Heat of a Star

What you weren't ready for were the looks. The whispers. The stares. Your parents pulled away, disagreeing with your “lifestyle”. Some of your friends withdrew, claiming you’d changed, you weren't yourself anymore. People rallied to stop the program. Governments labelled it “unnatural”. You weren't prepared.

You weren't prepared for the friends that stayed. Those that rallied around you. The people fighting back when you couldn't. The love you found in yourself. The joy every new sensation brought. The new spark ignited within. You weren't ready for her.

You were 31 when you met her. She was one of the first to transfer to a new body. A pioneer. You admired her strong personality. Her unapologetic self. You couldn't look away from her lazer engraved tattoos. Her ability to be who she was without fear. Your friends introduced you, knowing she’d understand. You were ready.

She took you back to her place. She pushed you against her wall. She asked if you wanted this. You needed this. Her lips met yours. Her tongue danced across yours. You felt lightning through your artificial veins. She knew exactly how to melt you. How to undo you. How to make you feel.

~~~

You’re pulled back to your thoughts as she throws you onto her bed. Her visor barely displaying emotion, but you know what she’s feeling: hunger. You feel your fans kick up a gear as you're laid out under her gaze, her smirk causes coolant to desperately spread throughout your systems. You can feel your synthetic cock throb in your panties as she crawls across the bed towards you, excitement building deep inside you. Biting your lip in anticipation she begins to kiss her way up your thigh, her cold metal lips leaving the faintest of marks as she works her way towards her prize. Her metal fingers grasp at your hips as she curls them around your panties, threatening to pull them down.

“P-please…” you breathlessly whimper.

Having your consent she quickly and gently frees your half hard cock, licking her lips as she watches it grow slightly harder under her gaze. Before you have time to react she takes you completely into her mouth, sending sparks shooting up your body, synthetic nerves on fire as she holds you inside. Slowly working you up and down in her mouth you can barely think, every system in your body working overdrive to make sense of the fire spreading through your nerves and pathways. Minutes pass in what feels like hours, desperately holding onto the sheets to ground yourself. Releasing your cock from her mouth she climbs up your body, bringing her face within inches of your own, her body draped over yours.

“I'm going to make you cum, pretty bot” she whispers, just inches from your lips.

You reach up, connecting your lips together, seeming confident as you come undone so completely inside. She takes the sign and deepens the kiss, her tongue so delicately dancing with your own. Her hand grabs ahold of your cock, gently stroking you between the warmth of your two bodies, the pressure of her bearing down on you only adding to the overwhelming surges rushing through every inch of software you’ve got, her deep kisses and low moans into your mouth driving you and your fans wild, the heat almost overwhelming you. It's not long before you feel something building, something deep and animal, but entirely new, the animal now made of metal and code as you feel it forcing its way through you. You start to cum into her hand as she practically vibrates on top of you, you feel her smiling into your kiss as you lose control, your mind goes blank as you are hit with waves of pleasure. You’ve completely lost control.

You begin to come back to your senses, you fans still working overtime to vent the heat created by the two of you, your stomach slick with your own artificial cum. Laying on her side next to you, looking gently into your visor, she smiles and your insides melt once more. You say nothing as you nuzzle wordlessly into her chest. You never want this moment to end.

You were 31 when you knew you were right. You were 31 when you knew you were safe. You were 31 when you found yourself. Truly.

Pyro, with his dark monstrous eyes and face horrific and scared by holy water and claws of his becoming, blinks at Abolish sitting on the bike seat, feet on the ground keeping the bike steady, hands lingering on the dark motorcycle trousers by Pyro's shoes - his legs spread inviting Abolish to take what he wants and pressing into his thigh to balance himself against the bike.

"What did you say?" In the night, Pyro's eyes are haunting - so he's been told: terrible crimson orbs swallowed up by dark sclera straight out of the abyss - and yet Abolish never breaks eye contact. He's annoying like that, looking at him while talking to him, not through him or past him, he looks at Pyro and none one else. It makes his skin shiver.

"You, the vampire leaning on back on my bike with your cock and behind out, you: what do you like?" Again, Abolish might as well be speaking a different language the way Pyro's face is bereft of clarity. Abolish's dark borderline soulless eyes narrow imperceptibly as Pyro stills like the world is just a ringing in his ears and it has all been swallowed by the dark.

Why would he ask him that? Why would he even care - just get it over with.

"I can stop if you want?"

"No!" The panic that rushes through him hasn't been felt since he was flailing through the lake by the obelisk, torn into and gutted before being dragged under it's current and disappearing in the red mist of his own death. He very well almost bites through his lips his mouth snaps the words out. And then he realises his misstep, his rudeness, he has forgotten his place and the hysteria filling his cold dead heart is like another stake driven through it-

"Okay. Alright. But I'm not doing anything till you give me the go ahead." Abolish states, voice cool and calm and Pyro appreciates it more than he can express. The characteristic unflappable nature of his, unchanged, even now, accommodating him, even now. Being listen to is strange, doesn't feel right - but it feels nice.

His hands come to his face and rub, a deep breath rattling his ribs, and when he brushes his hands into his ashen mop he half expects Abolish to be gone - like batman: he's done it before - but no, he's still there. Still waiting patiently for him to approach at his own pace. Great now he feels like a wounded deer being gently encouraged towards a human for help… but is that so bad?

Pyro breaths deep and he turns to look at the distant camp where he and Abolish - mostly Abolish - had killed a bad 80's slasher of a vampire an hour prior: this was meant to be celebration sex, but it was something more. Something dangerous formative that threatens to disrupt the foundations of his self.

"Can you touch me with your gloves on… I like the feel," Pyro admits, sheepish, bracing himself for the mockery or the disregard or a slap or -

"And where can I touch you?" Abolish follows up, an effortlessly controlled serenity on his face as he makes sure his leather riding gloves have no chance of slipping off. They never would, but Pyro finds the act a comfort.

"Where ever you want-"

"Pyro."

His hands return to his face, each choice and declaration of autonomy it's own little agony.

"You can touch my thighs and cock and arms and chest and my face if you really want to but who would ever want to-" the gentle caress of expensive black leather runs along the scruff of his jaw with military precision and a tenderness that breaks him more than any torture could. The leather feels nice, down right has him purring from the gentle roughness of it's grain and warmth, but when Abolish's thumb drifts up towards his lip, Pyro snatches his wrist.

Abolish startles, not enough to do anything, but Pyro can see the way his eyes focus. He feels horrible. It's more on instinct that anything, but the feeling of fingers threatening to press into his mouth makes his calcified stomach threaten to inverse.

"Not mouth… sorry I should have, I didn't know I just-" the words stumble over themself as they leave Pyro's mouth and again Abolish remains stalwart, sat secure on the seat, a cliff of utter acceptance the turbulent waves of Pyro crash against. "Sorry."

"It's okay. Thank you for telling me." And Abolish stays clear of his mouth, just runs his hand along the vampire's jaws and lets him bask in the gentle affection.

He had a dream about Scott doing this once, of holding him tenderly while saying how proud of him he was, the perfect fledgling, soaking in the admiration of his sire… but it was just that, a dream.

Abolish's hand move with a militarily precise sensualness - at times it's a little awkward: as if Abolish has a errant thought that he is petting a dog and Pyro finds a charm and warmth in that - travelling along his jaw and cheeks and instead of revolting at the stain of holy water or the scars of Owen and Scott, his fingers dance around the borders. And when Pyro says he is okay with them being touched, it is devastatingly soft to have the ugliness of his life admired as if they were jewels.

And with each drag of Abolish's hand, each tender touch, Pyro feels his breath weighing down his chest, his pallid cheeks warming effervescently, and a strangle tingle across his breast and dancing up his back. First he thinks it is the wind, a chill, but that hasn't bothered him in many moons.

This is something else.

"Can you…"

"I can if you ask."

"Can you touch my…" Pyro pouts, a sudden almost boyish embarrassment colouring his face, "can you touch my cock, please." Instantly he wants to dig himself back into the grave he pulled himself from.

"Of course, it would be my pleasure," Abolish responds with a collected coolness, perfectly masquerading the abject horror that the way Pyro was beneath him let him know this was the first time he had actually been asked to be touched.

"Just gentle, I-" something catches on Pyro's tongue and his voice comes meeker than he might like, "I don't like it when it's super rough."

"Understood." A hand remains on Pyro's face, a gentle caress he can lean into at his leisure, while his other hand winds down to his crotch. But first he reaches into his pocket and flicks the lid of a petite lube. Pyro blinks at him.

"Always prepared. And don't want it to hurt," Abolish states as a gentle sheen of lube covers his gloved hand.

The anticipation and anxiety is burning white hot in his chest and Pyro mumbles to himself that it is okay, he asked for this, over and over again until the reassurance is echoing in his mind. And then Abolish's hand closes gently around his cock. A gruff noise of surprise slips out as Pyro slumps back on the bike.

It is strange - someone else touching your cock, someone else wearing gloves touching your cock, someone else wearing gloves touching your cock gently because you asked them - quite strange in a way he isn't sure how to process it. It's familiar, he's touched himself plenty, but it's also not him and when the initial rush of panic seizes him that he has no control, he meets Abolish's dark eyes and remembers that he does.

After a brief moment, acclimating to the savoury feel of the leather around his cock, Pyro gives Abolish a curt nod and he starts to gently stroke the vampire. Slowly, the delicate roughness of the leather clad hand slides down his cock, pulling back his foreskin to expose the pallid rosy head already - embarrassingly - drizzling pre and Pyro immediately grimaces behind his palms. But the mockery doesn't come.

"Hmm. You really like being touched don't you." Abolish says with a soft charm, more of a observation than question.

"I guess so."

Abolish's finger meet his base and gently rise back up his cock, appreciating the curve and every facet of him in the most delicate manner. It is better than he deserves, Pyro can't help but think it every time Abolish makes a whiny groan or sound of genuine pleasure spill out of him with his hands. A gentle stroke, and a finger that presses to the back side of his head as it rises makes him moan in a way he never has and this thighs shake like he's caught a fever. All from a gentle touch.

Who knew gentleness could feel so good...

His cock is so shiny with lube now and it looks good, it feels good - it feels really good to be touched gently, to be slowly worked over while he is caressed like he isn't filthy, like he isn't a monster, like he is loved. Maybe he is.

Maybe he could…

As his chest settles from a devastatingly lovesome moan, head back on the handles of the motorbike sinking into the gentle oblivion of Abolish's touch, Pyro looks at the damphir with a nervous sort of excitement.

"Could you kiss me, if you want," he asks, breathless in a way that doesn't make his throat hurt and doesn't make him grimace at his own pathetic ness.

"I would want to. Nice and gentle?"

"Please…" and Abolish leans up across his bike, his hands still occupied with the soothing rhythm of stroking Pyro, and hovers just above the vampire's lips. The agency is on his. If he wants this kiss, he has to meet him.

And Pyro wants it.

He leans up and tenderly presses his lips to the half-vampires.

There's no hunger, no hurt, no forcing in to dominate his mouth with their own, Abolish just leans into him and brings his lips to meet Pyro's in kind. An uncharismatic warmth graces the undead as their lips press against one another in a tender embrace, and his chest sings like song bird bones dancing. Like fire consumes his ribs and crackles up through him, like he's worthy of love and basking in that knowledge.

A little moan breaks his lips from Abolish and the man laughs, downright giggles at him in a way that has Pyro's eye wide and dewy like he's seeing a sunrise again and not burning up in it.

"Is this okay?"

And every time that question is asked, Pyro feels something old ache, something like a malignancy stained on his very soul, but perhaps in time it will fade every time he says -

The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of the apartment, striping the polished hardwood floor. Owen leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching. Pyro was a whirlwind of restless energy, pacing from the couch to the window and back, a low, playful growl rumbling in his throat every time he passed.

“What’s gotten into you today, huh?” Owen asked, his voice calm but edged with a familiar authority.

Pyro stopped, turning his head. A sharp, mischievous grin split his face. “Bored. Need to burn some energy.” He took a slow, deliberate step towards Owen, his eyes glinting. “Your energy.”

Owen didn’t move. “You bit me this morning. Hard.”

“You liked it,” Pyro countered, taking another step closer, now within arm’s reach. He leaned in, his breath warm against Owen’s neck. “I felt you shiver.”

“That’s not the point.” Owen’s hand came up, not pushing him away, but settling firmly on Pyro’s chest, holding him at a precise distance. “Scott saw the mark. Told me I should ‘control my dog’.”

Pyro stilled. The playful light in his eyes flickered, replaced by something hotter, darker. A challenge. “Did he now.”

“Mhm.” Owen’s thumb stroked a slow circle over the fabric of Pyro’s shirt. “Said it was embarrassing. That a well-trained pet shouldn’t be so… mouthy.”

The air between them thickened, charged. Pyro’s gaze dropped to Owen’s lips, then back to his eyes. “I’m not a pet.”

“Aren’t you?” Owen’s voice dropped to a murmur, a private sound meant only for the space between their bodies. “You get that look. The one where you want to be told what to do. Where you want to be good for me. But today… today you’re all teeth. No discipline.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be good,” Pyro breathed, but the waver in his voice betrayed him. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary shift forward, seeking the pressure of Owen’s restraining hand.

Owen saw it. He always saw it. That silent plea beneath the defiance. Scott’s stupid comment echoed in his head, not as a criticism, but as a spark. An idea. A delicious idea.

“I think you do,” Owen said finally, his tone shifting into something smoother, more deliberate. He pushed off the counter, forcing Pyro to take a step back. “I think you desperately want to be my good boy. You’re just having trouble remembering how.”

He turned and walked toward the hallway closet, his steps measured. Pyro followed, a magnet drawn to its pole. “Owen…?”

Owen opened the closet door and reached up to the top shelf. His fingers closed around smooth leather. He pulled it down, the straps whispering against themselves. It was a muzzle. A simple, human-grade, breathable leather muzzle with a padded interior. They’d bought it as a joke, a prop for a costume party last Halloween. It had never been used for its intended purpose.

Until now.

Owen turned, holding it up. Pyro’s eyes went wide, his breath catching audibly. He didn’t step back. If anything, he leaned closer.

“This,” Owen said, his voice a low, resonant command that vibrated in the quiet room, “is for biting.”

Pyro stared at the muzzle, then at Owen’s face. A flush crept up his neck. “You’re serious.”

“Scott thinks I can’t control you. I think he’s wrong.” Owen took a step forward. “I think you’re going to be so, so good for me. Aren’t you, Pyro?”

The use of his name, coupled with that tone—firm, expectant, brimming with unshakable confidence—unlocked something deep in Pyro’s core. His shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of him, replaced by a throbbing, immediate heat. He gave a single, shaky nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” Pyro whispered. “I’ll be good.”

“Good boy,” Owen praised, and the effect was instantaneous. Pyro shuddered, a full-body tremor of pure want. His eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Now. On your knees.”

Pyro sank down gracefully, the denim of his jeans whispering against the floor. He knelt upright, hands resting on his thighs, head tilted back to look up at Owen. The submission was beautiful, total. Owen approached, the leather cool in his hands.

“Open,” he instructed softly.

Pyro parted his lips, his breathing already coming faster. Owen guided the muzzle into place. The padded bar fit comfortably behind his teeth, the leather cups settling against his cheeks. Owen’s fingers were deft, gentle but firm as he buckled the straps behind Pyro’s head, checking the fit. He tucked a finger under a strap, ensuring it wasn’t too tight. “Comfortable?”

Pyro nodded, the movement restricted but clear. A muffled sound, an affirmative hum, came from behind the leather. His eyes were huge, dark pools of surrender and arousal.

Owen stepped back to admire his work. The sight was profoundly erotic. Pyro, strong-willed and fiery Pyro, brought to his knees and silenced. His expression was one of deep, abiding trust, mixed with a wild excitement that made his chest rise and fall rapidly.

“Look at you,” Owen murmured, crouching down to be at eye level. He ran a thumb over the leather covering Pyro’s cheek. “So perfect. My perfect, muzzled boy. No more biting. No more trouble. Just you, being good for me.” Each word was a caress, a reinforcement. Pyro whined, a desperate, hungry sound, and nuzzled his face into Owen’s palm.

Owen’s own desire, a slow-burning coal, burst into flame. He stood, his hand sliding into Pyro’s hair, gripping firmly. “Stay.”

He walked to the living room, Pyro’s eyes tracking his every move. Owen settled into the armchair, spreading his legs. He unbuttoned his jeans, the sound obscenely loud. He didn’t hurry. He took his time, pulling down the zipper, pushing fabric aside. He was already hard, his cock springing free, thick and flushed.

“Come here,” he said, his voice rough now with need.

Pyro scrambled forward on his knees, the leather of the muzzle brushing against Owen’s inner thigh as he moved into the space between Owen’s legs. He stared at Owen’s cock, then up at his face, a question in his eyes.

“You want to be useful, don’t you?” Owen asked, his hand back in Pyro’s hair, guiding him closer. “You want to show me how good you can be?”

Another muffled, eager sound. Pyro nodded, his hot breath washing over Owen’s skin.

“Then show me.”

Owen didn’t force him down. He applied just enough pressure to guide, to direct. Pyro needed no more encouragement. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out first to lick a broad, wet stripe from base to tip. The sensation, the visual of his muzzled partner trying to lavish attention with only his tongue, sent a jolt of pure lust straight to Owen’s groin.

“That’s it,” Owen groaned, his head falling back against the chair. “Use that tongue. Show me how sorry you are for being so mouthy.”

Pyro moaned around the muzzle, the vibration traveling through Owen’s cock. He set to work with a focused desperation, his tongue flattening against the underside, lapping at the bead of pre-cum that had gathered at the slit. He couldn’t take Owen deep, couldn’t use his lips or teeth, and the limitation made every swipe, every circling pass of his tongue, feel infinitely more intense. It was all sensation, all wet, hot, silken friction.

Owen’s grip in Pyro’s hair tightened. “Such a good boy,” he rasped. “Look at you, trying so hard. Your tongue is so clever, so pretty.” He used his free hand to stroke Pyro’s cheek, his thumb rubbing over the strap of the muzzle. “My good, pretty boy. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to kneel and serve.”

Pyro’s answering whimper was broken, overwhelmed. His hips began to rock against empty air, seeking friction of his own. The praise was like fuel poured on the fire of his arousal, making him dizzy with it. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving and swirling, bathing Owen’s length in slick heat.

The pleasure built in a slow, relentless wave. Owen could feel the tension coiling tight in his abdomen. He watched, mesmerized, as Pyro worshipped him, the leather straps framing his face, his eyes screwed shut in concentration and bliss.

“Not yet,” Owen breathed, pulling Pyro back by the hair. A string of saliva connected Pyro’s tongue to Owen’s glistening cock for a second before snapping. Pyro looked up, dazed, panting through the muzzle. “Stand up. Take your clothes off. I want to see all of you.”

Pyro rose on unsteady legs, his own erection straining painfully against his jeans. His fingers fumbled with his belt, his button, his zipper, movements clumsy with urgency. He pushed his jeans and boxers down in one frantic motion, kicking them aside. His t-shirt followed, tossed to the floor. He stood naked before Owen, trembling, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach.

“Beautiful,” Owen said, the word a reverent exhale. “Every inch of you. Come here.”

Pyro moved back into the space between Owen’s legs. Owen’s hands went to his hips, pulling him closer, until the head of Pyro’s cock brushed against Owen’s still-wet length. The contact made them both gasp.

“You’re dripping for me,” Owen observed, his voice thick. He reached between them, wrapping his fingers around both of their cocks, squeezing them together. The feeling was electric—hot skin, slick with spit and pre-cum, the thrilling contrast of his own hand and Pyro’s muffled cry.

He began to stroke, a slow, tight glide that made his vision blur. “This is what you needed, isn’t it?” he gritted out, his hips pushing up into the friction. “To be put in your place. To be shown who takes care of you.”

Pyro could only nod frantically, his hands braced on Owen’s shoulders for balance, his body bowing over him. Every slide of Owen’s fist pulled another choked, desperate sound from behind the muzzle.

“You’re being so perfect,” Owen whispered, his pace increasing. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, a wet, rhythmic slap. “Taking your muzzle so well. Letting me use you. My perfect, good boy. You can come. Come for me.”

It was the final permission. The praise, the overwhelming sensation, the psychological surrender of the muzzle—it all crashed over Pyro at once. His body locked, a sharp, guttural cry muffled by leather as he came, stripes of white painting Owen’s stomach and chest in hot pulses. His knees buckled, but Owen held him up, his stroking hand never stopping, now slick with Pyro’s release.

The sight, the feel, the smell of it pushed Owen over the edge mere seconds later. His own orgasm tore through him with a force that stole his breath. “Fuck—good boy—so good—” he chanted, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled over his own fist and onto the mess already on his skin.

For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing. Pyro slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest against Owen’s shoulder, his body shaking with aftershocks. Owen slowly released his grip, bringing his soiled hand up to cup the back of Pyro’s head, holding him close.

He reached up with his other hand, fingers finding the buckle of the muzzle. He released it with a soft click and gently pulled the leather away. Pyro’s face was flushed, his lips reddened, his jaw slack. He licked his lips, taking in a deep, gulping breath of free air.

Owen tilted his chin up. Pyro’s eyes were glazed, sated, utterly peaceful. “There’s my good boy,” Owen murmured, leaning in to kiss him softly, tasting himself on Pyro’s tongue. “You did so well.”

Days blur together after the day he went to see Owen in the forest. Not in the way they usually do, full and purposeful, each hour accounted for, but in a strange, uneven rhythm. Moments slip. Thoughts trail off halfway through. Legundo finds himself standing in rooms without remembering why he walked into them, tools in his hands he doesn’t recall picking up.

He tells himself it’s exhaustion.

It has to be.

Because whenever he gets close to that gap, whenever he tries to linger on the edges of it, there’s something in his mind that gently redirects him. A soft, almost comforting insistence that there’s nothing there worth worrying about. That everything is fine.

So he lets it go.

There are too many other things demanding his attention anyway. The town doesn’t let him breathe long enough to sit with the unease, even if he wanted to.

Oakhurst is restless. The militia is stretched thin, running patrols longer than they should, doubling routes they can barely cover. Reports come in pieces, never the full picture, shadows moving where they shouldn’t, livestock found drained and abandoned, whispers of red eyes watching from the treeline. Vampires, pressing closer. Testing. Waiting. Legundo throws himself into the work because it’s the only thing that feels solid. If he keeps moving, keeps thinking, keeps doing, then the strange gaps in his memory don’t matter. The way his thoughts sometimes feel… nudged, guided away from certain places, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is finding something that works.

A defense. A cure. Anything.

And if he runs himself into the ground trying—

At least he would be useful...

Sleepless nights at his workbench, grinding ingredients down into fine powder, hands stained with herbs and ash. Bottles of cloudy liquid line the shelves, failed attempts, half-finished remedies, something close to holy water that still isn’t quite right. Notes scribbled in the margins of older notes, theories crossing over each other in restless loops.

He looks worse with each passing day. By the time Cleo finds him, he barely registers her at first.

“Doctor.” Her voice cuts clean through the fog, sharp enough to anchor him for a second. He turns, slow, like his body is lagging behind his thoughts. She takes one look at him and her expression tightens. “You look like shit.”

Legundo manages a faint, lopsided smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah… I guess there’s still a lot to do.”

“No.” Cleo steps closer, firm, unyielding. “No, there isn’t. Not like this.” He sways a little where he stands, and that’s all the confirmation she needs. “You need sleep, Legs.” Her tone softens just a fraction, but it’s still not negotiable. “We’re going back. Now.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t really have it in him. She drags him along, half-guiding, half-hauling, through the quiet streets and up to the clinic. He barely notices the walk, his head dipping, steps uneven. Inside, she stops at the bottom of the stairs.

“I can’t go up with you,” she says, glancing toward the upper floor. “You’ll manage, yeah?” Legundo nods automatically, that same slow compliance surfacing again without him thinking about it. “Good. Then go.” She pauses, studying him for a beat. “Please sleep.”

And then she’s gone, already shifting, dissolving into the flutter of wings before disappearing into the night. The silence she leaves behind feels heavier. Legundo stands there for a second longer than necessary before turning toward the stairs.

Up.

Each step feels like it takes more effort than it should. His hand drags along the railing for balance, his body swaying faintly. By the time he reaches his room, he’s already half-gone, caught between waking and

something softer, deeper. He doesn’t bother with the lamp. He just makes it to the bed and collapses onto it, limbs heavy, eyes slipping shut...

...and then opening again.

Sleep doesn’t come. Not fully. His mind won’t stay quiet long enough. Thoughts drift in loose, disconnected fragments at first, unfinished formulas, half-remembered conversations, the sharp smell of crushed herbs, but they don’t hold. They slide away, replaced by something else.

Someone else.

Owen.

It happens without warning, without intent. One moment Legundo is trying to focus on anything else, anything, and the next, the image is just… there. Clear. Too clear.

The shape of his face. The way his eyes catch the light, red, vivid, impossible to ignore. The faint scatter of freckles across his skin, soft against the sharper edges of his expression. Legundo exhales slowly, his head tilting back against the pillow.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t remember much, nothing concrete, nothing he can pin down, but the feeling lingers. Warm. Heavy. Good in a way that doesn’t quite make sense. Safe, even.

His brow furrows faintly at that. Why does it feel like that? He shifts slightly, restless, trying to shake it off, but it only makes him more aware of himself, of the tension still coiled in his body, of how awake he feels despite the exhaustion dragging at him.

His thoughts circle back. Owen again. Always Owen. The memory isn’t there, not really, but the impression of him is. Hands in his hair. A voice low and steady, saying things that felt… important, even if he can’t remember the words.

Legundo swallows, his breath catching just slightly. This is ridiculous.

He turns his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if that might help. “Just sleep,” he mutters to himself, voice barely above a whisper. But his mind won’t listen. It drifts again, pulled back like there’s something waiting there for him.

Owen’s eyes. That’s what sticks the most. Red. Bright. Unnervingly beautiful. Legundo lets out a quiet, uneven breath, staring up into the dark. “…what is wrong with me,” he murmurs. There’s no answer.

Only the slow, creeping realization that no matter how hard he tries to turn away from it, his thoughts keep slipping back to the same person. He was so hard it hurt. A dull, persistent ache that had settled deep in his groin, a throbbing reminder that refused to be ignored. Legundo shifted on the bed, the sheets tangling around his legs, his breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. Every time he closed his eyes, the image was there, seared onto the back of his eyelids: Owen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the softness of his lips, the fangs he’d felt once, just a ghost of a memory, a press against his skin that made his whole body shudder now with a confusing, desperate heat.

Pathetic, a distant, rational part of his mind whispered. You’re lying here aching for a vampire. A monster. You’re pathetic.

But the thought dissolved like sugar in water, sweet and meaningless. The need was louder. It was a physical pull, a cord tied around his spine and yanked taut, centering everything on the swollen, leaking weight between his legs. He’d tried to sleep. He’d tried to think of supply lists, of patrol routes, of the formula for that damned holy water. It was useless. His mind was a river, and every current led back to the same red-eyed pool.

A low, broken sound escaped him, a whimper. He pressed the heel of his hand against his erection through his trousers, and the jolt of sensation was so sharp it bordered on pain. Oh god. He bit his lip, hard, trying to stifle the next noise. His hips jerked up, seeking more pressure, and the friction of the rough fabric was a cruel tease.

“Owen…” The name was a prayer, a curse, a plea, torn from his throat without his permission. It hung in the dark room, shameful and raw.

He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. This was insane. But the ache was becoming a torment, a tight, coiling spring in his gut that demanded release. His fingers, clumsy and shaking, fumbled with the fastenings of his pants. The button popped open. The zipper rasped down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet. Cool air hit his feverish skin, and he gasped. He didn’t push the fabric down, just freed himself, his cock springing up to slap against his stomach, already wet at the tip.

Just a touch. Just to take the edge off. Then I’ll stop. I’ll sleep.

He wrapped his fingers around himself, and his whole body bowed off the bed. A choked-off moan ripped from his chest. He was so sensitive, every nerve ending screaming. His grip was tight, almost punishing, as he gave a single, slow stroke from root to tip. His thumb smeared the bead of pre-cum over the swollen head, and the slick, hot slide was so good, it made his vision blur.

Think of anything else. Anyone else.

He tried. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing the clinic, the pages of his notes. But the images warped, melted. The ink on the pages swirled into the pattern of freckles across a nose. The scent of herbs became the clean, cold scent of the forest, of damp earth and… him.

“Owen,” he moaned again, louder this time, his hips beginning a shallow, helpless rhythm into his own fist. The stroke was rough, urgent, fueled by a frustration that was quickly swallowing the shame. “Please…” He didn’t know what he was asking for. Relief. Permission. Something.

His mind began to fog, the edges softening. The exhaustion, the relentless arousal, the hypnotic pull of that singular focus, it all blended into a heavy, warm syrup in his veins. His movements became less coordinated, his strokes uneven. His mouth fell open slightly, a thin line of drool escaping the corner of his lip to trail down his chin. He didn’t notice.

That’s it. Just like that.

The voice wasn’t his own. It was a smooth, dark ribbon of sound woven directly into the fabric of his thoughts. It felt like a memory. It felt like the present. It felt like... Owen.

You’re so good for me. So desperate. My good pup.

A full-body shudder wracked him, a convulsion of pure, electric pleasure that had nothing to do with his hand. It came from obeying the voice, from the praise that sank into him like a warm stone. His hips stuttered. Pup. The word should have jarred him, should have broken the spell. Instead, it settled in his gut, warm and right. A soft, high whine vibrated in his throat, an animal sound.

You can’t come yet, can you? the voice murmured, a phantom breath against his ear. You need to hear it from me.

A door swung open, and all the resistance, all the confusion, poured out. What was left was a simple, hollow space, waiting to be filled. His hand slowed, then stilled, just holding himself tightly, trembling with the effort of stopping. Tears of frustration welled in his unfocused eyes. He was so close. The pressure was a burning knot, a star about to go supernova in his core. But it was stuck. Held back by an invisible wall.

“O-Owen…” he slurred, the word thick and wet. “Please… let me… I need…” He couldn’t form the request. Begging was too complex. He just needed.

Show me, the voice commanded, gentle but absolute. Show me how much you need. Be a good pup for me.

His mind, blank and pliant, latched onto the command. Show him. His free hand, the one not glued to his aching cock, moved. It was a slow, uncoordinated motion. He brought his fingers to his mouth, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He sucked two fingers into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly, a clumsy, lewd imitation of something he couldn’t quite remember. A memory of a tongue, of fangs. He drooled around his own fingers. Then, guided by an instinct he didn’t question, he dragged those wet fingers down his face. Over his parted lips, his chin, through the mess of drool already there. He marked his own skin. He did it again, whining pitifully. Showing him. Being good.

Good boy Legundo, the voice purred, and another bolt of pleasure, sharp and sweet, lanced through him. His cock twitched violently in his hand, leaking a fresh stream of pre-cum that dripped onto his stomach. Now touch yourself. But don’t come. Edge for me. Be my good, obedient pup.

His hand on his cock moved again, slick with his own spit and pre-cum. This time the strokes were different. Not the frantic, desperate pulls from before, but a measured, rhythmic pumping. It was torture. Exquisite, mind-melting torture. Each upward stroke brought him racing to the brink. His balls drew up tight, his thighs tensed like stone, his toes curled. The orgasm built, a tidal wave gathering force, ready to crash.

Stop.

His hand froze. A sob hitched in his chest. The wave crested… and hovered, suspended in an agony of denial. He trembled violently, every muscle locked. A tear finally spilled over, cutting a clean track through the mess on his cheek.

Again.

He stroked. Five perfect, devastating pulls. The world narrowed to the feel of his fist, the pounding of his heart, the voice in his head.

Stop.

He stopped, whimpering, his body screaming in protest. The denial was a physical pain, a deep, throbbing ache in his soul. He was crying openly now, tears and saliva mixing on his face. He was a mess. A desperate, horny, sobbing mess, and the only thing that mattered was the next command.

You’re so beautiful like this, the voice cooed. You beautiful, stupid boy. All mine. Completely broken for me. Do you want to come, pup?

He nodded as best as he could.

Then ask properly.

He didn’t understand. He was past understanding. He just needed. A deep, guttural bark erupted from his throat, a sharp, canine sound of pure distress. He followed it with a high, continuous whine, his hips making tiny, abortive thrusts into the empty air where his hand was no longer moving. He was reduced to this. To sounds. To need. "Please?" he repeats. "Please, Owen, Owen?" he begged.

Good. Very good. The approval was a drug, flooding his system with warmth. Now, pup. Come for your Master. Let it all out.

The permission was a detonation. With a raw, shattered cry, his body unlocked. His back arched violently off the bed, every muscle seizing. His hand, almost of its own volition, gripped his cock in a brutal fist and pointed it upward, toward his own face.

The first rope of cum wasn’t a spurt; it was a blast, a thick, pearly jet that shot through the air with a soft, wet sound. Landing in a hot, sticky stripe across his own forehead, painting his hairline white. He was still screaming, a continuous, mindless sound of release as the second eruption followed, just as voluminous, splattering across his cheekbone and into his hair. The third pulse was a massive, glutinous load that landed squarely on his chin and dripped down his neck.

He couldn’t see, couldn’t think. He was a vessel, emptying himself on Owen's command. The fourth and fifth bursts were slightly weaker but no less copious, splashing across his collarbones and chest in warm, sticky ropes. The final pulses were thick, oozing dribbles that coated his still-throbbing cock and his trembling hand, a final, messy proof of his obedience.

The climax seemed to last forever, wringing him out completely, leaving him hollow and twitching. He collapsed back onto the sodden sheets, breath sawing in and out of his lungs, covered in his own spend. The room smelled of sex and submission. His mind was a blissful, empty static. The voice was gone, but the feeling remained, the warm, heavy, owned feeling.

He lay there, spent and ruined, a sticky, tear-streaked puppy who had finally been allowed his reward. His eyes, glazed and content, stared at the ceiling. A slow, dopey smile touched his ruined, cum-spattered lips.