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yukimiyaz · 1 year

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COME INSIDE (AND HAVE A BITE)

isagi yoichi x gn!reader

inlcudes: vampire isagi. boyfriend isagi. reader being a little shit for like the first half lmao. mentions of blood/drinking blood. suggestive. use of the word pretty once. probably ooc isagi i’m sorry :’)

notes: idk. this idea has been eating me alive. needed to share

Sometimes, as the sun is setting and you are finally slumping into the soft—arguably run down—cushions of your couch, you like to reminisce on the past you, who had the luxury of experiencing simple, relaxing nights after a long day of work.

When you would come home and kick your shoes off in the doorway. Slide your tired feet across the semi-stained hardwood (that you’re still convinced is fake, despite your landlord’s promises) to the bathroom to scald your skin in the shower for however long you felt like. Not caring for how you looked, throwing on the first article of clothing you’d find, and traipsing your way into the kitchen. To find dinner—or sometimes give up on that endeavor and eat the freezer burnt ice cream, or just order in cheap takeout instead—and plop yourself where you are now. Watching some old drama or drowning out the news until you inevitably pass out on your worn out couch. And you were content with that, honestly. It was fine. It was—

“Aaghhh!”

It was peaceful bliss, compared to the torment you now face per diem.

Everyday like clockwork, as soon as the sun sets over the horizon and dusk seeps in, the neighborhood stray comes to your doorstep for a visit. Wailing, baying; clawing at your door like he’s demented and disturbed.

As you blow out a sigh and heave yourself off of your cushions, you conclude those two words are actually perfect in describing him.

It only takes a few seconds for you to stride to your front door, and only half of one for you to sling it open. The sight you’re greeted with is familiar—near identical to yesterday, and the day before that (and the day before that), save for a different pair of clothes—and you fight the urge to roll your eyes at it.

Isagi sits on his knees, hands suspiciously close to your threshold and fingers obviously charred. His head snaps up at your appearance and he wipes the ash off his fingertips, revealing pristine, flawless ridges once again. Peering up at you through his eyelashes, timid smile twitching his lips, you almost forgive him for his disturbance on sight.

Almost.

“Isagi,” you greet, making sure the exasperation is obvious in your tone, even if your chest swells with endearment. “Evening.”

“Good evening,” he addresses, immediately, and his smile beams out now. Fangs peeking over the plump of his bottom lip and gleaming in your warm porch light. “You look tasty—I mean pretty.”

“Strike one,” you deduce. “Wow, not even a minute in and you’re already soiling your case.”

His smile cinches into a pout, but it isn’t primarily dejected. “Hey, no fair! There’s nothing wrong with honesty. And you do look so…”

His voice trails off as his eyes trail down you. From your bare face to your socked toes, then back up again; pausing at your throat that is freshly exposed due to your shirt’s stretched out neckline. At the fading marks that prove his twisted existence in your life. This time you don’t fight the urge to roll your eyes, and follow suit by snapping your fingers inches in front of his face. He must be extra desperate tonight, he’s usually off of his knees by now.

“Sorry,” he breathes as he comes to, “What were we talking about?”

“Strike two,” you sigh, and take a lean against your doorframe. “You’re just determined to strike out early tonight, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I’d be more inclined to win if you didn’t use fucking baseball..” he grumbles, but stops himself from continuing when he sees your eyebrow raise. “I mean, you know soccer’s my favorite. Why can’t you use that?”

You consider him, mull over this fact that you are well aware of (if the endless documentaries he’s bored you with in his living room or games he’s shushed you for on the bar television are anything to go by), and hum. You suppose you could grant him this, just this once. Give him a little bit of leeway in this perpetual cat and mouse game. Tipping your head to the side, you slant a shoulder in half of a shrug.

“Alright,” you concede, “You have a yellow card. One more, you’re out of the game.”

And it’s almost sick, how his fangs catch on his crooked grin. How you can practically see the saccharine venom swirling behind those deep blue irises. A lesser person might have already fallen for this by now; would have given in months ago when he first showed up on their doorstep begging for entry with those glossy eyes and sweet preens.

A lesser person might join him down on his knees, but you’ve come to take quite a liking to this view.

“How was work?” he asks, like he cares. Like he doesn’t already know by the slump of your posture against the entryway. “Rough? Draining?”

“Hm. You could say that.” And you indulge him, don’t poke notice of his word choice like you aren’t aware it’s deliberate. There’s something different about him tonight, something… enticing.

“Ah, draining,” Isagi nods, leans back on his hand. His eyes shift downwards, to the welcome mat that cushions below him, to the worn out divots he has slotted himself into. “I know all about that feeling, you know. Draining is…”

A glint, a gleam, there’s something damn near chilling that flashes under the delicate shade of his lashes as he flicks his gaze back up to you. Your stomach swoops, you shift on your feet. The need to shut your door scratches at the base of your neck, and you aren’t entirely sure why.

What is so different about the stray cat’s baying tonight?

“Draining is my field of expertise. But you’re well aware of that already, aren’t you?

How uncouth of him, how taunting. Your throat bobs with a discreet swallow but it’s so hard for things to go unnoticed under such keen vision. It’s like the side of your neck is searing, like those faded marks littering your skin aren’t so healed after all.

“What’s wrong?” he presses, and he finally rises off of his knees now. Stands to his feet in such a fluid motion you wonder if he’s floating. (A possibility, technically, but you think Barou’s gotten on his ass enough that he wouldn’t try it in such a public place). “Bat got your tongue?”

He’s so close. His cool breath fans against your cheeks and you just now realize how chilly it’s gotten with the lack of daylight. Suddenly your sleep shorts seem thinner than you remember. You wrap your arms around yourself to rub at the bumped flesh and do your best to seem unbothered—unperturbed.

“Funny,” you scoff, but you’re starting to lack your bite. Maybe you can blame the long work week, the fact you had to stay up later than normal last night to finish some things up for your boss.

One glance to Isagi’s face tells you that no matter what explanation you try to pass off, he’s already calculating that the probability of its truth is zero.

How unnerving.

“I know.” And he smirks, now. Curls his lips up in the way he knows drives you crazy and leans his arm beside your head; careful to avoid getting too close to the dreaded threshold.

(You don’t miss the subtle glare he throws down at it, though).

“Hey, you know what else is funny?”

“What?” You mumble, half-irritated and half-enthralled. You know he knows both sides of that, you know he indulges in it.

That’s what you’re counting on.

“Chigiri thinks you’ll invite him over to watch the new Scream when it comes out on rent. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“I plan to.”

“He’s been talking about it all week and he even said he was bringing snacks. I told him it was pathetic how he—Wait, can you run that back by me?”

“I said I plan to,” you repeat yourself, plainly. “We’ve been talking about it for weeks.”

Isagi blanches. “But he’s a vampire.”

“Obviously.”

“He drinks blood. Human blood.”

“No, really?” Feigning a gasp, you place a hand over your heart.

“He—he’s a life draining monster!”

“Please, the only life he’s draining is his social one by staying home and babysitting you all day.”

“That’s—“ He puffs up, like he wants to spit out a rebuttal, but stops himself. He redirects; steers back to his initial point. You’re impressed with how quick he collects himself, honestly. “That’s unfair! You say I can’t come in on ‘mortal safety principle’ but invite the count? He’s killed way more people than I have!”

“I thought body count didn’t matter, Yoichi,” you tip your head at him, bat your eyelashes like a porcelain doll, “Isn’t that what you used to always tell me?”

You know you’ve got him when he starts to sulk. It’s never in a normal way—nothing about Isagi Yoichi is normal. His jaw is clenched and his lips are jutted but his eyes are dancing like he’s enjoying this.

“Let me in.”

You feel the tug, the tingle inside your brain. The asshole is actually trying to use his mind games on you; the fucking jerk. Not that it works with a threshold in the way, Chigiri told you that early on. Learning the rules and lack thereof was crucial upon discovering one of your closest friends was a vampire. And became even more so when you started dating—courting—one yourself.

“Mmn, don’t think so,” you shrug.

Isagi hisses (not necessarily at you, but just in frustration) and you don’t even flinch. It’s hard to be caught off guard by a daily routine—even if this one is beginning to fall off kilter.

“Lemme in,” he slurs, and the pressure inside your skull dissipates.

No tweaks, no tricks, no compulsion. Just wide eyes and slumped shoulders and a whiny voice that he thinks will help him get his way. He’s strategic, he always has been. He’s playing you even when he’s innocent.

There’s always a millennia old card up the tailored sleeve of Isagi Yoichi.

“Why should I?” The question isn’t new, you’ve been known to prick and prod at him to draw this out. To keep things exciting. To make him think he has a chance of being let in for the very first time.

But tonight, you’re genuine in your delivery. You just hope he can pick up on it.

“I’m hungry.”

“Oh? So I’m just a meal ticket for you?”

An imaginary yellow card weighs heavy in your hand, you wonder if you should go ahead and hold it up.

“You know that’s not what I—“ cut off by his forehead slamming into the invisible barricade as he tries to lean in closer to you, he draws back with another low whistle of air slicing through his fangs. “Fuck.”

It’s instinct, how you reach your hand forward, across the security of the threshold, to swipe your thumb over where he’s been singed. It’s already healed (it was within a second of him pulling away) but you’re kind enough to swipe the char away regardless.

“Then what, Yoi?”

He softens under your touch, grabs at your hand before you even have the chance to pull away. He keeps it close, slides it along his temple, his cheek, his lips. He pauses there; falters. Mouth slotting open, the tips of his fangs skim the plump of your palm then dip—down to your wrist. To where the rhythm meets the surface.

“I miss you.” He just saw you yesterday. “I want you.” He tells you this diurnally. “I need you.”

He yearns, in a way that is new to you.

Your boyfriend must be evolving before your very eyes. He’s delicate in his demeanor but deliberate in his delivery. Even now, as his fangs skim across the thin skin of your inner wrist, they do not press in. They do not break and they do not prod. They retract, and are replaced by the plush of lips as Isagi peers at you with a zealous gaze.

It is mindful, and not hasty.

“Will you invite me in?”

He’s asking like he already knows the answer. Like he has no doubt of what will come. You wonder when such an ego filled him—or maybe it has always been there. Maybe, he was simply waiting for the right moment to release it. Maybe, he was hiding it away, to use it for his advantage when the time proved to be right.

Maybe, you find that hopelessly endearing.

“Yoichi.”

“Yes?”

He’s hanging onto your every word with pleading eyes and fervent apprehension. But his confidence is still oozing. You wonder how so much essence can inhabit a single man. You discern it must be all the centuries he has under his belt.

“Would you like to come in?”

The answer isn’t verbal, it isn’t spoken. No, the answer is brash and boorish and downright primitive. But for once you don’t think you can find it within yourself to mind all of that because in response to your invitation Isagi is shooting forward. Stumbling you backwards a few steps and cupping a hand on your hip and the other at the base of your throat. Thumb pressed to your jugular, he wastes no time in surging forward.

But not for a bite.

His lips hit yours and you gasp. It dusts you with chagrin, especially as you feel a toothy grin mold to your mouth and press deeper. Isagi is not one to waste time, is not one to lag unless it plays into his schemes. And that proves true even now as he wastes no time in drawing your mouth open. Squeezing at your side and humming into your touch until you give in. Not that you ever need much convincing, in times like this.

Your arms find their way around his neck. Your hands find place slotted into his hair. It’s unintentional, how you tug, but it rewards you with a throaty groan regardless. Isagi’s lips part from yours and you think it’s because he’s taken into consideration that one of you still needs to breathe. Instead, it’s to bark out an order.

“Fuck, do that again.”

You hearken to him and obey with a tug. Not because he forced you, but because the heaviness of his eyelids makes your stomach grow hot. He slams his lips back to yours and he kicks the front door shut. You forgot it was even open still. You forgot the part of you that cared. All that mattered now was Isagi, inside your home. Isagi, pressing his lips to yours like he wishes he could suck wine right out of them. Isagi, slamming you up against the hardwood he just closed.

“Shit, sorry, I—“ he isn’t, sorry that is, but he is breathless. And hot. And mind numbing. You nod your head—you’re not sure for what (to dismiss him? Say it’s okay? Just because you’re already out of it?) but it doesn’t seem to matter to him regardless.

He takes heed to your every move. Your every twitch and hitch and cinch of breath. He’s so plotting, so inceptive. His hand finds its way from your hip to the back of your thigh as he hoists you up. And you let him. Let him slide you up the door and wrap your legs around his waist and press himself into you because it feels good, to have him here.

His lips leave yours again and you nearly whine. What the fuck has gotten into you, you don’t know, but you don’t think it’s all that relevant at the moment either because Yoichi’s lips are trailing across your cheek, down the ridge of your jaw. He makes it to the meat of your throat and his hand shifts, slides to cup your chin and tilt your head to the side. You follow his lead, melt into his grasp as he presses hungry kisses to your heavy thumping vein.

“Can I?” He asks, and you’re already nodding before he can even finish. You aren’t even entirely sure of what he’s asking, what he’s wishing for permission for, but you know you want to give it to him.

“Ah,” he hums, sucks a drawn out open mouthed kiss to where his thumb used to reside. “You’re so fucking hospitable.”

A sharp sting rips into the side of your neck as Isagi’s teeth sink in. It is a familiar feeling, one you can never truly get used to but you love the magnetism of. After a few seconds the initial pain wears off—grows dull into a periodic throb. And as Isagi keeps sucking, pressing himself into you like he wishes he could simply crawl inside your skin, it begins to feel good.

A pinched whine finds its way out of you and you don’t even try to stop it. You know better. Know that Isagi likes you to take over every single one of his senses when he gets like his. Wants you to immerse him fully. And you have no intentions within yourself to deny him of that pleasure.

Your fingers thread tighter in his hair as he preens. The vibration against your throat is soothing in a riveting sort of way and you forgot how addicting it is—the high this brings for both of you. If done right and in moderation, the effects are limited, minimal. Maybe some drowsiness for a few minutes and then you’re through.

But your lover is not known for his restraint.

He takes too much and gives too little. It is fine and it is well but you always know that he’s pushing his (your) limits when your grip begins to loosen and your moans become more frequent. You can never tell him to stop—you never want to when it feels so damn good—and tonight is no different.

Especially not when you come to terms with the heat of Isagi’s palm drifting past the crease of your hip. Skimming underneath the hem of your faded t-shirt and pressing into the plush of your abdomen. Dipping lower, toying with your waistband, teasing you like he’s playing out a game strategy.

“Yoi,” you drawl, let your head droop into his grasp just underneath your chin. “Yoichi, fuck—Please—“

Your request, whatever your cloudy mind was going to produce, does not get the chance to acclimate due to a bang on your front door. The vibration it causes has Isagi’s fangs jerking at you, pulling a wince from your lips before he has the chance to retract. He does, a second later, and lauves his tongue over the fresh bite mark that has joined the mirage he has already created.

“Who is it?” He asks you, still cupping your droopy head in his hand. You mumble something incoherent and he presses you again. “Hey, who would be knocking at your door right now?”

You blink. Once, twice, three times. Getting your groggy brain to work right now is a monumental task, but as another bang thuds against the hardwood pressed against your back, you’re able to shake your head just clear enough to process one thought.

“Oh, takeout,” you deduce. “I didn’t wanna cook, so I.. Here, I’ll get it. Can you grab my wallet off the couch?”

Isagi blinks right back, lids heavy, and swipes his tongue at the crimson smeared on his lips. He’s almost blood drunk. “You think you can stand?”

You nod your head even though you’re about seventy-five percent sure your knees are going to buckle out from underneath you the second he sets you back down on your own two feet. Sensing your apprehension, he takes it easy, keeping his hands on your hips until your swaying gets (semi) under control. He turns right after to retrieve what you told him and you open up the front door, painting on a nice grin in hopes that your delivery guy isn’t as angry as he sounds.

But it isn’t a delivery guy at all. Rather, a man in a security uniform, who looks anything but pleased.

“Uhm, can I help you?” You question, halfway leaning against the door to hold yourself up. You probably sound half high to hell right about now.

“Sorry to bother you. I got a call from a concerned neighbor about a neighborhood disturbance to this address. Something about a strange man lurking on the front porch and harassing the owner.”

“Oh,” you cinch up your eyebrows, tip your head to the side. Strange man? Harassment? You don’t think—

“Here’s your wallet,” Isagi announces as he finally makes it back to you. The second you feel him skid to a halt behind you, the dots clear up and connect in your foggy mind.

“Strange man,” you equate, as you glance over your shoulder at him.

“What?”

“There seems to be a misunderstanding,” you dismiss as you turn your attention back to the man standing outside your door. “The man—this man—is my boyfriend. He is a little weird but he doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just an odd one.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean—“

“Ah, understood,” the security man nods, and you swear you can see a faint smile on his lips. “You know old neighbors, nothing better to do than stick their noses where they don’t belong. Again, sorry for the inconvenience. You two have a nice night.”

“You too,” you nod, send him a smile to be polite as he goes to walk away.

Just as you’re starting to shut the door back he turns back around, “Oh, and you have a little something..”

His gesture to his neck has you slapping a hand over yours. You wince a second later—too tender, and too harsh—and pull your hand back to reveal tacky red coating it. By the time you look back up, the guard is gone. You shut the door and turn back to Isagi.

“Oh no, don’t let the strange man get you,” he taunts, and you simply shove your hand over his mouth to shut him up.

His tongue presses to it a second later, swiping at the blood and humming like he hasn’t an ounce of shame within his body. You let him as long as he pleases (not really having the energy within you to put up much of a fight now) and try to bite off the smile that toys at your lips as he grabs your wrist to tug you in closer again.

“I don’t think I was finished.”

“Then pick back up where you left off,” you chuckle, letting it turn into a string of giggles as Isagi’s lips place feathery pecks around his claimant.

He pushes your back against the door again, leans his weight into you and breathes you in. Allowing yourself to relax, you give in to his whim. His kisses turn languid and his grip tightens up. Your brace yourself for what is coming with an anticipated smile.

But just as you feel cool breath fan against your fresh wound, another (much softer) bang rattles your back. Isagi lifts his head up to peer at you, meeting your gaze in an instant.

“Takeout,” you both say in unison, one of your voices laced in amusement and the other in disdain.

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#i don’t know why i’m so sick nervous over this LAMOSDHDB #prolly cuz i’ve never written him before #ahhhh maybe it’ll be ok KSHSJDB #yukimiyaz writing #isagi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk fic #isagi fluff

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