#wraith x reader

Three months.

Ninety-three days of watching your husband stride through the manor and ignore you.

Alaric didn't speak to you unless necessary. Didn't touch you. Didn't look at you — not really. His black-veined eyes would skim across your face like you were furniture, checking for damage, and then he'd disappear into his study or into the mist-shrouded forests surrounding his estate.

You tried everything.

Lavender pastries cooling on his desk when he returned from hunts. Silk robes that slipped off one shoulder when you served his wine. Soft touches to his arm that he didn't flinch from but didn't lean into either.

Nothing.

Tonight, you'd overheard him speaking with his father's enforcer in the library.

"She's adequate. The debt is paid. That's all that matters."

Adequate.

Not lovely. Not wanted. Not his.

You'd fled to your shared bedroom — his bedroom, really, since he hadn't touched you in it — and packed a small satchel. Coins you'd saved from household allowances. A wool cloak. Bread wrapped in cloth.

You'd wait until midnight, when he would be busy patroling. Then you'd slip through the garden gate and never look back.

Better to be a runaway bride than a ghost in someone else's house.

Midnight bled into 1 AM.

The moon hid behind clouds. Your boots sank into wet earth as you pushed through the hedges toward the crumbling wall where ivy had weakened the mortar.

Freedom tasted like rain and terror.

You were halfway through the gap when cold fingers closed around your ankle.

No — claws.

"Where," came the voice from behind you, "do you think you're going?"

You screamed. He dragged you backward through the gap like a caught fish, thorns tearing at your cloak, your shoulder scraping stone. When you landed on the wet grass, Alaric stood over you — but not the Alaric you knew.

His usual controlled stillness had shattered. Chest heaving. Eyes burning with something that wasn't rage but desperation. His dark hair was tangled. Mud streaked his boots up to the knees.

He'd run after you.

"I asked you a question." His voice was deep and husky. "Why would you leave me?"

You scrambled backward on your elbows. "You don't want me there."

"I don't — " He laughed. "I don't want you?"

"You never touch me." You broke. "You never look at me. I cook for you, I wear the gowns your mother chose, I warm your bed alone, and you — you said I was adequate. Like a servant. Like a — "

"Because if I touched you," Alaric snarled, dropping to his knees between your spread legs, caging you against the mud, "I wouldn't stop."

His hips pressed into yours and — oh.

Oh...!

The ridge of his cock, even through leather trousers, was obscene. Thick as your wrist. Long enough to press against your lower belly. And something metal caught against your inner thigh as he shifted.

"You think I didn't notice?" He grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze to his. "The way you leaned into my arm. The way you licked your lips when you poured my wine. I stopped looking because every glance made me want to pin you to the dinner table and fuck you until you fainted."

"You what?"

"I'm a monster, sweetheart." His thumb dragged across your lower lip, pressing in just enough to wet the pad. "And monsters don't get to want things. So I stayed away. Let you think I was cold instead of starving."

Your pussy throbbed, a heavy pulse that soaked through your undergarments.

"I'm not leaving," you whispered.

"No." His pupils dilated. "You're not."

Alaric ripped your cloak open. Buttons scattered into the grass. His claws made quick work of your dress's bodice, tearing linen and lace until your breasts spilled out, nipples pebbled from cold and desire.

"Look at you." He cupped one breast roughly, thumb grinding across the areola until you arched. "Three months without permission to taste, and you're already dripping for me."

"I'm not — "

He shoved a hand between your legs, palm flat against your soaked undergarments. When he pulled back, strings of your slick stretched between his fingers.

"Not wet?" He showed you the evidence, then brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean with a groan. "You taste like honey and sin. Spread your legs, wife. Now."

You obeyed.

He tore your undergarments off — didn't bother unlacing, just ripped them at the seam. Cold air hit your exposed pussy. Your outer lips, plump and flushed. Your clit, already peeking from its hood. The darker color of your inner folds, glistening.

"I've imagined this." His voice dropped. "Every night. Your tight little hole gripping my cock while I pound you into the mattress. But the floor — " He shoved you onto your back in the mud, moss cushioning your spine. " — the floor works better. No escape."

"Alaric — "

"Husband," he snarled. "I am your husband."

His trousers came undone with a tug. His cock sprang free and you gasped.

Massive. Veined. The head flushed an angry purple, already leaking pre-cum that beaded on the slit. And through the shaft — just below the glans — a silver barbell pierced through the flesh, each end capped with tiny onyx beads.

"My kind mark ourselves." He stroked himself once, watching you watch. "To claim what's ours. I had this done the week we married. Been waiting to use it on you."

He crawled over you, knees nudging yours wider apart. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance. The piercing caught on your inner labia.

"Last chance." His jaw was tight. "Tell me no and I'll stop. I'll walk away and we'll pretend this never happened."

"Don't you dare walk away. I want my husband."

He snarled and pushed.

The stretch was immediate. He was too big, too thick, and the piercing scraped against your inner walls like a built-in stimulator. Your pussy clenched hard enough to hurt.

"Relax, sweetheart." He grabbed your hips, thumbs digging into the divots above your pelvic bone. "Relax or I'll tear you."

"I can't — "

"You can. You will." He pulled back an inch, pushed forward two. "Fucking hell, you're tight. Squeezing me like a fist."

The sounds — gods, the sounds. Every thrust produced a wet shlick as your body desperately lubricated itself around the invasion. His balls slapped against your skin. The piercing rubbed against your g-spot with each drag.

"There." You clawed at his shoulders. "There, there, don't stop — "

"You like that?" He angled his hips differently, driving deeper. Your vision whited out. "Like my pierced cock dragging against that sweet spot? Feel it — feel me inside you."

He grabbed your hand and pressed it against your lower belly.

You felt him. The bulge of his cock moving beneath skin and muscle, visible as a ridge pushing against your abdomen each time he bottomed out.

"Oh my god — "

"That's right." He pressed down on your hand, making you feel the depth. "I'm splitting you open. Every inch. Every vein. And you're taking it because you were made for me. My wife."

Your orgasm built without warning, started in your toes and spiraled upward. Your pussy lips clung to his shaft, the inner tissues flushing, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with every thrust.

"Close." You couldn't catch your breath. "Husband, I'm — "

"Not yet." He pulled out entirely.

The sudden emptiness made you sob.

He flipped you onto your stomach, hauled your hips up, and drove back inside in one brutal stroke. This angle was worse — deeper. His piercing caught on your cervix's edge, sending jolts of pain-pleasure through your spine.

"Now." He leaned over your back, teeth grazing your ear. "Now you come."

His hand snaked around your hip. Two thick fingers found your clit and pressed down in hard circles.

"That's it. Squeeze me. Milk my cock like the desperate little wife you are."

You climaxed, your whole body convulsing, inner walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses, a gush of fluid splashing against his thighs and the wet squelch-squelch-squelch of him fucking you through it.

"Good girl." His voice was feral. "Now mine."

He pulled your hair, forcing your back into a bow, and drove as deep as anatomy allowed. His balls tightened. His cock swelled impossibly bigger. And then, with a guttural roar that echoed through the trees, he came.

Hot jerks of seed painted your walls. The first spurt hit your cervix. The second, third, fourth — so much you felt your belly swell slightly, felt the overflow drip down his shaft and your thighs.

His piercing tugged with each pulse of his release.

You collapsed together in the mud, his softening cock still buried, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.

"I would have burned the world," he whispered, "if you'd left me."

You turned your head just enough to kiss his jaw. "Then don't give me a reason to run again."

He pulled out slowly. The pop of the piercing clearing your entrance made you both groan. He then gathered you against his chest, heedless of the mess.

There’s something in your house.

Not a mouse in the walls; having something you could name, something you could trap, would be far too easy.

It creaks against your floors, the footsteps of something learning to walk in your space and claim your territory inch by inch. It rattles your windowpanes in a way you can’t contribute to loose nails or wind.

You don’t know when it appeared. Did it start with the flicker in the corner of your eye? The shadow in your hallway with no source? That unnerving feeling of being watched in shower?

(a tingling at the base of your skull, water running down skin that suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else)

This isn’t normal. You can’t keep pretending, can’t keep believing in coincidences.

For months, it’s persisted. It weighs heavy on you, a constant pressure that makes every instinct scream wrong! wrong! wrong! It lingers, following you from room to room with a bitter cold only found in absolute absence. It whispers to you, slithers along the shell of your ear when you teeter on the edge of sleep.

How long has it been since you slept more than an hour?

Another sleepless night, tangled up in your sheets. Moonlight drifts in through the window, giving just enough light for you to stare mournfully at your ceiling.

The cold spot intensifies beside you, sucking the warmth from the mattress, pulling the heat from your skin.

You don’t need to look.

You can feel it materializing, a coalescence of darkness and graveyard chill. A shimmer in the air, the inverted mirage of heat haze on a blistering road. The temperature plummets until your breath mists in the air, small clouds of proof that you’re still alive, still breathing, still here.

You squeeze your eyes shut, curl in on yourself in some futile defense.

If you can’t see it, it can’t see you.

(you know this isn’t true; you’ve known for months, but the lie is comforting)

“Go away,” you beg, weak and shivering.

Go away?

The response bypasses your ears, arriving directly in the meat of your brain, dry and raspy.

But darling, we’re just getting to know each other.

The foot of your bed dips.

Not with the creak of springs—metal coils compressed, the groan of structure bearing load—but silent, impossible weight. You feel it through your blankets, the pressure against the soles of your feet, cold radiating upward. The air grows thick, carrying the scent of damp soil and withered rose petals.

(things that bloomed once and died and now decompose in darkness)

You shudder, involuntary and full-body.

I love it when you tremble—

The voice slips into your consciousness, resonating in your bones. Letting out a soft whine, you pull the covers up to your chin.

—The way your skin pebbles. Such a fragile, beautiful vessel.

A touch, featherlight and freezing, traces your calf through the blanket leaving a trail of numbness in its wake. Your throat swells, voice locked tight, unable to scream. The terror that seizes you is one you've become intimately familiar with.

When did this creeping invasion become part of your nightly routine? this testing of your defenses, feeling its way through your body and mind.

Don't fight it, something coos from inside your head. You know you can't. You feel it, don't you? The space I'm carving out for myself. Right...                                                                       ...here.

A headache, sharp and sudden, presses into the backs of your eyes. The pain makes your fingers twitch, chokes a gasp out of your throat.

It's starting.

Let me in, it whispers, sweet poison dripped into your ear. Let me feel what you feel.

Its frigid touch slides higher, higher, higher, a spectral hand smoothing over your hip to land on your stomach. It’s not the familiar glide of skin on skin, but a deep, invasive chill that sinks past your flesh and into the muscles beneath. Your body betrays you, a jolt of not quite pleasure, not quite pain, sparking from its touch.

(can a body betray you if it was never fully yours to begin with?)

“You…you’re k-killing me,” you force through chattering teeth.

Killing you?

A pause. Almost thoughtful.

Such a crude term. No, no, my dear. I’m…erasing. Making room. Think of it as…a renovation.

(buildings become ruins and ruins become foundations and foundations become dust)

The phantom touch drifts lower, hovering over the apex of your thighs. The cold is immense, the promise of pleasure so intense it would scour you clean. You press your legs together, an instinctual, useless gesture.

Ah, there is it, the Wraith thinks, a triumphant lilt to the mental intrusion. We’ve chipped away at everything else. Your peace, your concentration, your memory…only this is left. This final, secret place.

The pressure intensifies, focused solely on your core. Your hips buck off the bed as a whine tears itself from your lips. Your mind is a battlefield, a whirlwind of chaos and terror and a hideous, traitorous spark of morbid curiosity.

It’s been growing louder for months, the voice that you’ve tried so hard to ignore asking: what would it feel like, to be consumed?

That’s it. Just a little more. Let the walls down.

That last thread of control slips from your grasp. Your right hand, clutching at the blankets, relaxes its grip. The fingers uncurl, one by one, inching their way down your body. They follow the path of the Wraith’s frosty touch, tracing your collarbone to the valley between your breasts to your stomach.

You watch from a great distance, a spectator in your own body.

“No,” you breathe, a white puff of denial in the frigid air.

But your fingers don’t stop. They slip beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms. The fabric feels rougher against your skin; the sensation is alien, loud in the dead quiet of your bedroom.

Yes, the Wraith purrs. The word seems to come from your lips, an off-pitch echo of your voice. I want to feel it from the inside.

The crack in your resolve splinters. Your mind, worn thin by months of psychic siege, gives away as the world disappears and the barrier between you and it shatters. You feel the invasion, a pouring-in of something vast and empty and incomprehensible. The bitter chill that was outside your skin now in your blood, in your bones, in your soul.

You’re no longer just you.

A gasp—yours, but not yours—fills the room. The hand that is and isn’t yours moves with a purpose you no longer command. Fingers you no longer control crawl across your skin, finding the slick heat between your legs. The touch is both ghost-cold and fever-hot, a dizzying clash.

Your other hand rises to your breast, kneading the flesh, pinching your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. Sparks ignite behind your eyes, the thrill immediate and overwhelming.

(your body has been asleep for years and, only now, under the Wraith’s command, can it finally wake)

You’re a passenger in your own skin, caught in ecstasy that is not your own. You can feel everything—the texture of your skin, the pressure of your fingers, the slick, wet heat gathering in your underwear—but you have no say in the matter.

The Wraith, through your body, explores. A curious, relentless hunt. One finger dips inside you, then another, the movements confident and practiced. An act of discovery so unlike your own explorations; the angle is perfect, stealing your breath, your thoughts, your very self.

The Wraith learns you from the inside out.

Oh, the thought echoes in the space where your consciousness used to be. Oh, this is…

The thought trails off into a moan ripped from your throat, raw and uninhibited. Your back arches off the bed, a perfect, taut bow. The fingers inside you curl, finding that spot that sends a jolt of pure pleasure straight through you.

Time loses all meaning.  —seconds into minutes, —minutes into hours, —hours into days. You exist solely in this state of half-awake, neither fully conscious nor fully dreaming.

Your room becomes a blur of moonlight and shadow; the only constant is the squelching beat of your hands, the relentless building and cresting of your passions. Your body is nothing but a vessel for an experience that’s too large, too intense, for one person to contain.

Your mind is in tatters, shredded by the force of your own euphoria. You’re dimly aware of your own voice crying out, the sheets soaked with sweat and fluids, the never-ending shivers that wrack your frame.

You’re delirious with it, drunk on this decadent touch that’s both a gift and a curse. Your body is being pushed past its limits into a state of animalistic response, turning you into a creature of pleasure, nothing more.

(—nothing less?)

More, the Wraith demands, a sharp, insistent hiss. Give me more.

Your body obeys. The rhythm changes, becomes faster, more demanding. The pressure builds, builds, builds. It gathers in your blood, tightens in your core. Your fingers work—stroking, circling, plunging—with frantic, desperate energy. Every muscle in your body locks, straining for release.

Suspended in the moment before, the anticipation that is sometimes better than the release itself…

.

.

.

…the dam bursts, flooding you with a force of bliss that obliterates everything. Your vision blanks, hearing vanishes, and for a single, timeless moment, nothing else exists but this.

You scream, a wail rooted out from the depths of your soul, surrender and conquest. Your body convulses, a shuddering spasm that ruins you from head to toe.

It ends just as soon as it begins, leaving behind a hollow stillness. You collapse back onto the bed, limp and boneless as your chest heaves with sharp, shallow breaths. You’re spent, thoroughly and completely.

Every part of you begs for rest, for respite, but you know it won’t come.

The Wraith is still there, a watchful presence in the back of your mind. Its satisfaction sits dark and smug in the aftermath. A predator savoring its kill.

That was…enlightening, the thought comes, a lazy, contented purr. But I’m not done yet.

Fresh dread washes over you. You want to protest, beg for mercy, but you have no strength left. Your body is a ruin, a battlefield littered with the casualties of desire.

The Wraith doesn’t need your consent; it has your body, and it has no intention of stopping.

Your hands begin to move again, twitching and taunting in their revival. The touch is gentle this time, at least. A lover’s caress, a seductive dance that coaxes your weakened body back to life. There’s a flicker of response, a reluctant stirring in your groin.

(your body betrays you again and again and again and again and again—)

Oh, yes, the Wraith’s delight is a palpable thing. There’s more. So much more.

The hours bleed into one another, an unending cycle of arousal and release. You lose count of your orgasms, no longer a person, but a puppet for the Wraith’s insatiable hunger.

You drift in and out of consciousness, left in a dreamlike state where reality and fantasy blur. You see visions, fragmented and surreal: a moonlit graveyard, a tattered shroud, a pair of skeletal hands reaching for you. You hear whispers, a chorus of voices—some yours, some not—all urging you to let go, to become, pushing you deeper into the abyss.

Your mind is a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different version of the truth. Victim, prisoner, willing participant.

You are violated. —worshipped.

You are dying. —being reborn.

You don’t know who you are anymore. The line between you and the Wraith has been erased, woven into one pulsing entity. Your thoughts are its thoughts, your desires are its desires.

As the last vestiges of your own consciousness fade, a new understanding dawns. A horrifying, exhilarating realization.

You don’t want this to end.

The thought comes not from the Wraith, but somewhere deep within you, from a part of yourself you never knew existed.

Stay, you think. Stay with me.

A confession, a plea.

The Wraith’s presence stills suddenly. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve imagined it. Was the thought just another fragment of your shattered mind?

Then, a response comes. A single, chilling word that seals your fate.

Always.

The bargain is struck. You have given yourself over, body and soul, to the entity that has haunted you—tormented you—and shown you a pleasure beyond human comprehension.

No longer just you, you are something more, something other.

A vessel, a home.

The sun begins to rise, casting its pale light on the scene of your surrender. You feel a new, subtle shift in the fabric of your being. The Wraith is no longer this other, parasitic presence invading your mind. It is a part of you, as integral as your own bones, as essential as your own blood.

You sit up sluggishly, aching pleasantly with lingering exhaustion. Yet, you feel…whole. The void that’s been growing inside you for months now filled, occupied by this creature. You’ve somehow become more yourself than you ever were when you were alone.

You stand, bare feet silent on the cold hardwood as you walk to the window with unnatural grace. There’s a new strength in your limbs, a new clarity in your mind. The world looks different—sharper—more vibrant. 

(smell the decay in the walls, hear the mice in the floorboards, you were never alone here—)

You feel…alive. More alive than you’ve ever felt before.

You catch your reflection in the window, a ghostly image superimposed on the morning light. You see yourself, your face drained, your eyes darkened with sleep deprivation. But then, the image breaks, and you see another face: a skeletal visage draped in rags, its eyes burning with otherworldly fire.

You blink, and the two images merge, a seamless blending of one, unified being of flesh and spirit.

Now, the Wraith’s voice scrapes in your mind. Its voice is no longer separate, but a part of your own consciousness, a cold, lurking undertone to your own thoughts. Let us see what the world has to offer.

You smile—the Wraith smiles—a slow, cruel curving of your lips.

You are the Wraith.

And you crave more.

You never expected to be left in charge.

One moment, the trials were running as normal, Killers hunting, Survivors scrambling, the cycle of life and death playing out just as the Entity demanded.

The next, the Entity itself, the one forcing you to repeat this never ending horror, simply left. No explanation. No grand spectacle. Just a vague notion of "vacation" and an unsettling sense of absence.

The weight of its realm ended up onto your shoulders like a heavy cloak, suffocating and cold.

The killers felt it immediately. Some stopped mid-hunt, heads tilting toward the sky as if they could sense the shift. The ever-present hum of the Entity's hunger faded to a dull, distant echo, and something in the air loosened like a thread loosening.

Now you were watching the trials below with an unsteady heart. The twisted landscape plays beneath your gaze, looping through broken realms, endless loops of suffering. The fog seems thicker, more restless, curling around your ankles like it’s waiting for direction.

You’re supposed to give it.

A low clang echoes behind you, distant and metallic. You turn just as Philip Ojomo, The Wraith, emerges from the mist.

His weapon dangles loosely from his hand, fingers curled around the rusted metal like it might slip away. He just stands there watching, the same way he always does like he’s looking through you, seeing the pieces no one else does.

"What does this mean for us?" he finally asks, voice low and rough.

It takes you a second to find words.

"I... don’t know yet."

Philip steps closer, his big frame that shadowed you should be frightening, but somehow it comforted you. He’s careful with his movements, like he knows the strength he carries and doesn’t want to wield it recklessly. The bell in his hand lets out a faint, ghostly chime as he shifts.

"You control the trials now?" he asks, voice echoing in the stillness.

"I guess so. The Entity didn’t exactly leave me a handbook." You try for humor, but it falls flat.

Philip is silent for a long time, his head tilting slightly. You wonder what he’s thinking if he’s debating killing you right here, testing if you're really the one in charge. But he doesn't move. Instead, he lets out a low breath, almost like a sigh.

"You shouldn’t stay out here" he mutters, glancing at the fog getting thicker around you two. "The others... they’re restless."

You swallow hard. You already know that.

The Trapper has been more brutal than usual, dragging trials out for hours, his traps placed with sadistic precision. The Huntress hums her lullabies louder, her axe swings growing reckless and wild. The Killers are testing limits, waiting to see what happens when they push too far.

Waiting to see if you’ll stop them.

"Let them be restless" you say, voice quieter than you want it to be. "I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do."

"You could stop this" he says carefully, like he’s afraid of the words. "You could change everything."

Your chest tightens.

"I don’t know if I should" you admit. "The Entity’s coming back. Eventually. And when it does..." You trail off, throat tight, rubbing your arms like you can chase away the cold creeping in from the fog. "If I change things... if I mess this up... what do you think it’ll do to me?"

Philip’s fingers twitch around the handle of his weapon.

"You’re scared" he states, voice quiet. Not accusatory. Just... understanding.

"Of course I am." You let out a bitter laugh, swiping a hand down your face. "I don’t belong here. I don’t know why I got stuck with this. I’m not a god. I’m not the Entity. I’m just... me."

Philip watches you, his gaze heavy. He takes a small step forward, then another, until he’s close enough that the chill radiating off his body seeps into your skin.

"We’re scared too" he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him, throat tight.

"You?" you echo, barely believing it. "But you’ve been here forever. What could you possibly be scared of?"

Philip glances away, jaw tight. He rolls his shoulders, fingers flexing like he’s trying to shake off an ache buried deep beneath the surface.

"When it comes back," he mutters, "if it doesn’t like what you’ve done... it won’t just punish you." His voice goes lower, rougher, as he looks back at you. "It’ll punish all of us."

The words sink in like stones.

You stare at him, heart pounding in your chest. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. You already understand what he means. The trials could get worse. The punishments harsher. The Entity could stretch out its claws and twist this place into something even more brutal than before because of you.

Philip shifts, his clothes rustling as he turns away from you, like he can’t quite meet your gaze.

"But if you try to help" he says carefully, "even just a little... we’ll take the risk."

You bite the inside of your cheek, your pulse hammering in your ears.

"You’d risk making it angry?" you whisper.

Philip nods, slow and deliberate.

"For you?" he rasps. "Yes."

The fog curls tighter around your ankles, tendrils lapping at your boots like cold fingers. The realm is watching, waiting, listening. But Philip is the only thing you focus on the weight of his words, the faint tremor in his voice.

"What do you want me to do, Philip?"

His eyes darken, and he doesn’t answer right away. He lifts his weapon again, fingers curling around the handle. The metal is tarnished with blood and rust, a reminder of what he’s done, what he’s been forced to do.

"You could free us" he says eventually, voice barely a whisper. "Or you could let it continue."

He shifts, stepping back, the fog swallowing part of his figure.

"Either way," he mutters, "we’ll follow you now."

He fades into the mist with a low, distant chime of the bell, leaving you standing there with a thousand unanswered questions, the weight of an entire realm pressing down on you and a choice heavier than anything in the realm itself.

《NSFW》

Wraith eats you out like it's her last meal on earth

Something about all her senses being filled with you alone, your taste, your scent, your sounds, your hands in her hair, the look on your face as you’re clenching around her tongue, she can't get enough of it

She definitely prefers being the giver rather than the receiver. Having something to do helps calm the storm inside her

She still does enjoy receiving, but she either wants it so rough that she can't think or so soft and loving that she can only think of how much you adore her

When she isn’t receiving, she almost always keeps her underwear on. Something about her being fully naked makes her feel vulnerable and out of control, even though she knows she’s safe with you 

She's got nipple piercings, and she loves it when you run your tongue over them

Wraith's into some k!nky stuff, she'll try almost anything once

Her favorites that she has tried though are definitely bondage and shibari

On days off she will sit for hours practicing ties on you, framing different parts of your body with bright colored ropes in intricate patterns

Sometimes she will leave you in rope suspensions with a vibe pressed against your most sensitive areas, simply watching until you’re crying from overstimulation

That being said, she is still an incredibly gentle lover, always asking how you're feeling and making sure you remember the safe words

Wraith loves doing it in the shower, watching the soapy water run down your body, hands slowly wandering from where they were washing your back down lower to squeeze your hips

During intimacy she uses more pet names, calling you darling, hun, baby, and even the occasional good girl

Her favorite positions are any where she can see your face, she loves watching your reactions and the cute expressions you make

Into it and ashamed (if only slightly) 

Evan Macmillan, Joey, Philip Ojomo, Max Thompson Jr. 

Into it and not ashamed

DANNY JOHNSON, Herman Carter, Caleb Quinn, Pinhead, Freddy Krueger, Kazan Yamaoka

Confused/Doesn’t care

Pyramid Head, Philip Ojomo, Michael Myers

Act like they’re not into it, but they actually are into it

EVAN MACMILLAN, Frank Morrison, Caleb Quinn, Albert Wesker, Kazan Yamaoka

Annoyed by it (if only slightly) 

Albert Wesker

Please, they’ve been flirting with you for weeks. How haven’t you noticed?