#craig when I CATCH YOU | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ccazimi · 15 days ago

Text

Currit in Sanguine Nostra

pt. 1 - pt. 2

cw: vampirehunter!sukuna x vampire!reader, dubcon, enemies to...enemies with benefits (??), blood obviously (blood drinking, bleeding, blood as lube), violence/fighting/gore/graphic descriptions of injuries, sadism/masochism, forced starvation, captivity, bondage (usage of muzzles/chains), knifeplay, wounding/cutting, degradation, feet stuff (reader humps his foot), humiliation, mild voyeurism wc: 12k a/n: this was so long i decided to just split it into parts :3 also i imagine sukuna to look like this in this fic

songs i listened to while writing this part

snarler - craig wedren, anna waronker

teeth - lady gaga

your addiction - night club

the wretched (remix) - nine inch nails

The first ever encounter with each other — that fight was brutal, messy.

Sloppy.

It was nearly midnight, in a long abandoned warehouse district at the outskirts of the city that Sukuna had tracked you into. Once bustling with activity, now a ghost town of rusting metal and crumbling brick.

The warehouse buildings have collapsed partially, some with entire walls missing, leaving jagged edges and exposed beams of twisted metal. Old rotten crates and broken machinery litter the ground, shards of shattered glass glinting in the faint, cold pools of light — flickering streetlights and and the occasional neon sign of an abandoned convenience store.

The place feels like a fun house in a fair, long warped shadows stretching over the debris.

And under the rain that falls in thick sheets, pouring relentlessly and drowning out the sound, you and Sukuna fight like wild animals.

None of the precision, the careful strategy or finesse one would perhaps expect from the final heirs of two ancient bloodlines—one born to hunt, the other born to feed.

Supposedly this feud started as far back as the Heian Era, possibly even longer. But none of that matters right now.

Right now you are just two inexperienced predators trying to kill each other.

You underestimated him—just another silly human, you thought. Hiding behind metal weapons, barking empty threats.

But you're the vampire. He’s the human - he should be prey.

And yet, Ryomen Sukuna is anything but.

Even in his own inexperience he’s a natural at what he’s supposed to be, making up for the lack of night vision with other senses that have been trained to compensate instead, keen enough that they could rival a vampire’s. He doesn’t need to see too well when he can rely on his hearing, on his quick reflexes, even his nose.

The rain proves to be a disadvantage as well, making the ground too slippery for you to effectively bolt at high speeds.

And soon the ground is splattered red, slick not just with rain.

Your fight was so primal, almost delirious in its intensity, that no words were even shared — just snarling and screaming and grunting and the thrashing of bodies and squelching of torn flesh.

Finally the deciding moment has come, where Sukuna pins you to the ground, thinking he has you. Broken glass cuts into your back, embedding itself into the skin, through the gaps of your already shredded top.

You’re no stranger to pain, though it does enrage you all the more.

So you fight dirty, spitting and digging your clawed nails across his face, that visceral yet satisfying feeling when you feel the nails, still filthy with the blood of your last kill, piercing into the soft, delicate flesh of his right eye.

The feeling could only be described as…gelatinous.

Sukuna’s agonized roar is instant, the pain blinding and white-hot. Blood runs down his face, and the smell of it that’s been teasing you all night, invites you to finally bare your fangs, ready to go for the killing bite.

But even with his right eye useless, Sukuna refuses to let go of his weapon, and when he catches the glint of your teeth, without thinking his blade is shoved into your mouth, pushing down on the hilt to plunge it upwards.

At the same time you reflexively bite down with all the strength left in your jaw — only to feel the sickening crack of bone breaking against steel.

It feels like you’ve bitten into broken glass.

With a strangled cry you shove him off, stumbling to your feet immediately as he gets to his knees, blood still gushing from his ruined eye, grabbing his weapon.

Your tongue flicks over the jagged remnants of your fang, that empty space where the tooth used to be, the iron of your own cold blood coating your mouth.

You limp back into the shadows as he staggers to his feet.

It’s only later when you’re sitting at the bar of a high-end nightclub, still absentmindedly running your tongue over the now healed stump of your left canine, you process that fight.

Born to an old, dwindling vampire bloodline, you were raised in secrecy, always moving place to place to avoid hunters. The traditional legends of aristocratic vampires always made you scoff — you and your family who had lived like ghosts, hiding in abandoned buildings, remote villages, or underground.

Despite it you were taught pride in your lineage — reminded that vampires are superior to humans, that they should never beg, never bow.

If a vampire “asks” something of a human, it’s not really a question.

Perhaps this was the reason you’d grown to have a taste for the luxuries of the modern age, hanging around neon lights and penthouses, carrying yourself with quiet arrogance. Though it’s an confidence born from survival, not entitlement.

You must believe you’re above humans, for your survival.

You’d heard of Sukuna before, known for years that he was supposedly your enemy by blood alone, but you hadn’t really given much more thought to it, especially not after your parents were murdered.

You were raised that in a world that wanted you dead, sentimentality was not an option — not even to mourn losses.

You were taught only to keep moving forward.

So that’s what you did when you found them with stakes driven through their hearts, limbs already turning to ash. Perhaps their deaths didn’t shatter you because they never let you believe they’d always be there in the first place.

Their battles didn’t particularly concern you, and you had better things to do than go on some drawn out hunt for revenge, and to avenge your family.

Well, that was before.

Because after that encounter, you decided nothing else mattered except Ryomen Sukuna.

A few months later, you feel more confident this time around that you’ll be able to kill him. And you don’t know for sure, but you have a strong feeling that he’s been tracking you as you roam city to city.

Sukuna’s learned a few things about you — that you enjoy cities, particularly those with good nightlife. Clearly a preference since your kind won’t necessarily burn in the sun, or anything as dramatic as the human stories always make it out to be.

Rather you all tend to be allergic to sunlight, some more than others. Your photosensitivity is noticeable, but not the worst — nothing more than some itchy hives and sneezing. Sometimes you get watery eyes and a runny nose too. It really just passes off as a normal pollen allergy.

On the other hand, you’ve picked up a few things about Sukuna as well — most notably so far that there are two things that matter to him above all: his ego and pride.

You suppose that conspicuous injury you gifted him might almost be as humiliating as your own chipped fang.

Almost.

Nothing can compare to the offense of breaking a vampire’s fangs. You’ve grown a habit of hiding them now even when around others like you, just so they won’t notice it.

And eye isn’t quite enough payment for that, you think.

So you arrange a trap, meticulously leaving a deliberate trail of blood and bodies to mark your presence, obvious enough for him to follow but still vague to the point that’ll keep him guessing. The trail leads to somewhere that’s sort of unusual for you — the countryside, far from the city, to a large sprawling mansion.

It’s a bit rundown, sort of the middle of nowhere, and likely abandoned some years ago.

Perfect.

You don’t have to wait long, only till the second night when he arrives.

The second round begins rather…slow.

Sukuna enters the mansion and though nothing has shifted out of place, he can feel it — your presence, permeating the atmosphere. You stand on the upper floor that overlooks the main entrance, watching him from the shadows.

It’s dark, even the moon is just a sliver of a crescent in the night sky, hardly enough to offer him any light.

You can see perfectly fine, though.

Sukuna can sense your gaze on him from somewhere in the pools of darkness, but he doesn’t react, preferring to let you guess whether he knows you’re here or not.

And you pick up what he’s trying but frankly you just can’t help yourself.

“Looking for someone?”

He doesn’t turn but you can see him smile in the dark, showing off those perfect set of teeth.

Annoying.

“Are you hiding from someone?”

You scoff.

Hiding. He’s trying to agitate you on purpose.

And it won’t work.

“Maybe I just like to play with my food.”

He hums. And then—

So quickly that you barely have time to dodge, something slices through the air.

The silver bullet buries into the drywall right where your head was a second ago.

Sukuna just laughs. “Oops. I guess I like to…play with my food, too.”

You’re honestly impressed by how good his aim is, even with his right eye socket scarred over.

But you’d never admit that, so you just chuckle lightly. “Well if you want me, you’re gonna have to work for it.”

And so it begins.

He hunts you through every hallway, every corridor, every shadow-drenched corner of the mansion. You circle one another—silent, stalking, both knowing one wrong step could mean the end.

You try to bait out another shot. A few, even.

Nothing.

Either he’s toying with you, or he’s saving them. Maybe both.

Frustrating.

And when long enough passes with no sound of his revolver, desperation creeps in.

So you take the risk. A deep inhale and a sharp turn—stepping fully into view, right across the hall from him.

Silence.

His hand rests on the trigger, steady, but he doesn’t pull it. Doesn’t even flinch.

You grit your teeth, muscles tensed, wondering if you can close the distance before he fires when suddenly, he smirks.

And lowers the fucking gun before rolling his eye.

The gall of this man.

“That’s the best you’ve got? Trying to jump scare me?”

You stare at him venomously, and though he can’t see it too well in the dark he can feel your disdain practically radiating from you.

“I could kill you right now before you could even do anything. But that feels kinda cheap, doesn’t it?”

“You’re welcome to try,” he says amicably. Then his eye glints, widening with a sudden thought, and he grins like he’s just remembered something delightful. “Oh- wait! I've got something to show you, almost forgot…”

He pulls out the silver chain tucked into his shirt, and at the end of it, something catches your eye.

White, and pointed…

Your fang.

You look up at him, momentarily speechless as his grin widens and he holds your tooth between his fingers like it’s some trinket. “Took it as a little souvenir to, you know…remember you.”

Needless to say, you are fucking livid.

“You disgusting bastard,” you hiss, synapses firing as rage floods them.

And just like that you’re across the hall in half a second, lunging towards him in your blind fury.

“You PIECE OF SHIT, I’LL RIP YOUR OTHER EYE OUT AND FUCKING EAT IT—”

You’re fast, and you’re strong. And Sukuna knows how to use this against you.

Instead of meeting you head on he pivots just in time, grabbing your wrist so that your own momentum sends you crashing into the dusty wooden floor. You’re back on your feet instantly, but then a flash of silver, and hot, searing pain in your side.

It spreads across your skin, numbing and tingling, and you start to feel sick.

Because of course a silver blade wasn’t enough, the bastard had to lace the tip with wolfsbane.

It’s not deep enough to kill, but definitely enough to slow you.

You snarl, still trying to throw him off, but Sukuna once again twists your momentum, forcing you into a corner.

This is bad. Now there’s nowhere to dodge, nowhere to effectively use your speed.

You lunge again, aiming for his throat this time, but either he’s faster than you expected, or the poison’s slowed you down.

There’s a crack and powerful kick sweeps your legs right out from under you, and just like that you’re on your back, his weight pinning you down, one hand wrapped around your throat.

Sukuna’s eye is burning with excitement, as he looks down at you triumphantly, panting slightly.

“That was fun. Wanna go again, or are you gonna pout now?”

You try to break free, but his other hand comes up — only now you realize it’s gloved. You don’t have time to think before he presses it to your jaw, holding you in place, and the pain flares from his touch.

Silver-lined gloves.

You hiss, though the poison is taking its toll on your body and your cold skin is now clammy, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

He laughs, leaning down slightly at your lips curled back in ferocity, eyes slitted as you try to jerk your face away from him in vain. His grip only tightens making your flesh burn, a pathetic cry clawing out of your throat.

“Careful, sweetheart.” The bare hand comes up to your lips as he holds your face in place, thumb brushing over it to pull your top lip back, inspecting your broken canine with interest. “You keep baring those pretty little fangs at me, and I might just have to take the other for my collection.”

You tremble with rage only contained in your flesh because of this incapacitating toxin invading your body. If not for that wolfbane—

“I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking murder you and you know what? I won’t even eat you, I’ll just leave your body to fucking rot in the dirt—” you sneer your promise, fingers twitching at your sides.

He looks down at you condescendingly, like you’re a petulant child throwing a tantrum that only entertains him. “That’s the look. Keep that anger — it looks real good on you.”

That’s the last thing you hear before another sting to your side of a syringe plunging into your skin, before you pass out.

When you come to a few hours later, cold, shivering, and throwing up — he’s nowhere to be seen.

The game stretches on over the next two years— you, with your chipped fang and him, with the scarred-over hollow where his right eye used to be.

Despite the damage, neither of you falters. If anything, the wounds only sharpen your instincts. Refine your roles.

The hunt evolves—more complex, more elusive… more intimate.

Along the way, more of your kind fall to him and Sukuna earns a name. Whispers trail in his wake, rumours thick and grotesque of one of the most brutal vampire hunters of the century.

A man who doesn’t just kill—but lingers.

Draws it out, torments.

Vampires captured and kept alive, tortured until boredom finally drives him to end it.

Every one one of them have been found with their left fangs broken off and missing.

And your resentment festers.

How ironic—his reputation, his rise, all built on traits borrowed from the very monsters he claims to despise.

Cunning. Patience. Sadism. A thirst for blood too, just not human blood. That, perhaps, is the only line he hasn't yet crossed.

You? You’re no innocent - far from it. But at least you never pretend to be anything other than what you are.

Your trail is just as red, just as damning.

But your victims? Almost always men.

From nameless beggars to powerful CEOs that send media and authorities into a frenzy— Their throats, torn open, their arteries drained.

And always—always—their right eyes, gouged out.

The floor is cold against your cheek—slick with dirt and blood. You're sprawled out, face-down, cheek mashed to the concrete beneath the unyielding press of his boot. Your wrists burn where the silver chain bites into them, pinned behind your back.

You should’ve known better - you did know better.

After years of sensing him at the edges of your life—always watching, always circling, he vanished.

No signs, no whispers, nothing.

The absence felt like a blade hollowing you out from within.

You told yourself someone else must’ve gotten to him. But of course, that wouldn’t do.

He was yours, yours to chase, yours to kill.

So you hunted him down this time, tracking him like prey.

This one’s on you.

You should have been suspicious when you found him waiting in a warehouse that looked eerily similar to the first one you ever fought in.

Except this one is brighter.

Bright fluorescent lights hum overhead, too white and clinical. Even with your eyes shut, the glare bleeds through your lids, stabbing at your pupils.

Every nerve in your body is lit up with pain, every inch of you aches and throbs.

“I’m starting to think you like being under me. Is that it?”

His taunting voice comes from somewhere above you.

“Just fucking kill me already, will you?” you grumble, words muffled against the ground.

“Hmm… I don’t know.”

The pressure of his boot lifts from your skull—only to be replaced by his knee, driven mercilessly into the small of your back.

You're pinned, caged.

“I kinda like seeing you like this,” he murmurs, voice dipping with lazy amusement. “Helpless. Right where I want you. So many things I could do with you…”

You can’t see him, but the smugness in his tone tells you everything. That fucking smirk is absolutely there.

Your laugh comes sharp and bitter. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“Oh, I must be,” he replies easily, “if even a bloodsucker’s saying it.”

You just scoff.

He leans in close, voice dropping to something low and velvety. “Can’t wait to spend some quality time with you…”

And then something hard cracks into your temple, with a sickening crunch followed by a split second of agony, before your vision tilts again and once more everything goes black.

You figure it’s been a few days at least, by the time you wake up. No human would survive the type of brain damage he no doubt inflicted on you when he literally split your skull open.

But you’re not a human, you’re a vampire — albeit something like that is still a serious enough injury that instead of seconds or minutes, it takes days for your body to repair the delicate tissues of your brain.

You’re still a bit dizzy and disoriented as you blink, clearing the fog from your mind while assessing your environment.

It’s a cellar or basement of some sort. A dim bulb flickers at the other end, on the verge of giving out.

The second thing you notice is something on your face — tight leather straps digging into your skin, a cage or barrier of some kind bound over your mouth.

The bastard fucking muzzled you.

Immediately you scream his name in rage — or at least you try to, though the metal cage distorts your sounds and all you produce is, “Hh-kuh-na!”

You try to move but your arms are still bound tightly behind you, aching from the position they’ve been kept in for so long, The cuffs are not silver, you note.

But the shackle around your ankle? That one is — and you quickly learn that when you try to unfold your legs, the metal digging into your skin and burning.

Soon enough you hear a door open and the sound of heavy footsteps.

“Finally awake? Thought I hit you too hard for a second.”

Your snarl of his name is once again muffled, but the scathing hatred in your eyes speaks volumes.

Sukuna steps in, closing the door behind him before crouching down with his hands on his knees, to be at your face level.

“Hmm, what was that?” he coos. “Try again. Really put your heart into it.”

You’re already feeling on edge, restless and tired at the same time, but then you smell it—

The sharp metallic scent of blood.

Just a little, but enough for your eyes to dilate and your body to scream at you, reminding you that you’re hungry.

Three days of intense healing, and no blood.

But you force yourself to sit still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you struggle.

“When I get out here….” Your voice is hoarse, but venomous all the same. “I will kill you.”

“Hah,” he snorts. “Bold statement for someone who can’t even stand up.”

He crouches fully now, getting dangerously close. You jerk back instinctively but the sharp bite of the silver shackle digging into your ankle makes you grit your teeth in pain, reminding you why that’s a mistake.

Sukuna watches, single eye gleaming before he leans in further, fingers grazing along the leather strap securing the muscle.

“You look adorable like this.” He pauses, grinning when your eyes narrow further, smoldering with anger. “Almost tame.”

You catch another whiff of it — warm, rich, fresh — and your tongue coats itself in saliva. But you dig your nails into your palms, taking a breath, forcing yourself to stay grounded and shoot him a smirk, speaking slow and sharp.

“Take off this muzzle and you’ll see just how tame I am.”

He just chuckles and with that slight movement you catch the scent of his blood again.

Torture.

You can’t help your eyes from darting around, trying to see where the source is coming from. Sukuna catches your gaze drifting downwards, toward the wrist covered by his sleeve.

“Oh? You’re already looking? Thought you’d last a bit longer.”

And just to rub it in your fucking face he rolls his sleeve up, dangling his cut wrist right in front of your muzzled mouth. The blood drips slowly, deliberately trickling down.

Instinctively your head snaps up, fangs baring as you once again try in a futile effort the lunge forward, and rewarded with the same burning in your skin.

“Fuck. You.”

He leans in, voice dropping to a murmur as you intently track the blood droplets sliding down his skin. “You sure you don’t want any? You look a bit…hungry.”

Your lips widen into a cold sneer behind the metal cage. “I’d rather die of hunger than drink a drop of your filthy, vile blood.”

He stares at you for a moment, before calmly sighing and standing up to leave again. “Better get comfortable, then. This might take a while.”

And once again you’re left in the dark, with nothing but hunger gnawing at your insides.

The cruel irony of it all is that yes, you’d much rather die of hunger— but you can’t.

Instead you’ll starve, slowly desiccating till you’re barely conscious, but alive all the same. Forever in a perpetual state of never ending hunger.

There will be no death to release you.

Over the course of the next four days you feel yourself withering — hunger chewing and growling from within you, so cold that it feels like even your bones are chilly.

And tired. So, so tired.

You hear his footsteps from time to time outside the door, vaguely wondering if he’ll open the door. He never does.

By the time he comes back, your limbs are leaden, mind hazy. The hunger is no longer an ache, as it is a roaring void, tearing at you from inside.

You barely flinch when the door creaks open again, head lifting slightly towards the sound, though your body makes no effort to move.

“Still alive? Tough little thing, aren’t you?”

As if you could die even if you wanted to.

You don’t offer any response, not even able to muster enough energy to glare at him. He steps closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a carcass.

“Not much fight left in you now, huh?”

He crouches again, watching you with interest. You’re alive, but barely.

And finally you move — just a small twitch of your fingers, and a sharp inhale like you want to say something, but don’t have the energy to get the words out.

Sukuna doesn’t let up. “Go on. Curse me. Say you’ll kill me again. Give me something.”

Nothing. Even in your weakened state, you have enough pride to not give him that.

If a reaction is what he wants, it’s what he won’t get.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance before tilting his head. “No? Then how about I give you something instead?”

There’s a soft ripping noise, like a band-aid being torn off, when the scent hits you.

Blood.

Your body shudders involuntarily, once again you’re digging your nails into your palms until they’re sure to leave crescent-shaped indents.

And of course, he notices immediately, face lighting up with amusement. “…Oh?”

He holds his wrist up to you again like an offering.

“C’mon. You don’t need to act tough anymore — I know you’re starving.”

Your jaw clenches as you follow the slow trickle of blood, wishing desperately you had it in you to tear your eyes away from the sight. But you follow its unhurried path, entranced, mouth dry.

“Just a sip. All you have to do is say the word.” Sukuna’s voice is low, mocking, trying to worm its way into your skull.

Your breathing quickens. Would one sip really be that bad?…

“I’ll even take the muzzle off.”

That makes you move.

Your eyes flicker to his, sharpening with a spark of resistance despite everything. The spark only lights up further when you see how smug he looks.

“…Go fuck yourself.”

His grin widens, teeth flashing.

“There she is.”

And then, he fucking sits fully, leisurely stretching his legs like this is some pleasant, casual conversation. Like it’s a picnic date at the park or something.

Like he isn’t slowly destroying you from the inside out.

“You should be grateful, you know, that I’m even trying here.” Then he snickers meanly. “A lot of owners don’t bother to go to such lengths for their pets.”

If there was any blood left in your hollow veins, it would be sizzling right now.

You want to lunge at him, tear his throat out, watching him choke on his own blood before bleeding out in the most pathetic manner.

But you barely have the strength to lift your head.

Still, you strain out the words, barely a whisper.

“Don’t want your…filth…on my tongue.”

You feel it for a second, genuine anger sparking in him, before it quickly passes through and he stands up again.

“Fine. Be a stubborn bitch — we’ll see how long you last.”

He turns and walks away, casually calling out over his shoulder right before he shuts the door. “See you in another few days. If you’re still awake, that is.”

The door closes, darkness once again swallowing you whole.

It’s been nearly a full week now, when he comes back one more time.

You deteriorated even more within the span of those few days — body weak and brittle, like a dried leaf waiting to be stepped on. You think you’ve started to go mad because you swear you can smell blood, even when there’s nothing, no one else, in that cold, empty cellar.

Your pride has been warring with need for too long, and one side is losing, slowly but surely.

When the door opens again, you’re too far gone to react even the slightest. Not even a single twitch of your fingers.

Sukuna gives you a mocking sigh. “Damn. You’re really letting yourself go.”

He crouches down in front of you again, slowly, like you might to some injured animal bleeding out in the forest. “What happened to all that fire? All that lovely talk about killing me?”

You want to lift your head, shoot him a glare, spit some nasty words, but your body won’t obey.

The hunger is too much now, inside your bones where your marrow should be, clawing at the caving in walls of the hollow cavity that is supposed to be your stomach.

Sukuna watches closely for any sign of resistance, but there is none.

And then he speaks softly, like he’s indulging a kid. “How about I make this a bit easier for you, hm?”

There’s a cruel amusement under the gentle facade of his voice, lingering underneath like poison.

You barely register the movement — the soft tug of leather straps, and the metal cage loosening, falling away.

Your lips automatically part, but no sound comes out. There’s nothing left for you to say.

Then a quick flash of metal, and the scent invades your nostrils.

Hot, flowing, rich.

Sukuna holds his wrist out, the fresh cut welling with blood in slow, thick, droplets. The most alluring shade of red against his tan skin.

A violent shiver skitters down your spine, and you can feel your fangs involuntarily slipping out.

“Poor thing. You’re barely holding yourself together.” His voice drips in faux sympathy, as he watches you twitch.

His other hand moves, swiping into the cut before he swiftly lifts it to your face, pressing bloodied fingers to your lips and smearing it red.

Everything stops.

One drop, one single drop, makes its way through, onto your parched tongue, and its like fire in your veins.

Your body comes alive that moment, every nerve, every deadened muscle, every ounce of hunger roars awake, all at once, dilating your pupils till your eyes are just black voids.

Another shuddering breath, a twitching in your muscles.

“That’s it,” he whispers, watching, entirely too pleased at your reaction as his wrist hovers, just barely out of reach from your mouth.

Your body moves on it own, pure instinct, and no thought as you lunge forward with a low snarl, right fang sinking in, the broken one following soon enough as you close your mouth, latching on completely to his wrist.

And you drink.

Greedily, messily, obscenely sucking and slurping like a wild animal. The taste of his blood is intoxicating, flooding and reviving your starving flesh, pulling you out of that hollow abyss.

You hate yourself for it, but you can’t stop.

Sukuna watches, letting you feed, with a slow smirk.

“There we go. See? That wasn’t so hard.”

You want to rip yourself away, but his blood is too much, too necessary, too good.

No, not good.

You’ve drank hundreds of men’s blood before, but nothing compares to his.

What an evil, cruel twist of fate that his blood is divine — salty, sharp, with a savory mouthwatering fullness, and the slightest hint of sweetness to compliment it all.

Its like ambrosia.

Your grip tightens, as you practically moan in ecstasy, fangs sinking deeper into his warm flesh — you need more, you need—

Suddenly, he yanks his arm back.

You choke, barely stifling a whimper that almost slips out as the warmth is ripped away. Sukuna looks down at his wrist, amiably inspecting the puncture wounds, before glancing back at you.

Your lips are stained crimson, breathing ragged, eyes still looking at him with that almost desperate need.

And he laughs, victoriously. “That’s my girl.”

The taste him still lingers on your tastebuds, in the air — it’s not nearly enough to quell your appetite.

“Just a little more. Isn’t this what you wanted?” you try to convince him, attempting to hide the need in your voice.

You may be missing a fang but there’s still enough venom in one of your fangs to have at least somewhat of an effect — though you suppose that if he willingly let you drink, he must’ve already taken an antivenom.

Still, you try your luck.

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You should have more shame, being so greedy. You’re lucky I even gave you this much.”

Sukuna stands to his full height again.

Panic rushes through you.

“Fuck, please Sukuna? I’ll give you whatever you want—”

He scoffs coldly. “And what could you possibly have to give me?”

You stare with wide eyes, unable to think of an answer immediately, and soon he’s leaving again, the sticky blood drying on your face.

The door slams closed.

This time, the hunger doesn’t dull away, neither does it weaken you. In fact you think it only grows stronger as the hours pass, keeping you awake and restless and craving.

For hours you sit in that dank cellar, your mind replaying the taste of his blood in your mouth until it becomes all you can think about, a tunnel vision of the only way out.

Giving you that taste was his mistake because now there’s a newfound strength forged from the motivation of sinking your teeth into him again.

Draining him for all he’s worth.

You tug against the metal keeping you captive — the cuffs around your wrists, the silver shackle around your ankle.

But you’ve got blood in you now, and that’s enough. Enough for you to heal.

With the phantom taste of him lingering in your mouth you finally push yourself — there’s sickening cracks of your joints dislocating, but even the blazing pain isn’t enough to deter you. It’s nothing compared to the satisfaction of your limp hands pulling out of the cuffs, one step closer to getting what’s yours.

Now, the hard part.

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking another deep breath as you position yourself. The silver cuff is still blistering hot against your skin, but you don’t hesitate.

Not now, not when you can practically taste him sweet and raw in your throat.

You twist. Hard.

The first crack isn’t enough — you grit your teeth, let out a strangled cry that echoes in the cellar, and then do it again.

The world goes white for a second, as you gasp, vision blurring from the sheer, excruciating pain — and still, you don’t stop.

Because now you’re not some starving creature crawling in the dark.

You’re a predator, one that he gave just enough of his blood to remember what that feels like.

Pop. The joint gives way.

You scream through gritted teeth, bile burning up the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. You slam your foot against the ground again, and again, twisting until the bones slide just enough — just enough for the slick burn of metal to scrape over torn skin.

And then you’re free.

You collapse against the floor, gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling, your limbs mangled but already knitting together, muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon, driven by that stolen taste of him inside you.

You stagger to your feet, every movement agonizing, shaky, but determined.

You can still feel him. His pulse. His scent. That infuriating grin of his when he left you here like some half-starved mongrel.

It’s insulting almost, that when you reach the cellar door, it’s unlocked.

But it makes your job easier, so you don’t complain.

You creak it open, and instantly the scent of his skin hits your nose though he’s nowhere in sight.

So you follow it, tunnel visioned on the prospect of finding him and just sinking your teeth into him.

Driven by vengeance, craving, maybe even some fucked up part of you that think his blood belongs to you now.

You can barely think straight by the time you’re pushing open his door, your mind tunneled in on one thing alone- the promise of his blood, hot and pulsing, spilling down your throat.

The embalmer’s job will be easier when they find his body — pale, empty, and drained dry.

You peek inside.

Warm light spills from the open bathroom door, casting a golden sheen across the contours of his bare back. He’s facing away from you, wearing nothing but low-slung black sweats that cling to his hips like a sin.

Droplets still bead along his skin, glinting on muscle, his pink hair darkened and slick from a recent shower.

If you weren’t so ravenous — if you saw anything other than a cure to the ache gnawing through your chest — you might’ve paused. Might’ve taken in the sight of him and thought, briefly, cruelly…

Beautiful.

But right now, nothing exists beyond the hypnotic thrum of his heartbeat, a slow and steady beacon that tugs you forward, that dares you closer.

You linger behind the door, silent, calculating. Waiting for him to move — to shift, to turn, to slip into just the right position.

One clean strike. That’s all you need.

No games. No snarling, clawing mess like the last time.

Just blood.

But then, there’s a subtle shift in the air, and the slightest stiffening of his spine.

Your stomach drops.

He shouldn’t know you’re here. It’s not possible — not for a human, not against your kind. You were made to hunt in silence, to kill before the prey ever knows what touched them.

Still, you don’t falter and he doesn’t turn.

And then—he moves. Slowly, casually.

He sits at the edge of the bed, back still to you, elbows resting on his thighs.

Exposed and vulnerable.

Perfect.

Just as you’re getting ready to pounce, Sukuna completely throws you off base—by pure, stupid luck.

He leans back onto one hand, legs spreading ever so slightly, just enough for the faint shape forming beneath his sweats to catch your eye. His other hand moves lower, casually palming himself through the fabric.

You should move. You know you should.

But something invisible roots you in place. Your hunger simmers beneath your skin, thrumming like static, but your bloodthirsty gaze is locked—utterly transfixed—on him. On the slow, almost lazy drag of his hand over the swelling bulge, coaxing it with idle strokes.

Your body betrays you.

There’s a strange heat building inside you, crawling up your spine, prickling across your skin. It shouldn’t be there. Not when you’re here to feed. Not when your only goal is to strike clean and fast and end this.

But it’s him.

Your breathing falters when his eyelids lower, chin tilting back just slightly as a quiet exhale leaves his parted lips. The light catches on the water still clinging to his shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his skin with every languid movement.

Through the fabric, the outline of his cock becomes more prominent. You can see the shape of it now, the thickness, even from where you stand.

Sukuna tightens his grip, and that’s when you catch it—the faint, almost acrid scent in the air. Slightly metallic. Slightly alkaline.

You suck in a silent breath, stomach flipping when you realize what you’re smelling.

Then he starts to rut slowly into his hand, sighing as the friction builds, and his voice cuts through the stillness, casual but low with strain.

“If you’re gonna do it, do it. Or are you too…” A cruel little grin curves his mouth. “Distracted, now?”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

You’re on him in an instant—before the last syllable even finishes, slamming your full weight into him. The bed creaks under the force as you straddle him, one hand fisting into his damp hair, the other clawing his shoulder, nails digging in deep enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Don’t fuck with me, Sukuna,” you growl, pupils dilated, lips curled in a snarl. His heartbeat is a war drum beneath your hands, loud and intoxicating, and every one of your senses is alive with it—drunk on it.

His grin only sharpens.

“Then stop staring like you wanna fuck me and kill me, sweetheart. Pick one.”

To your irritation, you don’t even have to yank his head back—he tilts it on his own, baring his throat with an infuriatingly smug laugh. A mocking little motion, like he’s offering himself up on purpose.

“That’s more like it,” he murmurs.

And then your fangs sink in.

A soft, distinct crunch as teeth break through muscle and vein.

The instant his skin gives, blood rushes into your mouth—and it’s intoxicating. Thicker, hotter than anything else you’ve ever tasted. Rich and pulsing with life. Almost scalding.

The puncture wounds tighten slightly around your fangs, muscles resisting before stretching open, your jaw clenching as you bury deep—even your cracked fang pushing in with a sharp throb.

His blood is... pure. Potent.

Undiluted, unlike the thin, lifeless taste of most human blood. It tastes like something alive.

Like power, like violence.

The absence of that sharp medicinal tang—no trace of the antivenom you expected—flickers across your thoughts.

But the moment passes. Irrelevant.

Your body’s already screaming for more.

You drink greedily, copper heat washing down your throat, his pulse drumming against your lips. Your grip tightens.

Sukuna doesn’t flinch.

You suck harder, lips sealing tighter over the wound with a wet, obscene sound. Blood flows freely now. Your body trembles, senses blown wide open, muscles twitching as strength floods into you—but even as it does, something gnaws at you.

It still isn’t enough.

There’s a maddening itch, deep under your skin, pulsing low in your gut. A hunger that persists no matter how much you drink.

A raw, aching need that grows stronger, fiercer.

You notice everything.

His heartbeat skipping slightly under your mouth, the way your thighs grip his hips tighter, almost involuntarily. The rake of your nails down his back, searching for purchase, something to ground you.

You drink, and drink, and drink—and yet, the ache won’t go away.

Sukuna notices, of course. His eyes heavy-lidded, dark with knowing amusement, watching as you fall apart in real time, the tremble in your thighs, the desperation in the way you hold him.

He shifts beneath you—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to feel the hard outline of his arousal pressing right against your core.

And still—not enough.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Sukuna’s voice is low, almost gentle. But there’s that ever-present curl of amusement beneath it. “You’re still hungry.”

You growl against his neck, fangs still sunk deep, refusing to acknowledge whatever smug bullshit he’s whispering now.

His skin burns under your lips. His body is flush against yours, scent heavy in your nose with every inhale—clean, musky, tinged with something spicy and masculine.

It makes him taste even better somehow—complementing the copper tang in your mouth like wine pairing with a rich meal. You have to smell him to taste him fully.

The most disturbing part isn’t the blood. It’s that he’s letting you take it. Letting you drink him dry, take as much as you want.

And if your mind were clearer—sharper—you’d be suspicious. Hell, you’d be insulted.

You tremble.

Because despite the feast, despite the rush of strength, the power flooding your veins like molten heat—you’re still not satisfied.

The hunger claws deeper.

And the awful, rising truth starts to sink in, that maybe it’s not just his blood you crave.

Maybe you’re starving for something else entirely.

Sukuna’s hand moves—slowly, deliberately—dragging rough fingertips across your scalp. He threads them through your hair, the pressure grounding, possessive. His fingers massage along your roots, a slow, sensual gesture that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

The other hand slides up your hip, ghosting along your side before settling at the small of your back, easing you down closer, pressing you into him—

That’s when it hits you.

You snap back, instinct lashing out. You tear your mouth away, blood slick on your lips, and shove at his chest hard enough to make him grunt as you push yourself back.

Your breath comes quick. Your head swims. Your mouth tastes like heat and iron and him.

The hand tangled in your hair slips away, settling instead at your waist—not stopping you, but not letting you go either. Possessive and anchoring.

His neck is still bleeding, slow trickles slipping down the curve of his throat, the skin around the puncture turning a deep shade of red-purple, bruised and tender.

You’re not sure what you feel.

Dazed. Disoriented. Blood-drunk.

Angry. Irritated. Frustrated.

Warm.

Too warm.

Sukuna grins up at you, lazy and smug, his eye catching the light just enough to glint with something unreadable.

“Ahh, there it is,” he hums, like he’s been waiting. “Now you get it.”

You fight the urge to recoil—to put space between your bodies—even as the haze lingers, even as your mind reels, trying to make sense of what the hell is happening to you.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you breathe, your voice hoarse and thin, raw from drinking. Your lips are still slick with his blood. “I should kill you.”

And you mean it. You’ve done it before—taken blood from men, used sex like bait, like a weapon, left them cold and emptied by the time you were done. It never mattered, never lingered.

But this—this is something else entirely.

You try again to pull away, to snap the illusion, but this time his grip tightens. Not roughly, not harsh—but firm. Deliberate. He’s not fazed in the slightest by the open wound on his neck or the fresh blood on your mouth.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, voice low, almost affectionate. “Then you’ll keep starving. Just like you are right now…”

His fingers drift lower, dragging over your waist, brushing the tops of your thighs. Teasing. Knowing.

Your head spins.

“Just shut up,” you snap, though the words come out thin, like you’re already losing ground.

You fed long enough that the venom should be kicking in by now. But it isn’t.

Maybe he’s built up a resistance—modified something in his blood. It wouldn’t be out of character for a hunter like him, someone who turns his own body into a weapon.

“Mm.” His fingers inch higher along your thigh, nails grazing over the fabric in a light, scraping touch that sends a sharp jolt through your nerves. “You don’t even know what you’re hungry for, do you?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait.

“It’s... not whatever the fuck you think it is,” you mutter, jaw tight. “You must’ve laced your blood or something—”

You’re trying to rationalize it. Trying to explain away the curl of heat low in your belly, the way your skin burns where he touches you.

His chuckle is low and cruel.

“Didn’t have to.” His voice dips to a taunt. “You gorged yourself on my blood after I left you starved for days—like a filthy, mindless little animal.”

His hand slides higher, creeping toward the center of you, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut.

But you still don’t move.

“Tell me something I don’t kn—”

“Shut up.”

His voice slices through yours, dark and final. His grip tightens on your thigh—fingers digging into flesh—not playful anymore.

“If I wanted to hear you run your mouth, I’d fucking ask.”

Your lip twitches. Your eyes narrow into a venomous slit. But you don’t interrupt.

Not yet.

“That blood you drowned in?” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s about to deliver a punchline. “It flooded your veins. Your muscles. Your heart…”

His smirk deepens, a slow cruel carving across his face.

“But when all your precious organs had their fill—guess where the rest ended up?”

“Right—” His hand fully cups your clothed sex now, before pressing into your clit with the tips of his fingers. “Here.”

You gasp at the sudden pressure against that sensitive bundle of nerves—electricity crackling up your spine.

All at once, you’re excruciatingly aware of every ache in your body, most of all the one blooming between your thighs—tight, pulsing, centered on that single point he’s still pressing down on with cruel precision.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, almost bored. “How long’s it been since you felt this? Since you actually needed?” His scoff is pure venom. “What, years? Bet your body just gave up going into heat altogether—until now.”

That’s what finally snaps the last thread of your restraint.

Your eyes darken, and a vicious smile cuts across your face like a blade. Bitterness burns like acid on your tongue, venom sharpening every syllable.

“Look at you,” you sneer, voice laced with poison. “You talk like I’m some starving beast—but what does that make you?”

Your tone drops, cruel now, twisted to mirror his own.

“A man so desperate for control he gets hard watching a half-dead monster squirm on his lap?”

You laugh—cold, guttural, mean.

“That’s pathetic.”

His expression shifts. Something twists behind his eyes. The lazy smirk vanishes, replaced by a deep crease between his brows—his crimson iris shrinking to a pinprick of rage.

You only lean in closer, fueled by the spark of danger.

“Tell me,” you whisper, voice thick with mockery, lips brushing his. “Did it make you feel powerful, starving me like that? Watching me suffer, weaken, beg?”

You grind your hips deliberately into his hand—now limp and fallen to your side—mocking him with your body, even as it betrays you with heat.

You tilt your head, lashes fluttering.

“Or did it just turn you the fuck on?”

His fingers twitch under your thigh.

“I think I hit a nerve.”

And then—just to twist the knife—you drop your voice to a whisper, every syllable soaked in contempt.

“…Maybe you wanted to see me like this. Needy. Weak. Because deep down, you know it’s the only time I’d ever want you—”

It happens fast.

Sukuna lunges.

But you’re already moving, twisting away—only for him to anticipate it, catching your wrist mid-swipe as you aim for his throat.

You snarl, feral, baring your fangs as you twist and struggle—but he’s stronger.

Of course he is. Vampire or not, you’re still a woman. And he’s a man carved from violence and dominance.

He wrenches your arm behind your back and yanks you in, spine arching painfully as he traps you against him. You snap toward his shoulder—teeth meeting only air as he shifts—and then—

His hand clamps the back of your neck, shoving you down hard into the mattress.

You buck, claw, writhe—but his weight pins you mercilessly.

“Fuck—get the hell off me!” you spit, claws tearing at the sheets.

But Sukuna only laughs. A low, rich sound that rumbles against your spine.

“Why?” he whispers, his breath ghosting hot along your ear. “Scared?”

You growl and slam your elbow back, desperate—

And then you feel it.

A sharp kiss at your throat—cold. Burning. Paralyzing.

Silver.

It must’ve been hidden beneath the bedding—because of course the bastard would sleep with a knife under his pillow.

Your breath catches as the blade’s tip glides across your skin in a slow, almost tender caress. Even that featherlight touch bites sharply against your hypersensitive nerves, lighting them up like fire.

Sukuna hums, clearly entertained. “Thought so.”

His grip in your hair tightens painfully, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed, vulnerable.

“You know what’s funny?” His voice is low, almost musing, edged with cruel amusement. “For all your mouth. All your fucking posturing—”

He presses the flat of the silver blade just beneath your jaw, and the threat of it steals the breath from your lungs.

“—you still end up right here.”

Your breath trembles, a furious mix of rage and something deeper, darker, coiling low in your stomach. Something instinctual and shamefully real.

The knife tilts ever so slightly—just enough for the point to kiss your skin, teasing the possibility of a cut.

You don’t dare move.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, satisfied. “Hold still.”

Your fingers twitch. You could fight—should fight. But the weight of him above you, the glint of silver at your throat... you’re pinned. And you both know it.

The edge of the blade shifts—and this time, it bites. A shallow line, but enough for crimson to bloom and trail slowly down your throat.

You grit your teeth, jaw locked tight, forcing yourself not to flinch.

But he feels it. The way your body tenses beneath him. And it thrills him.

“Not so tough now, are you?”

The blade drags lower, agonizingly slow, skimming the line of your throat, across your collarbone, down your sternum. It sings along your skin, a thread of fire in its wake.

“Nothing but a weak, pathetic, blood-drunk little leech.”

You snarl—but it sounds broken. Frayed and fragile.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Still got fight in you?”

And then—without warning—he flips the blade, and drags the edge down your chest, slicing through both fabric and skin in one fluid stroke.

Down, down, down—until your shirt splits beneath the pressure. The cold rush of air hitting your exposed skin only amplifies the heat.

You suck in a breath, jaw clenched as the knife cuts a shallow path across your sternum, not deep, but just enough to sting.

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter hoarsely, your voice barely holding together.

He doesn’t reply.

He just keeps going—dragging the knife horizontally now, the blade peeling the torn fabric away from your chest, slow and deliberate. It climbs, tracing up the valley between your breasts like he’s unwrapping a present—leisurely, merciless, fascinated.

A searing line is traced up the swell of one of your tits, and you put all your focus into keeping your breath steady, because the slightest inhale only pushes the delicate mound of fat further against the burning blade.

You stiffen completely when the tattered top is pulled away completely, air brushing against your nipple.

Sukuna watches it harden further with fascination, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “Oh?”

Because he notices everything, to your humiliation. You shiver, despising how your body reacts despite everything.

Hate how much he enjoys it.

“You like this, don’t you?” His tone is taunting, disgusted, but there’s a cruel entertainment beneath it.

You can’t say anything, much more focused on the sharp silver that’s much too close to your areola for comfort. Then with the slightest shift of his wrist the blade moves, the tip of it scraping against the sensitive bud.

You inhale sharply, body reflexively jerking against him as the prickling lances through your chest.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he chides, circling the blade delicately around your breast before continuing downwards.

“Go to hell,” you spit, voice thick with both vitriol and bitter lust.

The knife descends, running over the curve of your ribs, the delicate dip of your stomach, leaving a trail of burning goosebumps in its wake.

“I’d drag you down with me.”

Another shudder as the blade presses lower, a lump forming in your throat. Another jolt of pain and there’s a shallow cut right below your navel.

Blood wells, reminding you of his control.

His free hand slides up your thigh, just enough to make you hyper-aware of how helpless you are.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, trying not to audibly pant.

Sukuna just chuckles, running the flat of the blade over the cut, smearing your own blood across your skin.

He watches as you try to shrink away, eyes glinting, before his grip tightens, forcing your hips to still.

“Say it.” His voice is quieter now, something that frays your nerves further.

Your heart pounds. “Say what?”

The blade presses lower, and you feel cold fear beginning to surge through your veins.

“Say you need me.” His nose is in hollow beneath your jaw now, brushing against the skin, as the words crawl down your spine like icy.

“Say you want me.” The tip of the blade drags lower, slipping just beneath the hem of your waistband—dangerously close to something far more intimate.

“Or I’ll carve the truth out of you myself.”

And though you throb between your thighs, your mind is wracked with a new wave of anxiety.

Yet still your pride, your stubborn ego refuses to force the words out of your mouth, so you keep silent, choking on them.

Sukuna just sighs and pushes the metal into your panties.

All thoughts of defiance are exorcised from you as the silver brushes against the vulnerable, soft flesh of your folds, down till it nearly touches your clit.

You yelp at the pain. “S-Stop!”

Partially because it fucking stings, but partially because for a second that jolt of burning heat almost felt…good.

Curse your pathetic, needy cunt that can’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure.

And it only reminds you of the hollow, aching hunger that grows in you. Sukuna, watching you so closely, knows it too.

You break.

“…I need you,” you breathe.

The bastard presses the blade against your sex again and you wince, desperately trying to jerk your hips away. “Louder.”

So finally, you spit through clenched teeth, “I need you.”

The moment the words leave your lips — strained, humiliated, dragged from the deepest part of your throat — Sukuna stills.

Then he laughs, finally pulling the blade back out from your thighs, giving your body a second to relax. Still the sting of silver, the heat of your blood — it lingers.

And the worst part, is that you feel colder without it. You can’t ignore the arousal that’s pooled in your panties, so much so that it feels uncomfortable.

“That’s what I thought.” His voice drips with smug victory. “All that fight, all that snarling, all those ugly words — and look at you now.” The blade presses under your chin, forcing your head to tilt up and look directly into his face. “Whimpering out the truth like a good little leech.”

You want to say something , anything, but the opportunity is stolen from you when you feel his other hand, fingers dragging through the blood seeping from the wound below your navel. The pressure is deliberate, just enough to make it hurt, to remind you of what he’s done to you.

“You’re making such a mess,” he muses, voiced soaked in condescension. “Bleeding all over yourself. Over me.” His fingers travel lower, slow and purposeful as they slide into your panties, where the heat is unbearable. “Dumb little thing.”

He smears it on your clit, using the tacky liquid as lube to rub tight aggressive circles on the swollen nub.

You gasp, lips falling open as the relief lights you up from inside. His other hand keeps the blade pressed under your chin, forcing you to meet his eye so he can watch as you try to keep your own gaze focused.

“You’re lucky I’m merciful,” he purrs, before taking two fingers and abruptly pinching your abused clit to elicit a wince from you. “Go on, leech. Say thank you.”

“…Thank you,” you say quietly, nothing on your mind except his touch where you’ve been needing it most.

He smiles, and then without warning, the sensations stop as he pulls his fingers away.

His weight disappears, leaving an unbearable cold where his warmth once was, in more places than one.

“Now get the fuck off my bed.”

You watch him, blinking in confusion, brows furrowing as desperation clouds your judgement. “Wh-Why? You can’t—”

“Dirty leeches get to stay on the ground where they belong,” he says coldly, clearly trying to suppress a grin.

You stare at him, body thrumming with unfulfilled need, like a wound he only ripped open even wider. Your fingers dig into the sheet, pride once against warring against pulsing ache between your thighs, cool skin burning with need and making your head spin.

You feel like you have a fever.

God, what the hell did his blood do to you?

“…You’re fucking joking.” Your voice wavers, but it’s not weakness — it’s rage. Humiliation.

Sukuna only tilts his head, regarding you like a roach he’s already crushed beneath his heel but is still alive for some reason.

“You think I’d let you defile my bed? After you whined like a bitch in heat just for me to touch you?” he scoffs. “Have some dignity, leech.”

Your breath turns sharp. Hot. Your body betrays you, trembling ever so slightly. The shame burns worse than silver, spreading all over you.

“You’re fucking sick.”

“And you love it.”

You hate that he’s right.

You grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response as you force yourself to move, dragging your shaky limbs off the bed, only to collapse onto the cold, hard floor.

You hear his quiet chuckle before he walks to the edge of the bed, sitting back down beside where you’re on the ground.

Then—

“But I’m not evil. It’s clear you can’t even think straight with the condition you’re in.” He leans down, cupping your chin to look into your glaring eyes, swimming with desire. “Though I can’t help you if you keep your pants on, can I?”

You frown a bit, not the slightest clue where this is going, but the gentleness in his touch and the promise of his words coaxes your heat-addled brain to tug at the waist of your pants, pulling them off to leave you in just your panties.

You look back up at him expectantly.

“Good girl,” he says almost affectionately, and you feel yourself wetten further in anticipation. “But, a leech like you doesn’t deserve my fingers, let alone my cock or tongue.”

Just like that your heart sinks in your chest, into the pit in your stomach as something wicked creeps across his features.

“You’re worth nothing more than my—” His bare foot shifts between your legs, tattooed ankle lifting up between your thighs, applying pressure there. “Feet.”

Your eyes widen, cheeks heating up till it almost hurts as you open your mouth to protest, save yourself the last bit of your dignity.

“N-No.” Your voice shakes just a little despite your efforts, mouth pulling into a pout as tears sting your lash line.

Sukuna hums, a condescending little sound that makes your skin crawl with equal parts shame and heat. His foot presses in just a little more, sending a pulse of sensation through your body that makes you shudder violently.

“No?” he mocks, tilting his head. “Oh, but look at you, leech. Dripping—” he shifts slightly, grinding against the soaked fabric of your underwear, and you choke on a breath, “—like the desperate little parasite you are.”

You look down, suddenly noting that he strangely…actually has nice feet. Long, prominent bones, veins running their length. They’re a lot like his hands.

And somehow the fact that you can actually see the appeal only sickens you more.

You shake your head, trying to summon what’s left of your pride, but the second you do, his foot pushes, forcing a gasp from your lips.

His grin sharpens. “You can’t even pretend to hate it.”

You squeeze your thighs together instinctively, but the movement only traps him there, pressing deeper against you. Your breath stutters, shame and pleasure warring violently inside you.

Then he laughs, shaking his head like he’s watching something pathetic try and fail to crawl away.

“Go on then,” he taunts. “Show me just how low you’ll go. If you want it so bad, you can grind against my foot like the filthy little leech you are.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “I—I won’t—”

He lifts it away just slightly, just enough to take away the friction, the heat, the pleasure that had you teetering on the edge. The loss is unbearable, your body screaming in protest.

And he sees it. He knows.

His smirk is pure, unfiltered cruelty.

“Oh?” he coos, feigning innocence. “Then I guess you don’t need my help after all.”

He moves to pull away entirely—

And before you can stop yourself, your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, the pleasure, the relief—

He catches it instantly.

He freezes, pressing back in an instant, and your stomach drops as you realize what you’ve done.

His smirk turns razor-sharp, eyes gleaming with victory.

“That’s what I thought.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, resting your forehead on his knee, chewing on your lip.

You want this. You know it, and he knows it.

So with a shaky breath you lift yourself to quickly slide off your panties, kicking them to the side. “You’re disgusting,” you mutter, a half-hearted attempt to somehow deflect the degrading nature of what you’re willingly choosing to do right now.

He hums, looking down at you over the bridge of his nose with that unbearable smirk as you straddle his foot again. “Hm. Do tell me more.”

You can’t stand looking at his face right now, so you turn your head, leaning your cheek against his sturdy leg instead as you push your hips down, pressing your soaking cunt onto his foot.

It feels horribly good, and slowly you begin to undulate your hips back and forth, seeking the friction of the ridged metatarsals and tendons on his foot catching against your clit.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sukuna snickers, watching you with interest, at the soft gasps falling from your lips. “If only your ancestors could see you now. How far your bloodline has fallen.”

You scowl a bit, speeding up your movements so that the pleasure can drown out his words and the soft clicking noises of your pussy. “Just….s-stop talking. Please.”

“Why? It was a compliment.” Sukuna lifts his leg again, angling his foot a little to move it in time with your grinding, pulling a soft moan from you. “I, for one, think you look good like this. Like you’re finally where you belong, y’know?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore him as you lean back on your hands, this new angle making it easier for you to rub your clit against him.

For a few seconds he doesn’t say anything either, even as your movements start growing more frantic. You open your eyes to look at him, just to find his eyes trained squarely on where your sticky cunt is sliding obscenely along his foot, his skin glistening with your arousal.

And it’s the fact that he looks painfully aroused himself, that he’s not quite as unaffected as he’s been pretending to be…

The sight makes you cum abruptly with a choked cry, hips thrusting faster and faster as your orgasm shoots up through your spine, the wet sounds growing noisier, as your pussy twitches and leaks an embarrassing amount of slick.

Your movements slow, as your orgasm finishes, leaving you to close your eyes again and catch your breath. Sukuna removes his foot, looking looking down at you and the juices that coat it.

“Eugh. God look what a mess you made.” Then he smirks deviously, gaze shifting to your mortified form, still reeling from your orgasm as you sit back. “I should make you clean your filth with your tongue.”

Your eyes widen to shoot him a look, already shaking your head when he laughs.

“Don’t worry. You should be grateful I’m not that sick.”

You don’t reply, just looking at him quietly, growing more and more aware by the second that your clitoral orgasm provided temporary reprieve just to heighten that horrible ache inside of you. Yet before you can even open your mouth to voice your concerns, he’s standing up.

“Where…are you going? That’s it??”

Sukuna stops in the doorway, shoulders loose, head tilted, and for a second—just a second—you think he might change his mind. Might turn around and give you something.

But then he snorts, sharp and derisive, slicing straight through your chest.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Listen to yourself.”

He glances over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes is nasty—not the usual smug amusement, not even condescension. Just pure, unfiltered disgust.

“You’re still fucking dripping, aren’t you?” His lips curl in a sneer. “I already fed you, you don’t expect me to fuck you too, do you?” He laughs, slow and cruel. “God, you really have no fucking shame.”

Your face burns, humiliation crashing into you, but you refuse to let it show. You square your shoulders, jaw tightening. “You’re the one who—”

“You what? Made you?” His grin widens, something wicked in it. “Oh, come on, leech. Don’t be fucking pathetic. You were already soaking before I even touched you. You should be grateful I even let you rub yourself off on me like a stupid little parasite.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. His tone turns mocking, singsong. “Poor thing, all hot and needy, and still so fucking empty.”

Your nails dig into your palms. You hate him. You hate how much you want to hurt him. How much you want him to hurt you.

But most of all, you hate how easily he thinks he can win.

So you lift your head, tongue curling around something venomous. “Guess that makes two of us, huh?” you sneer.

Sukuna’s expression flickers—just a flicker—but you catch it. And it feeds you.

You hum, tilting your head, letting your gaze drop deliberately down his body before dragging it back up, slow, like you’re assessing him. “Or what, was that little act supposed to convince me you don’t want it just as bad?” You scoff, eyes glinting with something sharp and mean. “Please. You’re the one who gets hard over starving me out.”

His jaw tightens. Just a twitch. A flex of muscle. But you know him well enough to see it for what it is—annoyance.

Good.

“You act like you’re above it,” you murmur, voice like silk laced with barbed wire. “Like you don’t need it.” You shift, slowly stretching out your legs, like you aren’t still burning between them. “But I felt you, Sukuna.” Your voice dips, taunting. “I smelled you.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. You watch it, the way they flex—like he’s already imagining wrapping them around your throat.

But you’re not done.

“You like this just as much as I do.” Your smile sharpens. “No—probably more.”

A slow blink, a long inhale and then Sukuna’s lips curl again, his expression smoothing into something infuriatingly condescending.

“That’s cute,” he drawls. “Really. But let’s get one thing fucking straight—”

He moves before you can react, crouching down in front of you, one strong hand gripping your jaw. Hard. Forcing you to look at him.

“I could ruin you.” His voice is low, deadly. “Make you beg until your fucking throat is raw. And I still wouldn’t let you have it.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, a mockery of something tender.

“Because you don’t deserve it.”

Then, just as quickly, he shoves your face to the side.

“Oh, and—” He swipes his fingers through the mess between your thighs, then flicks it at you with a lazy smirk. “Clean yourself up,” he mutters, before sticking his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean of your arousal.

You don’t flinch, don’t let him see the way your breath shudders.

You just lift your chin, eyes locked onto his, and smile sweetly.

“Don’t forget to clean yourself up too,” you purr. “Can’t have you walking around smelling like me.”

He snarls—a real, actual snarl—but you only grin wider.

And then, with a final glare, he turns, disappearing into the bathroom.

Leaving you alone and aching.

^divider by kazicide

172 notes · View notes

makeyoumine69 · 3 months ago

Text

Disco Heaven

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Sub!Patrick Bateman x Dom!Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Patrick, after enduring restless nights consumed by obsession, finally meets the woman who has captivated his thoughts. Blinded by his own arrogance and misplaced confidence in his charm, he is unaware that the plan he has devised will unravel in ways he could never have foreseen and, in a twist of fate, ultimately turn against him.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Smut, femdom, oral sex (reader receiving), obsession, humiliation, degradation, coming in pants, nipple play, finger sucking, teasing, hair pulling, Patrick is touch deprived, dirty talk, pet names.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 5.8k

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐂: Lady Gaga—Disco Heaven✨

𝐀/𝐍: Hello dear people! I hope you like this one, I had a lot of fun writing it!💕

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST].

How could he be so lucky to meet you at the Palladium Club when he thought he would never see you again? It was a fucking miracle. And although he hadn't liked McDermott's idea of coming here at first, it was definitely worth it now.

The flashing lights illuminating the dance floor made it hard to recognize any more familiar faces in the crowd of people moving to the catchy rhythm of another Bananarama song called Cruel Summer. Bateman couldn't say that it was his jam, but it was pretty exciting to see an uncountable number of girls dancing next to each other, their dresses too short to hide much, only making everything more alluring to his prying eyes as he stood at the bar with a glass of some tasteless drink in his hand.

Well, everything seemed to be perfect tonight except the alcohol.

The split second Patrick spotted you, he knew that you recognized him too and he liked that even more than he could imagine because it fed his ego that you remembered him. Could it mean that you were thinking about him the way he was?

Bateman smiled at his own delusional theories, but he did not really call himself delusional, on the contrary, this man could swear to God that he believed in his own irritability—no woman could reject him, the word 'no' simply did not exist in his realm. And this belief was so strong and vivid that Patrick had no doubt that you would be his next victim to fall for his charming charisma, his boy-next-door vibe, and his masterfully curated facade of a gentleman.

"What are you staring at, Bateman?" Craig's slightly provocative voice was barely audible over the loud music, but it was enough to make Patirkc flinch in genuine surprise. "Oh, I better ask who?"

McDermott stood next to him, smoking a cigarette and waiting for him to answer. Bateman took a moment to scan the dance floor again to make sure you were still there, and when he did, he turned to face his colleague—a friend, perhaps—before gulping down his cocktail, only to cringe at the bitter taste.

"I think I saw someone familiar." Patrick gave Craig a toothless smile, unable to hide the thrill in its timbre.

"How could you see anything in that fucking mess of limbs and sweaty bodies?" McDermott asked, following Bateman's gaze, now scanning the dance floor as well.

A mess of limbs and bodies.

That single phrase, cut out of context, struck a chord in Bateman's head like a drumbeat playing exclusively for him, and no one could hear it. For a fleeting moment, the two men stood in silence, not talking or drinking, just watching people having their moment, throwing themselves into the flame of music and passion.

"Do you think these chicks might have a condom?" Craig laughed at the absurdity of his question but never stopped staring at the group of girls closest to the bar, they were good looking, not hardbodies but pretty enough to be fucked. "I'm getting bored."

"Then why do you care about fucking condoms?" Patrick replied nonchalantly and put the empty glass down on the bar with a thud. "Are you afraid of catching dyslexia like Bryce?"

"Oh, fuck you, Bateman." McDermott took a long drag on his cigarette, blew out some smoke, and considered ordering himself a drink, but then he remembered Bateman's disgusted face as he finished his own drink. "As soon as Bryce gets back from rehab, we should have a party at his summer house in the Hamptons, and no faggots are invited."

The men exchanged eloquent glances before bursting into laughter, though Patrick's was not really genuine - it was more like he was trying to fit in, rather he really enjoyed Craig's shitty attempts to sound funny. But all that fell away when Patrick realized that he had lost your silhouette somewhere among the dancing people—for a moment he felt nauseous—his forehead immediately became slightly sweaty.

No fucking way he could lose track of you. No fucking way!

But on the other hand, what if this was another beautiful illusion that had been chasing him since the first day he met you in that damn restaurant where he had dinner with Courtney? And dear Courtney, who was so reckless and clumsy that she somehow managed to spill her drink on your impeccable outfit—did he really call anyone but himself impeccable? Impossible.

Sheer panic clouded his anxious mind, McDermot's presence was nothing but an annoying bug, Bateman's slightly dilated eyes searched desperately for your elegant figure, literally praying for another miracle. Surprisingly, when he turned a little to the side, he saw you moving toward the small dance platform, and as you stepped onto it, the crowd consisted mostly of the men gathered around it. And Patirck could swear that all of them were trying to peek under your skirt—just the thought of it made his blood boil.

Fucking morons!

Yet the man never said it out loud. Patrick allowed himself to watch you so closely, as if this dance was for him and him alone, as if the two of you were the only ones in this club. The playful grin on your pretty face was like a burning sun—so painful to look at, but at the same time so glorious and wonderful. If only he could find you and kidnap you right in front of the greedy crowd of perverted men. As if Bateman was not one of them, oh no, his depravity was different. Exclusive. The man was so zealous in his belief that he had the right to be a horny animal and a cruel monster because he was so fucking rich, even though the constant pain he suffered from wouldn't stop even for a day. His life was both his blessing and his person. A golden cage covered with blood.

All these philosophical thoughts were just a backdrop. As if hypnotized, Patrick still watched you dance, every sway of your hips mesmerizing him, and when another girl rose and joined you on the platform, he felt himself so fucking hard that he almost chewed on the inside of his cheek. The imagination of this sick man was so powerful when it came to imagining two beautiful girls worshipping each other, their petite bodies rubbing against each other as they played with their pussies with pure abandon.

Fuck yes, yes, that was what he lived for.

And then Bateman suddenly felt too worked up—he could barely keep himself from exploding in his pants—thank God Craig was gone. Maybe the best option now was to just leave the club and go back to his apartment, masturbate and let off some steam, because Patrick was afraid that he would completely lose control and snap at someone right there in the club. He closed his eyes for a second and imagined himself getting his hands on the girl dancing next to you while you watched him grab her breasts and then suck on her nipples until they swelled. Holy shit, this man was literally obsessed, and he wanted you to be the same.

Obsessed, obsessed, obsessed.

Pathetic.

As soon as the music changed abruptly, the people around you started clasping hands and cheering the DJ as your "performance" slowly came to an end, he could tell by the way your movements became slower, less plastic and less energetic. Even though the girl next to you didn't end up kissing you as the man had imagined, he was satisfied just thinking about it.

A little later, you gracefully stepped down from the platform to the floor to give another girl a hug and a light peck on the cheek. Patrick was literally stalking your every move, the way you were gossiping with other chicks, laughing heartily, and when you started to walk away, he could swear that he caught your gaze as you looked directly at him. And the eye contact was so intense that Bateman was left breathless, literally clawing at the bar to regain control. But then you dared to wink at him before turning on your heels and walking off in an unknown direction.

What was that but an invitation to follow you?

Patrick didn't even think twice before he left the bar and walked across the dance floor—the thrill of the chase set all his nerve endings on fire—he could feel the smell of blood in his nostrils, but he never forgot to keep his mask of a charming man.

The music only seemed to get louder as he made his way to the VIP area. The VIP area consisted of several private little rooms where special guests could find some privacy for all sorts of things like sex, doing some drugs, or maybe...for a kill?

Standing right next to the corner, the man looked over to remember which room you were in, but then he noticed a tall, rather bulky guy standing right next to the door. Who was it? Your boyfriend, a bodyguard? Bateman couldn't really decide which was worse, his mind was busy plotting what to do next and he even considered just leaving the club because this guy alone was literally ruining all his plans.

In the end, the risk took over and pushed Patrick to go around the corner to the private room where he would finally have a chance to get to know you better. At first, he considered ignoring the weird-looking man and pretending he was your friend or something. But as he approached the door, the guy turned out to be even bigger than he looked - he was much taller than Bateman and more muscular, which made Patrick feel uncomfortable. Sweating a little, Bateman started to say something, but the stranger just clasped his hands together and nodded, stepping aside, no longer blocking the way.

Okay, now it seemed so wrong, but it was too late to think about it.

Too-fucking-late.

It didn't take long for Patrick to enter the room, which was so dark because of the dim purple light. But that was enough for him to recognize your form sitting on the small plush couch on the other side of the room.

"Well, hello-hello," you murmured, stretching back in your seat, your voice enough to send shivers down his spine. "Aren't you curious?"

"Me?" Patrick hummed back before glancing at the small floor lamp next to you that made this room look so ominous and... intimidating. "Darling, you worked your ass off all night to get my attention. I'm flattered, really." Bateman chuckled and leaned against the wall, casually shoving his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored pants. "But what is this?" He grimaced and held out his hands. "Are you a psychic or something?"

This little outburst of his almost made you laugh. Almost.

"No, I'm not a psychic," you replied, sitting close to the edge of the couch, genuinely interested in how far this man could go. "I doubt you know who I am. That's not really important. What is important is... did you satisfy your obsession by coming here?"

Confused, Patrick narrowed his eyes, which were as dark as the surroundings. Your question left him confused and he was on the verge of hysteria. But it was he who came here, he wasn't forced to, but why did he feel so... trapped?

"Hey-hey, hold on," he chuckled nervously, not really expecting you to act like this. "You wanted me to follow you."

"Did I?"

"Yes," Bateman let out a muffled gasp, his boner still stiff and yearning for release like a caged fire. "Because our meeting that day was no coincidence...I knew it. This interest is mutual-"

"I don't even remember your name," you suddenly cut him off, crushing his ego like a freight train might crush a small car on its way. "I don't even remember if I asked you one."

Leaning against the back of the couch, you smiled wickedly as you noticed the small glimmer of weakness in his brown eyes—the most delicious delicacy you could find these days, the broken ego of the yuppie. But besides all that, this man was handsome, it was hard to deny that, but his tactics to break you down, his assertion of control and his attempts to overpower you were simply pathetic to you.

Embarrassed, Patrick nervously fixed his hair and then his red tie, his hands were visibly shaking and that prompted you to turn on another lamp, much brighter than the purple one—you wanted to see him blush in front of your eyes.

"But... I think I remember yours," Bateman added soon after, his cheeks truly flushed and the sight of it stirring something wild in your gut. "I hope you weren't upset about your dress."

"Oh, no, not at all," your smile grew wider and wider, and as you flew one leg over the other, you did not notice the way he was sizing you up. Literally taking in everything with his greedy eyes. "So what's your name?"

"It's Patrick, Patrick Bateman."

"Good," you really liked that name, it sounded solid, but in reality you didn't give a fuck. "So let me explain something to you, Patrick. I know that most guys like you only see women as fuckable pieces of meat," a short pause made the frown between his prominent eyebrows grow even deeper. "That since you're so rich, all women should fall to their knees."

Swallowing hard, Bateman stood still against the wall, his breath hitching in his chest, though he tried to look confident—in control of the situation—you couldn't blame him for being delusional. It amused you.

With a wry smile, the man finally decided to come closer, but not too close. "That's a valid point," he muttered, pacing since he couldn't stand in one place. "But not all men are like that."

You could barely hold back your laughter.

"Oh, I know," your voice rang in his head so loudly that he had to clench his teeth. "But the truth is, I personally don't care about money, about wealth—all of that is boring to me, simply because," you faked a thoughtful expression, as if it was such a complicated conclusion. "My daddy is going to be president one day. Everybody knows the White House belongs to him. That's all."

And that was such a painful blow to his gut, you knew it, you could smell his frustration. Whenever some smug bastard like Bateman tried to impress you with his 'high social status', it was such fun to see their arrogant faces turn into a look of shock as they were literally speechless. But still, they didn't know anything about you and your family. For example, today you literally ran away from the charity dinner to have some fun at the club with some of your 'friends', in other words, just a bunch of people who followed you like a tail just because you were rich and influential.

In the wake of the too-long silence between you two, Patrick let out a thoughtful hum, as if the cups on surreal weights were swaying from side to side inside his head, leaving the man perplexed in the complexity of his next decision.

"Do you think your father will protect you?" The man suddenly asked, and to be honest, the question was quite intriguing.

This was what you had expected from him.

Thrilled, you smiled and crossed your arms over your chest. "And you... do you think you can protect yourself?" Bateman furrowed his brow but didn't answer, pretending not to understand the point of your question. "Do you think you can protect yourself from your obsession?"

After a short pause, Patrick burst into nervous laughter before he could say anything in his defense. "You're really funny. I always said that a good sense of humor is an underestimated trait in women."

He thought he was so smart—smarter than all the men who had been in the same situation before him, trying to show their dominance, not really understanding that only strong individuals could admit their weaknesses—that was such a cliché in today's society. Too bad for him that he still assumed that such tricks could work on you.

You shifted your legs to open them a bit, pretending that the whole conversation bored you, so you yawned loudly and stretched your arms out so that your breasts were on full display for him to see. You wanted to ask him some complex questions that would roast his brains, but seeing him so tense made you want to spare him a little.

"What do you want out of life? You seem to have everything and yet you decided to follow me here. Why?"

Bateman grinned in return, his face still tinted red even though the purple light had turned it a dark pink. "I could ask you the same question."

Spreading your thighs even wider to make sure he could see your black panties, you watched him gulp, his Adam's apple twitching so tantalizingly that you decided to go further and rake the hem of your dress to tease Patrick even more, and when the man finally surrendered, his eyes glued to your barely covered slit, you knew the trap he was setting for you had backfired in the most unpredictable way.

"Is this what you want, Patrick?" You murmured, fluttering your eyelashes as the most innocent creature on this planet.

The man didn't answer at first, fighting the urge to just snap at you here and now, but something still held him back. "Huh, you're not an easy one, are you?"

With a sly grin, you ran one of your hands along your chest, 'accidentally' bruising your nipple before tugging on one of the straps of your dress to slide it down a bit, revealing one of your tits. And that scene left him drooling as he was about to grab his hard groin at any moment.

"I can give you what you want if you can offer me something... special," you crooned, continuing to play with your taut nipple, twisting it between your fingers. "What do you say?"

Stepping even closer, Bateman approached your seated form so that you could see the huge bulge in his pants—at least nature had given him something to make up for the lack of brains—you stopped yourself from staring at his crotch as he continued to speak.

"Well, if you decide to spend some time with me, you won't forget it, baby," he grinned and glanced at the seat next to you, but you immediately put your hand there, implying that it wouldn't work that way. "I promise you."

"Nah," you replied casually, letting go of your little tip but only pulling up the skirt of your dress until it was cramped around your waist. "This is so boring! Always the same! Tell me this," you looked up at him before holding out a hand and taking small steps with your fingers along his hard groin. "Have you ever considered exploring something else? Because... I can't imagine that you don't get bored of the same thing. All those easily accessible chicks with low expectations... See, I can have you today and tomorrow I won't even remember you because I'll have another guy... maybe even with the same name as you," you giggled as you felt him twitch under your touch, his breathing becoming more audible. The sexual tension in the air coaxed you to switch to a whisper. "So the thing is, you can impress me, but not with the things you used to impress the other women, but with... devotion, dedication and submission. Because I find that really exciting."

With that, you sprawled across the couch with your legs spread, your underwear slightly wet from the thrilling game the two of you were playing. Bateman hesitated, but then he lunged at you in quick motion, and you managed to lift your leg at the last moment, almost sinking the sharp stiletto into his chest.

Furious as ever, the man tried to pull your leg up. "You bitch," he hissed in desperation as the memories of sleepless nights jerking off to the thought of you washed over him like a waterfall. "You think I give a fuck about your old man?" Patrick clenched his jaw but still did not do anything that could hurt you. "I don't fucking care if your father is Ronald Reagan himself!"

Bateman was about to lose control at any moment, so you used that for your own advantage and kicked him in the chest with all your might, almost threatening him. "That guy out there is my bodyguard and he has a fuckin' gun, a real one! And believe me, he won't hesitate to rip your ass apart if I tell him to!"

Another shock wave went through Patrick's system, turning everything in his head upside down. Stunned and lost, the man gasped for breath, and nevertheless he seemed to believe your words—he took them seriously.

Your breathing was as rapid as his, as you were still lying on the soft furniture, but your look was a bit disheveled. "I'm telling you for the last time, we play by my rules, or we don't play at all," you declared, slowly sitting back down. "And it's never too late for you to leave...no one is holding you here, you know."

Inflamed and annoyed, Bateman gave you a scornful look before turning and heading for the door, only to pause beside it as a genius idea dawned in his mind. What if he could trick you into thinking you were in control? So that when you lost your attention, he would cut you to pieces? That was not bad, not bad at all. Patrick smiled to himself, so damn proud of his own smartness that he saw himself as nothing but an evil genius.

As soon as you noticed the change in his demeanor and the man came back to you in several large strides, you couldn't help but smile broadly, especially when you saw him loosen his tie and brush off some sweat from his forehead.

"So are we cool, baby?" You asked him playfully, and before he could answer, you stood up to face him, pulling down the top of your dress to expose your heavy breasts.

The way your tits bounced a bit as you undressed was delicious, Patrick was literally on the verge of collapsing if you decided to touch his dick again.

"Yeah," the man finally replied before licking his lips briskly. "We're cool."

"Good," you walked closer to him, your hands never ceasing to caress your heavy breasts. "Now get on your knees for me."

The boiling, unbearable rage coursed through his veins, but he submitted to your will, kneeling gracefully before you, his brown eyes consumed by the darkness of their pupils as you hovered over him, only to lean down and press the soft mounds of your tits against his beautiful face, now so flushed again.

"Suck them," you commanded, biting your lower lip as he looked up at you in utter disbelief. "You've probably waited too long for this. Am I right, Paddy? I will call you Paddy because I really like it."

As much as he wanted to say that he hated any distortion of his name, the man simply couldn't pronounce a word when you were standing over him, the weight of your breasts felt so heavenly on his face and it seemed that his will to struggle for his dignity had fallen to his most basic desires. And there was nothing Bateman could do about it.

With an almost primal growl, the man obediently took one of your hard nipples into his warm mouth and sucked on it so greedily that you thought he was going to bite a piece of your flesh, so you had to claw a little at his scalp to make him be gentle.

"God, you're so fucking thirty for my tits!" You whimpered softly, burying your hand deeper in his brown hair, which looked so messy and chaotic now.

Panting, you let him wrap his arms around your hips and pull you closer to his face, but then you pulled away only to have him latch his lips around your other nipple—Bateman used everything he had, his tongue, a little bit of his teeth—you were soaking wet and it seemed that what was going on was not enough.

As you pulled your swollen peak out of his mouth, Patrick let out a small but loud gasp of frustration. "Are they natural?"

Holy hell, that question alone almost made you fall to the floor, but instead you just smiled and looked down at your hard nipples, now wet with his saliva. "And what do you think?"

With that, you lifted the hem of your dress once more to place your leg on his shoulder, and the man wasted no time peppering your elegant leg with little kisses, nuzzling against your soft skin and moving higher until he grazed your inner thigh, but not daring to go any higher. Instead, he watched as you slipped your finger under the lace of your wet panties, and when you touched yourself with a lewd moan, Bateman had to cling to his hips as his orgasm loomed over him like an inevitable sin. Breathing heavily, you rubbed your swollen clit several times, covering your fingers with your flavor, before pushing them into his mouth and he gladly took them, sucking your taste off them and still yearning for more.

"Starved Paddy," you grinned, stroking his burning cheek as he pecked at your mound—his hot breath wafting around your core felt amazing. "You want me to use your face?"

Fidgeting on his knees, Patrick nodded and gently grabbed your ass, ready to dive between your legs and literally drink you dry—the wicked glint in his hazel eyes was a sight you would probably never forget. So Bateman was right about one thing—you would indeed remember him as an arrogant yuppie you had brought to his knees. And the feeling was absolutely delightful, even better than you expected.

"What are you waiting for?" Patrick's gruff voice brought you back to reality.

Oh man. Was this man really that desperate?

You hummed and tilted your head, admiring his completely ruined appearance and yet there was so much more to come. "I want you to beg me," you suddenly demanded, literally hooking your leg around his neck, feeling the smooth fabric of his collar brush against your skin. "Come on Paddy, beg for my pussy."

Bateman took a nervous gulp, his face so red and sweaty, and you knew he was struggling between his own desires and the bruised ego it would all cause if he just gave in. Was he willing to pay that price to get what he so desperately wanted? Out of all the women, Patrick was unlucky to set his eyes on you, thinking you would fall for him the moment you met, but now that he realized you were not that easy, it seemed to excite him even more. Well, at least you liked to think so.

Patrick's heavy breathing was so warm against your mound as he pressed his face into it, nuzzling it, then kissing it, licking your skin here and there until he finally raised his eyes to you, his parted lips so red and glistening with your wetness.

"Please," the man purred, reluctantly at first, the stray strands of his brown hair scattered across his tense forehead. "I... I want... that little pussy of yours."

"Uwu," you smiled in awe. "That's so sweet of you," without any further hesitation you moved your soaked panties to the side and presented yourself to him and he couldn't take his eyes off of you, licking his lips in anticipation as he watched the soaked material of your underwear brush against your swollen clit, your oozing folds looking so damn delicious. "Cleat it up, baby."

To your surprise, Patrick didn't snuggle up to you the moment you allowed him to—the man decided to start with small, kitten-like licks along your pussy lips, savoring the taste of you with soft groans and the vibration they caused felt electric.

"Mhmmm...yes," you moaned into your palm, not wanting anyone to hear you, even though the music was quite loud. "Just like that...you're such a good boy."

As time went on, Bateman's actions became bolder as he watched your reaction all the time and the sight of him on his knees looking up at you was so fucking hot. The red tie was swung carelessly to the side and now lay on his shoulder as you grinded on his face, getting more and more heated up, and at one point you heard him moaning into your cunt as you pulled on his hair pretty hard. But you didn't care. And you couldn't really care, not when his mouth felt so good on you, when he sucked your little tip with inhuman ferocity, leaving out slurping sounds, and the next second he was already lapping at your cunt like a dog. And his tongue, fuck, his tongue was made for that.

"Oh-fuck," you cursed, pushing his face closer between your legs and holding him by the back of his head. "You know how to go down on a woman...do you like the taste, Paddy?"

Desperately gasping for air, Patrick tilted his head back for a moment with his eyes closed tightly—his whole look was so fucking ruined and messy—Bateman was glorious in his submission, though he would probably never admit it.

"Yes," he breathed out, licking his wet lips, catching the beads of your juices with his tongue. "I like it."

With these words the man dipped between your thighs again and this time you knew that you couldn't hold back any longer as the tight knot in your core pulsed like a bomb. And Patrick could tell by the way you clung to his head, leaning on his shoulder as your legs began to tremble, and as you climaxed he was still swirling his tongue around your feverish clit to prolong your bliss, not really realizing that he was about to explode as well. But what could he do? Bateman held himself back for too long, and as he lived through your orgasm with you, the man suddenly froze and grabbed your ass with all his might, as if you were his lifeline. It was a fucking disaster, he knew it, but he couldn't stop himself from cumming in his pants, still on his knees.

The musky, intoxicating smell of sex filled the small room, making it difficult for both of you to come to your senses, but eventually you were the first to push him away from you as the last aftershock of your orgasm faded. On your weak legs, you stepped away from the kneeling man, who didn't move as if chained to the floor, but that didn't bother you anymore. You straightened your dress and ran a hand over your slightly sweaty face before you snuggled back into the couch.

Utterly humiliated, Patrick tried to clear his mind to solve the fucking problem he had gotten himself into—he still had a designer handkerchief somewhere, and luckily his jacket was quite long, so he could hide his wet pants. But the thought of what had just happened could never be erased from his mind.

Degraded, disgusted and completely abashed. That was how he felt.

"So," you suddenly began to speak, breaking the silence. "I hope you satisfied your obsession with me a little."

Fumbling for the pack of cigarettes in your purse, you frowned when the man either didn't move or didn't say anything. It was getting on your nerves, but you weren't going to tell the bodyguard to throw Patrick out—there was something oddly appealing about the fact that Bateman still couldn't pull himself together after everything was over.

"You'd better leave before you make trouble for both of us," you added in a stern voice, but then you smiled at your viscous idea and the next second you were already pulling down your panties to throw them in Patrick's face. "Here, so you have something to jerk off with."

But the man didn't even react when your wet underwear hit his tense face—he just watched it fall indifferently, only to take it later and hide it in his jacket pocket. And his pettiness was both breathtaking and frightening. Yet you didn't know about the chained beast inside of him that Bateman was somehow holding back, but still, the images of him stabbing you with the fucking stiletto of your shoe were so vivid. But if he was going to kill you here and now, what was the point of the game?

Avoiding looking in your direction, Patrick could only say: "When can I see you again?"

Again?

Shocked, you grinned, but then looked at him with feigned concern. "Are you crazy? Was that not enough for you?"

"Was it... enough for you?" He muttered back and slowly started to get up, surreptitiously searching for the handkerchief.

You took a moment to consider this sudden...proposal? Because to you, his words sounded like a business deal, and that was kind of interesting. "Did you say you work on Wall Street?"

"I didn't say that," he replied, pressing a soft piece of cloth to his flustered face. "But I really work on Wall Street."

With that, Bateman handed you his business card, and when you looked at it, you saw the text Pierce & Pierce printed in a nice font. "Pierce & Pierce? Never heard of it."

Frowning, Patrick wanted to say something, but then he felt the slipperiness between his legs—it felt so fucking disgusting that he wanted to rip off his clothes and go naked, because it would be better than that.

"You know, my father worked on Wall Street too," you muttered thoughtfully. "Before one day he decided to become a fucking politician. My mother was so crazy in love with him that she forgave him everything and now... it all ended with my dear daddy having a new young wife. A model or something," the man listened to you without blinking. "This world sucks so much!" You giggled hysterically and waved your hands in despair. "Listen, if one day I don't know what to do... I'll call you. Until then, don't even try to find me. Do you hear me, Paddy?"

Bateman couldn't remember how he left the private room, how he found his way to the bathroom and waited for everyone to leave so he could clean up a little. The man didn't feel comfortable in his own skin anymore, he could barely keep himself from smashing the mirror with his fist every time he looked at his reflection. And all because he was afraid—afraid to admit that he might like the things you were doing to him. It was contagious to his ego and the perfectly curated concept of the ultimate yuppie he always wanted to be. But what could he do now when his body betrayed him?

There was no escape, only agony.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

#american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x you #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale x reader #patrick bateman reader #christian bale #patrick bateman imagines

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gegewrites · 2 years ago

Text

Dr.house- working after hours. (Smut)

Currently obsessed with this man, he’s been in my dreams for the past 4 days. Barely edited. I’m not a Med student, I’m a film kid. So my two hours of spotty research are prob not all that right.

5/21/23

Your pov-

It was about twelve am, maybe even one. I was sitting in Dr.Houses office. Seated directly in his chair, my elbows resting on the glass top desk, my chin sitting on top of my hands as I looked down at the file in front of me.

Our current patient, Craig Sanders, forty-five, male. He travels often for work. Earlier today he had a heart attack at home, in the garage. Pronounced dead for 7 minutes. Gotta be some kind of record. He’s loosing vision and feeling in his limbs, loss of memory but none of it stays. It comes and goes.

Because I had clinic duty today I didn’t get to fully focus on the patient, only for the beginning. I got to view the scans quickly but was paged to the clinic, so now I’m catching up.

I didn’t look up when the glass door opened, it knew it was house because who else would just walk into a office that has its blinds closed, let alone at 1 am.

“In my chair, now I really can’t ignore you.” He commented, I gave a light scoff as ket my eyes at the paper, not really reading it, just thinking,”shouldn’t you be home?”

“Shouldn’t you?” I looked up at him. he was standing in front of the desk, leaning on his left leg, his grip of his cane shifting, he gazed down at the file in front of me.

“Touché.” He stood for a few seconds longer before we walked away. I didn’t watch him, but I heard his bottle of whiskey open as he poured it into a glass.

“How much sense does this case make to you?” I asked, leaning back in the chair, we was leaning against the desk behind me glass in hand,”his heart is finally semi stable, so It’s not having sn effect of anything at the moment, but , his brains loosing funct-“

“I think I’d be able to think better if you got out of my chair, hiked that pretty skirt up, and sat down on me.” He clicked his tongue,”Should really get my brain going.”

I was kind of taken by surprise, house and I have fucked more times then you can count on one hand. In The Broom closets, his car, his house, on his piano, but never in his office.

I knew from the moment I walked into the office today this skirt was gonna get him. pencil skirt, stopped just above my knees. A dark grey so you could see any lines, which he didn’t. I caught him looking on more then one occasion.

Earlier/11 am-

Houses Pov-

My grip on the head of my cane shifted as I watched (l/n) write on the board. Her writing on the board was fine, she’s been here for nine years, she knows what she’s doing and she picked up this patient. But, I couldn’t keep my eyes in the board or my attention on foreman, Cameron, or chase. No, my eyes and brain were more focused on her ass. I’d occasionally look the board or around to cover it but I kept getting pulled back.

Pencil skirt, Dark grey, tight…and short.

It’s not like she hasn’t worn pencil skirts before, I’ve seen her with one hiked up around her waist as she gets it from behind. first “date” two years ago actually. Wine Red. Nice color on her.

You see this one, this one was different. usually you can see panty lines under tight clothing like dresses or skirts, she’s usually got a slight thong line, and I’ve been looking for it.

“What do you think?” I was taken out by (l/n) question. I looked at her, hands sturdily placed in her hips, and I looked at the white board.

Memory loss, weakened heart muscles, low blood cell count, numbness in fingers and toes, and loss of eye sight, intermittently.

Those were just the main ones.

“EKG, stress test, keep an eye on his ECGs.” I stood up,” get all the cardiac makers. Dementia, Alzheimer’s, and multiple sclerosis. Let’s start there.” They didn’t move, just looked at me,”move, I have to get to the clinic or Cuddy will have my balls.”

“Alright.” Foreman said as he got up from his chair, Cameron and chase followed. (l/n) stuck around for a bit and looked at the board before she followed.

“Hey.” I called to catch her attention, she stopped and looked at me,”that new?”

“What?”

“The skirt, it’s nice.” I let my eyes fall from her face to her hips, where her black button up was tucked in. She grabbed her white coat from the chair at the end of the table.

“Thank you.” She smiled as she turned around,”I saw you looking the whole time,” she started to walk away,”we all saw.”

“Hard not too, especially when it seems like youre not wearing anything under it.” I followed her into my office, she was already at the open door.

“I am, it’s just thin.”

Now-

Your pov-

“Perfect, just Fuckin perfect.” He groaned, relaxed into the rolling chair, his hands placed on my waist. His finger tips pressed in and out of my clothed skin. My pussy was clenched around his cock, buried inside of me as I was sitting tightly on his lap. My thong moved to the side. The record player was on, playing one of his blues records, mainly instrumental.

He popped two of his Vicodin right before he yanked up my skirt, he was definitely enjoying all of this right now. The door wasn’t locked, but the blinds were closed. A little risky considering Wilson is still around, his wife is gonna be mad when he gets home but he’s got reports to do.

I went to rock my hips to get some pleasure but his grip stopped me.

“Greg.” I sighed out and he hummed, pressing his chest against my back.

“Just sit, go over the information.” His hands ran up my shirt, over my breasts as he started unbuttoning it, exposing my skin and black bra. His lips kissed my neck, his beard tickling my skin as he untucked my shirt from my skirt,”you changed a hair product.”

“My conditioner.” I answered as I switched between tests, comparing and contrasting, trying to make things fit.

He stopped talking after that, running his hands up and down my sides, grazing over fabric and my skin.

I drowned out into the music and the feeling of his cock deep inside me, the littlest shift and he’s rubbing into my gspot. He was relaxed back into the chair, glass of whiskey in his hand as the other held onto my waist.

I looked over to the light board, scans of his heart and brain trying to pick it apart from where I was seated…at least I was. I stopped paying attention when I felt his hand slip from my waist, down to my thigh. His middle finger slipped through my lips and started slowly rubbing my clit in a circular motion.

“Please don’t stop.” I begged out in a breath.

“But what’s the fun in that?” He leaned forward, putting his glass in the desk while making sure he was pressed firmly inside me, making a pitiful whimper leave my mouth,”look at his temporal and parietal lobe in the lateral view,” he turned the chair, I grabbed onto the arms,” along with his cerebellum in the inferior view. Look hard.”

“It’s dying, we know that.” My voice had a slight shiver to it, my legs were also starting to tremble, he still hasn’t stopped rubbing my clit.

“Why?” He started rubbing harder, I was getting wetter, my walls fluttering around him, I stayed nearly silent, besides the small gasps which were starting to turn into moans,”he’s started loosing control of his limbs, impulsive reflex’s cause by the brain, loss of vision intermittently, why?”

“Brain death?” My eyes shot from the lateral view to his inferior view,”His brain stem…he had a heart attack a-alone….” My breathing became deeper,”took the family two minutes to get to him, another five before the para-Ah fuck- medics came.” I answered,”the brain lost oxygen when his heart stopped.”

“Alright, keep going.” He rocked his hips up into me, being extra sure to use his good leg only. Now I was feeling it, my hips started rocking down onto him, his finger was moving fast and hard, I could feel my mind slipping from me.

“There’s no-othing we can do.” I kept the moan that was trying to escape out, wouldve felt wrong saying it with a moan.

“Sure it’s brain death?”

“Yes greg.” My eyes closed on their own, my back arched slightly. He stopped moving, completely,”fuck, come on.” He grabbed into my waist, keeping me still.

“You wanna cum, then give me the right answer, his brain is going to die if you don’t. Key word, going. It hasn’t yet.” He spoke close to my ear,”this is why clinic duty sucks, you get lost in the progress of a patient.”

“What?”

“He had a heart attack, we know that. The heart attack is not closely connected to this, so get that out of your head.” His tone was stern,”he’s slowly declining at the moment, recount his history, what does he do for work?” My eyes shifted around as I thought,”is your brain going dead by how deep my cock is inside of you? Should I take it out? Let you think?”

“No!” I yelped out,” he travels for business but he gets his shots.”

“Not all.” He reached to the desk and then handed me the folder whilst pulling me flush against his chest, his palm pressed to my lower stomach as I flipped through to find his travel history,”were was he a few months ago?”

“Mexico.”

“What vaccine is he missing?”

“I don’t know.”

“He got sick in Mexico, had what seemed like a cold, so he was required to get a flu vaccine by his work. It’s not on the list he didn’t feel like he needed to list it.” I blinked a few times.

“So it’s from the vaccine?” The recorded fades out and started playing a new song. He grabbed his glass of whiskey.

“Ding ding.” He threw back the rest of the glass and put it on the desk,” AMAN, found mostly in children. It causing damage to the nerve fibers, which instead of staying in his limbs, progressed to his brain-“

“Which was set off by the heart attack? Being dead for that amount of time set off his immune system?” He rolled his hips into me.

“What do we have to do?” He took the file from me and put it back on the desk,”we don’t act within the next 2 hours, he’s gonna die”.

“His brain is being paralyzed which is mimicking it dying,.plasmapheresis or IVIG, remove the antibodies from the blood.” His finger went back to my clit, regaining the speed and pressure from before.

“Perfect.” He started moving my hips so I started moving them faster, rocking up and down,”oh fuck.”

It felt like electricity was shooting up my spine, simply having his cock inside me gets me so worked up. Moans left my mouth with no warning or control. Slick coated the inside of my thighs and the sounds coming from where we were connected were obscene, but they turned me on even more.

“Gotta start doin’ this to you more, so fucking wet.” He groaned,”Fuckin squeezing me,”

I couldn’t respond, just nodded quickly while ecstasy started taking over my body, my nerves felt like they were on fire. I just kept riding him , my brain focused on finally reaching my climax.

“Greg, m’ close.” I sighed out and he let out a throaty groan. his breathing became a bit faster and so did my movements.

“I can feel it.” His index finger joined his middle finger as he rubbed my clit harshly and quickly,”I know you’re there so just let go. Cum all over my Fuckin cock like I know you want to.”

“Perfect!” I moaned out as my muscles tightened, my grip on the arms of the chair were tight, knuckles turning white. I threw my head back, my eyes were clamped shut, my movements started slowly so he took hold of my hips and kept my pace for me, even with the lack of pleasure to clit, my orgasm was still running through me.

I felt his cock start twitching, his groans becoming louder and more noticeable.

“Hope you took the pill this morning.” He commented, his nails digging into my skin as he finally came. Spilling deep inside of me, keeping most of his cock inside as he filled me up.

Soon he stopped moving me, kept me sat on his lap as his arms wrapped around my waist, holding his hands together as I grabbed one of his wrists. We were both catching our breath in the dim lit office. My body had a tremble to it, and he placed a kiss against my shoulder.

“I’d love to sit here and savor the feeling of your amazing pussy, but I have to clear a businessman’s blood so his brain can start working again.”

I let out a sigh as I shakily got off of him, his cock slid out of me and immediately I felt his cum drip down the inside of my thighs. I grabbed the edge of the desk as he fixed my thong and pulled my skirt back down. I turned around and leaned against the desk as he stood up fixing his boxers and pants.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he grabbed his cane and started walking away,”we’ll go to my house tonight.”

He left me with that, the door closed behind him and he walked away to the patients room. I sat down in the chair, my thighs pressing together and my head resting on the head of the chair. I don’t think working after hours is gonna be such a bad thing anymore.

#gegewrites #fanfiction #smut writer #dr. house #greg house x reader #greg house #dr.house fanfic #greg house smut #dr house smut #gregory house #house md smut #house md

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