#yandere oak casket x reader

[lirational]

Scarlet

Fantasy AU Path to Nowhere

Vampire!Oak Casket x Nurse!Reader

Content warnings: Yandere themes, dubious consent, fantasy drugging, and mentions of blood. DARK CONTENT. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

SMUT UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

The first time Oak got close to you outside of work, you were half-asleep, darkness threatening to claim you as your eyes glaze in a futile attempt to read the documents.

New supplies of medicine, something about the increasing costs, and the subtle change in basic ingredients of a medicine rendering a few patients unable to ingest it or risk a fatal reaction. There was always something to be done, something that needs fixing, and as one of the few people working here, you have to pull your weight, too.

But, you cannot deny your own exhaustion.

In a daze, you flick the document to the next page, intending to place the document asking for a permit to perform a blood test on the Sinners to the side. It was something you could not handle yourself, as such things require direct approval from the Chief - and you could deal with it in the morning.

As you were about to take the paper, though, a stinging sensation split your skin open, and you hiss in pain, awareness returning to you with the sharp sting.

“(Name)?”

You jerk your head to look at the source of the voice. Of course you recognized her, after all, she was one of the few patients assigned to you. Though you never interacted with her beyond what professional duties were demanded of you, she was here long enough for you to know a little bit about her, including her Mania-induced mutation that gave her a taste for blood.

“Oak? Why are you here? It is late.”

“You’re injured.”

Your mind was bleary from exhaustion, but you were able to notice that she didn’t answer your question.

For a long moment, Oak stared at the red bead of blood seeping out from the slight cut, pupils blown and dilated. If her gaze could rake hot coals onto its target, you would’ve been turned into ashes long ago. She swallowed, bit her lips, and turned away, fishing for the handkerchief hidden beneath her clothes. Even under the dim lights of the late-night office, it looked pure-white and well-maintained.

“It’s alright, Oak, I can just—“

Your protest were interrupted by a hiss escaping your own mouth, and the press of soft cloth against your wound. You watched as blood bloomed on the cloth, stark and sharp stain marring it. Oak did not seem to mind, her mismatched eyes staring at the scarlet stain in marked interest.

It was then, you realized, that you were alone, exhausted, and in the presence of a Sinner with affinity for blood.

“You should rest. Not much time left until dawn approaches,” Oak said, pocketing the sullied cloth, her expression unbothered. “If you start the next day exhausted, as much as I would enjoy witnessing the proof of our mortality stemmed from careless mistakes, you would not feel the same.”

“But, there is still—“

“Perhaps, you would prefer to sleep next to me instead?”

The thought of sleeping inside a coffin was enough to silence you, and in turn, push you to go back to your quarters.

“Alright. Good night, Oak.”

As you closed the door, she sighed, lips curving in a triumphant smile. Pale fingers hooked on the dirtied handkerchief, and she brought the stained part close to her face, taking a deep whiff with the glee of a starving man who was given a plate of fresh food, her lips grazed at it in a desperation she would not show anyone but you.

She muttered your name with reverence, each repeated call leaving her lips tinted with desire and want. The sweet, sweet scent was enough to almost bring her to her knees, clawing at her sanity. The pitter-patter of your steps, going further by the second, was enticing her to go and give chase, to claim and possess you. Needle-sharp fangs poke at the blood, a show of desperation for you.

“(Name), you…” she muttered, voice breathy. With each moment, her desire for you soared. Her mind was an echoing mess, only telling her one thing.

Claim them. Take them. Do not let go.

—

The second time she got close to you outside of work, you were alone once again. This time, though it was a bit late at night, you decided to sort through the haphazardly-placed medicine bottles, just so it would not add to the hassle of tomorrow. Mind-numbing would be an understatement, and you ended up daydreaming as you sorted the glass containers in the correct order with the aid of muscle memory.

As you were lost in your own thoughts, there was a slight creak from the door, and you call for your visitor without even thinking.

“Is it an emergency? I will have to ask you to come back tomorrow, otherwise,”

Your voice were tinged a bit with exhaustion. The day has almost ended, and if you could help it, you would rather not have additional work.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” a familiar voice spoke, each word accompanied with a cold breath on your ears. One hand snaked around your waist, another creeping up your neck to tilt your head to the side. A pair of needle-sharp fangs was grazing your neck, hovering to search for that sweet spot.

“Oak, you—“

“Shh, (Name), there is nothing to be afraid of,” she cut you off with a reassuring voice. “You’re in good hands.”

You could feel her smirk against your skin, her warm breaths, full of anticipation, fanned your trembling body. Even with your struggle, in hopes to at least have your captor in your field of vision, yet the iron grip of the pale arm circling your wrist remained. Your scream died into a soundless gasp as she sank her fangs onto the tender spot on your collarbone, followed by throbbing pain in tune with your panicked heartbeat. Though adrenaline flowed throughout your body, your limbs felt leaden, frozen in place, locking your attention towards the spot where your captor’s lips connected with your shoulders.

“Does it hurt?” She whispered as she retracted her fangs, her tongue swirling a loving pattern on the puncture wounds. “It’ll be all better soon.”

At first, there was only pain, soothed partway by the way she blew cold air over the throbbing wound. Yet, with each passing second, the pain faded, changing in tune with your panicked heartbeat into a pit of yearning. Your legs felt wobbly, supported only by her body pressed flush against yours, and you were unable to muster any form of protest as she directed you towards the bed. Now, with her on top of you, even the darkness was not enough to conceal the unbidden desire swirling in her soul, shining through mismatched eyes with intensity enough to devour everything alive.

“I’ve been waiting for this chance. You were always so cautious, so afraid of me and most of the other Sinners,” she breathed out, one hand grasping your face, her thumb stroking your cheek, “and now, you truly are mine.”

You bit your lip down as another jolt of desire racked your body, a shudder running down your spine and gathering straight at your sensitive bud. You felt as if your body were set aflame from the inside, venom melting you from within and preparing you for your predator’s feast. Oak only smiled at your state, pink tongue darting out to lick her lips, cleaning traces of your blood.

“Let me help you, then. Consider this as a thank you.”

One hand held your wrists above your head, and the other reached down to your pants, pulling the fabric down to expose your drenched panties. One touch of her fingertip, even through the ruined fabric, was enough to send your mind into overdrive, desperation ridding your addled thoughts from all thoughts of survival. With just a twitch, you felt the edges of your vision turning white.

“Do you feel it? The desire pierced into your soul, now spilling out from here?” She asked, giving the bite wound another lick, fangs grazing upon the spot again. “Should you desire relief, you need only ask~“

“Ask? How dare—“

Again, she did not let you finish as her fingers explored deeper, pushing the soaked panties aside and exposing your bare sex to the cold air. Her movements were restrained, though her twitching fingers all but signaled that it took all her willpower to even prepare you for her. She added in another finger soon after, scissoring motions pressing on your walls without a rhythm.

From her quick movements, it was clear that it took everything in her to restrain her own lust, let alone give you consideration in this twisted act of passion. The worst part was that despite how wild and selfish this mockery of love was, her attempt to fan the flames burning on your stomach was working, your desire climbing higher as pleased noises began to spill out from your lips, your voice calling for Oak’s name in half-formed syllables. One spot made your toes curl, your high pitched voice bitten down in a half-hearted attempt to not allow her the satisfaction, yet you could tell your attempt have all but failed, and every so often, she made it a point to brush the sensitive spot with a teasing smile that reminded you of a cat batting its dying prey.

Kisses were trailed down all over your body, the hand holding your wrists now gliding down towards your torso. You thought it was a chance to fight back, yet, a slow, agonizing, pleasurable lick at the bite wound and a simple command to stop was enough to statue your body into perfect obedience. The black nail on her index finger sharpened into a claw for just a moment, enough to split your clothing, allowing her access to mark your neck, down to your shoulders and the valley of your breasts.

She swirled her tongue on a nipple, and the nub hardened as if on command, the cold making it even more sensitive. Her fangs stopped at your chest, right where your beating heart is, then she bit down, licking the wound just as you started to get lightheaded. At the same time, you finally tipped over the edge, and your vision whited out as you came all over her fingers.

With an embarassing squelch, she pulled out both of her fingers, and she stared at you in the eyes as her tongue cleaned your slick.

The flames in your belly have started to settle a bit, but saying this would be enough is nothing short of a blatant lie.

Oak gave you a knowing smile and got off you. However, as you were about to sigh in relief, you saw her take off her panties, letting the fabric fall on the floor. Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw the fabric was soaked, as well, juices glistening under the dim light of the room.

“What an insatiable thrall,” she said in a chastising tone, a contrast to her mischievous smile, “then, you wouldn’t mind helping me out as well, hm?”

She stopped your protest once again - her cunt resting so close to your face. Then, there was a nip in your inner thigh, the familiar piercing sensation from her fangs, then the pain fading into a mounting pleasure that all but erased your previous fatigue. Loathe as you are to admit it, you were once again forced to feel pleasure, her tongue licking your puncture wounds to soothe it before resting flat on your folds.

“What do they usually say… Ah, right, a favor for a favor.”

To emphasize her words, she grinded her cunt on your face, enveloping you in her scent. A wordless suck on your aching bud became your cue to start, your tongue tracing sloppy patterns on her folds. Your efforts did not go unrewarded, as she matched your speed, and even her breaths on your wet heat was a strong enough stimulation to make your hips buck towards her, your thighs enveloping her head to draw more friction, give more fuel to the creeping sensitivity that had enveloped your entire body once again.

As you sped up, calling her name in between breathes that smelled like her, you finally tip over the edge. Though your climax did not hit you with the same sheer force as the first one, you were forced to feel every moment of it, and the clear liquid gushing forth from your twisted lover’s climax soon after became a reminder of your current state. Your face was practically drenched, and you were frozen, perhaps both from exhaustion and mortification, as she licked your juices clean from between your thighs.

She finally shifted off you, swiping her own slick from your face with her thumb with the care of a loving partner. She licked her own thumb soon after, and the last thing you hear, just before your vision went dark, was her promise.

“I will see you again soon, (Name).”

—

The third time you met her, you were sleep-deprived, nightmares filling the dark every time you closed your eyes.

Ever since that encounter, you had begged at your superior to allow you a transfer, preferably somewhere you wouldn’t have to deal with Sinners aside from a need-to-know basis. Though your request was granted, you quickly discover that your mind has betrayed you, images of that encounter replaying in a loop, giving you a restless sleep that left you wanting the next day. Your body and mind seem to have all but betrayed you, conjuring a burning need for someone that was more than content to keep you, if not as a lover, as a thing to satisfy her own twisted desires.

You had fallen asleep, once again, though at least your luck allowed you to keep your wits until the last few minutes of your work.

As your eyes fluttered open, your gaze met Oak’s mismatched eyes, and it took everything you have to not kick and shout like a wild animal. You two were in a dark, narrow place, and your arms brushed wooden walls as you try to move.

She was pinning you down with an almost embarassing ease.

“Are you avoiding me?”

The question was asked with a relaxed lilt and a smile, not much different from a dear friend asking about the weather.

“What did you do to me?” The question slipped out from your lips before you could stop yourself, venom all but spilling from your tone.

“It was a simple thing, really. Have you never heard of the undead being capable of creating thralls?” She smiled, full of victory as she pressed the spot where her fangs sunk into you for the very first time. “I told you, you were mine now, yet you still refuse me.”

She stroked your hair in what was, perhaps, meant to be a comforting gesture, and to your horror, it all but worked, as you closed your eyes from the comfort.

“But now, there is no need to worry. We will have plenty of time to get to know each other, after all~“

[senka-mesecine]

Could you write for the neglect prompt “If you won’t take care of yourself I will be forced to do it for you.” For yandere Barnes? Thank u

A Beautiful Death.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

lovely idea inspired by @atmostories

wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

---

I.

It occurred to Robert Barnes he's been walking side by side with mortality for years.

Irony being, that even though he's been as accepting of the fact that he and all men must die eventually, he's rotated back to the world burdened with every bit of baggage, bullshit, nonsense and figurative sacks of bricks attached to his personhood except for the one definitive status that seemed to elude him like an uncatchable shadow regardless of how much he welcomed it and even deliberately sought it out at times; he returned alive instead of dead. On his own two feet instead of a casket. Now, yeah, truth was, he felt robbed and cheated. He felt robbed and cheated he wasn't KIA. Felt robbed and cheated in some anger-inducing, quintessential, profound way that was difficult to entirely put into words without yapping on about it for hours and mayhaps even missing the point --- not that he ever relished being anything but entirely precise --- but the easiest way to describe it back to himself was like being a fish that was thrown out to dryland by a high tide, left to wiggle around left and right, struggling for breath under the frying sun and while he could've personally taken matters into his own hand and ended it all, the notion off offing himself always felt strangely defeatist and weak minded to him, even during the worst of days. Like he went down the way a soldier and a fighter never should; outside of combat, bloated, rusted, bogged down and ultimately broken by the mundanity of peacetime, left as a husk of unfulfilled potential. Fact is, the idea made him want to spit on the ground in disgust and righteous wrath.

Maybe why he was so pissed off when he stumbled upon you in the woods.

Catching you doing what you were about to do.

Handful of pills and kneeling down on the frost touched, white grass, just through observing you from afar it seemed like the intention was to swallow them all and lay back down, just falling asleep or more or less freezing alive. Never waking up again. A backpack and some shit you carried with you resting in the shadow of a nearby bare, blackened oak tree. He was on his second smoke as he watched you prepare the whole process with the uncertainty of an amateur who was still weighing all the available options in the back of their mind; Do I want this? Do I not want this? Do I? Or do I not? Truth was, if you wanted to die, you would've been dead by now and you wouldn't have gone to the effort of all these theatrics. Or maybe you simply never counted on the fact anyone would be all the way out here? Possible. But then again, you came into what was effectively his backyard, not the other way around, so he had the right to be fucking angry. Had the right to step in too. If you were a man he would've slapped that white shit right out of your mouth, but as things were, he merely shoves a finger down your mouth. First one, then two, watching your hurl up the contents of what you drank down with an emptied, fogged up canister of water discarded mere inches away from you.

For a moment there, you're sleeping beauty laid up on the fogged up grass.

The next moment the contents of your insides, all brown, watery mush are regurgitated and spat out unto the ground in heavy, heaving coughs as he has a firm grip on the back of your hair so you don't go lounging back and swallowing your own tongue or biting it off in a fit of ire when you realize you were just woken up, back bent forward, as low as the soil. When you're done vomiting and your chest calms down; the haziness of your reddened, bloodshot eyes clearing, realizing that he was there, you look at him like there wasn't a person in the world you could ever imagine loathing more.

Good.

He lights his third cigar about it.

-

II.

Two whole weeks pass and you don't utter a single word to him.

That's when he remembers, albeit unwillingly, something Red always had the tendency of asking, all nerves and neuroses and shaking fingers included; 'What are you gonna do about that, Bob-o, huh?'

And yeah, shit, what was he gonna do about it?

Wait, he supposed. Quiet, calm and patient, not unlike an ambush --- he didn't need talking from you or anyone; fact is, he found it futile and could go indefinitely without; but, one of these days, your form laid up on his bed, huddled up like a newborn in a state of perpetual sleep and being half-awake, face turned towards the wall would turn around and face him instead and you'd ask to shit or eat, piss or drink; you'd inquire if you could go and he might just say that no, you, in fact, can't. Then, you'd argue. Maybe you'd get bold and ram your little fist against his chest and scream your tiny heart out. Bang at the door. Bang at the windows. At the pots and the pans and the walls like a little bird rattling against a cage. Plead, cry and vail. He doesn't know, but drinking bourbon straight from the bottle and watching you with your arms and legs huddled around in bed from the bedroom window open and leading towards the corridor where he was sat up, imagining all the ways you could grow spirited and lively gave him an amused tingle. Them intrusive thoughts. Maybe you could grab one of the said pots. Smack him with it. Maybe a knife. He envisions it flashing gripped by a pair of five fingers and the world bleeding red. His mouth purses around his cigarette and the drag he takes out of it is deep. Yeah. A beautiful death. Not quite what he would've wanted, ideally, but as good as it could get, given the circumstances. A desperate bit of self defense? The will to live and fight coaxed forth by a sudden need to survive? A dormant instinct? You being afraid? Feeling cornered? Suddenly bereft of your freedom? Drunk on the indignity of it all in spite of all your prior wishes relating to death? Why, he could almost imagine you trying to kill him for it. For the chance of restoring your own humanity. Not that you'd ever have a chance if he genuinely set his mind to it --- not a chance in hell --- but he could provoke it out of you and demand that you do it, and judging by that hateful stare you gave him ---

Well, you might just take him up on his offer.

You wordlessly sleep through the night.

And by the time he's up from the table, his bottle of Jack's empty.

-

III.

-"If you won't take care of yourself I will be forced to do it for'ya."-

Is the first thing he says to you when he actually finds you sitting at the edge of the mattress, hair knotted, unwashed, greasy, eyes heavy with the dust of oversleeping, lids heavy, lips chapped and dry, face swollen from the pillow and the outline of its creases imprinted on your cheek, vaguely reminding him of what he had on his own face. You were being confronted and he intended to seem confrontational too. This wasn't kindergarten. You weren't going to get a golden participation star. You stare up at him like you judged him, if only meekly, apparently fully understanding what transpired back there in the woods and that he's carried you here; your spiteful, wounded stare gave away that much. Well, shit, that was a start. He could stoke that into something worthy as of yet. But, baby you? That he wasn't gonna do. -"I'll be shovin' a spoon down your mouth if ya push it. Feedin'ya like a toddler. Pickin'ya up and throwin' you in that rainwater barrel out there since'ya aren't keen on washin'. Hose'ya down for lice. Put my foot against your keester when'ya aren't gettin' up from my bed on time. Whole nine yards."- He describes it all very vividly, looming over the mattress, watching your mouth move, opening and closing like you intended to say something only to change your mind, looking down at your feet and finding your footwear removed and nowhere to be seen. Yeah, it was in the shed. If he could get you riled up on the subject of your shit being thrown out then he'd be a happy camper.

-"I wanted to kill myself and I would've succeeded by now if I wasn't interrupted."-

You manage, shaking your head, appearing aggrieved.

He's been trying to visualize what your voice would've sounded like.

Figured this wasn't an honest representation in its entirety, what with your raspy, dehydrated, sleep-ridden throat and all. Didn't mind it, though, not even in this form.

Sounded like you smoke two packs of cigarettes.

The picture of that was entertaining.

-"Last thing I need is taking care of. It's literally the very opposite of what I want! I don't even know who you are!"-

You accuse and he catches your fingers gripping the edge of the bed's lower frame as you spoke, if only slightly and ah, there it was --- anger. Say, even a worm could turn.

-"If you could only please let me go so I could ---"-

You try, your body moving forward, torso leaning from the bed, pleading.

He shoots that crap down.

Yeah, right; he wasn't gonna let you loose only so you could fling yourself into a nearby creek.

-"Finish that sloppy-ass attempt ya'started?"-

He closes your sentence for you, scrutinizing your expression and the way your cracked, dry mouth stood half open, eyes staring up at him, almost as if you were thinking of a comeback, wheels desperately turning, only for nothing to come to mind; he think it's only then that you actually have time to notice his scar and fully take it in; he could tell by the way your pupils widened, lingering on him. He decides to startle you on purpose, extending the hand he had behind his back and drop a pair of old leather combat boots down on the floor in front of your feet; the sons of bitches are so heavy that them hitting the ground practically booms across the room. You jump, surprised. -"Who's gonna polish these boots for me if I do?"- He cocks his head, choosing to deliberately taunt, the same way he made sure that particular bit of footwear was as mangy, crusted in mud, dust and worn out as it possibly could be to make the task as irritatingly repulsive as it could be. You glare from the bed, frozen and incredulous, like you were trying to assess if he was joking or not. -"They ain' gonne clean themselves, beaut. You earn your keep here."- He clarifies, laced with joviality as he turns his back, slowly easing out of the room; wasn't in a hurry. Taking in your reactions was far too amusing; so, he stops at the doorway, practically gripping the top of it like lingering was just as gratifying. Once your subdued, confused reaction relays you were lost by the lack of black shoe polish and a brush, he decides to clarify, not sticking around to watch you comport yourself, nonetheless, he liked to savor the notion that you were quietly infuriated as well as scared. Certainly better than being hangdog, he reckoned.

-"Use your spit and your sleeves if'ya have to."-

Is all he says, leaving the door ajar behind him.

-

IV.

-"You eatin' that or should I?"-

He breaks the silence, days later, over dinner, eyeing your plate.

Barnes couldn't imagine what could've been more silently infuriating that interrupting a suicide attempt, keeping the suicidal person hostage and turning them into something of an unpaid housemaid not even having the privilege of living rent-free, paying for lodging with work; he knew that if he was in that predicament, he would've killed the son of a bitch who did that to him with his own two hands. The sausages on your plate have cooled and you've made them yourself; the white steam curling from their tips about half an hour ago having fully disappeared. You're miserable and he can tell. Perfect. Excellent. He was giving you something to despise about him every day and in despising him, you'd distract yourself from wanting to die; might just do him the favor one of these days and snap well enough to end him. He'd just about allow you too. -"This is illegal, you know."- You manage, staring off the precipice of the table emptily. A thousand yard stare; his old familiar companion. -"Keeping me here against my will."- You clarify like it wasn't obvious. -"This is practically a hostage situation."- Not practically about it, Barnes corrects you in his own mind. It was a hostage situation in its entirety. No half measures. -"I'm an indentured domestic servant kept as a prisoner."- Your voice is calm, hopeless, entirely flatlined, but nonetheless, on occasion, something indignant in it crackles like an electrical static.

-"And that's illegal. It's immoral too!"-

You add, bitterly. Oh, shoot, no way!? Immoral too!?

You saying he wasn't gonna be invited to the next church cookout then?

Barnes snorts without making a sound, having cleared his own plate.

Grabbing your own without asking and digging in.

If you ain't gonna eat it, there's always someone who will.

Never in his life has he cared what's immoral or what's illegal.

All water off of a duck's back to him.

-"Offin' your own ass is frowned upon in most of them cultures too, so I've heard, here we are, though and here we're stayin'."-

He cocks his head to one side, deliberately smug, goddamn nearly spitting the word culture and using it purely sarcastically, rendering you momentarily silent, the odd shame and regret palpably etched into your expression; something pained there replacing the odd bits of spitfire for just a second ago. He speaks up, pushing your buttons further, ignoring that very often as of late, or even since day one, he had to wonder what motherfucker of a person or what motherfucker of a situation did you in so badly you wanted to end it all?

-"Clean the dishes."-

He orders bluntly and calmly, pushing both plates in your direction.

Somehow, your portion tasted better than his.

He eats it with more relish, that's for sure.

He wondered if you took a spit into his side of it when he wasn't looking or if you had it on hand, you'd slip poison for mice in there for good measure.

-"I'm not a maid!"-

You seethe quietly in a sudden bout of rebellion, moving your hands furiously, your elbow accidentally grazing the ceramic edge of the dish and pushing the plates unto the floor, causing them to slide and break in half; one smashing into the foot of the table next to his boot, the other cracking in half right across it, greasy and smeared with uneaten food. Barnes looks down and then back at you, fully unimpressed. Couldn't give a rat's ass about this shit, but if it meant riling you up, then so be it.

-"Now you'll go 'bout not only cleanin' the dishes; you'll gonna broom 'em up too."-

He watches your fists ball and you shoot up from your chair.

-"No!"-

Oh?

There it was.

Something inside of him grows, peppered with the sensation closest to being fucking impressed.

Proud of you.

Barnes was proud of you.

-"No?"-

He repeats, dangerously low, challenging.

For a second, he watches your sudden flash of bravery vax and vane and you hesitate, your whole body fidgeting and your eyes darting left and right almost as if you were reconsidering angering someone who could do just about anything to you up in the hills and nobody would ever come to rescue you. A someone who looked like him, sounded like him, carried himself like him. No one would ever hear you scream on this side of the mountain. Little do you know he was, even now, being gentle. Taking it easy with you. If he really wanted to scare you, you'd be covering in the corner, piss running down your thighs. That was the whole truth of it.

-"Intendin' to do sumn' 'bout that 'no' or is gonna sit there shakin' its lil' fist at me without makin' a move on?"-

Barnes prods, finding your gaze downcast once he holds it with his own for too long; the brave little frog leaping out of the boiling kettle earlier having settled back down into the heated water. He decides to up the ante, pointing his finger towards a nearby wall; you nearly flinch once he even partially raises his hand to direct you. -"There's a cabinet full of arms in there. It's unlocked. Open it."- His voice is soft, simple, and he follows the way your brows nearly twitch as you dare to throw a careful glance over your shoulders to see what he means, taking a tentative, uncertain step backwards, your torso still facing him like you weren't keen on turning your back to him.

Smart.

Good instincts.

-"Open it. Go on."-

He encourages with a wag of his chin.

Your hand falteringly grabs the cupboard's wing, haltingly squeaking it open.

Observing your throat taking a loud, visible gulp does something to him.

So does your expressing going pale at the sight of what's inside.

If the devil himself was sat up in the pantry, you probably wouldn't be so befuddled.

-"Pick one and do it."-

He suggests nonchalantly, leaning back into his chair like someone waiting for a foot massage. Yeah, he had a whole arsenal in the larder adjoined to his kitchen, and that wasn't the only one on the premises either. He just didn't think handguns were serious enough to be kept anywhere else but next to the cups, mugs, forks and knives. Next to all the teeth cleaning miswak twigs. -"Preferably that big one over there. The one they shoot elephants with."- He instructs, pointing his nose in the vague direction of the 500 S&W Magnum hanging from a leather holster attached to a hook. Speedloader cartridges and all. You filled him up with that and he'd look like the scene of a bombardment afterwards. Kill me, kill me, kill me, something within him chants, quelling once the terror in your eyes becomes impossible to ignore and your voice becomes small. If he had a hard on until then, at the very notion of your elbow straightening to point a Magnum at him, it promptly dies with your capitulation. -"I'll clean up."- You offer, penitent and resigned. Barely audible. He's so angry at your behalf, although he never lets it show, that he needs to drill the nail of humiliation in further, hoping you'll snap out of it. -"Sir."- He corrects, throwing his jaw out, hoping with the last of all of his hopes that you'll find him insufferable enough to do something about it. After all, you had enough guns just inches from you to put most people, even in this county, to shame. Instead, you do fuck all, no matter how much belief he placed into you. -"I'll clean it up, sir."- You scoot down quickly and out of breath, knees against the carpet, collecting the shattered plate pieces with your bare hands even at the risk of cutting yourself on the sharp shards, being in such a hurry that he smells your empathy in every mousey, scattering movement of your eager fingers; like you'd rather be a maid under duress than ever hurt anyone. Didn't have it in you, did you? The tenacity to kill. Not really. Not even towards yourself. Now, if you were his sister, his daughter, his wife, he would've shaken you to your senses for letting some scarred, ugly ass, bad tempered mountain hick treat you like a sack of shit and then he would've ripped that motherfucker a new asshole too.

If you were his wife.

The thought sits there mutely. Germinating.

Barnes never moves from his chair, throwing his legs up.

Watching you tidy up without a word.

-

V.

The woods are dark, deep and they resound as the deer collapses.

Tangled in its own legs, having stumbled over old, dry branches, left laying limp.

Barnes's first instinct is to throw you a look as you stood behind him.

Watching the scene.

-"Sad as a cucumber."-

He remarks. You were, admittedly, crestfallen. And he didn't even make you haul his hunting equipment out here; made a point out of doing it all of his own --- all you did was accompany. Part of him hoping you'd make a wild dash through the woods. You never do. As things were, it was enough for you to see who he was so you'd get no wild delusions about him being some misunderstood hermit who was merely a bit rough around the edges. Make whatever disgusted notions you had of him only grow, cultivated and watered by him on purpose. He observes his handiwork for a second, taking a drag out of his cigarette, relishing the moment. -"You ain' gonna give me a good talkin' to how I gone and done bad by takin' this sack of shit to the grill?"- He inquires after he figures you've gone a little too quiet; you were a little too quiet ever since the plate incident and he found he didn't like that very much. You all blue and shit. In fact, if you whipped around and called him the human equivalent of a dung heap just about now, he'd flat out smile. Instead, all he gets is more melancholy. Sweet melancholy, admittedly; like a candy he could suck on and crush under his teeth. -"No, but ---"- You try and falter, looking at the felled animal in the grass and then promptly averting your eyes, off into the dusk. -"I'm not going to cheer on it either."- You mutter and Barnes makes a point out of not moving away from the fresh, warm carcass, instead, leaning his leg on the fallen tree trunk that broke the animal's body as it was shot so you'd have no choice but associate him with the kill, not unlike a hunter posing with a trophy. So you'd have a chance to regret you didn't take him out when you had the entire cupboard at your disposal.

Still did, in fact; it was always unlocked.

He never averts his stare from you.

Instead, you avert yours a second time when you find yourself watched.

Struggling for words.

-"I could never kill another living being. I don't know, I ---"-

You murmur, realizing the ironic, double edged blade of your own comment.

Could never kill a living being, sure. No living being but yourself, tried as you failed.

He was a living being too. Were you gonna spare him too, your own abductor?

So, fuck you, he was gonna give you a reason to hate him.

A fawn slithers through the tree line, startled by the presence of people, bleating for its murdered mamma and he promptly lifts his rifle and fires a round into the tiny body before scooting down and throwing the grown deer over a shoulder, leaving the offspring shot for sport behind, piercing you with his gaze as you stood there frozen, wrapped into the oversized jacket he gave you. His face close enough to touch yours as he bypassed you, invading your bubble, deliberately taunting.

Did you think he was a good man?

That he deserved mercy?

-

VI.

A line of bedsheets flutters in the breeze.

Now, he wouldn't consider himself a sloppy motherfucker by any stretch of the word, the army having drilled control and tidiness into him like second nature, but by no means was he someone conducting springtime washing as a ritual, finding he rather enjoyed it against all odds however perplexing and strange it was; like something out of those old picture books --- a fence of clean, white linen flapping windswept as he had his boot propped up on your knee after you've done polishing his boots, sat up on a pine log opposite of him. A whole winter spent here making way for an early spring. Why didn't you do it yet? Furthermore, why weren't the papers making an uproar about your disappearance? Why wasn't the radio mentioning it? This country has really gone to the dogs if a someone could be missing for six months and nobody gives a hoot to look or be bothered by it; he tosses aside the periodical, scowling and grumbling in displeasure, uncrossing his legs, having previously smeared the lower part of his face with a shaving brush packed with creme; a washing basin and a rag long since prepared and set down on a nearby wooden table accompanied by a cracked standing mirror so he could watch you do it.

-"Eyup. Now grab the razor."-

He instructs after you're done washing your hand of black boot grease.

Part of him hoped --- calculated, rather, that if he kept putting sharp objects into your hands sooner or later primal instincts would take over and the temptation to slice him open clean would take over all empathy and withholding because you were no saint; you were an animal too, just like the rest of them at the end of the day and an animal bites when cornered. But, just in any case ---

-"Where's your folks at? Why aren't they lookin' for'ya?"-

He prods as you take your position behind him, blade in hand.

-"Y'got your people, right, Orphan Annie?"-

He tries again once you say nothing, carefully dragging the steel on the side of his good cheek, leaving behind nothing but smooth skin.

-"Yeah."-

He murmurs, feeling his own voice grow distant yet intentionally smug.

-"Must've not wanted you very much if they let me find'ya."-

Was meant to be a cruel comment, sure, but he discovers a seed of truth in it even as its uttered; and again, he circles back to the same old, same old he's been circling back before --- if you were his, he'd search far and wide until he found you. Had to be some simple motherfuckers, whoever you considered your kin if there wasn't a Stateside search warrant out for you along with your face plastered on every milk carton and missing persons poster around and he'd know, because he went down to the nearest city, the city next to it and every surrounding no-exit street settlement, honky-tonk rathole and he's checked. Shit grinded his gears. Simultaneously, would he really let you go even if someone came looking? If someone came out of the woodworks claiming you? That's my daughter, that's my sister, that's my niece, that's my grandchild, that's my woman, that's my someone? Would he really say, here, get her off my hands, I'm done feeding her?

-"Like throwing' out a stray dog in front of a meat grinder factory."-

He mutters as you dragged the blade along his jaw.

He realizes too late how bitter and sore about it he actually sounded.

Like something about the whole premise bothered him.

A reverie interrupted only by the fact that the razor's blade scratched him.

Albeit, accidentally.

You pull back, startled.

Cutting the rough side of his face was always a task, even after all these years.

-"Oh!"- You stutter, practically tip toeing in a half circle to come around and face him, looking at the no doubt miniscule scar you've caused; he could tell its miniscule because he's known what an actual scar is and feels like and the sensation is stark, so far beneath the line of pain he doesn't even feel it. At this point, he didn't crave a beautiful death; just any old death would do. Take the razor, his mind bids you wordlessly, take the razor and cut, he thinks, as you dab away at a droplet of blood with a dry washcloth, looking profoundly apologetic before walking around him and returning to your work. The sight of you is like a true north to a compass; he never takes his eyes off of you, and when you're behind his neck, reaching around to shave him, he finds he's nothing interesting to watch anymore. The house. The woods. The long string of clean linen that filled the air with something soft; yeah, well, maybe the freshly washed laundry was interesting due to the fact you did it with your own two hands. -"I didn't mean to."- You assure him as he exposes his neck so you'd better work and coverage, leaving himself entirely vulnerable as a last ditch attempt to make this all too laughably easy for you, leaning fully with his spine against you, but there you were, continuing your work gently, borderline tempting him to simply grab your wrist and force the blade into himself like some sort of rabid animal gnawing its own foot off, craving to be put down. He says nothing, leaving you to your ministrations. He believed you just about; couldn't kill another living being, eh?

He contemplates that quietly after his face is shaven and done.

Your hand there pouring him a drink before dinner.

He wouldn't deny that he was keen, in part, to see you go rotten; outside of regaining what could only be considered a zest for living pushed into existence by a man who yearned to die, he did want to get carved up by you, but the fact he was being willfully and cluelessly denied for months, it brought him no pleasure, that part. He's seen hostages and POWs grow gutless and soft after too much time in captivity and interrogation like a wild animal being broken in and domesticated and he figured that's what happened to you, even as you come close, setting down the plates, one for you and one for him and he can't help but itch to comment, ashtray present for his cigarette. -"Make sure y'dun' go 'round breakin' my plates again."- He taunts with a cocked head, blowing the smoke into your face, gaining only you willfully ignoring him in the process and a downcast look focused on the task at hand, returning to the kitchen counter and the business of preparing the oiled skillet. You don't even do as much as cough. Enough, enough, enough; he thinks as he stands up, slowly, leisurely, not at all in a hurry, taking in your back turned to him. If this didn't anger you, if this didn't serve as a push and an incentive, the last droplet in a cup of water long since overdue on overflowing, nothing would. At that point, he'd just place a gun into your hand himself and press your finger down on the trigger, calling it a day.

His nose close enough to your hair to inhale your scent.

He places his arms around your waist like something he owned.

The blow comes down swiftly and he predicts it.

The unheated frying pan oil comes leaking down on his scalp and smacking him straight across the forehead, splitting something there, drawing blood; not enough to floor him by any means, but Barnes slumps against the counter, fully wide eyed and aware as you run out the front door, wearing not much else on your foot but a worn out pair of house slippers, the thumping echo of your footsteps growing more and more distant with each passing moment and the worst and simultaneously best outcome that could've taken place for your sake happens; You mustered up the guts to run off. The worst? You mustered up the guts to run off and left him behind. The fire in the cot is still crackling as he grabs a bottle of something strong from the counter behind his smashed up head giving it a swig, setting down beside him on the floor as company; if he, in the meantime, got ahead of a handgun from the pantry in between doing that, it wouldn't have surprised him one bit, finding the notion of playing with the safety of a firearm particularly wretched and fun right about now; the blood leaks into his eyes and he seems red. Chasing after you and bringing you back would've been easy pickings, but you fought for yours fair and square and you he could never fault anyone who tries and wins. When he feels something brushing against his cheek he nearly flinches, thinking it's the draft of the front door left open tickling his face.

-"Robert, I hit you."-

You confess gently and fuck sake, how were you real?

Just you saying his name alone makes his entrails coil into a knot.

He's told you what he's called, knew what you were called too; found that out.

Didn't recall if you ever were on a mutually first name basis, though.

No, you weren't.

-"My hand just flew and I hit you."-

You explain, in all honesty, croaching right in front of him, as real as daylight.

-"And ya'had to be simple enough to come back too."-

Barnes reproaches, chugging the last bit of Jack from the bottle, drunk as a skunk.

But, you were tangible; having walked across that threshold as tenderly as can be.

Shaken to your senses; that what you sorely needed since day one.

That and an ass whopping for good measure.

He does just that, grabbing you and rocking you furiously.

-"Why'd you come back!? Sumn' seriously wrong with your brain!"-

He grits his teeth, probably never having met someone with a disjointed sense of survival and self-preservation that jumbled and unhinged. You had a way out right there, he wasn't going to be hot on your trail --- he'd give you leave to slip away and make you think it was all your doing, that you somehow got the best of him, and what you go around and do!? You come back! Didn't you have an ounce of sense!? -"Y'let some motherfucker take you and keep'ya locked in his house for months!? Make'ya do his dishes!? Cook his food!? Wash his fuckin' socks!? Talk down on'ya to your face!?"- Barnes seethes, squeezing your shoulders and arms tight, finding this a running thing by now; him getting pissed at your behalf infinitely more than you seemed to be pissed at your own. In a figurative sense, he'd contemplate what would've happened if you ran into some worse sack of shit than him, but with no false sense of humbleness, you couldn't have done that even if you tried, so really, it was lucky you still had your head attached to your body at all. -"What if he made'ya warm his bed!? Would'ya let that fly too!?"- He barks, spittle flying out of his mouth, utilizing a crude example to sober you up to the reality of things that you could've been cooped up here and fucked and raped seven ways from Sunday until you're a bleeding, limping, crying, used up mess and you'd have no say in it whatsoever. Did that shit ever cross your mind!? A loaded Magnum by his left on the floor and an empty, heavy glass bottle on his right; his nose gesturing at both as direct suggestions if the open pantry above head wasn't clue enough. -"You had a cupboard full of shit to blast from and ya take a skillet to a grown man's head!?"- He judges and yes, he judges hard. Should've shot. Asked questions later. He looks at the dented, turned over frying pan on the parquet with particular disgust.

-"You're bleeding."-

You practically whisper, fingers hovering above his bleeding forehead.

Not daring to touch.

Eyes red and shiny; looking like you were crying on the way back.

He doesn't like what he infallibly recognizes in them.

-"That's why I came back. Because you were bleeding and I just couldn't ---"- -

--- Couldn't leave you behind, he finishes your sentence for you inside of his head and the onslaught of softness he feels creeping into his belly is so startling and violent he finds he needs to yell to mask and momentarily quell it or he'll go insane, like a broken machine going haywire all over the place. Fuck your sentimentality! -"What's it to'ya!? Men bleed all the time! Everyone bleeds! A chicken bleeds when'ya stuck it! That don't mean y'don't gotta butcher it to eat! You gonna rather starve yourself!? Finish it!"- Grabbing a hold of the discarded Magnum, he forces in it into your hand, watching it shake and shiver there like a trembling branch, practically growling his order, when he finds you hesitating, mouth agape and eyes frightened, the command is roared; ugly, without decorum, without holding back, his fingers squeezing your wrist like a cuff, forcing it against his temple. Why spare him? Did he do anything good in regards of you? Anything at all!? -"I said finish it!"- He hollers and he stops only when he spots a trail of tears streaming down your face. You sniffle, your white knuckled fingers shaking viciously. -"You saved my life last winter."- You manage and he lets you go of your arm, allowing the lowering gun to slither back to the floor; in a desperate attempt, you give it one final push, ensuring it scoots as far as possible from you. Save? Now that's a word he hasn't hard in association to himself in...ever, probably. What were you gonna say next? That you love him too? Is that it? You just sit there and whimper, on the floor, opposite to him sprawled out against the foot of the counter, a trail of blood leaking from the wooden handle's edges. Your voice cracks. -"If you had so many guns from the get go, why didn't you ---"- Aggrieved and in a sudden flash of fury, you question and Barnes instinctively covers your mouth, the fullness of his palm on your lips. If he had so many guns, why didn't he just shoot you when he found you in the woods and end your misery there, is that it? He didn't even want you saying shit like that. He didn't even wanna hear it.

He doesn't answer.

Holding you like that and observing your face, finding the gesture returned.

Until his grip on you falters and melts into an embrace.

Holding each other on the wooden floorboard.

[lirational]

Masterlist (in chronological order):

Each fic's warnings are written on top of the page. Viewer discretion advised.

Sumire x Chief!Reader HC (SFW and NSFW)

Raven x Chief!Reader courting HC (SFW)

Yandere!Langley x Innocent!Chief!Reader (SFW and NSFW)

Vampire!Oak Casket x Nurse!Reader (NSFW)

Yandere!Adela x Reader (NSFW)

Alpha!Coquelicot x Omega!Reader (NSFW)

Hamel x Chief!Reader HC (SFW and NSFW)

Yandere!Eirene x Reader (NSFW… sorta. No onscreen sex)

Cabernet x Reader (NSFW)

Countess Chelsea x Reader || Eirene x Reader (SFW)

Shalom x Reader (NSFW)

Yandere!Shalom x Reader (NSFW… implications only. No onscreen sex)

Vampire!Shalom x Reader x Werewolf!Rahu (NSFW)

Vampire!Coquelic x Reader (NSFW)

Yandere!Shalom x Chief!Reader (SFW and NSFW)

Alpha!Eleven x Omega!Reader (NSFW)

Eleven x Reader (NSFW)

Eldritch!Shalom x Reader (NSFW)

Angell x Chief!Reader (SFW)

Fallen Angel!Shalom x Reader (NSFW)

Witch!000 x Reader (NSFW)

Kinktober 2023 masterlist HERE

[unhappy-last-resort]

AAAAAAAA HAVING YOUR MIND AND BODY UNDER CONTROL OF A VAMPIRE >>>>>

I especially loved the first part because the ending really illustrates how obsessed she is and how she could have pounced on you at any time and you barely had a clue. It's chef's kiss

Scarlet

Fantasy AU Path to Nowhere

Vampire!Oak Casket x Nurse!Reader

Content warnings: Yandere themes, dubious consent, fantasy drugging, and mentions of blood. DARK CONTENT. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

SMUT UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

The first time Oak got close to you outside of work, you were half-asleep, darkness threatening to claim you as your eyes glaze in a futile attempt to read the documents.

New supplies of medicine, something about the increasing costs, and the subtle change in basic ingredients of a medicine rendering a few patients unable to ingest it or risk a fatal reaction. There was always something to be done, something that needs fixing, and as one of the few people working here, you have to pull your weight, too.

But, you cannot deny your own exhaustion.

In a daze, you flick the document to the next page, intending to place the document asking for a permit to perform a blood test on the Sinners to the side. It was something you could not handle yourself, as such things require direct approval from the Chief - and you could deal with it in the morning.

As you were about to take the paper, though, a stinging sensation split your skin open, and you hiss in pain, awareness returning to you with the sharp sting.

“(Name)?”

You jerk your head to look at the source of the voice. Of course you recognized her, after all, she was one of the few patients assigned to you. Though you never interacted with her beyond what professional duties were demanded of you, she was here long enough for you to know a little bit about her, including her Mania-induced mutation that gave her a taste for blood.

“Oak? Why are you here? It is late.”

“You’re injured.”

Your mind was bleary from exhaustion, but you were able to notice that she didn’t answer your question.

For a long moment, Oak stared at the red bead of blood seeping out from the slight cut, pupils blown and dilated. If her gaze could rake hot coals onto its target, you would’ve been turned into ashes long ago. She swallowed, bit her lips, and turned away, fishing for the handkerchief hidden beneath her clothes. Even under the dim lights of the late-night office, it looked pure-white and well-maintained.

“It’s alright, Oak, I can just—“

Your protest were interrupted by a hiss escaping your own mouth, and the press of soft cloth against your wound. You watched as blood bloomed on the cloth, stark and sharp stain marring it. Oak did not seem to mind, her mismatched eyes staring at the scarlet stain in marked interest.

It was then, you realized, that you were alone, exhausted, and in the presence of a Sinner with affinity for blood.

“You should rest. Not much time left until dawn approaches,” Oak said, pocketing the sullied cloth, her expression unbothered. “If you start the next day exhausted, as much as I would enjoy witnessing the proof of our mortality stemmed from careless mistakes, you would not feel the same.”

“But, there is still—“

“Perhaps, you would prefer to sleep next to me instead?”

The thought of sleeping inside a coffin was enough to silence you, and in turn, push you to go back to your quarters.

“Alright. Good night, Oak.”

As you closed the door, she sighed, lips curving in a triumphant smile. Pale fingers hooked on the dirtied handkerchief, and she brought the stained part close to her face, taking a deep whiff with the glee of a starving man who was given a plate of fresh food, her lips grazed at it in a desperation she would not show anyone but you.

She muttered your name with reverence, each repeated call leaving her lips tinted with desire and want. The sweet, sweet scent was enough to almost bring her to her knees, clawing at her sanity. The pitter-patter of your steps, going further by the second, was enticing her to go and give chase, to claim and possess you. Needle-sharp fangs poke at the blood, a show of desperation for you.

“(Name), you…” she muttered, voice breathy. With each moment, her desire for you soared. Her mind was an echoing mess, only telling her one thing.

Claim them. Take them. Do not let go.

—

The second time she got close to you outside of work, you were alone once again. This time, though it was a bit late at night, you decided to sort through the haphazardly-placed medicine bottles, just so it would not add to the hassle of tomorrow. Mind-numbing would be an understatement, and you ended up daydreaming as you sorted the glass containers in the correct order with the aid of muscle memory.

As you were lost in your own thoughts, there was a slight creak from the door, and you call for your visitor without even thinking.

“Is it an emergency? I will have to ask you to come back tomorrow, otherwise,”

Your voice were tinged a bit with exhaustion. The day has almost ended, and if you could help it, you would rather not have additional work.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” a familiar voice spoke, each word accompanied with a cold breath on your ears. One hand snaked around your waist, another creeping up your neck to tilt your head to the side. A pair of needle-sharp fangs was grazing your neck, hovering to search for that sweet spot.

“Oak, you—“

“Shh, (Name), there is nothing to be afraid of,” she cut you off with a reassuring voice. “You’re in good hands.”

You could feel her smirk against your skin, her warm breaths, full of anticipation, fanned your trembling body. Even with your struggle, in hopes to at least have your captor in your field of vision, yet the iron grip of the pale arm circling your wrist remained. Your scream died into a soundless gasp as she sank her fangs onto the tender spot on your collarbone, followed by throbbing pain in tune with your panicked heartbeat. Though adrenaline flowed throughout your body, your limbs felt leaden, frozen in place, locking your attention towards the spot where your captor’s lips connected with your shoulders.

“Does it hurt?” She whispered as she retracted her fangs, her tongue swirling a loving pattern on the puncture wounds. “It’ll be all better soon.”

At first, there was only pain, soothed partway by the way she blew cold air over the throbbing wound. Yet, with each passing second, the pain faded, changing in tune with your panicked heartbeat into a pit of yearning. Your legs felt wobbly, supported only by her body pressed flush against yours, and you were unable to muster any form of protest as she directed you towards the bed. Now, with her on top of you, even the darkness was not enough to conceal the unbidden desire swirling in her soul, shining through mismatched eyes with intensity enough to devour everything alive.

“I’ve been waiting for this chance. You were always so cautious, so afraid of me and most of the other Sinners,” she breathed out, one hand grasping your face, her thumb stroking your cheek, “and now, you truly are mine.”

You bit your lip down as another jolt of desire racked your body, a shudder running down your spine and gathering straight at your sensitive bud. You felt as if your body were set aflame from the inside, venom melting you from within and preparing you for your predator’s feast. Oak only smiled at your state, pink tongue darting out to lick her lips, cleaning traces of your blood.

“Let me help you, then. Consider this as a thank you.”

One hand held your wrists above your head, and the other reached down to your pants, pulling the fabric down to expose your drenched panties. One touch of her fingertip, even through the ruined fabric, was enough to send your mind into overdrive, desperation ridding your addled thoughts from all thoughts of survival. With just a twitch, you felt the edges of your vision turning white.

“Do you feel it? The desire pierced into your soul, now spilling out from here?” She asked, giving the bite wound another lick, fangs grazing upon the spot again. “Should you desire relief, you need only ask~“

“Ask? How dare—“

Again, she did not let you finish as her fingers explored deeper, pushing the soaked panties aside and exposing your bare sex to the cold air. Her movements were restrained, though her twitching fingers all but signaled that it took all her willpower to even prepare you for her. She added in another finger soon after, scissoring motions pressing on your walls without a rhythm.

From her quick movements, it was clear that it took everything in her to restrain her own lust, let alone give you consideration in this twisted act of passion. The worst part was that despite how wild and selfish this mockery of love was, her attempt to fan the flames burning on your stomach was working, your desire climbing higher as pleased noises began to spill out from your lips, your voice calling for Oak’s name in half-formed syllables. One spot made your toes curl, your high pitched voice bitten down in a half-hearted attempt to not allow her the satisfaction, yet you could tell your attempt have all but failed, and every so often, she made it a point to brush the sensitive spot with a teasing smile that reminded you of a cat batting its dying prey.

Kisses were trailed down all over your body, the hand holding your wrists now gliding down towards your torso. You thought it was a chance to fight back, yet, a slow, agonizing, pleasurable lick at the bite wound and a simple command to stop was enough to statue your body into perfect obedience. The black nail on her index finger sharpened into a claw for just a moment, enough to split your clothing, allowing her access to mark your neck, down to your shoulders and the valley of your breasts.

She swirled her tongue on a nipple, and the nub hardened as if on command, the cold making it even more sensitive. Her fangs stopped at your chest, right where your beating heart is, then she bit down, licking the wound just as you started to get lightheaded. At the same time, you finally tipped over the edge, and your vision whited out as you came all over her fingers.

With an embarassing squelch, she pulled out both of her fingers, and she stared at you in the eyes as her tongue cleaned your slick.

The flames in your belly have started to settle a bit, but saying this would be enough is nothing short of a blatant lie.

Oak gave you a knowing smile and got off you. However, as you were about to sigh in relief, you saw her take off her panties, letting the fabric fall on the floor. Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw the fabric was soaked, as well, juices glistening under the dim light of the room.

“What an insatiable thrall,” she said in a chastising tone, a contrast to her mischievous smile, “then, you wouldn’t mind helping me out as well, hm?”

She stopped your protest once again - her cunt resting so close to your face. Then, there was a nip in your inner thigh, the familiar piercing sensation from her fangs, then the pain fading into a mounting pleasure that all but erased your previous fatigue. Loathe as you are to admit it, you were once again forced to feel pleasure, her tongue licking your puncture wounds to soothe it before resting flat on your folds.

“What do they usually say… Ah, right, a favor for a favor.”

To emphasize her words, she grinded her cunt on your face, enveloping you in her scent. A wordless suck on your aching bud became your cue to start, your tongue tracing sloppy patterns on her folds. Your efforts did not go unrewarded, as she matched your speed, and even her breaths on your wet heat was a strong enough stimulation to make your hips buck towards her, your thighs enveloping her head to draw more friction, give more fuel to the creeping sensitivity that had enveloped your entire body once again.

As you sped up, calling her name in between breathes that smelled like her, you finally tip over the edge. Though your climax did not hit you with the same sheer force as the first one, you were forced to feel every moment of it, and the clear liquid gushing forth from your twisted lover’s climax soon after became a reminder of your current state. Your face was practically drenched, and you were frozen, perhaps both from exhaustion and mortification, as she licked your juices clean from between your thighs.

She finally shifted off you, swiping her own slick from your face with her thumb with the care of a loving partner. She licked her own thumb soon after, and the last thing you hear, just before your vision went dark, was her promise.

“I will see you again soon, (Name).”

—

The third time you met her, you were sleep-deprived, nightmares filling the dark every time you closed your eyes.

Ever since that encounter, you had begged at your superior to allow you a transfer, preferably somewhere you wouldn’t have to deal with Sinners aside from a need-to-know basis. Though your request was granted, you quickly discover that your mind has betrayed you, images of that encounter replaying in a loop, giving you a restless sleep that left you wanting the next day. Your body and mind seem to have all but betrayed you, conjuring a burning need for someone that was more than content to keep you, if not as a lover, as a thing to satisfy her own twisted desires.

You had fallen asleep, once again, though at least your luck allowed you to keep your wits until the last few minutes of your work.

As your eyes fluttered open, your gaze met Oak’s mismatched eyes, and it took everything you have to not kick and shout like a wild animal. You two were in a dark, narrow place, and your arms brushed wooden walls as you try to move.

She was pinning you down with an almost embarassing ease.

“Are you avoiding me?”

The question was asked with a relaxed lilt and a smile, not much different from a dear friend asking about the weather.

“What did you do to me?” The question slipped out from your lips before you could stop yourself, venom all but spilling from your tone.

“It was a simple thing, really. Have you never heard of the undead being capable of creating thralls?” She smiled, full of victory as she pressed the spot where her fangs sunk into you for the very first time. “I told you, you were mine now, yet you still refuse me.”

She stroked your hair in what was, perhaps, meant to be a comforting gesture, and to your horror, it all but worked, as you closed your eyes from the comfort.

“But now, there is no need to worry. We will have plenty of time to get to know each other, after all~“