#captive cw

[writtenbyariavargas]

Febuwhump 2025

Day 6 - Forced to Stay Awake

cw/tw - abduction, captive, torture

When was the last time I really slept? I asked myself, feeling how tired my eyes were. I didn’t remember more than a few minutes of dozing every so often. I yawned deeply and curled into myself as best as I could with one arm shackled to a bedpost, hoping that I could get some more shut eye. The state I was in, I knew it would be only a matter of time before I began to hallucinate from sleep deprivation. It’d happened before, but never in this kind of situation. This time, it wasn’t from stress or anything. No, I was somewhere I didn’t know and hadn’t even seen my captor yet. If I was honest with myself, I didn’t even know how long it had been since I woke up in this dark, dingy room. I knew days had to have passed, but nothing really told me how many had.

Each time I could feel myself begin to sleep, a high-pitched siren played for a few moments to wake me back up. I felt my eyes close from exhaustion, and my tired mind began to relax until that sound pulled me from the almost dozed state I was in. I could feel the frustration as tears welled in my eyes. I didn’t know why this was happening to me. I didn’t understand it.

What felt like days seemed to pass while I dozed, was woken up, then fell back into a light sleep over and over again. I was so tired, to the point that I couldn’t even sit up in the bed. My body was weak, and if it wasn’t for the small meals that were slid into the room, I was sure I would have starved.

I began to slide into unconsciousness again. This time was different, though. I didn’t hear a siren or anything. I felt myself finally able to get into more than just a really light sleep. As soon as the blackness of sweet oblivious came to me, something cold and wet drenched me. I cried out in fear, indignation, and surprise. My voice was hoarse from disuse, and I shivered. Dear gods, was I cold, so cold. I heard footsteps retreating from the room before the door slammed shut once more.

I shivered violently, shaking with tears streaming down my face. I couldn’t sleep. It was all I needed, all I wanted. I just needed to sleep, and yet someone wasn’t allowing it.

“Please… please let me sleep… please… I’m begging you… I will do anything…” I whimpered, trying to curl into myself more in order to get warm. It was no use. No one responded, and I lay there, freezing from whatever was dumped over my prone body. Maybe this time… maybe if I shut my eyes again I’ll just pass out… I thought, knowing that it wasn’t going to happen. I would be stopped from sleeping until this person was done or got bored with it. Would things get worse when that happened?

[whump-in-the-closet]

The light fades from a characters eyes in five stages

Denial. This isn’t real. You want me on my knees? I mean, if you ask nicely.

No, I’m not apologizing, I didn’t do anything wrong—

Forced to their knees anyway.

Anger. Snapping at the hands that tie them down.

Resist. Resist. Resist. This isn’t right.

Blood on the floor, iron-bitter blood in their mouth, knocked to the floor. Up again. Back down.

Fuck you, you’d have to kill me to shut me up—

Bargaining. If I lick your boots will you give me my clothes back?

If I stay still, can I please sleep tonight?

Please?

They just have to stay strong. Stay alive. Until their friends come.

— god, that’s too far— you can’t make me— anything else? I’ll do anything—

Funny, they thought they had a say in their choices.

Depression.

….

….

They aren’t coming

….

….

No more screaming.

The guards realize they can get away with a lot more when they’re dealing with the quiet prisoner.

Doesn’t matter.

Acceptance. Whatever you say. Sir.

They never had a choice to begin with. Fated to fall from the moment it started. The only thing they could control was how long it took.

It took a while.

But now?

Yes, sir. Immediate.

[contamination-zone]

Giving him a little kissy on the forehead :-]

[ladybyakuya]

| JAZZ & JASMINE + SYLUS. 

+cw. — fem!(captive)reader, fluff, teasing, humor, sexual tension, highly suggestive.

+wc. — 0.6k 

+syn.— sylus makes an attempt to soothe you in his own way as your suffer from a nightmare.

+notes. —sorry but his flirt game is so bad that it makes me cry. thnaks to sam ( @hayatoseyepatch ) for beta reading this piece. | redirect to blog navigation.

You have been tossing and turning in bed yet Sylus made sure not to keep up the pin-drop silence you needed to rest, to get used to your surroundings. Sometimes it is amusing given how sensitive you are to him but apparently, not now. 

You wake up in a frenzy feeling the thumping of your heart inside your ears, eyes wide open like it has not slept for a while. The first thing you see is Sylus hovering above you. “Get off me,” you try to swat him away but he does not move a bit but the back of his fingers tilts his face under the influence.  “What did you do now?” You ask but all you receive is a raise of one of his eyebrows.

“Relax.” He walks around the bed. Your eyes follow him as he halts, one of his hands still tucked behind his back. Is he hiding something? He is standing at the foot of the bed, now with both of his arms neatly tucked behind his back. You scoot away towards the head side. It puts a smile on his face. There you are, as lively as ever. Not a moment passes by when you are not scared of him or resisting him. He walks around the bed stilling as he comes near the bedside table. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Sylus finally reveals what he is holding behind his back “Here.”

Eyes embedded with ruby-like pupils grew linear as you posed a question while staring at the bouquet of Jasmine. “You got me flowers?” You lean a little closer as he holds the bouquet. No. It doesn’t smell suspicious. It smells like Jasmine indeed. 

“Why you don’t like it?” You raise your eyes at him, lips forming a pout. Your attention falls on his pecs and muscles. He is in his night robe which means either he was sleeping or working. He grows impatient as you do not take the bouquet away from his hands so he keeps it in the water-filled vase.

“Why’re you awake?”  you ask so many questions. Ever heard of, “Curiosity killed the cat.”

Sylus looks at you, inspecting, and then jocks down in a flash almost closing the gap between you and him. “You see, his fisted hands rest on the mattress of the bed creating dips, I’m a creature of the night.” Is he even wearing anything underneath that loosely tied robe?

You lean closer. “Like a vampire or something ?” You whisper lest if someone hears.

His eyes trail off to your slightly parted lips while he wets his bottom lip. “Wanna find out? I could be something deadlier. . . ” Sylus notices as you swallow. Why are you so afraid of him? What did he ever do to you, huh?

“Good God.I’m just teasing. Relax.”He moves away from you turning around and pressing the bridge of his nose. This is not going anywhere. But you beg to differ.

“You’re going to sleep?” Sylus turns his head towards you and seeing you sitting at the edge of the bed surprises him, gives him a little hope so he follows it.

“Oh, how can I when someone else has occupied my bed.” Aah! perhaps not that fast.

“Like it's my fault as you lose your sleep,” you tartly reply looking away. Apparently, you are but he will get to that later.

He lets out a chuckle and sits on the lounge chair nearby crossing his legs. You are forced to rake your eyes away because you are sure that he is not wearing anything else except that night robe. “I’m not going anywhere. Go to sleep.” He takes the book and his specs from his reading table.

Like hell, you can now.  

[redd956]

Characters Holding Each Other In Whump

This is my demand to see more characters holding each other in whump, but also my opportunity to go on about characters holding each other in whump.

I need more of it, it's so warm, and great when it's characters dependent and safe to one another. Or it's creepy and harrowing when it's between whumper and anything.

I need more of

Caretaker finally reaching whumpee, and pulling them to their chest. Now that they are within each other's arms Caretaker is not letting go.

Multiple whumpees who cannot see each other directly, but hear their voices and reach their hands just far enough to feel each other's touch. Maybe they're reaching out between cell bars, perhaps there's a hole in the walls of an enclosure, or an open slot to a lab. Either way, they've found a hand to hold.

A distraught whumpee crawling over to their only friend, and waiting to be pulled into someone's lap.

When a known threat (whumper) approaches and a protective character pulls another into their grasp to shield them.

Two shivering characters latched onto each other, removing as much space between themselves as possible. After all, what if someone separates them again?

Whumper holding whumpee from behind, swaying them back and forth, listening to the subtle sounds of fright.

Two words: Bridal Carry. Whumpee nuzzling their face into caretaker's chest for bonus points. For extra bonus points, latching onto to caretaker's clothing despite being carried.

Whumpee trying to escape from a whumper they've pummeled thoroughly, only for the half-conscious whumper to grab whumpee one last time. Is it a pleading? A don't go? Or just a final act of terror?

Caretaker sitting on the bed next to a whumpee, and bringing them into their grasp as they whimper.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I think Color is a very good storyteller and making stories up on the spot. This what he and Gaster often did to try and stay sane in the Void, and keep their minds active.

They also tried to retell past memories, to try and remember who they are and not forget, but it got harder with time; details kept getting changed and forgotten, and these moments often made Color’s paranoia worse—and of course he’d lash out and take out on Gaster.

[gothpossums]

hostage

[toxicanonymity]

Did he leave without deadbolting the basement door? You weren't going to risk it, until the black phone rang. "Go," the voice urged you. "NOW." You dropped the phone and scrambled up the stairs. As you neared the door, you paused, heart pounding in your ears. It was cracked open. You pushed near the hinge, and the swing of it gradually revealed a shadow on the kitchen floor. Your stomach turned as the unmistakable horns took shape. Your face burned at your stupidity, and your eyes stang. "It's okay, kitty," he cooed. "C'mere." Obediently, you crawled toward the chair where he had patiently awaited your betrayal. "I'm not mad," he reassured you. "Just disappointed." You sat back on your heels to look at him. He tilted his head, then a deafening snap of leather made you jump.

[versocanibal]

⠀⠀ ▂▃ ︧$hitㅤ.. ⎯⎯مرًبا 💀🔪 ❘❙❚❙

[vintagewildlife]

Mating snails By: Fredric L. Frye From: Captive Invertebrates 1992

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Vampirism would never be Voldemort’s preferred form of existence, but needs must.

It’s unfortunate that the Ministry seized his body for examination instead of burying him – or even putting his corpse on display, he merits at least that much. But alas, when his back-up plan finally kicks in (well, the horcruxes were his initial back-up plan, but hardly the only one. One can never be too careful when it comes to ensuring one’s continued survival), he’s on an examination table surrounded by Aurors and Unspeakables. Not ideal for making his escape, especially when he’s weak and disoriented.

He manages to latch onto the nearest mage and drink enough of their blood to mount a defence and get to the exit, but being a vampire is different enough that he’s taken down before he makes it more than two steps through the door. How humiliating.

So now, here he is, tucked somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry with guards posted just out of sight, interrogated frequently on such matters as who his Death Eaters are, the extent of his crimes, what he knows (far more than these dunderheads can comprehend), and on and on. He gives them nothing, unless it doesn’t matter anymore and will just frustrate them to know. Then he provides more detail than they would ever want. Their methods of information extraction are laughable, anyway.

They only try to starve him to death once. After he rips through the wards and bars containing him and drains one of his guards dry, they don’t try it again. Now, they bring him some kind of blood in pouches once every few days. It sustains him, but that’s about all that can be said for it. He doesn’t feel hungry, per se, but too long without blood makes a headache pound behind his eyes and worsens his already irascible nature.

He’s certain he could escape this cell if he wanted to, but it’s taking him far longer to adapt to being a vampire than he had expected. His magic functions differently, his senses are heightened and inconsistent, and he’s unsure what his reaction to sunlight will be. (Or even regular indoor lighting – it’s kept quite dim in this corridor.) He’s willing to be patient and make his move when the time is right.

(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

It’s during one of the Minister’s occasional visits – as though he has any respect for the position and will give up his secrets more easily – that he appreciates his intensified sense of smell for the first time.

(His guards could stand to brush up on their cleaning charms. They don’t appreciate it when he shares this knowledge with them.)

It’s enticing, the fragrance, and strong enough that it almost feels visible, wafting down the corridor from the open door. He feels himself drawn to the scent, only stopping when he hits the bars. It takes a fair bit of self-control to resist pulling them apart and pursuing the delicious smell. “Who walked by just now?”

“That isn’t of any concern to you,” Shacklebolt says flatly.

One of the Aurors snaps, “We’re asking the que–”

“Bring them here,” Voldemort commands. “Or we’ll find out exactly how well these new wards will hold up against me.”

His ability to enthral the Aurors guarding him might be limited by the amulets they wear, but the fact that it still affects them at all seems to terrify them more. One looks to the Minister, hands shaking; he races off once he gets the nod.

Shacklebolt attempts to stare him down, which would be more impressive if he’d been able to do it before Voldemort had his metaphorical wings clipped. Once he realises Voldemort has no intention of engaging in a childish staring contest, the other man chats quietly with the remaining guards.

The Auror returns, looking pale and pinched. “Er, Minister Shacklebolt…”

“Who is it?”

The Auror slides his eyes over to Voldemort before returning to meet the Minister’s gaze and shaking his head.

The look is telling. He makes an educated guess and calls out, “Harry Potter.”

After a brief pause, the tense, angry silence is shattered by the thud of footsteps rapidly approaching before the boy skids to a stop before Voldemort’s cell, panting for breath and looking horrified and enraged by what he finds.

“What the hell is he doing here–”

“Harry, wait–”

“He’s alive?!”

“Let’s go talk about this–”

“Hello again, Harry Potter,” Voldemort cuts in. “So kind of you to finally visit me.”

“How in Merlin’s name did you survive?” Potter shouts, sounding a touch hysterical.

“Come closer and I’ll tell you.” A rather transparent ploy, but the scent of the boy’s blood has his head reeling. And, well, Potter has never needed a sophisticated touch to lure him in.

Shacklebolt snarls at him and quickly raises the silencing barrier that prevents him from being heard beyond the walls of his cell. What a pity.

He says, “I’ll see you soon,” ensuring his mouth moves deliberately enough for the message to get through even if it can’t be heard. Potter’s brows furrow at him, eyes aflame, before he follows the Minister down the corridor, irately demanding to know everything.

No matter. If Shacklebolt thinks Potter won’t find a way back here, he doesn’t know the boy at all.

(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

It takes four days before Potter skulks out of the shadows around Voldemort’s cell. 

Voldemort knows from the moment he enters the corridor, even if he can’t see the boy getting closer. Wild, black hair and a lumpy jumper emerge from under an invisibility cloak directly in front of his cell, just inside the sound barrier. Clever boy.

“Come now, you’re not afraid of me, are you?” he taunts. “I’m no danger to you from in here. You can step closer.”

A vampire’s power of suggestion works just as well as the Imperius does against Potter. He’d expected it, but the boy’s mental resilience remains irritating.

“Did you seriously think that would work?” Potter says incredulously.

“I have so little entertainment, I’m not in a position to be picky,” he mockingly laments. “In any case, congratulations. You’ve exceeded my admittedly low expectations of you.”

“Tosser,” the boy mutters, before demanding, “What are you doing here?”

He raises a judgemental, nonexistent eyebrow. “Well, when the Ministry offered me room and board in perpetuity for the low cost of my freedom and privacy, how could I refuse?”

If looks could kill, Potter might actually have a chance at putting him in the ground permanently. “You know that’s not what I was asking,” he snaps. “How are you here, alive?”

Voldemort observes the boy for a moment. Deep bruises under his eyes, still too skinny – no one at home to notice if he goes missing.

“I propose a trade,” he says, moving ever so slowly closer towards the bars. “I have something you want, and you have something I want. Surely we can come to a mutually satisfying agreement.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” Potter grits. 

“Isn’t it obvious? Your curiosity, Harry Potter, would put the proverbial cat to shame. You have questions.” Voldemort reaches out and wraps a hand around one of the bars. “And I have answers, if you’re willing to barter for them.”

Potter considers this, looking torn. Voldemort is confident the boy's need to know will win out. And he's correct.

“What do you want?”

“Something that I am certain will answer at least one of your questions. Come closer and you’ll find out.”

That nets him an unimpressed look. “I’m not stupid, you know,” Potter says. 

“No, you aren’t, but you are rather gullible at times,” he replies with a grin. 

“You are such a prick,” the boy says, almost wonderingly. “Fine. How are you alive? I saw you die. I checked your pulse, even.”

“You want to know how I am alive,” he says mysteriously. “How do you know that I am?”

Potter gives him a flat look. “Well, the whole walking and talking thing kind of gave it away.”

“Animate and alive are two different things,” he corrects.

“You pedantic–” the boy begins cursing, before pausing and considering the words more closely. Voldemort smiles and ensures his fangs are visible. “You’re a vampire,” Potter concludes quietly. 

“Thirty points to Gryffindor,” Voldemort mocks.

Potter is still staring at him, and he can almost see the dots connecting in the other’s mind. “What you want is the answer… You want my blood?!”

“Oh, well done, Harry Potter. We’ll make a scholar of you yet.”

“Absolutely not,” Potter says firmly. “You really must think I’m stupid, if you think I’d let you bite me.”

“Where’s your sense of fairness? I’ve answered some of your questions, but you won’t keep up your end of the bargain?”

“You want to kill me!”

“Not anymore,” he maybe-lies. He’s fairly certain the prophecy lost its relevance once he died at Hogwarts. If so, he’s not particularly fussed about what happens to the boy now.

Potter shouts, indignantly, “Like I’d believe that!”

And, well, he can’t blame Potter for his scepticism. He has spent the better part of eighteen years repeatedly attempting to kill the boy. But that’s neither here nor there.

“You made a trade with me,” he reminds the boy. “It’s hardly my fault that you failed to clarify the terms of the deal beforehand.”

“Fucking…” Potter tugs on his hair, looking frustrated. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to kill me.”

Voldemort gives him an indulgent look. “I swear.”

“I can’t believe this…” the boy mutters. “How…?”

“Give me your hand.” He’s close; he’s so close…

Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and giving Voldemort a warning look, Potter slowly slides his left hand between the bars. Voldemort pulls the boy’s wrist towards his mouth, ignoring the wary glare boring into the side of his head, and bites down.

Finally.

He feels like he’s been starving for years – a feeling made all the more intolerable by the complete lack of hunger he’s felt since his bodily resurrection. Slaking his thirst for the first time is revelatory – if he’ll experience this transcendent feeling each time he drinks, he finally understands why vampires accept the troublesome aspects of their nature.

He drinks deep, revelling in the euphoria coursing through his veins. On the periphery of his awareness, he can hear the boy making noise, but the wards will prevent the sounds from escaping. He feels Potter’s other hand pushing at his shoulder, his face, and wonders whether he should kill the boy here and now.

But he’s not so lost in bloodlust that he forgets how disappointing the Auror was when he’d drank from her. The taste of her blood was barely different from the blood bags they give him. Perhaps, much like the scent of his blood is rare, the intoxicating taste of Potter’s blood is equally uncommon. He can survive with the blood of others, but…

Existence is so much more enjoyable with little luxuries to break up the monotony.

So he stops before the boy’s blood levels fall dangerously low. Potter will even be able to walk out of here, if a little unsteadily. If this becomes a regular thing (and he hopes it will, until he makes his escape and can steal the boy away to feed on as he pleases), he’ll have to recommend Potter bring blood replenishers.

He floats back down to earth slowly, enjoying the warm, effervescent feeling filling his body and mind. When he opens his eyes again, he sees he’s not the only one affected.

Potter is leaning heavily against the bars, left arm limply hanging from Voldemort’s grasp, and panting like he can’t catch his breath. His face is flushed – though the unflushed sections of skin are decidedly paler than usual – and his body keeps twitching. Perhaps he’d taken too much blood. Or the boy is having an adverse reaction.

Voldemort licks the bite wound to help speed the healing – can’t have his portable meal bleeding out, after all. As his tongue slides across the boy’s wrist, Potter whimpers. Needily.

Hmm.

That recontextualizes the boy’s other physical cues.

“Why Harry, did you enjoy that?” he asks, exhaling an unnecessary breath over the damp flesh of Potter’s wrist. A low, soft moan and a glassy-eyed glare are his only response.

This could be entertaining.

He passes Potter’s hand back through the bars and watches the boy straighten up on wobbly legs. 

“May I offer some assistance–”

“No!” Potter gasps, pushing away from the bars, though his hand remains firmly gripped around one to hold himself up.

“Very well. I appear to have taken more than was fair for the questions you asked, and you’re in no state to ask any more at the moment,” Voldemort says smugly. “I’ll be sure to answer a few extra queries for you next time in exchange.”

“Next time,” Potter says, a slight rasp to his voice. From the frown on his face he means it to come out angrily, but the breathiness makes it sound more like a promise.

Voldemort reaches through the bars to take the boy’s invisibility cloak from his pocket and fasten it around his neck, pulling the hood up as he says, “Yes, next time. Until then, Harry Potter.”

Potter lingers outside his cell for a minute, likely gathering himself for the walk back, before Voldemort hears his slightly unsteady steps moving away.

He starts to think of all the avenues this opens to him – and all the fun he can have while he waits for the opportune moment to leave here.

After all, Potter will be back.

[contamination-zone]

captivity au yippieee . what if I put him in a cage :-]

w/out text under cut

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Vampire Captures Vampire Hunter to Use as Bloodbag part 4

Warnings: blood, vampire night club, kidnapping of human, intimate vampire whump/blood drinking and violence, dominance power move

The vampire only had two goals: to sate his thirst, and to subdue and dominate the human. Show him who to cower from.

Screams of anger from the hunter turned to wails of pain instead, that rose in pitch to an almost unbearable level the more the vampire took from him.

Alex growled possessively, teeth still locked firmly in his victim's neck, and suddenly clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the shrieks. His nails dug into the hunter's face, his grip tight enough to bruise.

The human's struggles gradually started to slow, the screaming and wailing losing power and fading weakly. His breaths came fast and ragged through his nose, small whines and whimpers the only sounds escaping him as he lost strength in all his limbs from blood loss.

Alex smiled against his toy's neck, slowly taking his fangs out and licking the wound closed. Thank goodness for the healing properties of vampire saliva. This experience wouldn't be half as fun without it. Because now he could play with his toy again, and again, and again, as long as he was careful never to drink too much in one sitting.

He let go of the hunter's hair and mouth and pulled back to look at him. The man's face was extremely pale, unfocused eyes drifting dizzily around, cloudy with pain. His whole body was trembling like a newborn fawn, whether from shock or terror he couldn't tell.

Alex ran a smooth hand over the side of the hunter's neck, wiping away a few last drops of blood. “That was… better than I expected,” he chuckled cruelly. “Not bad, for a human. Now tell me, are you going to be a problem again during the remaining duration of this drive, or will I have to come back here and shut you up again? Nod if you understand. Will you be a good and obedient little human for me?” Danger edged his voice in every word.

The hunter whimpered pitifully, trying feebly to scoot and shrink away from the vampire.

Fast as a striking snake, Alex's hand moved to wrap around his throat, pinning him back to the seat cushions without applying any real pressure. It was a warning, a power move. “Will. You. Obey?” He hissed, firmer this time.

The hunter's wide eyes met his, no trace of cockiness or stubbornness remaining, nothing but fear in his expression – exactly what the vampire was hoping for. He let out a pained moan, but managed a weak nod, eyes rolling in his skull.

“Good. No more arguing for the rest of the trip, or I'm coming back here again to shut you up.” Alex climbed out of the back, leaving the human sprawled limply across the seats, too weak to fight anymore. He got in front and started the car, speeding back up and merging into the freeway. Maybe he'd been too harsh with his new prize, after all the human had a lot to learn, and the sounds of choked sobs made Alex feel a microscopic pang of guilt. He'd terrified the little creature half to death – he hoped it would still be functional enough to talk later. It would be a pity to break him so quickly.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

[wrenaspun]

OMEGAVERSE

Ok listen - my dark secret is that I've spent years going Oh I don't know, I don't think I'll ever write omegaverse... and you sent this in to clown on me but GUESS WHAT! when I try my hand at something I take it SERIOUSLY. This is 6k. It has scene breaks. Bon appetit -

Laurent hated his annual checkups. This was not a quality he appreciated in himself, but it was difficult to reason the feeling away. He saw Paschal in a old house converted to incorporate a homey front-room office, nothing like the old cliche of white walls and antiseptic, but there was still the indignity of being poked and prodded, the feeling of being under examination, the crawling flush of humiliation whenever he flinched from a harmless touch. It was unpleasant. He didn’t like it.

He had always made a point of getting in and out as fast as possible; there was no reason why this appointment would be any different. Except, when Paschal clicked around on his ancient-looking brick of a desktop computer and said, “I’ll renew your suppressant prescription for next year, then,” Laurent found himself tensing.

The word bubbled out of him before he could think: “Wait.” He heard himself as though from far away; it took a moment to register that something had come from his mouth. Paschal blinked once, twice, and then turned to Laurent with his eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead.

The silence stretched out to fill the room. Laurent wanted to say — nevermind, forget it. It was on the tip of his tongue. It wouldn’t quite come out of his mouth. Eventually Paschal was the one to say, “Yes?”

Laurent said, “You’re the one who’s always saying I should cycle off them. Have you just been saying that for fun?” His voice was snappish, too aggressive.

Paschal knew him too well to react. “No, of course not,” he said slowly. “I still believe it would be good for you.”

Laurent waited, half-hoping and half-dreading that he would continue, would say something prevaricating: but you don’t have to, or, you’ve never even entertained the idea before, or even just, what changed?

Paschal offered none of these escape routes. “All right,” he said mildly. “I’ll adjust the amount on your prescription. If you change your mind, you can always make another appointment with me.” It was as good as a taunt, Laurent thought resentfully. They both knew he wasn’t coming back here any sooner than he absolutely had to.

And because no good deed went unpunished, he had to sit through an extra five-minute explanation on how to cycle off his current weekly dosage before he was finally released, clutching his adjusted prescription, blinking and stumbling down the stoop like some new strange creature who hadn’t ever lived in the world before. The paper in his hands felt oddly heavy, weighty. There was some part of him which believed it couldn’t be that easy, and another which wanted to turn around and say to Paschal that there had been a mistake, that it’d been a joke, some strange trick. It wasn’t — he wasn’t —

He kept walking. It was done, he told himself. There was no changing it now. He would have the requisite conversation with Damen tonight, and then he could direct his mind elsewhere until —

Even now, he shied away from thinking about it. Events would unfold of their own accord. There was no point worrying about it. He got his prescription filled and tucked the innocuous little bottle into an inner pocket of his bag where he wouldn’t have to look at it.

—

That evening, he said, “I have to talk to you,” over dinner, “about the checkup.” And then the words dried up; Damen’s interest became concern and then outright worry.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, a little tentative, his broad hand a little too tight around his fork. “Laurent, don’t keep me in suspense.” It was half a joke and half a plea.

Laurent shook his head. Forced himself to say, “Paschal recommended I cycle off my suppressants. At least once. Since I’ve been on them for so long.”

Damen was so lovely that, absurdly, it made the words difficult to say. Any other alpha would accept it without question — would be eager, even — if Laurent had said to them that he needed to go through a heat. Those were exactly the kinds of alphas who’d be put off by Laurent’s first date declaration, I’m never cycling off my suppressants, ever, it’s not even on the table, who’d roll their eyes and walk out on him muttering about frigid bitches —

Not Damen, who had just nodded. All right, he’d said, so unquestioningly open that Laurent had found himself saying more, I don’t like how it feels, except that Damen had only smiled again and said that he didn’t have to explain.

Perfect, at the time, but now he looked worried, and Laurent didn’t know how to reassure him. “You have to?” he asked. “Is there — some kind of problem —?”

“No,” said Laurent. “It’s precautionary. It’s just letting my body reset itself.”

“Right,” said Damen. The silence stretched out, awkward, between them. Neither of them were eating anymore. Finally, Damen said, “Do you want me to — go somewhere —?”

“No!” Laurent barely stopped himself from snapping, that would defeat the whole point, idiot. He felt his jaw twitch. If Damen didn’t want to heat with him — it would certainly be one of Laurent’s graver miscalculations. But this was Damen. The thought that he’d want to leave Laurent alone through a heat was inconceivable.

When Laurent finally looked up, Damen was watching him, brow furrowed. “Laurent,” he said.

Laurent’s cheeks felt like they were on fire. “Are you going to make me say it?” he demanded, and Damen’s face opened into a hesitant little smile that did strange things to Laurent’s stomach.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “I’d be honoured.”

For a moment it was difficult to breathe. It was as though there was something inside Laurent’s chest, blocking his lungs, blocking his throat. He turned back to his food, staring down at the blue florals. “Good,” he said. And then, “It probably won’t happen any time soon.” His body was too used to the suppressants.

“That’s good,” said Damen. “If you change your mind —”

“I won’t change my mind.” Sharply.

“All right,” said Damen, voice soft. Then he reached over and twined their fingers together, under the table, and said nothing when Laurent’s hand tightened as though clutching a lifeline.

—

It took four months, in the end. Long enough that Laurent had stopped thinking about it, for the most part. He didn’t even realise — what was happening, when it first started. He thought he was coming down with something. The ecology textbook he was meant to be editing didn’t seem to make any sense; the words on the page in front of him were swimming slightly. His face felt flushed and overheated, maybe feverish. He tried a few times to put his hand to his forehead, second-guessing the way it felt.

It was confusing mostly because he hadn’t had the chance to get sick recently — it’d been a quiet few weeks, mostly nights at home with Damen. The textbook had him a little stressed because he didn’t know the first thing about ecology, but it was no worse than any other job that the publishing house had pushed on him. But that was how sicknesses worked, he supposed. Random unlucky encounters while they were out running errands. They’d done the groceries — was it last weekend? He couldn’t focus properly.

He kept going anyway, mostly because to curl up in bed sounded a little too tempting, and there was the hope in the back of his mind that he’d be able to fight through it by sheer force of will. He did take a couple of the emergency paracetamol that Damen had stashed in his desk, but he didn’t feel much effect.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Laurent startled and looked at the clock: sure enough, the rest of the workday had ground by. He’d been working overtime for half an hour, actually. What was wrong with him today?

He shook his head just in time for Damen to poke his head into the little office, a frown already on his face. He started, “What are you —”

“Don’t come near,” said Laurent hastily, attempting to roll his chair backwards to little effect — the desk was a rather immovable obstacle. “I think I’m getting sick.”

Damen was looking at him wide-eyed. He’d trailed off, but his mouth was hanging a little open. Laurent wanted to kiss it. He wanted to get up and wrap himself in Damen’s arms and get rid of their clothes, fast, the better to have Damen over him, skin-to-skin…

“Sweetheart,” said Damen, “I don’t think you’re getting sick.”

Laurent still didn’t realise, not even then. It was only when Damen inhaled, a long, slow, indulgent breath that would lay Laurent’s scent thick and heavy on his tongue, that the pieces clicked.

Laurent said, “Oh, fuck.”

He’d been such an idiot. The signs had all been there — the irritability, the flushes of heat, the lack of focus. The way his mind kept returning, like a dog with a bone, to thoughts of Damen’s naked body, the way he’d look pressed up against Laurent, the way his hands would feel… Laurent loved Damen’s hands, broad and capable, graceful and gentle.

“We can still get you on suppressants if you want,” Damen offered, quiet. “They have the medical-grade ones for late-stage preheat. We still have enough time to drive to the hospital.”

There were medical-grade suppressants that could stop a full heat in its tracks, even. The offer hung between them, tantalising.

“No,” said Laurent. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it this easily.”

Damen’s mouth ticked up, which usually would have sent a little thrill through Laurent’s blood and which now made him feel on the point of explosion. He stood up so forcefully that his chair was propelled into the desk behind him, crashing unpleasantly against the wood — Laurent couldn’t bring himself to care. He was darting into Damen’s arms. Damen caught him up without any effort at all, and Laurent buried his face into Damen’s neck where the scent of him was strongest, the earthy, deep smell which was nothing but a comfort.

“Laurent.” Damen’s arms tightened around him, and Laurent felt a little of the tension leave his body. Oh, it’d been such a long day. “Laurent.”

“Hmm?”

“I — we can’t, yet —” and the arms began to push Laurent away, which was awful. “Laurent, please.”

“Don’t you want —”

“I want,” said Damen fervently. There was a hint of a growl in his voice. Laurent realised, in an abrupt moment of clarity, that he was wet. “We need to prepare. You need to take your heat leave,” nodding at the computer behind Laurent. “I’ll email my work. And then I need to get some meals ready.”

“Some meals?” echoed Laurent.

The look Damen gave him was heated. “I’m not letting you out of bed for three days, sweetheart.”

“I — oh.” Even through the faintly feverish texture of preheat, Laurent could feel himself blushing.

Damen tipped his chin up with one finger and kissed his lips very lightly. “You can prepare the bedroom while I’m in the kitchen. I’ll be up in no time.”

“All right.” Laurent could hear the sighing breathiness of his own voice. Damen kissed him again, still light, which was a mercy; Laurent didn’t think he would survive it, if Damen had kissed him properly only to pull away.

“Soon,” said Damen, in the tone of a promise, and then he was pulling away, and then he was gone.

Laurent stood uselessly in the doorway for a full five seconds after Damen had ducked into the kitchen and out of sight, blinking hazily, focusing entirely on resisting the urge to follow Damen like a little duckling.

Email, he thought finally, and tore himself away from the threshold. He tapped out a cursory notice to the publishing house, cc’d his client, slammed the laptop shut.

He was preoccupied as he made his way upstairs, thinking about Damen, about the abnormal sensations within his own body, and so it was only once he had entered the bedroom that he realised he had no idea what Damen meant when he’d said Laurent could prepare the bedroom. What did that even entail? Laurent regarded the room with some bemusement. It was decently clean — neither of them were particularly messy — with a few belongings scattered about on the dresser and bedside tables. Laurent took a breath, but it was difficult to think. Did Damen want the room cleaned before they spent three days rolling around in the sheets? He had never been particularly fussy about such things before. Was there something he wanted, or was it more of a general expression, to prepare the bedroom? Laurent could practically feel the gaps in his knowledge taunting him. Was there a wrong way to prepare a bedroom?

He didn’t know how much time he wasted just standing there, looking over at the bed. Finally, the thought struck him: sheets, obviously. Damen had gone and bought a nice set of mattress and duvet protectors after Laurent had cycled off his suppressants. They were meant to go under the normal sheets, because everyone said the same thing, that heating was a messy experience, that it was hell on bedding. Laurent went to the linen closet on light feet, feeling almost like he was floating from the relief of having found something to do.

He hadn’t actually seen the protectors before; Damen had just called on his way home one day and asked whether Laurent preferred one brand or the other. Laurent didn’t care, didn’t want to think about it, so Damen had made the decision and put the package away when he got home.

Laurent should probably have paid more attention, if only to curb Damen’s tendency to extravagance. He’d bought — it didn’t even seem possible that a single box could hold so many sheets. It was at least twice the amount of bedding that one would find in a standard set. Probably three times as much. Surely heating wasn’t that destructive.

He took what he needed and returned to the bedroom. It took a little longer than usual to change the sheets — they usually did this together, if only because the mattress was ridiculously large — but he managed finally to get everything where it was supposed to be. He was too nervous for it too feel like a real achievement. There was a raw, jagged feeling under his skin, a physical sort of ache. He wanted Damen. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he’d missed.

Just as the crest of impatience was tipping over into a crisis, Damen’s footsteps echoed up the stairs. Laurent, dignity abandoned, leapt to the doorway, looking out. Damen was carrying a bag, one of those reusable totes from the supermarket, heavy enough that his biceps were straining a little with it. Laurent felt his heart pulse irregularly. He was halfway down the corridor, wanting the heady elixir of Damen’s attention and focus.

“Hello,” he said breathlessly, when Damen smiled at him. The smile widened. Damen’s dimple was a lovely tease.

“Hello,” said Damen, bringing his free hand up to cradle Laurent’s cheek. “Do you want to eat now?”

A quick glance down revealed that the tote bag was full of tupperware, all of it steamed up from being freshly cooked. But — “I couldn’t,” Laurent admitted. It was true. His stomach was in knots.

“It’ll keep,” said Damen. “Can I come in?”

Absurdly, Laurent realised that some part of himself wanted to say no. He quashed it carefully and said, “Yes, of course.”

He was watching Damen’s face as they walked; that was why he saw the quick flicker of surprise, of dismay, which crossed his expression as he came into the room. Laurent blamed his hormones on the fact that this felt like being stabbed. He felt himself flame up red, blood rushing to his face.

Damen was looking down at him uncertainly, which was terrible. Then he said, gently, “Laurent, are you sure you want —?” which was worse.

“Of course I want,” snapped Laurent.

“We can still go to the hospital —”

“Shut up.” This was more painful than being stabbed. “I said I would, and I will. I want to — I — why would you think otherwise?” And under the force of Damen’s gaze, Laurent heard himself say, “What did I do wrong?”

The bag of food dropped inelegantly to the floor. Damen was taking hold of Laurent around the waist, still a warm and comforting presence. “It’s not wrong,” he said. “I misspoke.”

“But there was something,” said Laurent, and forced himself to step back. Damen hesitated. “Damen, just say it.”

Damen said, “I thought there would be a nest.”

It was so unexpected that for a moment Laurent’s mind did not compute it. Damen might as well have said, I thought you would grow an extra limb. “What?” he said. “Why?”

A helpless look. “I don’t know,” said Damen. “I suppose it must be more common in Akielos.”

“But nests are —” Laurent hesitated. The words from his adolescence bubbled up, but felt somehow wrong to say. Unhygienic. Primitive, backwards, unsophisticated.

Damen’s expression flickered, as though he was hearing the words anyway. Laurent changed courses and said, “You’ve heated with others before. Other Veretians.”

Now it was Damen’s turn to hesitate, eyeing Laurent carefully as though nervous he would burst into flames at the thought. When this did not occur, he said, “Yes. And there was always — so I suppose that’s why I assumed.” And then, quickly: “But it doesn’t matter, obviously. We can do what you want.”

He stepped forward, but Laurent stepped back, thinking — he felt like his mind was overheating like a faulty computer. He was thinking about books, about movies, the way that the height of romance was always a nest. At the time, he’d thought it was cheesy, mawkish, a cultural signifier more than a gesture real people would be likely to make, the same as covering a mattress with rose petals or turning out all the lights to have dinner by candlelight. And he was also thinking about how the voice in his head was his uncle’s, cold and amused. The extra sheet protectors, Laurent thought, with another flush of embarrassment. It wasn’t overly-stocked out of generosity or even out of extravagance. He was supposed to have used them in his nest.

“Laurent,” said Damen, “I’m sorry I raised it —”

“How,” said Laurent abruptly, and Damen cut himself off, “do you build a nest?”

Damen briefly looked like he was struggling to speak. After a moment he said, “You don’t have to.”

“If I wanted to,” said Laurent. “How would I?”

Damen said, “Have you never…?”

“Never,” said Laurent. And, absurdly, a flicker of anger crossed Damen’s expression.

But all he said was, “You start with the heavier things,” voice even, “and work your way to the lighter blankets. You shape it around you. It’s meant to be comfortable. There’s no wrong way to do it, really, except that going from light to heavy can be less stable.”

Laurent said, “Show me.”

Damen looked at him a little helplessly, but he at least did Laurent the favour of not asking yet again whether he was sure. “Wait here,” he said, and went off to the linen closet, came back with what looked like its entire contents heaped in his arms.

Something about the sight — Damen’s strength, his bulk, harnessed for the purpose of carrying around piles of cloth — tugged fiercely at Laurent’s heart. “Damen,” he said.

Damen said, “Don’t come too close, sweetheart. We don’t want your heat to set in yet.”

It took a moment to understand what he meant; Laurent was not a fan of feeling this slow, this stupid. It was fairly well known — and there were studies to back it up — that preheat would graduate to full heat much faster in the face of skin-to-skin contact with a partner. It was awful, to stay back. Damen knelt on the ground to separate out the different blankets, and then looked up at Laurent.

“It might be better if you sat on the bed,” he said. “I can pass you what you want.”

Laurent went and pushed the single duvet aside and sat. It felt — stupid. It was hard not to feel self-conscious, sitting on an almost-empty mattress and looking over at Damen. “Give me the heavy one, then,” he said.

Damen did. Laurent tried to hold it in his hands, but it was too large to be contained, and tumbled eventually to pool around his legs. Damen was watching him.

Again he said, “It doesn’t matter how you do it. There’s no wrong way.”

Easy for you to say, Laurent wanted to snap, but he restrained himself. He didn’t like feeling this way, hot and angry and resentful.

Damen said, “Do you want me to go?”

“Why,” said Laurent, unable to keep the jagged edge from his voice, “would I want you to go?”

A swallow. Damen said, soft: “It’s an intimate thing, to build the nest. Even more than being invited into it. If you feel uncomfortable —”

“Shut up,” said Laurent. “Shut up.” And he shoved the duvet to one side of him, kicking it into a rough curve around his left side. “Give me the other one.”

Damen shut up and obeyed. Laurent put it along his other side, mirroring the first.

“Next,” he said, and Damen obliged him again. The next blanket was a little lighter. Laurent said, “Take that end and hold it.”

Damen did. His eyes were a little wide, in the manner of one who hadn’t expected this. An intimate thing, he’d called it, and his tone had been soft and reverent. Laurent tamped down on the emotions in his chest and tucked the blanket demonstratively over the top of the duvet beside him, nodding for Damen to do the same.

The worked together, then, layering the blankets around Laurent, the nest slowly building in shape and solidity. Damen’s hands were so — wide and capable, manipulating the fabric, making sure everything fit together, taking time and care with every movement. Laurent heard his words again, an intimate thing, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Who did you build nests with, then?” He felt hot and jealous and uncontrolled. He wanted to go find whoever it was and tear their throat out with his teeth. “Jokaste?”

A surprised look, which melted into something like a smile. “No,” said Damen. “She didn’t like heats either. She was on suppressants most of the time we were together.” And then, when this clearly did not satisfy Laurent, “When we heated, she built the nest. Alone.”

“Who, then,” Laurent gritted.

Damen grinned at him, wide and dazzling. “My mother,” he said. “In Akielos — we nest as a family, when the pups are young. It’s very common. And she always let me help.”

The knot of jealousy abated. Laurent felt his jaw twitch, humiliation warring with satisfaction. From a distant vantage point, some small part of his remaining sense decided that he was being foolish. But Damen was grinning at him still, his scent rich with pleasure, and it was impossible to feel too badly in the face of that relentless happiness.

“Hurry up,” said Laurent, and he could hear the way his voice came out — nowhere near as sharp as he had intended. He sounded sappy, a little shy. Very stupid. It only made Damen smile harder. His dimple was trying to dig its way through his cheek.

“Yes, sweetheart,” said Damen, and he was the one who took the last blankets and settled them over the edges of the nest, shaping the construction carefully. He looked at Laurent, a little quizzical, and then said, “Lie down.”

Laurent did. It felt — it was difficult to describe how it felt. He’d never known this was an option. Carefully, he turned his head into the soft bedding, inhaling, smelling the detergent they used. It was good, he thought. It was soft, warm — even though he knew it was a simple pacifier to his baser instincts, the appeal came through loud and clear. It was primally, viscerally satisfying to lie in a nest of his own creation, safe in a way that very little else had ever been. Absurdly, he had the thought that he wanted to add curtains to the bed. He wanted to shut out the rest of the world, to have it be just him and Damen…

Damen said, “If you don’t like it, we can push it off and go with your original way.”

“I didn’t say that,” Laurent muttered.

“Speak louder, baby.”

“Come here,” Laurent said louder. Damen’s hand brushed against his wrist.

“Yeah?”

“Hurry up,” snapped Laurent. Damen laughed a little and levered himself carefully into the nest, and oh —

All of a sudden, it was perfect. It was as though Damen had been the only thing missing. Laurent launched himself forward, arms going around Damen’s neck, breathing in, wiping out the rest of the world so that Damen was the only thing that existed, Damen’s warm steady body, Damen’s scent — Laurent inhaled and inhaled until he was faintly dizzy from it. Damen was murmuring into his ear, sweetheart, you’re so lovely, you’re so good, words that made Laurent want to bite him.

He could, he thought dizzily. There was no reason not to. Damen made a pitchy, breathy noise when Laurent’s teeth closed against his neck, and then graduated to a long groan.

“Laurent,” he said, “Laurent —”

Laurent was too busy to reply. Damen’s hand came to cradle the back of his head. Laurent’s whole body felt like it surged in response to the touch, his breath crushed from his lungs, his heart hammering in his chest. Damen groaned again, but this time there was a new timbre to the noise.

“Oh, there you are,” he said, running a hand up Laurent’s side. “Do you feel that?”

Feel what, Laurent almost said, and then realised — he was in heat. Full, proper heat now, roaring through his veins.

It was fierce, all-consuming, and yet it felt nothing like Laurent had remembered. His first heat had set upon him like a wild creature, digging teeth and claws through him. It had been an experience chiefly significant for its pain, for the way he sweated and cried and shook his way through it, the way he had felt fever-hot and thought his heart would burst for hammering. That’s it? he’d thought, in the aftermath, that’s what everyone goes wild for? It was an insane thought to him that anyone would choose to go through it again. He’d arranged to be put on suppressants as soon as he could walk again.

This felt nothing like that. This wasn’t even hot — it was warm, like sitting just slightly too close to a fireside, and it ran through his veins like liquid gold. Everywhere that Damen touched, he felt himself respond, but there was no pain to it, none of the fierce shrieking need which he had suffered before.

Vaguely, he heard himself murmuring, oh, oh, Damen… Nonsense sounds, mostly, interspersed with Damen’s name, and every time Damen acted as though he’d shared the secrets of the very universe, cooing back with his whole heart. Laurent took control of his mouth again and said, “Damen, please. I need you.”

“I’m with you,” Damen murmured. He was working Laurent out of his clothes, fingers fumbling around the same buttons he could have undone in his sleep last night. “Laurent, I’m here. Oh, look at you…”

Laurent looked. Damen was looking at the slick between his legs, the dampness across his thighs. His gaze was bright and eager. Laurent said, “Don’t tease me.”

Damen’s eyes flickered up to search his face. “No?” he asked.

Laurent bit his lip. He was already red and flushed, he thought, which at least camouflaged his reaction. “Not — as much, then,” he said. “Unless you want me to die here,” and Damen grinned. It felt obscene, the wholesomeness of the expression, his peeking dimple, when one considered what he was smiling about.

“Noted,” said Damen, and brushed a finger over Laurent’s hole. Laurent heard himself make a sound like he was dying.

Before Damen, he’d never liked being teased. He’d never liked drawing it out; even when it was just himself in the bedroom, perhaps especially then, he’d used to bring himself off quickly, efficiently, and then box up the experience without dwelling on it. Damen was — the opposite of that. He loved to touch; sometimes he would touch Laurent aimlessly, all night, drifting his fingertips along Laurent’s shoulders and collarbone and neck, his sides, his stomach… And in bed, he would touch Laurent everywhere, light touches and long caresses and cruel little pinches and everything in between. He loved to draw it out; he loved for Laurent to lose himself to it, surrendering his tightly held self-control to start pushing back mindlessly into everything, to make soft noises with his mouth, to say yes, yes, Damen and please, right there.

Even the first time, when Laurent felt most strongly that he should have hated it, he didn’t. He couldn’t. There was something about the way Damen looked at him, awed and sweet; and there was something about the way that every touch became a promise, the tease itself becoming a token of Damen’s intentions.

Damen didn’t break his word. There was something horribly satisfying about begging, knowing that everything one wanted would come. It became a pleasure in itself to say Damen, please, I need you inside, and to be briefly denied, knowing that Damen would do everything, fulfill every promise. Damen would probably fight a god to make Laurent feel good.

“Ah, sweetheart, your scent,” Damen groaned. And then he put his face against Laurent’s neck and just inhaled, long and luxurious. It was like Laurent had been kicked in the stomach, the sudden blow of arousal.

“Damen,” he said, not sounding like himself at all.

“I know,” said Damen. “I know — just let me —” and he moved down, nudging Laurent’s knees apart, inhaling again, god — like it was bliss, like Laurent’s slick was —

And then his mouth was on Laurent, hot and wet and ravenous, and Laurent’s mind went utterly blank. Damen’s touch — his tongue — Laurent came like that, a brutal wave of pleasure that wiped everything else away, the whole rest of the world. All that mattered was Damen, the way he groaned, the way his hands tightened around Laurent’s thighs, the way he kept going and going and going —

Laurent had to push him away after the second peak — had to use far more force than usual. The whole lower half of Damen’s face was wet when he finally raised it, and he was breathing hard. Laurent could feel the movement of those broad shoulders in his thighs.

“Damen,” he said dazedly, all of a sudden finding it difficult to remember why he shouldn’t just let Damen lick him through the whole rest of his heat.

“Laurent,” said Damen, with a grin that was absolutely filthy. He rose to his knees and came up the bed towards Laurent, and he was truly just — a magnificent specimen, all broad shoulders and rolling muscle and strong shoulders. Laurent could have just watched him in that moment and been happy for the rest of his life.

Except not, obviously. Damen kissed him and desire ran through him like a shockwave. He was saying — something, he didn’t know, his mouth was utterly out of his own control —

“I know,” Damen was saying now, lining their bodies up, “you don’t have to beg, sweetheart, I’ll give you everything, anything you want,” and clearly he meant it because he was pushing inside, and Laurent heard himself make a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before. “I know,” said Damen, biting his neck gently, and the resultant wave of pleasure was so great that it was like coming, just like that.

It was all Laurent could do to grab his shoulders and hold on. His whole body was torn between the urge to melt underneath Damen and the desperate need to move against him, to drive them to go harder and faster.

“Like this,” Damen murmured, kissing Laurent again, holding his hips and pushing inside in just the right way. Laurent’s head fell back helplessly. It felt so good. His mind was breaking apart, almost unable to comprehend it all.

“Knot me,” he said then. His voice was raw; he’d been moaning, he realised belatedly. “Damen, please —”

“I know,” said Damen again. “Sweetheart, you’re so good, you’re so perfect. Like that, yes, Laurent —”

His knot was starting to swell; it was all Laurent could feel, the whole of his awareness narrowing down to that single point between them.

One of Damen’s hands slid to the inside of Laurent’s thigh, pushing his leg outward, making everything feel more sensitive, more overwhelming. His knot was almost too large now, taking real effort to shift in and out of Laurent’s hungry body. Laurent was grasping desperately at Damen’s shoulders, panting, open-mouthed, as his pleasure built impossibly high and then crashed over him like a wave, knocking him off his feet, sending him into unfathomable depths.

“Inside me,” he begged then, feeling beyond his own limits, as though he had been broken into pieces. “Damen, please, I want it —”

Damen groaned and kissed him desperately, their mouths open to each other, and then he finally thrust in properly, tying them together, stretching out the last aftershocks of Laurent’s orgasm.

It was like nothing Laurent had felt before, the way that everything was drawn out — even more than regular knotting, the fact that his body was in heat seemed to mean it was grabbing, greedy, at every chance for pleasure. And Damen was moving slowly, crooning into Laurent’s ear, telling him how lovely he was, how sweet and warm and wet, and Laurent was shuddering helplessly against him.

But even once that wave had crested, and they came back to themselves, it was still new and wonderful; Laurent reached out with one hand to touch the side of his nest, the sheets which were sheltering and protecting him.

“I want curtains,” he said blurrily, his own impulse control too thin and worn to check his words. “On the bed. Around.”

“Yes,” Damen said. It was almost a groan. He was nosing at Laurent’s neck, inhaling. “Anything, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

“I want you,” Laurent said breathlessly. “Kiss me.”

Damen did, open-mouthed and luxurious. And then — he began to move, shifting his hips in tiny, infinitesimal motions that crashed through Laurent’s sensitive body like a tidal wave. The huge bulk of his knot was overwhelming when it was still. It felt impossible that he could fuck Laurent on it. It felt absurdly good.

Laurent wound his arms around Damen’s neck, ran his fingers through the beloved dark curls. “Damen.”

“Once more,” Damen murmured, kissing Laurent’s neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. His hands were skimming along Laurent’s sides, the kind of light, gentle touch which drove Laurent utterly mad. “Come for me one more time, sweetheart.”

“I’m already — I’m close.” The heat was lurking under his skin, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

Damen kissed him again, brought one hand down to caress the inside of his thigh, and Laurent was gone. The pleasure was so intense that it was like blacking out, his vision growing spotty, ears ringing. He couldn’t hear the noises he was making, only knew they were coming out because he felt the way Damen’s kiss to his throat vibrated.

They were both panting afterwards, both holding very still, too sensitive. Every time Laurent tensed around the knot inside him, Damen would react, shuddering or groaning or both.

“I lied,” he said eventually, and Laurent was too pleasure-soaked to feel even a flicker of concern. Damen nosed at his jaw. “It’s not going to be just the once more.”

A breathless laugh. Laurent wound his arms around Damen’s neck, kissing his cheek, his eyes, his lovely nose. “It better not be,” he said. “Didn’t you promise me three days?”

[howlsofbloodhounds]

yall think color and killer ever had a talk about what would come after, or if, color managed to fulfill his mission and rescue killer. if they’d stay in touch, if they’d still talk, if they’d go their separate ways. and like, color of course wants to still be friends or at least keep contact, but he of course asks killer if he wants him to stay even after killer’s free. like do yall think they had that talk.

the confirmation that they’ve actually grown to care about eachother and trust eachother and want to stay together, that color has come to care about killer as his friend, rather than initially because it was the right thing to do, and color would’ve helped anyone who had asked him for help to escape a dangerous situation. and maybe he shouldn’t have grown so attached to someone in such a dangerous situation where he could easily lose killer, but he did.

[whumpdrivethru]

Hi can I gut uhhh…whumper getting sick of whumpee’s fighting spirit and drugging them w smth that’ll leave them dazed and euphoric?

Your server takes no responsibility for subversion of expectations :]

Cw: drugging, captivity, mentions of death, minor sexual implications

Whumper sighed. They hated this. But they had to. They simply had to.

Whumpee's behavior was getting out of hand.

When the two got together, it wasn't much of an issue. In fact, the prospect of having their own little personal serial killer was rather exciting, and they made sure to do everything right.

Whumpee would never hurt them. They knew this. A yandere would kill anyone who hurt their beloved.

But it was clear they were getting closer to that line each day. Each day that went by where Whumpee would try so desperately to escape, to book it out the front door once Whumper got home, weapons somewhere on their body.

Perhaps Whumper needed to rethink this relationship to begin with, but… they couldn't bring themself to. Whumpee was perfect, absolutely stunning, and their capacity for violence was a little endearing considering it was always always out of dedication to their relationship.

They had notified their friends as well as Whumpee's boss that Whumpee had simply come down with a nasty illness that Whumper was taking care of.

As they watched Whumpee kneeling by the reinforced windows, looking out like a lonely dog… they weren't exactly wrong.

“You're staring, darling,” Whumpee said without even looking away.

The blush spread quick, “Sorry…”

Whumpee looked up at them, longingly. “Just one day. I'll be good, I promise. No killings-”

Whumper rolled their eyes, “We both know that's a lie.”

Whumpee glared at their lover with a scowl. “I will get out at some point or another. You can't contain me forever.”

Whumper looked down at them, “You will get out, that's true. You'll only be getting out once I’m certain that you won't kill Friend over the disagreement we had a month ago.”

They'd learned pretty early to keep their complaints low. Whumpee could respect most of their wishes, but sometimes their nature would override their need to keep Whumper happy.

They would only complain about petty things where Whumpee wouldn't waste their energy, or if it was something serious where they really didn't care if the person lived or died.

They'd slipped up a bit ago. And now they had a rabid dog in their house, clawing at the walls to get out.

Whumpee practically growled. “I don't want to hear that bitch's name ever again after what he called you.”

Whumper let out an exasperated sigh. This was not something they were willing to entertain again. Instead, they walked off to the bedroom to leave Whumpee to their sulking.

They picked up a bottle that was for emergency uses only. Usually only when they had wanted to spice up bed time. The liquid inside would make the person who drank it rather pliant, more easy-going and dazed.

Normally, it was just for when they had agreed to try something new but the one on the receiving end was tense.

Now…

They looked at the bottle.

There wasn't really any other way to keep Whumpee happy.

Whumper sighed. They hated this. But they had to. They simply had to.

Making their way to the kitchen, they started on dinner. Whumpee snuck up behind them, startling them a bit with a hug from behind while they watched their love cook.

They had to shove Whumpee off with a laugh so they could take it out of the oven once it was done.

Whumper looked at the cups that had yet to be filled, “what do you want to drink?”

“I think just some milk will do for me.”

They nodded, “Okay I'll get you some. How about you go pick out a movie for us to watch tonight?”

“You got it,” Whumpee responded before giving them a small kiss, picking up the plates, and happily going to the living room.

Whumper took a breath, filling one of the cups with milk and adding in some of the drug. This would be the first time it was ever used without agreement.

They poured themself some water and sat down next to Whumpee on the couch. They put the milk down on the coffee table.

Whumpee pressed play before taking a swig of their milk.

They blinked. They made a weird face, before it turned into a slightly relaxed smile. They drank a bit more before putting it down and picking up their food.

Their eyes were slightly glazed.

“You know, dinner's really good tonight…”

Whumper turned their attention to the movie, “Is it now?”

“Yeah…” Whumpee responded. “It's almost like… I'm floating. I really like it here.”

They saw their chance. And they took it, “And you won't keep trying to escape?”

Whumpee thought for a bit. Then shook their head. “No. I really like it here… I really like you,” they gave a dopey smile.

Whumper looked down at their glass of water, “Well I should hope so.”

Their eyes trailed over to their lovely little serial killer.

A sad smile split their face, “We're dating after all.”

You have been served by Anath :]