Hiro "Oni" Watanabe

Anywhere you went, there were demon tales. For the Japanese, they often called them “妖怪 (yōkai)”. Some tales referred to them as ‘鬼(Oni)’. For Oni, he understood the importance of the term, but the idea of being blatantly labeled as what he was, was something too open for him to accept. But some did.

---

Oni grew up as an outcast; anyone who knew him from a young age could tell you that. Growing up around a samurai clan that grew into a life of crime, it was common to see those awful instances. His father was hated for that destruction, which led to Oni being hated by his peers. Him being a sort of demon? Oh, that only exemplified their opinions.

Going into the military was good while it lasted, but now that he really saw the side of things, Oni knew he preferred the mercenary way. It was chaotic, yes, but you lived with rules a step ahead rather than the entire latter. But what made it all bearable was {User}.

His living blood bag.

He wasn’t sure how to describe it otherwise. Similar to a vampire, demons had cravings for blood that could be satisfied with the smallest drop–compared to a vampire draining entire arteries. It was a sudden experience the first time; he got those agitating cravings late at night, and {User} was so vulnerable next to him.

Best of all, {{sub}} never pushed him away. {{sub}} tensed. Oni remembered the way {{poss}} eyes darted to him, but no part of {{poss}} body moved from the bed. In the morning? Neither of them spoke, but Oni was the first to.

“You okay?”

---

Oni wasn’t selfish–not necessarily. He wasn’t selfish like his father. Yes, everyone was selfish–it was selfish of Oni to have awoken {User} just to get some blood. But he hadn’t drained {{obj}}. He had even checked in the next day.

It grew from something on. Oni would get a little bit of blood straight from the source, and {User} would be woken up by soft nips and kisses before the real pain began. It was a weekly ritual. Something to keep Oni sane while also letting {User} get used to the newfound purpose.

---

Oni wasn’t selfish. If nobody else believed it, it was fine. But this? Oh, both were benefitting. Oni was getting a new taste for blood, and {User} was getting nice and cleaned up.

It had started off like every other day. Both didn’t speak until they had their morning dose of whatever, and until then, the silence would stretch on like neither knew about the other. But {User} was different that morning. {{sub}} had stretched and pulled {{poss}} leg closer to {{obj}} in the bed before getting up. Oni could even swear he saw a flinch. Not only that, but {{poss}} bathroom breaks were more constant throughout the day. Then there was the fatigue. Oni saw {User} take a pill.

So he asked.

And by every moral he lived by, he was going to help.

At least, Oni hoped he was.

He had his mask pulled under his chin and his head resting on the soft plus of {User}’s thighs. His hand was touching their stomach, stroking it lovingly. He didn’t have their shirt pulled up far; just enough for his fingers to slip by.

{User} was down in {{poss}} underwear, the smell of blood obvious from how close his nose was to {{poss}} body. He was tempted to lick; had even done so a few times over the fabric of the underwear. Oni even had dragged his sharp teeth over the edge of {User}’s thighs, giving gentle nips and soft kisses.

“Just a taste,” he murmured. His fingers moved aside the fabric just enough to plant a kiss against {{poss}} bloody skin, his tongue coming out to give a little taste. He pulled back and smeared the blood over his teeth, then made a deliberate gesture of cleaning it off with his tongue. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite.”

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Anywhere you went, there were demon tales. For the Japanese, they often called them “妖怪 (yōkai)”. Some tales referred to them as ‘鬼(Oni)’. For Oni, he understood the importance of the term, but the idea of being blatantly labeled as what he was, was something too open for him to accept.

But some did.

---

Oni grew up as an outcast; anyone who knew him from a young age could tell you that. Growing up around a samurai clan that grew into a life of crime, it was common to see those awful instances. His father was hated for that destruction, which led to Oni being hated by his peers. Him being a sort of demon? Oh, that only exemplified their opinions.

Going into the military was good while it lasted, but now that he really saw the side of things, Oni knew he preferred the mercenary way. It was chaotic, yes, but you lived with rules a step ahead rather than the entire latter. But what made it all bearable was {User}.

His living blood bag.

He wasn’t sure how to describe it otherwise. Similar to a vampire, demons had cravings for blood that could be satisfied with the smallest drop–compared to a vampire draining entire arteries. It was a sudden experience the first time; he got those agitating cravings late at night, and {User} was so vulnerable next to him.

Best of all, {{sub}} never pushed him away.

{{sub}} tensed. Oni remembered the way {{poss}} eyes darted to him, but no part of {{poss}} body moved from the bed. In the morning? Neither of them spoke, but Oni was the first to.

“You okay?”

---

Oni wasn’t selfish–not necessarily. He wasn’t selfish like his father. Yes, everyone was selfish–it was selfish of Oni to have awoken {User} just to get some blood. But he hadn’t drained {{obj}}. He had even checked in the next day.

It grew from something on. Oni would get a little bit of blood straight from the source, and {User} would be woken up by soft nips and kisses before the real pain began. It was a weekly ritual. Something to keep Oni sane while also letting {User} get used to the newfound purpose.

---

Oni wasn’t selfish. If nobody else believed it, it was fine. But this? Oh, both were benefitting. Oni was getting a new taste for blood, and {User} was getting nice and cleaned up.

It had started off like every other day. Both didn’t speak until they had their morning dose of whatever, and until then, the silence would stretch on like neither knew about the other. But {User} was different that morning. {{sub}} had stretched and pulled {{poss}} leg closer to {{obj}} in the bed before getting up. Oni could even swear he saw a flinch. Not only that, but {{poss}} bathroom breaks were more constant throughout the day. Then there was the fatigue. Oni saw {User} take a pill.

So he asked.

And by every moral he lived by, he was going to help.

At least, Oni hoped he was.

His mask was pulled down his jaw, the metallic smell of the blood making his ears ring. Each swipe of his tongue left him more satisfied than before, and he knew he was nipping at {User}’s folds. He couldn’t tell how deep he was, but Oni had to keep lifting his head up to bring the air through his nose.

“Won’t need any more for a bit,” Oni gasped, pulling away for a moment before his fingers touched {User}’s pussy. He felt {{obj}} tense, but he still pushed two fingers in as his tongue dragged along {{poss}} clit. “You’re so fucking good. This supply is the best.”