#l.egundo

Its not fully nsfw but the vibes are there, I had fun with this one. Its implications of bloodletting are for those who want it. Iykyk

Warning for: blood, bruises, bondage, boner

Full image: here

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.