave.

Not once.

Some nights, he'd cry. Soft, trembling sobs that filled the room like music. I held him through it, and whispered how perfect he was. How beautiful. How mine.

And when he let me touch him again-really touch him-made sure he knew.

I worshipped every inch of him.

I kissed the freckles on his shoulders. The curve of his hip. I mouthed down his stomach like it was scripture. He arched beneath me, crying out, choking on his own breath.

"You're not just good,"

I told him, voice rough with need.

"You're the best thing that's ever touched me."

His thighs trembled when I spread them. He reached for me, eyes glazed, and I gave him everything.

Slow.

Deep.

Ruthless.

His cries were sharper this time. His body clung to me like it knew. I held him by the throat, not tight, just enough to feel his pulse fluttering like wings.

"Say it,"

I growled, my hips snapping into him.

"Tell me who you belong to."

"Y-You,"

He gasped,

"Dempsey, it's you- please-"

I came inside him, shuddering, holding him down as he sobbed. But it wasn't pain.

When I pulled out, it dripped down his thighs. He watched it like he was hypnotized.

"I’ll do it again, until you forget anyone else ever touched you."

He didn't answer, just buried his face in my chest.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. We lost count. He barely spoke of the outside world anymore. Didn't ask about leaving.

Because he didn't need it.

One night, I found him kneeling beside the bed, shirtless, eyes soft.

"I dreamed of you,"

He whispered to me, his words soft, as if praying.

I knelt with him, taking his hands.

"I'm real now. You don't have to dream anymore."

He nodded.

"I'm yours."

I smiled, kissing his palms.

And in that moment, I knew, he wasn't broken.

He was mine.

#wiltedveins #smut #angst #curse you toxic doomed yaoi #dempsy x eddie #cod zombies #cod #edward richtofen #cod richtofen #dr richtofen #tank dempsey #possesion #stalking #cnc #au #cod zombies au #cod au #toxic love

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nightbornevirus · 3 months ago

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𝐒𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐧 𝐈 𝐀𝐦 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭

Priest Sebastian Michaelis x male reader (Black Butler) smut

2,180 words

Contents: Religious blasphemy, dominance/submission, degradation, priest kink, spit, control, manipulation, contract formed, anal (sub receiving), nipple play, body worship, sex on the altar, slight dacryphilia

Note: I just adore when demons play the priest role. "Oh this? Your little 'holy items'? They don't harm me. Silly little humans." As if mocking humanity for their thought that they could even control demons with metal and fancy houses and words. I specifically got this scene in mind from episode 6, titled "Like Angels Put in Hell by God" from Interview with a Vampire (2022 AMC series)

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁

Candles flickered low, casting long shadows in the quiet church. The scent of incense lingered like memory, clinging to the heavy air.

Father Sebastian stood near the altar in his black cassock. He was always there, smiling faintly, as if he'd known the man would come. His eyes gleamed in the dim candlelight.

"Welcome, my child,"

He said, voice velvet-smooth, soothing yet daunting.

"Speak. Your soul is listening."

The door creaked open with the groan of old wood, and the younger man stumbled in, wet from the storm. Rain lashed the windows like demons scratching to be let in, thunder rumbling like a warning. He clutched his cross tightly, its wood beads swinging with each trembling step toward the pews.

"Father.. I have committed a sin so wretched.."

Eyes eyes refused to meet the priests. Instead, they sought sanctuary in the flickering candlelight, the soaked floor, anything but him. He felt unworthy of that gaze.

A flicker of amusement touched Sebastian's lips, his head tilted in curiosity, in hunger.

"Such distress. Tell me what burdens your heart."

Sebastian murmured, stepping closer,

"I.. I laid with another man. And more than that-- I enjoyed it."

The words spilled out, ragged and ashamed. His knuckles whitened around the rosary, fingers shaking.

"I drink to forget, then crawl into the arms of men like some whore. I'm.. I'm sick, Father."

Tears welled, spilling freely, dribbling down from his pretty face. His face contorted in emotional pain.

Sebastian watched in silence. His smile slowly widened, showing teeth just a touch too perfect, too sharp.

Such a pretty little crier.

"Your temptations,"

He began, stepping down from the altar with the elegance of a shadow,

"Have only made you more.. honest."

He stopped just in front of the sopping man, eyeing him, sparking up his sins, tasting his stress.

"But why suffer alone when the pleasure was divine?"

The man's eyes shot up, blinking through the tears.

"Wh- what do you mean?"

The priest circled him, slow and graceful, the scent of incense clinging to his robes. His breath ghosted across the back of the man's neck when he reached,

"Would you do it again?"

Hands settled on shoulders, causing him to flinch and clutch the cross tighter.

"I'm not sure I want to know the answer.."

Sebastian's fingers slid to his wrists, gently but firmly pulling them from the cross.

"Let go of that symbol of false hope, I can show you true salvation."

His touch left a trail of burn in its wake, and the rosary slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Through a whisper, he managed,

"False hope?"

Sebastian cupped his face, his thumb stroking the wet cheek. His eyes held unfathomable knowledge, and something darker beneath it. Something ancient and knowing.

"The Church taught you shame. I offer you truth."

His thumb brushed the quivering lower lip, drawing in a shudder.

"Isn't lying with a man a sin?"

"Only when it's poisoned by fear and self-hatred. But when embraced as art-- as beauty..."

Sebastian mused, his lips inches from the others.

The candles flared as his energy crackled.

"It becomes divine."

"Father, that's not what I was taught. Loving another man.. it's a direct insult to God. A curse."

"No,"

Sebastian hissed, his eyes glowing faintly red in annoyance to his persistence.

"The God you were taught is a mirror for their ignorance. He made you. He gave you hunger. And He revels when you indulge in it."

Sebastian leaned in as his features softened,

"He.. enjoys our desire?"

A sharp laugh caught the man off guard, and the priest tilted the villagers head back with one hand to grasp the beauty of his innocent humanity,

"Every gasp, every cry, is a hymn in His name."

His fingers traced his throat, feeling the pulse of doubt slowly fading, causing his sharp smirk to widen.

"But what about everyone else? What they believe? What they'd do if they saw this.."

"They are blind, you are beginning to see."

Sebastian breathed out as he watched every breath exhale from his little sinner, his hands slid under his shirt, finding the warmth of the skin.

Though, he gasped, nipples peaked under the cold touch.

"I.. I believe so, Father."

"Then confess to me, my sinner, tell me what you truly desire."

His thumb and forefinger rolled the nipple, nails brushing. The coldness was new to the typical human warmth he had felt with many men. But his arch was harder, as if pleasure was bordering more than his humanity had ever shown him.

"F-for a man to want me. To touch me. For freedom from this closeted life."

Sebastian's control frayed. He spun the man around, seized his lips in a kiss so feral it bruised. He moaned against his mouth, clutching his cassock, drunk on the heat of the Father.

"Such a desperate thing,"

He whispered against his lips, as if his own desperation wasn't a panel of control.

He lifted him with ease, placing his new sinner upon the altar.

"And you thought your God would punish you for this?"

Legs spread instinctively, body pressed between them.

"I was taught He would. That I'd burn for it."

Sebastian kissed down his jaw, nipping the side of his neck.

"Then let me show you hell, my child.."

Sebastian's teeth grazed his throat, then bit down, causing a gasp, back arching on the altar as his hands slid beneath his thighs, spreading him wider.

The cassock rustled as he moved, his breath hot and slow against his neck, his collarbone, lower still. He kissed him like he was marking territory, leaving no inch of flesh untouched. Each brush of his mouth sparked like fire through the man, dissolving what little resistance clung to his trembling, holy body.

"You smell like fear,"

He murmured, dragging his tongue along the wet, clothed chest,

"And I adore it."

With agonizing slowness, he unfastened his shirt, revealing his chest to the chill air and his ravenous eyes. His mouth descended immediately, lips wrapping around one nipple, sucking with reverence and hunger.

Fingers began tangling his black hair, noises growing at the stimulation.

"Yes, cry for me."

His teeth scraped the tender flesh before he shifted to the other, lavishing it with the same unholy worship. When he pulled back, both nipples were red and glistening, swollen from his attention.

"You are beautiful like this; desperate and desecrated."

"Please.."

He whispered, not even sure what he was begging for.

Sebastian's hand slid down the mans torso, palm warm. He dipped lower, cupping his erection through his pants, pressing firmly, then squeezing.

"Here, is the temple."

He said, gaze boring into the pretty eyes he was to consume, watching as he bucked into his touch, moaning shamelessly.

"Hard already. You do crave this, don't you?"

"Yes, Father..so badly.."

"Then I'll give you everything,"

Sebastian growled, stripping him of his pants. He dropped to his knees before the altar, like a man in prayer, but the only god here was lust. He kissed along the inner thigh, inhaling deeply as if the scent was a sacrament.

"You're trembling, That's not shame anymore. That's want. Is it not?"

He purred, lips ghosting over sensitive skin.

He could barely breathe. He'd never felt this exposed, this desired--this ruined.

"Watch me,"

He ordered.

And he did-eyes wide, mouth parted-as Sebastian licked a slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip. He choked on a moan, hips jerking.

"Father!"

Sebastian chuckled darkly, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock while the other pinned his thigh. He took him into his mouth fully, bobbing with a rhythm that was almost cruel in its precision. Wet, obscene sounds filled the sacred space. Anyone near could hear the lewd slurp of his mouth, the soft groan in his throat as he feasted on the man like a sin he'd waited centuries to commit.

"God, I-"

"Don't,"

He snapped, pulling off just long enough to glare up.

"You'll call my name when you come."

Then he swallowed the member again, deeper this time, humming around the cock. Hands clutched the edges of the altar like it could anchor him.

He sucked harder, faster, as the climax began building.

“I-I can't- Father Sebastian, I-!”

He didn't stop. Didn't slow. He came with a broken, desperate cry, spilling into the demons mouth, hips jerking helplessly. He took it all, swallowed every drop, eyes closed in rapture.

When he pulled back, he wiped his lips with the back of his gloved hand, eyes glowing again with that unnatural red.

He collapsed back against the altar, chest heaving. But Sebastian wasn’t finished. He stood, unfastening his cassock. He watched as more and more of him was revealed; pale skin, sculpted like marble, a body forged from sin and worship.

When he let the cassock fall, his member stood thick and ready, already leaking like an unholy trunk.

"You confessed your desire. Now you'll repent."

He spoke with a growl, positioning himself between the open legs again.

"Do I need to be-?"

Sebastian spit in his hand, slicked himself with a devil's grace, and pressed the tip against the warm, tight entrance.

"I'll make you ready."

Then, with a single brutal thrust, he pushed inside.

Sebastian didn't give time to think. The altar was cold beneath his back as he shoved into him, heavy candles teetering beside his shoulders, the wax hissing where it spilled.

"Look at you. Spread like an offering. A slut begging for sin."

His soft, priestly voice hardened to a growl, eyes roving the exposed body with savage glee.

The man whimpered, pleasure warring with the rush of heat flooding his core. He grabbed the plush thighs, shoving them wide as his thrusts grew brutal, splitting him open.

"You came here for absolution, but what you really want is to be used. Defiled. Claimed."

His head dipped down to the sweaty chest, his forked tongue licking the musk,

"You taste like guilt, and I'll gorge on it until you're nothing but a wrecked little altar whore."

The man sobbed, ecstasy crashing over in waves. His hands clawed at the stone beneath himself, vision swimming. He didn't stop. He drank the sounds like communion wine, member working deeper, pressing the nerves until he was shaking and begging.

"P-please, please, Father Sebastian-"

"Please what?"

Silence marked the hot, heavy breathing, before a soft whine escaped him. His mind was numb, struck with the pleasure overriding his logical brain.

"Please, Father, show me Gods' work-"

That was all he needed, turning him on all fours as if he were weightless, chest scraping the cold altar as Sebastian's body pressed behind him. It was far too big, seeming to break him apart as he re-entered.

"This'll split you open, and you'll thank me for every inch. Like the good little devotee you are."

He growled, one clawed hand fisting his hair, yanking his head back, continuing his brutal pace.

The man screamed as his body stretched around the demon, back arching. He filled him to the hilt, too deep, too wide, reshaping his insides around him.

"You were made for this, a pretty hole wrapped in guilt. A holy little cum dump."

Each thrust slammed the man under hips into the altar with brutal rhythm. The candles flared with every moan choked out, nails scrabbled at the worship stone for purchase as he drove into the man like he meant to ruin him-- and he did.

"Take it, whore. Take your punishment."

Sebastian hissed, his claws raked down the bare skin, leaving trails of fire that bled pleasure into his veins. His red eyes began to pulse, glowing with each thrust, as if feeding off the surrender of the sinner. He spit on the man's back, grabbed his hips, and fucked harder.

"You think this is hell? No, beloved. This is heaven. Your screams, your tears-- this is worship."

Sebastian was panting, growling like the beast he was. He had the man coming, his fluids painting the stone altar in sin, loud and helpless, his body convulsing. He didn't stop.

He grabbed the man's throat, pulled his back to his chest, still pounding into him from behind, his legs dangling off the altar.

"Say it again. Say who you belong to."

"Y-you, Father Sebastian- Yours- just yours-"

"Say it like the filthy thing you are."

"I'm your fucking slut!"

He roared, fangs dragging over the bare throat.

The church shook. The candles exploded in a halo of fire. His release came with a snarl, flooding insides as he emptied himself into him with brutality.

And still, he held him there, trembling, stretched, full, his body marked and ruined by divinity darker than anything holy.

The grasp softened for a moment, as if watching the sin drip from his body, spit and sweat mixed in like two lovers of the same element.

As he was set back upon the altar, like the greedy little offering he was, a contract had formed from mid-air. Sebastian's eyes glinted in the now dark room.

#wiltedveins #smut #angst #sebastian michaelis #sebastian #Black Butler #black butler sebastian #demon priest #priest sebastian #dacryphilia #demon #priest x sinner #priest kink #pride month #gay #degrading #control

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nightbornevirus · 3 months ago

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i'm sorry i don't know what came inside me. came into me. came over me. sorry.

27K notes · View notes

nightbornevirus · 3 months ago

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𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐧

Remy (Gambit) Lebeau x Logan (Wolverine) Howlett (romance, angst, smut)

1,010 words

Description: Two hurt men fill their void (and each other)

Contents: Slight angst, sex (somewhat gentle), praise, older man x middled aged(?) man, slight aftercare, possible relationship after story

Note: Happy pride month! It is almost 7 A.M., and I have not slept. So I apologize if this is babbled nonsense.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔

They sat across the bar from one another, not quite staring, but not quite ignoring, either. Glances flickered like dying matches. Remy's gaze lingered a little longer each time the older man brought the rim of the glass to his lips, tongue barely grazing the edge in a slow, almost absent motion.

Was it subconscious, or was it deliberate?

Like bait hung just low enough to tempt?

Remy didn't trust it. Didn't trust him. A man like that-broad shoulders, worn flannel, calloused hands gripping glass like it owed him something-- he screamed straight. The kind that only noticed you when drunk enough to forget who he was. Remy had danced with that kind before.

Crude. Forceful. Tempting.

The man's gaze veered to a woman across the room. Soft features, a delicate laugh. Remy caught the hunger in his eyes, and something in his chest twisted. So he looked away, tried not to sulk, to want.

But his want was a stupid thing, stubborn and slick.

He stood anyway, like the fool that he was, letting long legs carry him across the bar's cracked tiles like he had nothing to lose.

After tonight with Rogue, he really had nothing to lose. Not his dignity, not his love.

The man was dressed ruggedly, like he'd stepped out of a decade he didn't want to name. Flannel half-open over a white shirt, jeans that had seen too many winters, boots made for stomping-- not dancing. He had a kind of quiet that screamed louder than noise, a silence built from grief and long roads. His face was lined, his eyes half-lidded and heavy, like they'd seen too much and stopped trying to blink it away.

Remy leaned against the bar beside him, his smile lazy.

"Long night, non?"

His voice purred like honey laced with sin.

Logan didn't look. Didn't smirk. Just grunted around the cigar clenched between his teeth and exhaled slow, like he was trying to smoke the question away and whisp Remy from his presence.

"Haven't seen ya here before,"

Remy tried again, voice smooth but a little softer now, lacking the prior purr.

"You a newcomer?"

"Day-drinker,"

Came the reply, sharp as a broken bottle. Gravel-thick voice, laced with smoke and indifference.

Remy let out a slow exhale, nodding.

" 'Spose dat makes sense, mon ami."

The bartender had felt their tension, sliding another drink between them. Remy's fingers brushed against Logan's glass.

"Logan."

His name was as rough as he was.

"Logan Howlett."

Remy smiled, tipping his imaginary hat as he turned, thigh brushing against Logan's leg as he shifted his seat.

"Remy LeBeau,"

His voice was nothing less than a flirt, a soft coo to coax Logan into softening,

"But you can call me de Gambit."

A beat. His smirk widened, curling slow like the smoke pouring from those pretty lips.

"Or whatever you like t'night."

That earned a low scoff. Half laugh, half defense mechanism. But Logan didn't move away.

That was a win.

Their conversation stretched long, carried by adolescent jokes and glances that lingered just a second too long. Logan couldn't help the way Remy made him laugh. He hated that it felt easy, that it felt good.

What was he doing? Sleeping with another man? With him?

Remy was charming, sure. Gorgeous. But Logan wasn't over her. Not even close.

But Remy was present. Real. With lips like velvet and eyes that saw through shit like glass. He moved like temptation and spoke like sin.

And Logan was tired of pretending.

Their bodies crashed together in the hallway of Logan’s rundown apartment. Kisses messy, hot. Breath tangled with curses and low growls. Logan's hand curled around Remy's hip, tugging him inside like he owned him.

"Fuck.."

Logan hissed, mouth bruising against Remy's lower lip.

"Yer good at this, kid."

Remy chuckled breathlessly.

"Gotta be, cher. Especially when I'm always bendin' down t'meet ya."

Logan growled, eyes dark with need. His hands were firm as they guided Remy to the couch, pushing him down like he needed him grounded.

Remy looked up at him, all soft lips and wild hair. Like a memory.

Logan froze for just a second, ghost-pale in the eyes.

Remy reached up, his fingers curling under his chin, pulling him back to now. He kissed him gently.

"Don't drift, cher. I'm right here. I'm yours tonight."

It wasn't a tone of flirt, but more a soothing one. Remy also held the pained gaze of need. Of loneliness.

Their clothes disappeared between kisses and murmurs, flesh meeting flesh. Logan pushed into him with a rough need, lips crushed against a shoulder, teeth grazing skin. Remy gasped, hands clawing for anything to hold. Logan's grip tightened on his hips, pulling him up, angling deeper.

"Takin' me so well, kid.."

He groaned, voice cracking at the edges.

"Feels so fuckin' good."

Remy arched, moaning sharp, his body trembling with each thrust. Logan's pace was desperate, not just lustful. As if haunted. Like he could fuck the past out of himself, bury it inside Remy. Gone in these gummy-like walls, warm and coaxing.

Like everything else about Remy.

Remy came first, crying out prettily, body curling as he spurted between them. His breath hitched, lips parted in bliss. Logan couldn't hold back anymore. His thrusts grew frantic, heart thudding loud in his ears.

"Gonna..gonna cum so deep in you-"

He spilled inside with a broken groan, collapsing forward, arms failing. But Remy caught him. Held him like he mattered. One hand stroked Logan's spine, the other smoothing his damp hair.

For a long moment, they just breathed.

Logan's guilt crawled back in, slow and sour. He found himself relaxed, despite the guilt that ate around his mind, tearing his skin apart and nestling in the bones.

Remy's voice broke the quiet, low and tender.

"Might I stay here for de night, cher?"

It startled Logan. Not the question, but the softness.

His eyes burned, but he nodded.

"Please,"

He rasped, despite attempting to keep his mask on for a little longer,

"I need it."

#wiltedveins #angst #smut #romance #wombit #gambit x wolverine #old men need love #gay men #happy pride month #queers #sad old men #i've had no sleep #artists on tumblr #curse you toxic doomed yaoi #x men 97 #x-men #xmen

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nightbornevirus · 3 months ago

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𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐬 (𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 1: Uncanny Appetite

632 words

Description: Gruesome horror stories to make my fill.

Contents (current chapter): Angst, murder, blood, body horror, mentioned cannibalism, murderer, turn of events

Note: I apologize for not uploading, I have had no wifi. So, here is the beginning of another psychological retreat in writing.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔

His feet thudded down the hall as the quiet killer lunged. The halls were dark-- it was late. He didn't scream or cry. Just stayed silent, his mind racing.

He ducked behind a door, baseball bat in hand. He might've been an old man, but he was a pesk to catch.

"Come on, just make my night easier, old man. Come out, and I'll end it quick."

The voice was muffled by a mask. Cheap plastic, probably. Another young adult playing dress-up, thinking it's funny to chase people. The masked killer turned at a sound- a slight shift behind him. Then everything went black, a sharp pain blooming at the back of his skull.

The room was cold and stale. Time had steeped in its corners like mold. A fly buzzed beneath a flickering light.

The killer woke up bound to a wooden chair, rope digging into his wrists, cutting circulation, chafing muscle. Pain throbbed in waves.

A figure emerged from the dark. Thin. Maybe 5'8". Not intimidating.

"Where the hell am I?" His voice snapped sharp, commanding.

"Watch your language," the figure replied softly. A coo more than a command. An elderly man.

"Watch my fucking language? Where. The. FUCK. Am I?!"

The man stepped closer, adjusting his glasses with a warm smile. "My basement. Are you cold?"

"No, I'm not fucking cold-!"

A hum cut him off. An old melody, lullaby-sweet. Timeless, trancing.

"My name is James. But the kids call me Pop-pop."

Metal scraped gently. The sound of something being lifted.

The killer froze.

"What's your name?" James asked, soft like fur, sweet like candy.

A scalpel pressed to the mask.

Felix flinched, yanking his head away. "I'm not fucking telling you! Freak!"

James tsked, the light glinting off his glasses. "Wrong answer."

He peeled away the mask, revealing a sharp-jawed, brown-eyed young man-- striking, in his own way.

"Such a pretty little thing," James cooed, "Do you mind if I touch?"

Felix-the original killer-squirmed in the ropes. James let out a small pleased sound, dragging the scalpel down his shirt, slicing it open to bare the chest.

But there was no lust in James' gaze. He didn't look as if he planned to assault the younger man sexually. It wasn't a gaze that spoke human.

No. He saw him as meat.

Only hunger laid in his eyes.

Not the human kind.

The scalpel pressed into skin.

"I'll ask one more time. What's your name?"

Felix gasped, adrenaline spiking. Pain lit up his nerves. Eyes dilating and a sharp cry escaping, his mouth fumbled to spew his name out. A plethora of sounds, sharp inhales, and tears forming only further amused James.

"Felix! Fuck- fucking whore!"

The blade sank deeper, parting flesh, revealing muscle and ribs. James leaned forward, tongue gliding through the blood.

"Mh. Tangy. You’ll do fine in a dish."

Felix's mind blanked. Thought was gone. Only pain and panic. His head lolled. Vision blurred. James stood calmly, flipping through a book, its pages stained.

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you when I get outta this.." Felix slurred, spitting blood and causing James to chuckle. "Such a sinner, you are. Wishing ill will on another. Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Felix laughed; a loud, cracked, humorless thing. But his defiance died when James cupped his face.

Felix lunged, biting down hard and drawing blood.

James hissed-- but didn’t cry out. Instead, he drove the scalpel into Felix's jaw.

Blood surged. Speech turned to gurgles.

Felix convulsed, vision swam. Life drained.

James whispered, "Shh... it'll all be okay soon, lovely. Just a little more.."

Felix's last look was one of terror, locked on James. Those pretty brown eyes went glassy. Gone.

James sighed, pulling back with a huff.

"Ruined my favorite sweater... Pity. What a drag."

He stood, flexing his bloodied hand.

"At least I’ll know what to feed the grandkids tonight."

#wiltedveins #angst #gore #horror #body horror #og story #original story #artists #chapter 1

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nightbornevirus · 3 months ago

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“You’re romanticizing it!”

No, actually, I’m sexualizing it. Thanks.

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nightbornevirus · 3 months ago

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𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 2: The Beginning (𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 1)

Check tags for story tags

1,166 words

Description: A man wakes in a decaying asylum with no memory, surrounded by uncanny caretakers and sweet voices hiding sharp teeth. As he uncovers unsettling truths about his past and those around him, he must decide who to trust-- if anyone at all.

Prompt: Character wakes up in an asylum they don't recognize, with no memories of [time frame] (Thank you to yourwriterreads on Instagram)

Contents (current chapter): Angst, doctors, time/memory loss, memory loss, medication mentioned, slight body horror (vivid description), lack of comfort, described scent in detail, death mentioned, manipulation, confusion

Note: I cannot do chapter names, bare with me.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔

The week was slow, filled with old ladies, twitching teens, bland food, and bright white walls.

He managed to learn a few names, but never why he was here. Reality felt like a warp, spiraling so much he began losing feathers. He woke up to doctors poking and prodding, feeding him medicine that tasted like artificial sweetener. His mind was always blank during these visits.

"How do you feel?" Or "are your meds working?" "Does this hurt?"

They spoke in unison like a puzzle connected with glue. Their red eyes never blinked, shoulders never slouched--

It was as if they weren't weren't real.

What was real in this world? Everybody moved like mechanical beings; precise and uncanny.

Except for one.

Sterling.

Sterling Sterling Sterling.

He was a mystery in itself.

Though he held quirks that were surely "not normal" in the real world-if that even existed in this liminal space of lies-he was deemed the most normal to Velys.

Unlike the others, his glasses slipped down his arched nose, he fumbled papers, made mistakes.

And moreover, he laughed at Velys's jokes.

"Mr. Rippen?" A voice called.

His voice.

"Come in."

Subtly, he covered the writing he was doing with artwork from the morning prior.

"Ah, up and vell, I see? Did you eat already?"

His finger pushed his round glasses back up his nose as he began writing down notes.

The brief scent of lavender filled Velys's nostrils, forcing his mind into ease as the warmth-or rather lack of it-drew closer.

Sterling always brought that scent. Whether it came from his coat or his skin, Velys wasn't sure. But he had started to associate it with safety.

Sterling perched on the edge of the old wooden chair in the corner of the room, crossing one leg over the other. His clipboard rested against his thigh, pen tapping absentmindedly.

"You drew again,"

He observed, tilting his head toward the page Velys had half-hidden.

"May I see it?"

Velys hesitated. His feathers twitched slightly, and he considered refusing-- but Sterling's tone wasn't commanding. Just curious. Like someone who actually cared.

He handed it over.

Sterling studied the sketch in silence. A figure with too many teeth and a shawl drawn over hunched shoulders loomed in black graphite. Anne. But her eyes were kind. Despite the horror, the depiction held warmth.

"You like her,"

Sterling said simply.

Velys didn’t answer at first.

"She's..strange. But not unkind."

Sterling nodded, handing it back.

"Most people here are strange. It’s a prerequisite, I zink."

A pause passed between them like a fragile bubble, not yet ready to pop.

"Do you ever think about what came before?"

Velys asked, voice softer than he meant it to be.

Sterling looked up. His glasses glinted slightly in the light.

"Before?"

"Before all this. The cold rooms. The pills. The..broken people."

Sterling tilted his head, as if carefully deciding how much truth to spill.

"Sometimes. But remembering hurts more than forgetting."

Velys frowned at that. His face wings parted enough for a more visible view of the doctor.

"Is that what they want? For us to forget?"

"I can't speak for zem,"

Sterling replied, glancing down at his notes again.

"But I can speak for myself."

"And?"

"I prefer you remember me, at least."

Velys blinked. That answer stuck in his mind longer than he liked.

Later that day, Anne returned.

She always knocked with her knuckles, three short raps. As if afraid she might fall apart if she knocked any harder.

"Hello, my dear chickadee,"

She chimed, her voice syrupy and old like forgotten candy.

"Time for your brushing."

"I can do it myself,"

Velys mumbled, his face leaned against his closed fist.

"Oh, I’m sure you can, but the doctor said it helps. Routine and all. Comfort."

She moved with uncanny precision, her spindly fingers gently fluffing through his feathers, untangling them with eerie patience. Her malformed mouth never quite closed, yet her humming was soft and maternal.

"Sterling said I was drawing again today,"

Velys said after a while.

"Of course you are. You’re very clever."

Anne cooed.

"I drew you."

"Oh? And how did I look?"

She asked softly, eyes facing two slightly different directions, but fingers never stopping.

"Kind. But wrong."

Anne's hands paused in his feathers.

"Sometimes that’s the best we can be. Kind, even if wrong."

She murmured, continuing her touch.

The air around them stilled.

"You don’t belong here,"

She whispered so faintly he almost didn’t catch it.

"You never did. They made you forget."

Velys’s heart stuttered.

"What do you mean?"

She touched his forehead, her long nail brushing the space between his eyes.

"I'm sorry, love. I can't say more. They're listening. They always listen."

Her large mouth seemed to part, as if she wanted to say more. Her form retreated, her cross-eyes holding too much emotion.

She was carrying a burden alone.

That night, he couldn't sleep.

He laid in bed, staring at the peeling ceiling tiles. The hum of fluorescent lighting never stopped. It echoed like the static in his mind.

He thought of Anne's words. Of Sterling's evasiveness.

He thought of the pills. Of how hungry he always was. Of how little he remembered.

He thought of himself. Or at least, what was left of him.

The next morning, the world was off.

Anne didn’t arrive at her usual time.

The other nurses were silent, buzzing like gnats through the hall. No one met his eyes.

"Where's Anne?"

He'd asked a passing attendant.

They didn't respond.

Only Sterling came, later, expression unreadable.

He sat in the chair by the bed and sighed.

"I have some unfortunate news."

Velys's feathers bristled.

He didn't like his tone, nor the lack of warmth in those dead eyes of Sterling's.

"Anne passed away last night."

Silence struck like a bell. She what?

"What?"

"She vas found in the lower levels. Near ze containment ving."

"Containment?"

Sterling nodded slowly. He seemed almost too empathetic. Sympathetic?

"Zey believe she vas trying to reach you."

"Why?"

Sterling stared at him. Those tired eyes, soft but endless. Velys did not like this. Not the tone, not the way this was going. Surely she was not dead.

"I'm sorry."

Velys could hardly breathe.

His stomach curled in on itself. Anne. Sweet Anne. Gone?

He didn't know why the tears came. He didn't remember enough to mourn someone properly. But the grief was real.

Sterling stood, his voice lower than usual.

"Zey say she vas trying to harm you. Zat she tampered vith your meds. Zat she vasn't what she seemed."

Sterling pressed his hand to his own skin, staring at the notepad in his hand.

"That's not true."

Sterling paused, his gaze drifting up to the feathered man.

"How do you know?"

"I just do,"

Velys whispered, and Sterling turned then, his hand resting briefly on Velys’s shoulder.

"Sometimes, memory lies. Especially here."

He gave Velys one last look.

Then,

"Ve'll begin new treatment soon. I’ll be vith you the whole way."

@azazelsyn

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nightbornevirus · 4 months ago

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𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 UPDATED !!

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: Is It Me?

Check tags for story tags

1,168 words

Prompt: Character wakes up in an asylum they don't recognize, with no memories of [time frame] (Thank you to yourwriterreads on Instagram)

Contents (current chapter): Angst, doctors, time/memory loss, memory loss, medication mentioned, slight body horror (vivid description), lack of comfort, described scent in detail

Note: This is an OC story, no fandom, just pure, raw story. And yes, that is him in Royale High. Yes, in my big, male age am I playing Royale High and using it for my stories.

Anyways, please enjoy.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔

Cold. That was the first sensation he felt, as if his frame was encased in a tomb of ice.

The sharp scent of antiseptic cleaners, bodily fluids, and a lingering, slightly unpleasant, odor from something, possibly a human.

He could only describe the scent as a "bitter" or "chemical" scent, with undertones of urine, fecal matter, and that peculiar odor.

What was this place? These white walls that surrounded him appeared too bright. There was no dim in the light to comfort this cold embrace. No warmth, only what felt to be a thin blanket covered his feathers and legs. Even that suffered from lack of comfort.

The warmth mainly seemed to be coming from his own body heat, covering his arms and chest.

What was the time? What was the day? The location? He had no real memory of what last happened, only the vague memories that would flit by like some image in a projector, a constant rate of sounds and what could possibly be not even his own.

"Breakfast!"

A voice called.

Who was this?

He had no memory of said person, just a blanked-out page where he once used to be, crowded into somebody else's body.

Yet somehow, it was close to being similar.

"Oh dear,"

She began, her voice dripping in sickly sweet honey,

"You poor thing. You look so disoriented."

A woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties appeared in the frame. Her sharp, heart-shaped face held a smile that caused tension to coil in his spine, and his feathers to ruffle.

Or maybe he was just cold.

No, no. It wasn't the cold.

"I bring you green tea and biscuits on this superb morning."

She seemed to pause, watching the feathered man and how his eyes bore into her, taking in her every detail.

Her face was split, a gorging mass of a void where one might call a mouth, tongue hardly kept in. Teeth were spewn in multiple directions, each a different size. Her face was a gentle heart-shape, despite the horror. And her eyes, they did not seem to look in the same direction. How did she even manage to get here safely?

Even with her torn nurse outfit, she looked generally fine. Scrawny, spooky, even, but she looked collected. Her shoulders did not slouch, and her pale, worn-down shawl drew some comfort to her frightening appearance.

Overall, besides her mass of a mouth, she was a gentle looking lady.

"And your medication, dearie."

"Medication??"

There was a moment of panic. Why did this panic him? Why did he feel alarmed at medicine, of all things?

His feathered arms crossed over his stomach, gripping his sides as nausea overworked his empty systems.

It was only then he began to realize how truly starved he felt.

"Oh my,"

Her voice, like a coo, whispered to his aching form in a way that appeared to cloud his mind.

"Please do not fret. These are merely anxiety medication. It seems we should up the dosage..."

The cart rolled over, the slight squeak signaling to how truly old this place was.

The wallpaper looked as though it would begin peeling with any more time, the discoloration causing him discomfort.

The elderly woman stopped in front of him, setting down a metal tray that clinked as it hit the small wooden table she had propped up in front of his form.

"Where am I? Who are you?"

The question caused a look of sympathy to cross her features. The back of her hand touched his face wings, feeling the soft feathers against her old hand.

Her nails were long, fingers scrawny. Her frame was short, but she was far from cute.

But really, did he have room to judge? He himself didn't even look human.

"You poor thing. Your feathers are all twisted. I'll have Sterling come in and assist you after breakfast."

Silence. How many ticks? How many moments? He took his pills, ate his food, as instructed prior.

The food wasn't horrible. A little bland, but stomach able.

To comfort himself, his face wings continued to cover his face, only allowing for a very obstructed view. He did not remember his features enough to be self-conscious, but it allowed for him to not feel as vulnerable in this open facility of unknown beings.

Who was this Sterling, and why did he need help grooming himself? He was sure he could do basic tasks as such. So why?

The knock startled Velys from his thoughts as a young man peered in.

His skin was like that of porcelain; pale grey, smooth, and almost reflective. His black hair, with creme blonde on the side was slicked back, round glasses framing his face, and perched onto an arched nose.

His face looked exhausted, and his eyes seemed watching. All-knowing.

His outfit consisted of a lab coat, heavily oversized to his lean frame, maybe standing at about 5'7", and a black and red suit beneath it. It did not look conventional to typical hospital staff--

But who was he to judge, again, when he was the one who was admitted here? He could hardly remember what clothes anyone wore on an average day.

"Hallo,"

The voice was soft, almost uncertain,

"My name iz Sterling. You are Vel.."

He began, but his pronunciation was off. He had some kind foreign accent.

"Ah..do forgive me, Mr. Rippen. It iz Velys? Correct?"

Hands fumbled with paperwork, adjusting his glasses. Sterling.

Sterling Sterling Sterling.

The name could really roll off of his tongue.

"I believe so, yes. Can you tell me why I'm here? How I even got here?"

There was a pause in his movements. His eyes' waterline was droopy, causing for his appearance to appear so much more in a state of anguish. As if he also did not wish to be there.

Did anybody look normal here?

"Did you take your medication? Anne had said you panicked."

Those eyes were familiar. He wasn't sure how, but familiar. As though he knew them in another life, or had another encounter, another time to gaze into their dark pupils.

He didn't know what was normal here anymore. Not his name, not himself. He forgot what he even looked like, at this rate.

Sterling's smile seemed genuine. The only real thing he managed to grasp from this odd reality.

"Yeah. After I ate."

"Very good, Mr. Rippen. Vas the food complimentary?"

Despite his desire to crack back, to be snappy, he just couldn't stomach being crude to the only potential friend he had in this place.

"Yeah. Could use salt, though."

Sterling laughed at the remark, jotting down what Velys said.

His smile remained, even after his short burst of laughter.

"You're a funny man."

Though his face deemed his sentence genuine, his tone was flat.

"In twenty minutes, you vill be required to shower. You vill be provided vith shampoo, body wash, conditioner, und a rag."

He felt scrutinized, objectified, almost over such a small thing. Each thing so far, he had was controlled by somebody else. His food, his medication, even his washing items were given in controlled amounts.

@azazelsyn

Let me know if you'd like to be put on a taglist in the comments.

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nightbornevirus · 4 months ago

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so, babyyy, in honor of my birthday on monday.. could i pretty please have a vincent and rody one shot. except it's a hannibal au, with angst and smut pretty please! make it however you want and surprise me with the rest!

[ex asked this before cheating on me with an adult and lying about me to her friends xx] You task me with such a difficult thing, my dear..but yes, I shall obey. I will do the best I can with the timeframe I have. Love you lots, happy early birthday (or technically on time, since this will be posted on the 5th) my darling <3

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞?

Vincent x Rody (Dead Plate) (angst (realization), smut)

2,966 words

Contents: Love (a little forced, whatever Vincent is capable of), cannibalism (both mentioned and done unknowingly), riding, choking, anal (dom receiving), degrading, biting, slight angst, manipulation

Note: In this, they remain boss and waiter, with their side jobs being detective and therapist. So Rody is a side detective, and Vince a side therapist. I adore these two. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔 ݁ ˖.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚..𖥔

It was late, once again. How many times had they played this game? Vincent would call Rody over, softly demanding he play waiter during his off hours, and never pay him, nor give a raise. Quite pathetic, wasn't it? It's not like Rody had any other friends.

Was Vincent a friend?

Hardly. Rody was almost certain if it wasn't for his slight increase on his work ethics these past few months, and the need for employees, he would have been fired from the La Gueule de Saturne on day one.

What an odd name.

Rody had saved up enough to buy an outfit more fitting for the night. Since his last few times being the personal butler, people had commented on his lack of style.

Not that he'd admit it, but maybe he also wanted to impress Vincent.

He felt self-conscious about the way Vincent's 'friends' looked at him in his dirty, beat down clothes. Plus, maybe a new outfit would be a personal treat for himself.

Rody parked his bike outside Vincent's apartment, tying it together and making his way inside. He knew the way there a little too well-- it was a little alarming to himself.

His hands trembled a little, his feet sounding heavy as he approached the door, only to deliver three knocks. No matter what, his anxiety and bashful nature caused something to go wrong.

The door opened, the volatile expression not easing anything.

"You're late."

"You said four minutes-"

"That was six."

Rody muttered an apology, despite not feeling he truly needed to. What he didn't miss, was the eyes drilling into his skin, peeling him apart, disconnecting the seams in which messily held his body together. Vincent's gaze always felt coarse and rough, never easy, always demanding something, always scrutinizing what he did.

Why couldn't his personality be like a lemon? Maybe then Vincent would like him.

"The food is in the kitchen. I'd recommend taking two plates this time. Saves everyone's time."

Why must Rody take everything that's blunt-forced shoved at him? Take whatever hell must deliver with a smile, as if he's always alright? Girlfriend left, probably found someone better, boss cruel, only real friend. His parents and old friends saw him as a nobody who couldn't take anything. He couldn't handle school, couldn't handle a relationship.

What was he good for, then?

"Hurry up, they're here."

A voice called out, swiping Rody from his derogatory thoughts.

His movements were quick, grabbing a plate of Jalapeño Popper and steamed dumplings.

His stomach growled, hunger etching at his bones.

But he continued. asking politely what the guests wanted.

This dinner party was lame. Nobody really talked, Vincent just stared, as if babysitting grown adults, they all had something either snarky or idiotic to say. Was this a people gazing party??

When they party had ended, he found himself rather exhausted. Today was rush hour, and the after-work party-in which he didn't get to indulge-was mentally and physically draining. His world seemed clouded by a dark, foggy abyss, emotions swindling.

When was Manon going to call back?

As he left the kitchen, heading towards the door, Vincent's voice called, almost clearing his mind fog.

"Rody."

His posture adjusted from his slouched strut, eyes widening from their tired gaze, turning to meet the pale man's eyes.

"Huh?"

"Why don't you stay for a while. I made you food."

Rody stared at Vincent, as if deciphering why on Earth this man wanted him to stay.

Not that he was complaining, but Vincent wasn't the type to ask for his company.

"You made me food? Why?"

Vincent looked as though he was beginning to regret his decision, his eyes darkening once more.

"I-I meant- yes, I'll stay."

Vincent offered half of a smile-- still more than Rody had ever seen. It was almost balming in the way he smiled. His features softened, his skin pulling like a string, exposing his cheek bones and eyebrows. My, was Vincent always this attractive?

Rody followed Vincent, his broad frame feeling more like a dogs than a mans. But the smell of food continued to hunger Rody. He was really in no place to deny food. While Vincent may not have made his food with love, the taste was beyond impeccable.

"I have made you beef braciole. This cow was quite the scrawny cow. Though I'm sure you'll enjoy."

Vincent was always so sure his food would be good. It was a little admirable the way he carried himself, as if he was a god.

Rody sat down at the table, and muttered a thank you as the food was placed in front of him, Vincent following, almost mirroring his actions, sitting down as well.

As he began eating, he tasted something different than the rest. Internally, Rody wanted to joke that this was the first real dish 'made with love' by Vincent. Such adolescent thoughts.

"What is different about this? Your food usually tastes different."

Rody had noticed the watchful gaze while eating. He felt himself being pulled apart again. Like a bug under a microscope, always seeing Vincent's eyes in mirrors or windows, never escaping the gaze of this devilish man.

"I had..tried a new technique. Is it not good?"

Rody had choked on his food, the sound of laced desperation sounding pitifully painful to him. Why did Vincent have to be so gentle at the worst times? So charming, so..so enchanting? It was as if each word spoken on a wavelength that only Rody could understand, manipulating the way he felt, no matter what he wanted to feel.

"No, no no no! It's-"

What were the words? Good? That sounded plain. Excellent? Too professional.

"I can always bring you a different dish."

He spoke in a tone that sounded far less than his usual cold self. Something a little too soft, causing Rody's mind to short circuit. Why?

"No, please. It's really good. I just can't find the words to explain it."

He began stuffing more food into his mouth, showing how delicious it was. Despite the odd after-taste and strangeness of it all, he did truly enjoy the meal.

He looked like a pig when eating, but maybe that's why he liked Rody. A pig, just another fat meal for him to try in hopes of tasting again. Maybe he could season him with lemon zest, see if his taste had a tang. Gave him a feeling.

When Rody finished, Vincent found himself staring, his cold eyes boring into the man's face, watching every chew, every twitch, every smile. Everything.

He knew Rody felt uneasy by it all, but there was something about him.

What was this feeling? This hunger that bypassed physical? The desire to consume, mingling with the desire to keep him close? You don't play with your food, Vincent. Why are you breaking the rules now? Was Rody worth sharing? Was he worth the hunger?

A voice brought Vincent back to reality, his eyes dilating as Rody spoke in a voice that bordered fear, but held confusion, and possibly care.

"Vincent? Is everything okay? You're acting off today."

It wasn't like Rody to bluntly state how he was acting different.

"Mind your business."

The sudden sharp tone had caused him to shrink in his chair, setting the fork aside.

"Right..I'm done eating. I should get home."

As Rody stood, he felt every inch of his body become heavy. His mind always felt so blank after time with Vincent. Whether it was therapy or food, he always felt his mind slip and fade, forced into a state of reliance.

Vincent found himself staring, his gaze unreadable, but lingering. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, and for a moment, Rody swore the tempo matched his heartbeat.

"You eat like you haven't in days,"

Vincent began, almost fondly.

"You haven’t, have you?"

Rody stiffened. Why did Vincent always do that?

"I’ve been busy."

Vincent stood, his chair creaking back. His shadow loomed, long and lean across the floor.

"Busy starving yourself for the approval of strangers?"

The words were soft, but each one sliced into Rody with precision, like a scalpel. He turned his eyes to the floor.

"I’m not..starving myself."

"No?"

Vincent grew closer now. Rody hadn’t even heard him move. A cool hand touched his chin, coaxing his head up. Why must he be so gentle?

"Then why do you look like something someone might eat?"

There it was. The heat behind the stare, the quiet, unspoken hunger. Rody couldn’t look away, caught in that frostbitten gaze. Like a deer in headlights. Or a deer seeing its predator, unable to break from the gaze, too petrified.

Vincent’s lips barely twitched. He was thinking a little too hard for Rody's liking.

"You should shower. I’ll draw it for you. Eat, then wash. It’s how we keep livestock from tasting like fear."

Rody felt his throat close up. His eyes searched Vincent’s for some sign he was joking-- but there was nothing. Just that same elegant vacancy.

"You're not funny, Vince."

"I wasn’t trying to be."

Still, Rody obeyed. He always obeyed.

The bathroom was warm, filled with the scent of bergamot and something metallic-- coppery, almost iron. His clothes fell to the tile floor like a second skin peeling away, leaving him vulnerable, bare in more ways than one.

He had never been bare before like this for someone.

When he stepped out, towel wrapped around his hips, Vincent was there again. Like he belonged there. Like he lived in every dark corner of the apartment and every crevice of Rody’s mind.

Vincent's eyes dragged over him slowly. A little too thoughtful.

"Much better."

Rody flushed under the weight of it.

From embarrassment, or shame?

"Why do you keep me around?"

"Because I’m fond of you."

The only sound was his heartbeat in his ears, his fingers twitching as the water filled the bath.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

Rody’s lips parted. He wanted to argue. Wanted to scream, you terrify me, you make me feel like prey and I don’t even care anymore-- but instead, he whispered,

"Yeah. Kinda."

Vincent stepped closer. There was no mistaking the intent anymore. His fingers brushed Rody’s collarbone, and then down, tracing the damp skin with reverence.

"And yet,"

Vincent murmured, his eyes anywhere but Rody's own,

"you came anyway."

His touch burned. Not cruel. Not hurried. Curious. Like someone who wanted to see this.

"You don’t know what I am,"

Vincent began, breath ghosting across Rody’s skin, despite their parted bodies.

"You think you do. But you don’t."

Rody’s hands trembled at his sides.

"Then tell me."

Vincent pulled his hand away, stepping back. His posture remained intimidating, and he stared at Rody, as if judging him for his sins.

"Get in the water. You smell."

It was alarming how quick he changed, his demeanor almost lustrous; but maybe that was just hope. Maybe Rody needed a change in his pace.

As Vincent descended into his depths, the shadows consuming his lean figure, Rody stepped into the warmth. It was the best feeling he had felt in a while.

He had dozed off momentarily, not hearing any approaching steps. This felt better than sleeping on his couch.

The sound of a cloth dropping on the tiled floor had awoken Rody from his momentary slumber, head snapping to see Vincent.

His pale form almost shined a corona of light, the bright overhead light seeming to pool around, casted by the darkness of Vincent's shadow.

Rody's lips had parted to speak, but only a strangled noise escaped, a mixture of confusion and adrenaline filling him.

Vincent stepped into the water with Rody, not uttering a word, his legs settling beside Rody's.

"Vince- The hell are- What is this?"

He began sputtering. He was a virgin, no doubt, never pulling much for anything. So having somebody so willingly come to him was a little daunting.

Especially Vincent.

"You talk too much, Rody. Maybe learn to stop for a while."

Rody's mouth had shut into a thin line. The feeling of Vincent's cold fingers against his pulse point had caused Rody's head to feel light.

"Is that really all it takes to get you worked up? Pathetic."

The pressure of a knee against his half-erect member had caused shame to spread through his body. He wasn't sure if speaking was allowed in this moment.

When his lips parted to speak again, only a moan of surprise was able to leave him. Vincent had hiked himself onto Rody's lap, his thin figure holding Rody's hips into the water, never daring to allow him to buck or pull away.

"Vincent, please."

He wasn't sure if it was a plead for more, or for Vincent to actually say something. Other than for him to shut up.

"I said to quit talking. Didn't I?"

Before an apology was made due, Rody's painfully erect member was sunken down on, his virgin penis encased with something so warm and foreign.

Rody's hands found hips, while Vincent's found his neck again. He applied pressure, watching with great contentment as Rody began falling apart with such small, feeble attempts of more. The man's hips had bucked with no rhythm, his head tossed back in blissful array with that plaintive expression. It fueled Vincent as he began riding Rody, using him as ground through his fingers against his neck. He pressed his thin fingers against his trachea. Not enough to fully cut off his breath, but enough to cause his brain to short circuit for a moment.

The sight was fufilling.

Rody pulled Vincent down, gaining something more than his shaking and whining state, his hips thrusting up, causing the water to slosh around them.

Before Rody could catch an idea that he was in charge, Vincent leaned forward, his fingers digging into the flesh of his neck, cutting off any air circulation, his own hips slamming down to meet at the base.

Rody was big, even for Vincent.

It was such a shame he was this pitiful.

"Vince-"

He began, before letting out a whine that echoed through the room, suffocated by the closed doors.

"So pretty like this..unable to do much. You always seem so capable,"

His sentence paused, eyes fluttering closed. Why was he so damn big??

"You find the victim's killer,"

His teeth grazed wet skin, tongue darting out to taste the saltiness,

"and you never stop until they're caught."

Teeth sunk into flesh, Rody's chest puffing out against Vincent's mouth.

"Ah- Vincent, oh-"

His noises only encouraged Vincent to move his hips after, to milk Rody for all he was worth. To take what he wanted for once.

"But have you ever caught The Gilded Maw?"

Rody's eyes opened, his breath still lacking. With the force his member was receiving, and the lack of air, it was nearly impossible to understand anything.

What was Vincent referring to?

"No. Of course not. I'm far more capable than that. Far more..careful."

His movements grew harder, as if riding with intent, bordering on painful with how tight Vincent was. Rody's fingers grasped deep, only the sound of moans and water sloshing hiding the sound of their skin connecting together.

"Vincent, please! M' so close, so close-"

"Even in such state, in such a mind-"

Vincent gasped, his own member spewing fluids into the water,

"Even after my confession, you still beg to cum."

Rody gasped for air as his neck was let loose, cum filling Vincent far more than he had ever been filled. Still, he had to degrade him for something.

"That was your biggest load? Shame."

Rody's eyes began fluttering closed, only able to mutter a whine, unable to stay open. He was exhausted, and this drained him.

When he woke, the scent of smoke and Vincent filled his nose.

He sat up, only to wince. The bite on his skin, multiple--

Wait, multiple?

Vincent only bit him once during sex.

His hands wandered to the marks, feeling multiple marks, multiple dents into his tan skin.

His mind began aimlessly wandering.

What was that Vincent said?

"I'm far more capable than that"

"You've slept a while."

Rody's head twisted towards the sound, the tall, lean figure, a shadow, almost, against the window.

Vincent.

Rody swore his shadow looked like a man with antlers potruding from his head.

A beast, almost.

As Vincent began stepping closer, Rody couldn't move. He felt as though he was stuck in place, manipulated by the man.

"How long was I out?"

"Long enough."

"I should go now."

Vincent's face is unrecognizable in the darkness. But a small noise escapes him. A chuckle, maybe? Almost a chuckle, but it sounded tense. A little pained.

He didn't want to be alone anymore.

"No more meals with me?"

Vincent asked, his voice soft and coaxing.

How could he say no to him?

To the man who had given him so much?

"I.."

He couldn't say no. Instead, he fully sat up, his shaking hands finding Vincent's face, pulling him closer.

"I accept your meals."

The smirk he saw seemed uncanny; stretched, far too wide. Maybe it was a catch in the light.

Vincent's breath tasted like ash and sulfur, inhuman and warm.

But Vincent was the one to guide the kiss with such a gentle caress, like warm wind on a spring evening.

Rody tasted the truth too late. Something was off about the meat.

The horror begins nestling in, like a tick so comfortably in the skin of an unknowing animal.

He felt shaken, sickened, but he didn't report Vincent. He couldn't.

He didn't want to be alone again.

Now, at home, he stares at his reflection, still tasting the meal. Feeling the emotions of the person he consumed.

To himself, he whispered,

"What am I becoming?"

@azazelsyn

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