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a physician is a kind of knight in some lights—a bodyguard as much as a bodytender, a bodymender, a bodyworshipper.
they would have taken up the duty for her by any name, in any arrangement, royal, noble, peasant, or pauper. there is something in them, some north star, réalta thuaidh, that has them convinced they would have found their way to her side by any road. their purpose, their charge, their patient, their other half.
the princess' ails criss-crossed, winding like roots in the earth of her. some had names the physician could read from her, and some did not. there were good days and bad days and hundreds of grey days between, some with bright spots twinkling ever resilient though the tumult dark. the towers and the wallwalks brought the two of them so close to the sky it felt like they could touch it. she burned brighter than anything that lived in the sky, and the physician loved all that she was in words not yet invented, or uninventable, perhaps divine and ever out of reach, like the stars.
they knew her better than any. better than the court did, the royal family did, the other servants and attendants did—better than they knew themself. they had learned her, not just her body, but her patterns and wonts, her instincts, her mind, her soul. yes, they thought they had touched it once. once, when she was laid open on their table, their careful loving hands resetting her bones and fingers dipping inside her to mend that compound wound—fainting atop the stairs, the staff had said. the physician would insist on taking her arm on every staircase long after she was fully healed and could walk on her own again. yes, in her blood and tissue and the direct touch of her skeleton, in the gasps and chokes of pain as she fluttered to and from consciousness, the rasps and mumbles of their name on those perfect lips, the physician had tasted her soul.
it was something they starved for, and knelt dutifully each day in service of, putting on her stockings and shoes one by one for her even when she rolled her eyes at them.
most days were not so dramatic. the princess' ails were mundane permeating ordeals, saturating most everything, but diluted most of the time. the physician kept her fed, kept her temperate, kept her rested and kept her from overexerting, kept her pain at bay, kept her medicines on schedule, kept her monitored and kept her needs tended—but most of all kept her sane and her spirits up.
the princess was in awe of the physician's tenacity and compassion, twinned at the core of them. endless drive and boundless kindness. an energy that could coax them out of the depths of despair when it all felt too much with just their soft, smooth words and their relentless support. she wanted them always at her side, to bask in their warmth, and to soak in the radiance of a sharp smart mind who wasn't afraid to speak it, assured in their own formidable skill. on top of truly brilliant and talented, they were good company, the best the princess could ever ask for, and with them, a life on the short leash of poor health seemed more than bearable. it looked beautiful.
and those hands—oh those clever hands, the dance of their work, the relief and comfort they brought. an unmatched glory in her life, the best evidence of the holy and a false idol of their own. she adored those hands. gracing her, straightening her, examining her, hailing her, consoling her, massaging her, holding her, supporting her, resting on the small of her back, laced in her own... she recalled with heat and fondness her surgery, too, and wondered oft for a long while after what else those talented hands could do inside her.
it was the insomnia, she said, and it was no lie—frustration and denial exacerbated her sleeplessness, and she could only do so much to try and remedy herself before her fragile joints began to flare and ache and protest—the angles too awkward, the rhythm too demanding, the pleasure too powerful to keep her from tensing up and her sinews from singing sore. the pain had its indulgence, too, but she needed more. so she called in her dutiful physician, beckoned by a bell from their adjoining chamber, and when they came to her bedside she told them she needed help in the banishing of her insomnia.
they offered the usual remedies—tea, a draught, guided trance, a story. the princess requested they hold her. the physician didn't bat an eye. they were already in their nightclothes and slipped into the princess' bed with nary a second thought.
"how shall I hold you?" they asked, rubbing their cool hands across her skin in the places that most often sought relief: along the nape of her neck, her shoulders, their blades, the bottom of her spine.
"like so," the princess told them as she rolled and pressed her back against their warm core. she guided their arms around her, embracing her, and encouraged a bit of pressure, a comfort. "and... like so." she gingerly guided their leading hand over the plush of her stomach, the crown of her hip, the cut of her thigh against her crotch. she urged them on with little puffs and gasps, crystalline and sweet, and pressed their hand to her clit.
the physician understood the look on her highness' face before even getting under the covers, but allowed her to set the stage, to guide the dance.
"like this, my lady?" they asked, stroking her clit slow and steady, a surgeon's precision and a musician's tempo. the princess gave a symphony of airy melodies in response. they were practically drooling, mumbling into the princess' shoulder, seperating phrases with kisses. "very well. tell me if and when you want more, or less, or to stop. understood?"
a gasped yes. the physician smiled as they worked, flooded with joy at every sound and twitch and breath from their princess. when she began to rut softly into the physician's administering hand, her ass grinded back against the physician's throbbing cock, and like the pull of the tide, they rocked their hips in time. the princess moaned louder for it, encouragement bordering on begging, and the physician was eager to give.
nightclothes were easy to curtain aside, flesh bared to one another beneath the covers, pressed together, a chéile, and aching to be joined. they rubbed their hardness against their princess' soft giving flesh, their ass and thighs, and god above, their head swam with the silk of it against their cock. but taking good care necessitated interruption.
the physician insisted on lubrication to avoid unnecessary soreness, and while the princess objected at first, ready to endure any consequence for the satisfaction of relief, the physician had privilege to defy her orders in her best interest. so though she begged "now, please, I cannot stand it, I need it, waiting is poison—" the physician kissed her head and untangled from her to retrieve a bottle of oil from their chamber. the princess' pout on their return was swiftly kissed into a smile, and then coaxed into a dropped jaw gasp when they pushed their slick fingers inside her.
plunging fingers that adored her insides, that knew all her sweet spots, that wanted nothing more than to give her bliss, along with coos and rumbles of praise in her ear were nearly too much for the princess. she cried for them to slow, and the physician obliged.
with a grin shaping their voice, the physician instructed the princess to touch her clit while they worked her open, slow and steady, and she couldn't resist instruction from that most trusted of voices. they were her physician, her sworn caretaker, but also her body's keeper—she would put her heart, her life, in their hands, without question. when she was hazy with the pleasure of both points of stimulation and approaching the foot of a peak by the tension of her soft gripping walls, the physician slowly drew their fingers from her, earning a whine.
"a momentary theft, sweet thing," promised the physician. "keep touching yourself just as you are. very well done, you're doing beautifully."
their moans blended as the physician slicked their shaft, head pressed against the princess' throbbing entrance, and she whimpered their name soft on an exhale. a sigh of utter, desperate need.
twas their job to provide.
easy and steady, they pushed inside her, their shaft filling her mark by mark until she had taken it all. she trembled and gasped and hitched on it, and the physician reminded her in that smooth, soothing voice to breathe, to relax, unwinding her with kisses and rubs and calming words.
"that's my good girl. you're doing great. keep stroking, good, and breathe, my dove. well done. now I'm going to move, and I need you to stay relaxed for me, just as you are, and tell me if you feel any pain, alright?"
the princess moaned an affirmative. the physician pulled back and plunged in, slow, measured. the princess hiccuped a moan of rapture. she insisted "more, more, more," and the physician beckoned her to match their rhythm, increasing a little with each thrust. she did as she was told, each rub and stroke of her sensitive clit matched with a fill. she warned the physician in a tight voice that she wouldn't last long like that.
"whatever you need of me, my star—I'm yours. take what you need."
the physician held the princess through the throes of her orgasm, lost for a moment to the currents of pleasure. when she had come down and was only able to twitch, the physician guided her breathing til it was calm, then braced her to pull out, cleaned her up, and wrapped themself around her.
"what about you?" she asked in a murmur, on the edge of sleep. "you haven't been satisfied—"
"I have been and more," crooned the physician. "nothing satisfies more than being able to take good care of you."
the princess gave an indecisive hum. "you must let me taste your spend sometime soon. that I think would be good for me too, you coming on my tongue. good for the soul."
the physician chuckled. "anything for you, sweet one."
You suffer from moderate to severe touch starvation, but try to go about a normal life. One day while sitting in a cafe, a decidedly inhuman looking figure sits at a table near you. Deciding that you gotta fix your skin hunger somehow, you walk over and introduce yourself. He blinks a couple times, looking really confused. "You should be too well-fed to be able to see me." Out of the corner of your eye, you see a black horse patiently waiting outside, no one else seems to see it, or its owner.
Rating: Lemon/Explicit
Content: Depression, Anxiety, Touch Starvation, Vaginal Fingering
Characters: Female Reader/Famine (as in one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse)
Wordcount: ~3500
Notes: I was originally going to split this into two parts, but decided to post it all as one, so there are headers within the text. (I wanted to keep them because they made me giggle, so enjoy!)
It’s also worth noting that touch starvation is a very real issue that can cause severe depression, so while I try not to preach at folks in or before my stories, in this case I want to point out that if you relate too deeply, I’d love if you seek help. Please take care of yourselves. <3
Touch Starved, Part One
(or, the one where you meet the physical embodiment of Famine while in search of a donut)
Happy birthday! The email reads.
What? You think to yourself. You open the calendar app on your phone and you frown. No, it’s not your birthday. But it almost is.
How is it nearly your birthday?
Where has the time gone?
It’s with something of a shock that you realize you haven’t spoken to another human face-to-face in over month. You work freelance gigs online, and get paid through direct deposit. You order your groceries online through a delivery service, and once the delivery person has deposited the bags outside your door, you collect them. You even pay your rent and other bills on the internet. Your mail gets delivered through a slot in the door.
You didn’t plan to find yourself secluded like this. You look around your tiny studio apartment. Your full-size bed, with the flannel sheets and the fluffy comforter is a mess, and you know you’ve spent more time there than you should have recently, fighting off the depression that’s been swamping you. It makes it hard to get up. Hard to shower. Hard to care.
I should go out and get something, you tell yourself. Maybe a coffee, and a donut, and I can speak to other people. It would be good for me, you think.
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AN: This started out as a horny concept but it turned out a little angsty. I feel like with this setup and oneshot, I haven’t done Isil justice ;-; Also, can you tell that new Hozier EP is influencing my brain chemicals.
For the past few weeks, your lover has been exceptionally- no, overly cautious around you.
Isil wears a thick, opaque strip of black fabric around his head to cover his eyes. Although it obscures his vision, he’s able to move without much impediment thanks to the rest of his keen senses. He has made it a point to wear it whenever you’re around, just in case.
It just so happened that one day, you’d found him napping close to the river rocks beside his home. It was a beautiful sight- his emerald green scales iridescent under the sun, his body stretched comfortably in a pool of light with an arm thrown under his head. More than that, it was the first time you had seen his eyes, closed of course, but you could make out their shape. Wrinkles you had never seen before in their corners, and his lashes, thick and dark against his cheeks.
You should have turned around before calling him. Instead, you had continued walking towards his napping spot, breaking a twig underfoot with a loud snap, waking the naga who instinctively jolted up and set his gaze dead on you.
What stood out the most to you in that moment was the colour of his eyes. Isil had told you that they were yellow before, but he failed to convey to you their depth and richness. Gold was what they were, not yellow, you remember thinking dimly before your limbs seized painfully and a foreign emotion that you had never envisioned yourself feeling in his presence overtook you. As you toppled to the ground you realised it was terror.
You remember hearing a heart wrenching cry. Then Isil by your side, hand over your eyes to block the sunlight from getting into them. He carried your stiff body into his home and administered an antidote to you, weeping and begging while your limbs gradually regained mobility.
Thankfully, no long term damage was done. You were walking and talking as usual by the evening, but Isil was affected deeply. You couldn’t blame him. If your roles were reversed you, too, would feel awful even though it was not Isil’s fault, a point you had reminded him of over and over again. The two of you had talked extensively in the wake of the incident- him asking you if you ever felt unwell, if you feared him, if you hated him. You, reassuring him, promising him that yes, you’re perfectly fine, and no, you would never be.
Afterwards, you expected things to carry on as they did. You love him with all of your heart after all, as you know he does for you, so those sort of things would bear little weight in your relationship. But Isil has been on eggshells around you ever since. He’s just as doting and affectionate as he always is, but now he handles you like you’re porcelain. Simple things like cleaning or going outside for a walk, he shoos you away from the task and fusses about you. Even lovemaking, once vigorous and passionate, became a painfully slow and hesitant thing.
You were sure that these things would fade away with time as he grew desensitised to caution. But you soon noticed that Isil began to carry himself differently around you. He would be rigid when you faced him, a hand subconsciously covering his face even with his blindfold on. On occasion, he would have a wretched expression on his face, no doubt recalling the events from that day. Despite it all, he would put on a happy facade, his usual gentle smile and soft words. This, you could not take.
One day, you approach him outside of his home. It’s close to night and he’s sitting on his pile of coils, whittling away at a piece of wood, the flickering light of the bonfire casting shadows over his handsome face. He’s wearing his blindfold, using his touch to feel the thickness and shape of his work. It sends a pang of hurt through your chest. Now he doesn’t even dare to take it off.
“Love.” He says softly, long since heard your footsteps on the pebbles.
“Hello, Isil.” Your curt greeting doesn’t escape his notice and he quickly sets aside the wood and his carving knife.
“What is it? Come and sit here, love.” He motions towards his coils, but you take a seat on the log facing him instead. The frustration in you dissipates a little when you see the smile fall from his face. You need to remember that this has been hard on him.
“Could we have a chat?” You say as gently as possible.
“Of course.” There’s an edge of uncertainty in his voice, yet he sits up and gives you his full attention. After a bout of silence, struggling to think of how to begin this conversation even though you’d run it through your mind countless times, you finally land on something.
“Lately, you’ve been acting strangely around me. And I have to ask if it’s because of what happened.”
With his blindfold, it could be hard to read him. But there are always subtle visual cues that you’ve picked up in your time together. The small pinch of his brows when he’s disturbed, the quirk in his lips when he’s happy. Though you have never needed them much, because Isil is honest. Isil is genuine and wears his heart on his sleeve. He is soft-hearted, perhaps too much, which is why the two of you have become caught up in this predicament.
“It’s nothing, I assure you.”
“Is it really? Isil?” You’re sad because you know it’s not the truth. “I can see it. In your mannerisms, the way you treat me, and I’m worried about you. Have you been wearing your blindfold all day?”
He doesn’t need to answer. The way he flinches tells you all you need to know.
“This…it’s not healthy, Isil. So tell me, please, is it because you’ve been carrying something from that day? If so, we can talk-”
“No! No, it’s not.”
“Then? What is it?”
You bite back the urge to say what’s on your mind, to label what he’s feeling. A tense few seconds amplify the silence between the two of you. You can tell that he’s distraught, the end of his tail is weaving through the air. Slowly, you get up and ease yourself onto him. For the first time in a long while, he holds you firmly within his arms, as if your weight anchors him to the moment. If anything, it’s a comfort for the both of you. You wait patiently.
“I feel guilty.” His voice is meek, barely a murmur. “There’s nothing that I can do to remedy what I did. I hurt you.”
A part of you had expected this. He had always prided himself on never turning his power onto humans, and put deliberate effort into concealing his eyes, living far away from cities or even small towns. So to hurt one, his beloved no less, must have been especially egregious.
“I understand that you feel so, Isil. But must you torment yourself, deny yourself your vision? You know I wouldn't want that."
He’s silent, but there’s the seed of understanding within him. You cup his cheek in your hand and find that it's damp. Oh, it pains you to see him this way, but at least you’ve managed to have him talking.
“Let’s move inside.” You wipe the tears from his face and take his hand, moving together past the threshold. After taking off your shoes you climb into his nest, voluminous piles of pillows and blankets to keep him warm through the night. He slithers wordlessly in and you pull him close.
“I wish that my eyes weren’t the way that they are.” His face is tucked against your chest but you can hear the pout in his voice, like a petulant child.
“Come now, that’s unreasonable.”
You can feel that he’s become relaxed, his muscles are loose, the tension in his body dissolved. It must have sapped a lot of his energy, and brought him relief.
“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?”
“ I should be the one-” He sighs against your neck. “I think…I need to do something. But what would be enough?”
You bring his face up to meet yours, kissing him long and deep. He starts slow and melts into it, pressing into you with greater fervour, a hand tracing your jaw, fingers feeling the flutter of your heartbeat in your neck. As you stroke his hair an idea comes to you. Something that could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.
He tilts his head, puzzled, when you pull away from him and dig through a ball of cloth beside his nest. Long strips of inky dark fabric. Sitting before him, you wind the strip several times over your eyes and secure it with a double knot behind your head. Then you blindly feel around for his arm to guide his hand to you, his fingers tracing the cotton over your eyes.
“What…”
“You know how well these things cover your eyes,” indeed, you can’t make out anything behind them, “so take off your blindfold.”
Even though he doesn’t give you a reply right away, you can tell that Isil is resistant to the idea. A thousand churning anxieties no doubt plague his mind.
“I have faith in you, Isil."
He reaches to the back of your head and determines that the doubleknot is secure enough. You can hear the sound of fabric being untied, like sand running through fingers, soft and sibilant. It's dim in his nest so his eyes don't need to adjust much.
It's not the first time that both of you have done something like this, though it had been a long time ago, when you simply closed your eyes and allowed him to take a look at your face. You wonder what he looks like, so you map your hands up from his sides to his face. His eyelids are a little puffy from crying, nose angular, lips plush. You laugh, amazed by how you can envision him even without sight.
"I'm going to open them." You thought he already had. You drop your hands onto your lap.
And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze on you. It’s like a tingling beneath the surface of your skin and a shiver passes through you. You try to piece together what his expression would be in your mind, with his golden eyes taking you in. The silence makes you a little self-conscious and you shuffle around a bit.
“A goddess has made her way into my nest.” There’s a lilt of earnest humour in his voice which makes you smile and blush. He pushes away hair covering your face, tracing your cheeks with his fingers. “We must do this more often.”
“And if you want to…” you unbutton your shirt, exposing yourself to him, “you can do this, and it’ll be enough.”
Again, he’s quiet. Is this what he feels like all the time? Not knowing his expression is torturous, even more so because you don’t have the strong senses of a naga.
“Isil? If you don’t want to, it's ok.”
“No, no I want to.” He sounds embarrassed, a little breathy, like how he usually does when he’s excited. Isil helps you to undress. He’s taking his time, no doubt drinking in the sight of you bare. His breath tickles your neck, the feeling of his lips on your skin and the skillful nip of his teeth is sharp. Your lack of sight allows you to concentrate on the intense physical stimulation, anticipating where he’s going and what he’s going to do next through his trailing kisses. But it is never overwhelming, as he is deliberate and patient with every part of your body, worshipping them thoroughly before moving on to more delightful, untouched skin.
Like this you feel vulnerable and at his mercy, under the weight of his eyes pinning you to the bedding. You flinch when he licks a stripe between your chest.
“Sorry, sorry,” he rubs your sides, fingers squeezing soft flesh, “was that too sudden?”
“N-No..keep going please.”
He obliges, cupping your breast and using his forked tongue to tease your nipple, pebbling quickly under his touch. You’re unable to hold back your moans, the pleasure so much more concentrated and unexpected. While you would usually love for Isil to spend hours teasing you, there’s an unbearable urgency and excitement brewing in your chest, so you guide him down to your pussy, already slick for him. He peppers kisses and bites along your inner thighs and the throbbing between your legs urges you to groan at him.
“Come on, Isil, hurry.”
“I got caught up in you.” His tone is joyful, he's elated to see you like this for the first time. “But I won’t keep you waiting, love. Your word is law.”
He works you with his deft fingers, curling his tongue around your clit. You nudge him forward, hooking your heel around his neck which he loves. A delighted moan slips from his mouth and he presses his mouth flush against your crotch. All the while, you can feel his eyes transfixed on you, watching you shiver and twitch until you come undone. Isil gives you just a moment of reprieve before he continues, fingers curling inside of you while he sucks on your bundle of nerves.
“Isil!” You gasp, hand flying down to grab his silky hair, but the motion only seems to fuel him more than deter him.
“Mm, pull harder.”
You grab a fistful of hair at the nape of his neck, and you can feel a shiver roll through his body. He devours you, like a starving man with a feast laid out before him for the first time, finally taking in the full pleasures of sex. He could feel your soft body underneath his, hear your moans and watch the way you move, the indescribable allure of your bare skin and curves and expressions that touch could not convey.
“Fuck…” You’re surprised to hear him curse, the word on his tongue sounds hungry, feral.
Your second climax has you seeing stars behind the dark canvas of the blindfold, body curling in on itself and thighs squeezing around his head. Isil adores having his face shoved between your legs, your desire for him and how good he makes you feel articulated through the bind of your limbs. He’s giddy with exhilaration, taking his eyes off of you for just one moment to savour the softness of your thighs. When you part your legs, he pulls away from you to lick your slick from his chin, clouded mind urging him to eat you out again. His cocks are already free from their sheath, hard and leaking precum. He’s had to resist the urge to touch himself, otherwise he would be spent before getting the chance to be inside you.
“Are you alright, darling?” He asks you, reaching over to give you a kiss. You’re a little dazed, having two intense orgasms in a row leaving you quite speechless. For a while, you focus on the taste of musk on his lips.
“Very good,” you sigh, feeling around blindly until his hand grasps onto yours, “I want inside of me now, please.”
Isil helps you to sit up, guiding you over his torso. Your hands follow where his skin melds into scales, finding his two cocks already erect and wet. You line up the lower, slightly bigger one to your hole, easing yourself onto his bulbous tip. As always, the stretch around him is divine, he fills you so well, like a craving fulfilled.
“Wait a second.” He hisses, the sight of your joining and the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his cock is almost too overwhelming, and he doesn't want to cum just yet. You wait until he calls your name, tender, and you lift yourself and thrust down onto him, the drag of his textured shaft against your walls makes your strained legs weak.
“I don’t think I can…” He grabs ahold of your forearms, snapping his hips up to stuff you full of him again. The motion tears a strangled gasp from your throat, he bottoms out inside of you, groaning as he slams you down on his cock and thrusts up sloppily to meet you. He can’t get enough you, a part of him wants nothing more than to hold you like this and use you, so hungry to feel you tight around him and to see you unravel, but he shouldn’t, he-
“More.” You groan, hands grasping onto his broad shoulders for stability. “Just like that, don’t stop.”
Isil’s mind goes blank. Hearing your pretty voice like that is hardly fair, he thinks. Wordlessly, he obliges, holding your hips steady as he thrust into you. With the blindfold, you can feel every bump, every vein on his cock rubbing deliciously against your walls, and you’re reduced to making pitiable whines. Even in this position, he manipulates your body with ease, and the thought sends another gush of slick down his cock. The steady work of his strong hips against yours builds your pleasure quickly, your core throbbing and squeezing around him more and more until you careen delightfully out of control. You cum with a cry, slumping over his chest.
Isil quickens his pace, helping you ride out your orgasm whilst intent on chasing his. He studies your face, the little frown between your brows, the shape your mouth makes when he grinds against the spot where you’re so sensitive. His long tongue snakes its way into your mouth, tangling with yours, breath and sweat mingling.
With a grunt he comes, spilling thick, hot seed inside of you before his second cock splatters cum on both of your bellies. Isil’s hips tremble, the heady rush of liquid over his cock milking a few more spurts of cum until he’s spent, panting and boneless underneath you. You groan when he pulls out, seed and slick making a mess of the sheets. Tomorrow, he’d have to clean them up.
For a long while, he holds you against his chest, the two of you taking in the warmth and fuzziness of the afterglow.
“Thank you.” He breathes, rubbing your lower back where he’s sure you’re sore. “Thank you for this, and for everything.”
“It’s no problem, love.” You sigh, sated and happy.
As the two of you drift off, your pleasant weight on his chest, you think that as much as Isil is harsh on himself, he’s always done his best.
you have a friend who appears human, but in the back of your mind you know that isn't quite right. sometimes they know things they shouldn't. sometimes how they come and go doesn't make sense.
a quiet day, you two are seated on your bed, and they lean in to touch you. kiss you, perhaps. they hesitate. and then, they tell you to close your eyes: you mustn’t look.
you comply, and they guide you to lay down as they strip you down. your clothes seem to phase out of reality, only to be there again when you hear something soft be dropped on the floor. you should try stay still, they tell you. makes it easier to not hurt you by accident. you bury your face in the pillows and almost hold your breath as they move to caress you, and carefully take you.
you try to map out the real shape of them based on what you feel and hear. very little is constant apart from them inside you, fucking you slowly; you feel parts of their body press against you, but where exactly, that changes. their hands (how many? you aren't sure) wander all over your skin. nothing holds a shape quite like that of a human. you experience all-new sensations where you can feel the boundary of what is there and what seemingly isn't. you hear their breath, sometimes next to your ear, sometimes further away. sometimes you don't hear them at all.
you are not still, but they seem to be managing. certainly they aren't stopping.
when you are both spent, they withdraw, and the room is awfully quiet for a moment. as if you are alone. the strange static in the air is gone. then, someone sits by you on the edge of the bed. and your friend tells you you can look again.
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[Male Vampire & Neutral Reader. Romantic or Platonic; you decide.]
I have nothing to write this into because it’s just a disconnected concept with no story around it, but I haven’t been able to get this scenario out of my head, so here’s a (sfw) reader insert mini-story.
I love the idea of a werewolf or demon or other creature with a knot being locked inside someone and unable to pull out and they're so apologetic, they didn't mean to get stuck, they didn't mean to come inside, they don't want to hurt them, are you okay, i swear it'll go down soon-but with how soft and tight and warm their partner is they just feel a growing drive to fuck their knot deeper inside.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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