#'gloves dyed red by blood' maybe | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goblinontour · 4 days ago

Text

Leather Cladded

part 3 | series masterlist

he’ll show you around

warnings: mentions of death, dead animals, implied age gap, fingering, piv, blood

word count: 12.7k

The ground moaned softly under his boots as he adjusted his weight, the brittle frost beneath him breaking in quiet protest. Your breath clouded in the air, but the chill wasn’t why your chest felt tight. Your eyes remained fixed, frozen on his hands — on the crimson trail tracing its way down, gathering at his fingertips, and falling, drop by drop, to stain the white crystals that blanketed the earth and on the fragile form cradled within them.

Its wings splayed unnaturally wide, its small body limp and fading in his grasp. A gloved hand still gripped its neck, where the final twitches of life dwindled, its sharp jerks softening into stillness.

He held it as though it were still alive, as though it might stir again at any moment. His grip wasn’t tight — it was protective, almost. His fingers trembled just slightly as he carefully smoothed the bird’s wings back into place. The feathers, once ruffled and defiant in their last moments of struggle, now lay flat, glistening with streaks that blended into the dark tones of its plumage. The blood spread over it like a veil, erasing whatever fight had come before, dissolving its pain into a strange kind of peace.

He wasn’t expecting you.

He tilted his head as he worked, his expression unreadable. But there was something tender in the way he adjusted the bird’s form, as though comforting it even in death, as though offering it a moment of dignity it had been denied. His fingers lingered briefly along its neck, brushing over the place where life had so recently fled.

You felt your stomach tighten, the tension in the air coiling tighter with each deliberate motion of his.

“Hi.” you said, your voice shaking. The sound felt out of place, small and fragile against the backdrop of frost and silence, betraying every attempt to mask your shock.

His head turned sharply toward you, and for a moment, you saw something in his eyes—a flicker of surprise, maybe even guilt. But it was gone before you could grasp it, replaced by that same unreadable calm. He didn’t let go of the bird.

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” he said, edged with something that made you want to step back.

Your gaze darted to the bird again, its feathers dull now in the dim light. The blood on his hands wasn’t smearing. It looked deliberate, like it belonged there.

“What are you doing?” you asked, the words barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer at first, his gloved fingers carefully cradling the lifeless creature now. There was a reverence in the motion, something that unsettled you more than the sight of the blood.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” he said finally, his voice so low it almost didn’t reach you. And not an answer to your question.

“You didn’t think I’d come back, or you didn’t think I’d come here?” you asked, trying to steady your breathing.

“Does it matter?” he replied, not looking at you, his focus entirely on the bird in his hands.

“It does to me.” you said, and he glanced at you then, his dark eyes catching the light just enough to look sharper than they should.

He exhaled slowly, a cloud of breath escaping into the cold air. “I’m…saving it.” he said finally, inspecting as though he were looking for something, his eyes tracing every line and shadow of its lifeless form.

“Saving it?” you repeated, your brow furrowing. “What does that even mean? What did you do to it?”

His lips twitched. “I didn’t do anything.” he said. “It was already dying. I’m just…” He paused, brushing his gloved thumb over its feathers, smearing another streak of red across the glossy black surface. “I’m helping it find peace.”

Your pulse quickened. “Alexander, that doesn’t make sense.”

He finally looked back at you, his gaze steady and unblinking. “Doesn’t it?” he asked.

“No.” you said, shaking your head. “It doesn’t. You- what does ‘saving it’ even mean? It’s-”

“Shh…” he interrupted gently, his voice like a low hum. He raised the bird slightly, cradling it closer to his chest. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me.” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Help me understand.”

He tilted his head, his lips parting slightly as though weighing your request. “I can.” he said after a moment, his voice quiet, almost hypnotic. “If you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer despite yourself, your breath coming in shallow puffs. “What are you saving it from?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He looked down at the bird again, his fingers brushing over its head in a motion that could only be described as loving. “From nothing.” he said. “From everything.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” you said, frustration creeping into your voice.

“It doesn’t have to.” he replied, his gaze snapping back to you.

You stared at him, at the blood-streaked feathers, at the way his hands held the bird with a tenderness that felt at odds with the scene before you.

“Let me show you.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let me help you see.”

You didn’t know what he meant, but something about the way he said it — the quiet intensity in his voice — made it impossible to look away. You nodded, unsure of what you were agreeing to, but unable to stop yourself.

And then he smiled, a small, fleeting thing. “Good.” he said softly. “That’s good. This isn’t what you think.” he said softly.

“What is it, then?” you asked.

“A moment.” he said, his lips quirking in the faintest of smiles. “A quiet one.”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s not quiet.” You gestured toward the blood on his hands. “That’s-”

“Necessary.” he interrupted, his voice calm but firm.

“Necessary for what?” you demanded, your voice louder than you’d meant it to be, echoing faintly in the stillness.

He sighed then, his breath visible in the air as he looked down at the bird again. “For understanding.”

“Understanding what?”

“Life. Death. Desire.” He spoke the words with a simplicity that made them feel heavy. “It’s all the same, really. The boundaries blur, don’t they?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to.

“Do you trust me?” he asked suddenly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“I don’t know.” you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “That’s fair.” he said after a moment.

The wind picked up just enough to rustle the trees around you, and the sound startled you more than it should have. He noticed, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

“You’re nervous.” he said, taking a step toward you.

“No.” you said quickly, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

“You should be.” he said softly, almost as though he were warning you. That sent another shiver down your spine.

“I don’t understand you.” you said, shaking your head.

“You don’t have to,.” he replied. “Come ‘ere, gimme a kiss.” he said, his voice low and teasing, the words slipping past his lips like a secret.

And for some reason, you did, without hesitation. The cold air bit at your skin, but his lips were soft, tasting faintly of winter’s chill and something sweeter. It was quick — too quick, really — but it left a warmth lingering between you that the frost couldn’t touch.

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your chin as though to keep you close. “You wanna know why I’m always here?”

Your breath caught. The weight of the question was subtle, and though you hesitated, you nodded. “Yeah. I think I do.”

He stepped back, his gloved hand brushing yours lightly, not quite taking it but guiding you all the same. Without thinking, you followed. You always followed him, even when you didn’t know why. There was something magnetic in the way he moved, in the way he carried himself, as though the world bent itself slightly around him.

The trees along the path were skeletal in the winter light, their bare branches clawing at the sky. The crunch of frost underfoot was the only sound, save for the occasional distant caw. You watched his shoulders as he walked ahead of you, broad and steady, his coat swaying slightly with each step. The bird was still cradled in his hands as he walked. He held it as if it were a delicate thing, not a body drained of life, not something he had taken control over, but as if he were protecting it. Every so often, his thumb would brush over its feathers, smearing more of the crimson across the soft black, and you couldn’t tell if he was trying to comfort the creature or himself.

The way he carried it unsettled you — something in it felt holy and twisted all at once, like he’d plucked a dying star out of the heavens and held it in his palm.

You trailed behind him, your boots crunching against the ground.

“Have you ever seen someone die?” he asked abruptly, his voice breaking the fragile silence between you.

Your steps faltered, the question sharp enough to stop you in your tracks. He didn’t look back, but his words lingered.

“Seen someone…die?” you echoed.

He glanced over his shoulder, unreadable. “Yes.” he said simply. “Watched it happen. Felt it happen.”

Your breath fogged in the air as you searched for an answer. “I- I don’t think so.” you admitted, unsure why the question left you so shaken. “Why?”

He kept walking, his boots sinking slightly into the icy path. “It’s a strange feeling.” he said after a while, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Having someone die in your arms.”

You quickened your pace to catch up with him. “Someone?” you asked cautiously.

He furrowed his brows, glancing down at the bird as if startled by the slip. Then he smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Someone…something.” he corrected, his voice low, almost a murmur. “It feels special. Feeling it take its last breath in your grip.”

The words made your skin crawl, but you couldn’t look away from him, from the quiet intensity in his expression as he spoke. He wasn’t looking at you now, his gaze fixed on his hands.

“Special?” you repeated.

He nodded slowly, his eyes distant, his thoughts clearly somewhere far from where you stood. “It’s intimate. The way life clings to itself, even in its final moments. The way it fights, even when it knows it’s lost. And then…” His thumb paused over the bird’s breastbone. “And then it’s gone. Just like that.”

You swallowed hard. “Is that why you’re always here?” you asked.

His gaze snapped back to you, sharp and searching, and for a moment, you thought he might answer. But instead, he turned away, continuing down the path.

“Come on.” he said, his tone lighter now, as though the conversation had never happened. “We’re almost there.”

You followed him again, your eyes flicking between his back and the destination that apparently loomed closer with each step.

“Welcome home.” he said, his voice breaking the silence as he stopped abruptly.

Your eyes followed the line of his outstretched arm, and your breath hitched at the sight that unfolded before you. Between the trees, a house came into view. It was old, impossibly old, with gray stone walls mottled with moss and ivy that clung like it belonged there, like it had grown from the earth itself. The roof sagged in places, the windows were dark and unwelcoming, but there was something strangely beautiful about it — something haunting and alive.

“Home?” you echoed, your voice trembling slightly.

He turned to you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Mine.” he clarified. “But…maybe yours, too. If you’ll let it be.”

The words hung in the air, laden with an invitation you didn’t entirely understand.

“What is this place?” you asked, stepping closer.

“It’s where I go when I’m not…out there.” he said, gesturing vaguely behind you, toward the cemetery. “It’s where I came from. Where I’ve always been.”

You frowned, glancing between him and the house. “You live here?”

“Live’s a strong word.” he said, his tone light but his eyes dark. “I…exist here. When I need to.”

Something about the way he said it sent a chill up your spine, but it wasn’t fear. It was curiosity, tangled with a sense of inevitability.

“Why are you showing me this?” you asked, stepping closer to him.

“Because I want you to understand,” he said simply.

“Understand what?”

He turned to face you fully. For a moment, he just looked at you. Then, he took a deep breath.

“Why I’m always here. Why I’m always…waiting for you.”

“Alexander…” you began, but he shook his head.

“Don’t.” he said softly. “Not yet. Just…come inside.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the house. The windows stared back at you like empty eyes, and yet, you felt an inexplicable pull, a quiet voice inside you urging you forward.

“Come inside.” he said, stepping closer, his free hand brushing against yours. “Please.”

“Okay.” you said finally.

He smiled again, that small thing that you were beginning to realise wasn’t entirely real, and gestured for you to follow him.

You did.

The moment you stepped inside, the scent hit you like a wave — him. That mix of cedar, musk, and something darker, sharper, like iron, only multiplied until it surrounded you from every corner. It was as if the house itself exhaled him, filling the air so thickly that it made your nose twitch.

You glanced around, the dim interior lit by muted daylight filtering through the cracks in the weathered shutters. The walls were lined with old bookshelves, their spines cracked and leaning against one another like tired soldiers. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, but the space didn’t feel neglected — it felt…alive.

“Hey, Lulu.” Alexander’s voice broke the silence, soft and low, coaxing something out from the shadows.

Your gaze dropped to his feet, where a sleek black cat had appeared as if conjured. It weaved between his legs, rubbing its head against his thigh with an air of possessive affection.

“Daddy’s home, yeah…” he whispered, crouching slightly to let the cat nuzzle into his palm. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the blood still dripping from the bird cradled in his other hand.

He turned back to you with a smirk, his eyes gleaming. “This is Lulu.” he said, gesturing to the cat, who regarded you with a pair of luminous green eyes that seemed far too knowing.

Before you could respond, another drop of blood fell, hitting the floor with a soft pat. You glanced down instinctively, watching as it seeped between the cracks of the floorboards, dark against the aged wood.

Alexander followed your gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment before he straightened, his focus shifting back to you. “Stay here.” he said “I’ll go take care of…” He trailed off, lifting the bird slightly in his hands as if to explain.

You nodded, your throat too tight to respond properly. He disappeared through a doorway, his boots echoing faintly against the floor as he walked out of view.

Left alone, you glanced down at the cat, who was now sitting by your feet, its tail curling and uncurling like a question mark. Lulu stared up at you, unblinking, her gaze unsettlingly sharp, as if she were silently evaluating your presence.

“Hi.” you said softly.

Lulu didn’t react, her eyes flicking briefly toward the doorway Alexander had gone through before returning to you. You could still hear the faint sound of his footsteps, accompanied now by the creak of hinges and the faint clatter of metal.

The scent in the room seemed to thicken, growing warmer, heavier, until it pressed against your skin like a second layer. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to shake off the strange unease that crept up your spine.

A minute passed, maybe two, and then the sound of water running reached your ears. You pictured him, the bird in his hands, the blood staining the porcelain of some ancient sink.

“Don’t wander off.” his voice called from the other room, startling you. It wasn’t sharp or angry, but it carried something that made you freeze in place, the idea of disobeying him suddenly inconceivable.

“I won’t.” you called back.

You glanced down at Lulu again, who had now curled herself into a neat little ball at your feet, her tail draped over her nose. For a moment, the sight of her was almost comforting, a slice of normalcy in an otherwise strange, suffocating moment.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a faint smear of blood on the floor, leading from where he’d been standing to the doorway he’d disappeared through. And somehow, you couldn’t help but follow it with your gaze, your feet itching to move, your curiosity pressing against the edges of your restraint like a caged animal.

Alexander’s return was as sudden as it was seamless, as if he’d never left. His boots thudded lightly against the floorboards, his presence filling the room again in an instant.

“Ah, right where I left you.” he said, voice warm and low, though there was an edge of something else beneath it — relief, maybe. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips brushing your skin like a brand before he straightened and pulled off the bloodied black gloves, hanging them neatly by the door.

“She’s cute.” you admitted.

“She is.” he agreed, glancing at you with a grin that was almost boyish in its sincerity. “And she’s spoiled rotten, but don’t tell her I said that.”

You didn’t know why you flinched when his hand came to your shoulder, his fingers brushing the fabric of your coat to ease it off. Maybe it was the memory of the bird, or the sharp focus in his gaze that hadn’t quite softened.

But he noticed.

He always noticed.

His hands stopped suddenly, gripping your arms from behind with enough force to ground you, to make you feel him. His breath was hot against the curve of your neck, and the tension in his voice was unmistakable when he spoke.

“I didn’t kill it.” he said, his voice quieter now, almost raw, like the words themselves hurt to say.

“I believe you.” you replied quickly, tumbling out before you could think too hard.

“Do you?” he asked, his grip tightening, his fingers pressing into your skin. You opened your mouth to answer, but he didn’t give you the chance. “Do I disgust you?” he added, the question cutting through the air like a blade. His face was close, but he didn’t turn to meet your gaze, as if he couldn’t bear to see whatever truth might flicker in your eyes.

You shook your head, a small, jerky motion.

His arms moved then, sliding around you in a hug that was as sudden as it was crushing. He held you tightly, his head dipping down until his face was pressed into your shoulder. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just held on like letting go would shatter you or him.

“Okay.” he whispered finally, his voice barely audible, the tension in his body ebbing slightly as if your silent answer had been enough.

The two of you stood like that for a moment, your breathing steadying as his grip loosened by degrees, though his hands never left you entirely.

“Do you want to meet Fifi?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet like a crack of light through the heavy atmosphere.

You blinked, turning slightly to glance over your shoulder at him, catching the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fifi?” you asked, the absurdity of the name pulling a huff of surprise from you.

“Fifi.” he repeated, releasing you slowly and stepping back, his hands lingering for just a second longer than they needed to. “C’mon, you’ll like her.”

He reached for your hand without hesitation, his fingers curling around yours with an ease that felt oddly intimate. Before you could think too hard about it, he was leading you down a narrow hallway.

“Who’s Fifi?” you asked as you walked, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

That hallway felt longer than it should have, the shadows stretching and pooling in strange shapes as Alexander led you down it. He didn’t say anything, and you didn’t ask where he was taking you. The house had a peculiar hush to it, broken only by the creak of floorboards beneath your feet and the faint sound of your breathing.

Finally, he stopped in front of a room. “You’ll see.” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost like he was preparing himself as much as you.

The room was warmer, cozier than you expected. A small fire crackled in the corner, its light casting a golden glow over worn furniture. A blanket that looked as though it had been mended countless times draped across a faded armchair near the fire, and on the rug before it was…

“Fifi.” Alexander said, gesturing as your gaze locked on the figure by the fire.

It took you a moment to process what you were seeing. She almost looked alive. Her fur was pristine, her body perfectly posed as though she’d just paused mid-stretch. Her head was tilted slightly, her ears perked up, her tail curling delicately around her paws. But there was something about her stillness. The absolute stillness. Not even the rise and fall of breath, not even the faintest twitch of her ear. Too perfect, too unnatural. It was wrong.

Your breath caught in your throat as the realization hit.

“She’s…not alive.” you said, barely above a whisper.

Alexander crouched beside her, brushing his fingers gently over her head as if she could still feel his touch. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

“No.” he said quietly. “She’s not.”

“She’s…she’s beautiful.” you managed, your voice low.

“She was.” he replied. You didn’t know what to say. There was a deep ache in his voice, a rawness that made the words feel heavier than you expected. “She and Lulu were so close.” he continued. “Always together, always…inseparable. I couldn’t pull them apart. Not even…after.”

Your stomach twisted, and you took a hesitant step closer, unable to look away from the eerily lifelike cat. “What- what happened?”

“She got sick.” Alexander said, his voice low, his eyes never leaving her. “It was quick, but I wasn’t quick enough. I couldn’t…couldn’t stop it.” He paused, his fingers trailing down her back, smoothing her fur in a motion so gentle it made you ache for him too. “She was…special. I couldn’t just let her go. I couldn’t break them apart. So…”

He trailed off, glancing up at you with a look that was equal parts defiant and vulnerable.

“So you…” you trailed off, your mind racing to make sense of what you were seeing. “You saved her?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “I preserved her. I made sure she’d stay with us.”

“Like the birds?”

“Like the birds.” he confirmed, a faint smile tugging at his lips, or more like his lips twitched, but there was no humor in it. “She almost looks alive, doesn’t she?”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you looked back at her. She did look alive. Too alive. It was like looking at a snapshot frozen in time, the life drained away but the image remaining. The firelight played across her fur in a way that made her seem like she might move at any second, but she remained so utterly still it messed with your mind.

“It messed with me at first, too.” Alexander admitted, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “Seeing her like this. But it was better than the alternative. Better than…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“She almost looks like she could just…” You didn’t finish, but your fingers twitched unconsciously, like you wanted to reach out and touch her, test if she’d respond.

“She can’t.” Alexander said firmly, as if reading your mind. “But she’s here. That’s enough.” The fire crackled behind him, the warmth doing little to soften the coldness of the moment. “She was always the calm one. Lulu’s the wild one, the troublemaker. Fifi just…balanced her out.”

Your heart clenched at the affection in his voice, the way he spoke about her like she was still here, still alive, still his.

“Do you miss her?”

“Every day.” he said simply.

He rose slowly, his hand lingering on Fifi’s head for a moment before he straightened. He turned to face you, his eyes searching yours.

“But she’s still here.” he said, his voice soft but firm. “And she always will be.” He stood fully then, brushing his hands off lightly, though you doubted there was anything to brush away. “Do you think it’s strange?” he asked suddenly.

“I…” you hesitated, unsure how to answer.

“It’s okay if you do.” he said, shrugging off the question like it didn’t matter. But the way he looked at you — the way his gaze lingered, searching — made it clear it did.

“I think…” you swallowed, your mouth dry. “I think you loved her.”

That caught him off guard. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. “I did.” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “I still do. Do you want to stay?” he asked.

You nodded and he gave you a small wistful smile.

“C’mon.” he said, gesturing toward the armchair. “Sit. Lulu’ll come say hi properly soon enough. She likes visitors.”

“And, uh…?” you asked, glancing back at the still, perfect figure by the fire.

“She’s already said hi.” Alexander said, and there was a giggle at his thoughts before he said them out loud. “She’s quiet, but she’s good company.”

You settled into the chair, the blanket soft against your fingers. Alexander lingered before he finally glanced down at himself. His hands moved absently over his shirt, brushing at the dark stains of blood and smudges of dirt. His brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a tight line as though the grime offended him in some deep, inexplicable way. He rubbed harder, but the stains were too set, and with a frustrated huff, he dropped his hands and stood.

Then his fingers went to his belt.

Your eyes went wide, pulse quickening as your mind leaped to the worst conclusions.

“What?” Alexander asked, pausing with his fingers on the buckle, head tilting in that knowing, amused way he had. “Relax. I’m not gonna whip you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just need to change.”

“Oh.” you mumbled, feeling foolish for the overreaction. “Okay.”

His lips quirked at your response, but he didn’t press it. He started loosening the leather strap from its loops. “You’re so…twitchy. Stop being so nervous around me.” His fingers paused on the button of his trousers, waiting.

“Okay.” you whispered.

He studied you for a moment, then nodded once, satisfied. “‘Kay…I’m gonna-” He gestured vaguely toward what you assumed was his bedroom.

“Yeah.” you whispered again, unsure why your voice wouldn’t come out louder.

He stepped away, his boots thudding lightly on the floorboards. The door to his room creaked open, just enough that you could see him through the gap. Whether on purpose or not, the sight held you captive.

The quiet intimacy of the moment settled over you as heavy as the blanket, suffocating and comforting all at once. Your eyes darted away as his figure moved through the half-open door, but your gaze betrayed you almost instantly, drawn back to him. There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself, even now, when he wasn’t performing, wasn’t trying to keep your attention. He didn’t need to.

His hands moved with ease, slipping it from the loops all the way with a quiet whish. The leather hung in his grip for a moment before he tossed it onto a chair in the corner.

“I can feel you watching.” he called out, almost teasing.

You froze, heat rushing to your face, but he didn’t turn to look at you.

“It’s fine.” he added, glancing over his shoulder briefly, his lips quirking into a small, knowing smirk. “I’d be looking too.”

You tried to muster a response, something clever, something to cut through the thickness, but all you managed was a faint, breathless laugh. His brows raised slightly, as though he were giving you a chance to take it back, but you didn’t. He nodded, almost to himself, and resumed undressing.

You should’ve looked away. You knew that. But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

It was as if he wasn’t even aware of how captivating his movements seemed to you. The button came loose, the zipper dragged down, and he stepped out of his pants with ease, leaving only the soft fabric of his socks between his feet and the cold floor. Something about that small detail made your stomach twist. Floors were cold. He thought of such practical things.

You watched Alexander as if through a veil, strangely unguarded. The faint crackle of the fire played as the only soundtrack to his quiet ritual. The stained shirt slid off his shoulders and pooled at his feet. His skin caught the firelight, a pale canvas marred only by faint marks — scratches, scars, and stories you hadn’t yet heard. The curve of his back, the muscles shifting under his skin as he moved, was somehow more intimate than any touch you’d shared. Because yes, you’d touched him before — his lips, his neck — but seeing him like this was different. He looked different. Every curve and dip turned into something impossibly soft and impossibly sharp all at once. For a moment, all you could do was stare at the smooth expanse of his bare skin.

It wasn’t deliberate, you told yourself. It was the kind of beauty that didn’t feel deliberate, the kind that sneaks up on you and knocks the air from your lungs. But it felt like it was, as though the universe had arranged this moment just to ensnare you.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. The scene felt too raw, too intimate, as though you’d stumbled into a moment that wasn’t meant for anyone else.

You couldn’t help but follow the motion of his hands. When he bent slightly to pick up a pair of plaid pants, you caught yourself biting your lip and holding your breath. He stepped into them, pulling them up his hips, the fabric loose but clinging just enough to remind you there was nothing beneath them.

The casual intimacy of it all, paired with his unassuming confidence, the domesticity of it all was jarring. It felt too normal, too soft for someone like him, for someone like you. Yet here he was, not an ounce of menace in his movements, just a man getting comfortable in his own space. It was too ordinary. Too real. But in this setting — his sanctuary, his home — it was anything but.

Alexander slipped a sweater over his head, the loose fit skimming his frame but clinging just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His hands lingered at the hem, brushing the top of his pants as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. When he finally turned, his eyes caught yours through the sliver of the open door.

“Caught you staring.” he said.

You blinked, heat flooding your face as you looked away quickly, your gaze dropping to the rug at your feet. “I wasn’t-”

“Yes, you were.” he interrupted. The sweater hung loose enough that the neckline dipped to expose a sliver of his chest. He looked comfortable, but in a way that felt oddly dangerous, as though comfort made him even more of a threat. “What?” he asked, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Nothing.” you said quickly, tearing your eyes away.

He stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re staring again.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

You didn’t bother denying it further, the heat in your cheeks giving you away.

“See something you like?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, but it lacked conviction. “You wish.”

“I don’t need to wish.” he said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. “I know.”

His confidence made your pulse race, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it. “You’re full of yourself, you know that?”

He crouched down in front of you, the smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “You keep looking, though. You’re always watching me.” he said, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative.

“I-”

“It’s okay.” he interrupted. “I like it.”

The confession stole your breath, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, your chest tight.

“Go on.” he said. “Say something. Or just keep staring. Either works for me.”

You laughed, the sound nervous but genuine, and he grinned, standing back to his full height. “I’m just…curious.” you muttered, trying to mask how much his proximity affected you. Your breath hitched as he reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“Curious?” he asked, his voice dropping, the single word hanging between you.

“Maybe.” you admitted softly.

“Curious about what?”

You hesitated, unsure if you even had an answer. “About you.”

Alexander’s lips curved into a small smile. “Careful.” he murmured, his voice a low warning. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

You raised a brow, trying to match his tone. “Good thing I’m not a cat.”

His smile widened, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Touché.”

The moment stretched between you, heavy with unspoken tension. Then, just as quickly as it had settled, he broke it, standing and running a hand through his hair. He did that a lot.

“C’mon.” he said, glancing back at you as he headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us something warm.”

You nodded, rising to follow him, but your gaze lingered on him a moment longer, the domestic scene etched into your memory. Alexander might have looked at ease in this space, but there was something about him that told you it would never be that simple.

“Still staring.” he teased, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Still worth looking at.” you shot back before you could think better of it.

“I could say the same.” he said quietly.

He reached for a pot, his fingers steady despite the faint tremor in the air around him. The burner clicked several times as he turned the knob, sparks stubbornly refusing to ignite until finally, a small blue flame leapt to life. Water from the tap filled the thing, stream rushing steadily before he shut it off with a flick of his wrist. Reaching into a small tin near the counter, he pinched out loose tea leaves and scattered them. They floated on the surface before slowly sinking, already beginning to stain the water a faint golden hue.

“Gonna take a while.” Alexander murmured. Only then did you notice the faint, acrid scent of gas in the air.

“You don’t even have a proper kettle?” you asked, incredulous.

“This works for me.”

“Fuddy duddy.” you muttered under your breath, but loud enough for him to hear. You didn’t look at him when you said it, keeping your focus on the stove as if that would shield you from his reaction.

Alexander straightened immediately, his smirk deepening. “What did you just call me, eh?” he asked, laced with that thickened accent he seemed to pull out when he wanted to catch you off guard.

“Fuddy duddy.” you repeated.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face as he took a slow step toward you. “And what’s that mean, then?”

“You know what it means.” you said, though your voice faltered when you noticed the way he was looking at you.

“Maybe I don’t. Tell me.” he said, closing the distance between you, his hands slipping into his pockets as he stopped just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re really weird, Alexander.” you said instead, hoping to redirect the conversation from the way you nervously stood under his gaze.

“And yet you’re still here.” he countered easily.

“I… uh…” Your words stumbled out, and you hated the way he made you feel so disarmed. “I guess so.” you finished weakly, feeling heat creep.

“Mhm.” he hummed, a deep sound that resonated in his chest, and then — before you could process what was happening — he leaned in and kissed you.

It was quick. Too quick. Casual, almost careless, and yet it left you breathless. His lips brushed yours with the perfect blend of warmth and pressure, and the tingling sensation lingered long after he pulled away.

It felt too good for how brief it was, like a stolen moment you wanted to steal back.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you stared at him, but Alexander didn’t linger. He turned on his heel and strode back to the sofa, leaving you rooted in place, stunned.

You followed him like you couldn’t help yourself. You didn’t know what drove you to trail after him like a shadow — or worse, more embarrassingly, like a lost puppy — but there you were, settling onto the sofa beside him, your legs curling up over his lap.

There was a moment of hesitation before draping your legs over his lap, testing the waters. Alexander welcomed the closeness immediately, his large hands moving instinctively to rest on your calves. His palms were warm.

“Are you gonna kill me now?” you asked, your voice tinged with nervous laughter.

His fingers traced idle patterns across your legs. His nails dragged lightly over you, and even through the layer of fabric, it still sent an involuntary shiver up your spine.

“Why does it sound like you’d want me to?” he asked.

Your eyes flickered down to his hands. There were still faint streaks of red clinging to the edges of his nails, stubbornly clinging like ghosts of earlier actions. The sight should have repulsed you. Should have made you pull away.

Instead, you whispered, “Maybe I do.”

His brows lifted slightly in surprise, and then he chuckled, low and rough. His hands resumed their movement, rubbing and kneading gently. “I’m not gonna kill ya.”

“Okay.” you murmured, though your pulse thrummed in your ears, betraying the strange mix of fear and desire curling inside.

You didn’t know what possessed you to move, but you climbed into his lap, straddling him with a boldness you hadn’t realised you had. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders, and your knees pressed into the sofa on either side of his hips, bracketing him in.

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t stop you.

You kissed him again, but this time it wasn’t quick or casual or fleeting. It was slow, deliberate, wet. Your lips moved against his with purpose and his moved against yours with just enough pressure to make you ache for more. His lips, soft and unexpectedly plush, almost pillowy, caught you off guard, their fullness hidden from your eyes, only to be felt.

But then there was his beard. Rough, bristling against your skin like a low hum beneath the kiss. You hadn’t expected to think about it so much. It should’ve been a distraction, maybe even a deterrent, but somehow it wasn’t. The wiry hair scratched faintly at the corners of your mouth and chin, yet it wasn’t harsh. Just rough enough to remind you that he was there, fully and tangibly, while his lips stayed so maddeningly gentle.

It didn’t bother you, though. God, it didn’t bother you at all. In fact, it made everything worse — or better — because you could feel every tiny sensation amplified. You told yourself to stop focusing on it, to let yourself sink into the kiss entirely, to drown in the way his hands cupped your waist like you were something he’d been waiting to hold for years.

But you couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help noticing the way his it tickled your skin when he shifted, the way it somehow made his kiss feel even more intimate. And it was intimate. The kind of kiss that dissolved everything else in the world until it was just you and him and the rhythm of lips and tongues.

It hit you then, as his hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair and pulling you impossibly closer: You weren’t thinking about his beard. Not really. You were thinking about him, and how he kissed like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do, like he was pouring something unspoken into you.

Fuck.

The thought hit you like a punch to the chest, and it made you press into him harder, your lips parting slightly to taste him more fully. And he matched you and it was making you forget how to breathe.

You caught his bottom lip between yours, tugging it gently, and the sound he made — a low, nearly inaudible groan — sent a thrill through you.

His hands found your waist again, steadying you as you pressed closer, your chest brushing against his. When the kiss broke, you stayed close, your noses almost touching, your breath mingling in the space between you.

“You’re full of surprises.” he murmured, his voice rough and gravelly, like the crunch of leaves underfoot from earlier.

“Am I?” you asked.

He nodded, his fingers tightening slightly on your waist. “One moment you’re nervous as a kitten, the next you’re climbing me like a tree.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. “You still make me nervous.” you admitted.

“It’s different now.” he said, his lips curving into a half-smile. “Means I’m doing something right.”

“You’re ridiculous.” you teased, though your words lacked any real bite.

“And you’re trouble.” he countered, his hands sliding lower.

“Guess we’re a good match, then.” you said, leaning in again, your lips hovering just over his.

Alexander’s smile widened, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you down against him. “Guess we are.” he murmured before capturing your lips once more, this time deeper, hungrier, as if he didn’t want to let you go.

He felt good beneath you, solid and grounding, but somehow you were the one left feeling dirty, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Despite everything, despite the way his hands gripped your hips like they were meant to fit there, it felt like you were the pervert in this scenario. Was it because you jumped him like that, or was it the way you couldn’t seem to keep your hands off him, drawn to him like a moth to a flame?

Were you? A pervert? No, that didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just you. It wasn’t just him. This was both of you, a tangled mess of desire and recklessness. Maybe there was no one to blame. Maybe this was just…

“Ah- careful there.” he hissed suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You froze, alarmed. “What? What happened?”

“You’re pressing on me too hard.” he said, voice tight but tinged with amusement, like he couldn’t fully bring himself to be annoyed.

For a brief moment, your eyes flicked downward, heat rushing to your cheeks as you realized what you might be pressing on. But then you noticed his thigh twitch beneath you, his hand coming up to rub it absently.

His hiss wasn’t about what you thought it was.

“Hurt your manhood?” you teased, leaning in closer to breathe him in, his scent warm and woodsy with a faint metallic undertone. Your lips ghosted against the curve of his neck as you spoke, feeling the subtle scratch of stubble against your skin.

“Nah.” he grunted, but there was a strained edge to his voice. “I just…pulled something in my leg. Hurts when I move it wrong.”

You tilted your head, concerned now. “What, like a muscle?”

“Somethin’ like that.” he said, shifting slightly under you to ease the tension. His hands came up and he pushed you back just enough to look at you. “You wanna bite me?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was something darker simmering beneath it.

“I-”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands rose to his hair, fingers raking through it in one smooth motion, and then you saw it — how easily he slipped a tie from his wrist, like it had been hiding there for this exact moment. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but now it felt like a deliberate choice, like he’d been waiting for this.

The motion was seamless, practiced, as he gathered his hair back and tied it out of his face. His neck was exposed now, pale and smooth, a faint vein visible under the surface.

“You can bite me now.” he said, and there was something in his voice — an edge, a challenge, a dare. He tilted his head to the side, offering himself up, bare and vulnerable.

Exposed, to ruin. At your disposal.

But his eyes, locked on yours, told a different story. This was still his terrain, his rules. You might hold the power to leave marks, but only because he allowed it.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked instead, glancing down at the leg beneath you. You could feel the faint tension in the muscle, the way his body instinctively tried to shield it from further strain.

His gaze darkened, and his hand came up to cup your chin, firm, not yet rough. “Bite me.” he ordered, vibrating through the small space between you.

Your heart raced. Fear and exhilaration. He was giving you control, but only as far as he dictated. The way his hand lingered on your face told you he wouldn’t let you escape until you did exactly what he asked.

Tentatively, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his neck, feeling the heat of his skin and the faint thrum of his pulse beneath it.

“That’s it.” he murmured, his other hand settling on your hip to keep you steady. “Good girl.”

The words sent a shiver through you, and without thinking, your teeth grazed his skin.

He hissed again, but this time it wasn’t from pain. It was something deeper, something primal. His grip on your hip tightened, and you felt his body respond beneath you, the tension in his thigh momentarily forgotten.

“Harder.” he whispered.

Your teeth sank in a little deeper, leaving an imprint that faded almost as quickly as it appeared.

“Don’t be shy.” he said, his lips curving into wickedness. “You can do better than that.”

You bit down harder this time, enough to leave a mark that would last, and his hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, holding you there for a moment longer than necessary.

When you finally pulled back, he exhaled slowly, his eyes half-lidded as he looked at you.

“Better.” he said. “Knew you had it in you.”

That’s when he thrust his hips up and dragged you down, as if it were some kind of reward for the bite you’d just delivered. And it did feel like one — good in a way that made you want more. You shifted, trying to settle into the friction he was offering, but it wasn’t enough. The vague shape and pressure of him were driving you mad, and you made a small, frustrated huff that slipped out before you could stop it.

“Off?” he asked, and you realised his fingers were already brushing against the button of your pants.

You swallowed hard and nodded. His hands moved with an efficiency that almost startled you, undoing the button and slipping it through the loop with practiced ease. The zipper followed, the faint rasp of metal teeth breaking the silence in the room, and then he paused, waiting.

You took over, fingers trembling slightly as you gripped the waistband and shimmied the pants down your hips. You couldn’t help the way you rubbed your thighs together as you worked, partly to help get them off and partly to keep the cold from creeping up on your exposed skin. The air bit at you the moment the fabric was gone, your legs prickling with goosebumps you hated.

“You’re cold.” he murmured, sitting up just enough to pull you closer, his hands sliding over your thighs in a gesture that felt more possessive than comforting.

“I’m fine.” you whispered, even though you shivered when his fingers dragged up and down the outside of your legs.

“Liar.” he said, but there was no malice, just a faint smile. “C’mere.”

You weren’t sure what he meant until his hands were on your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically plastered to him, his sweater soft against your chest. You braced yourself on his shoulders, your thighs straddling his, and the heat radiating from his body was intoxicating.

“You better be warmed up now.” he said, his lips brushing against your ear. “Otherwise…”

“Otherwise, what?” you asked, breathless from the way his hands roamed, one skimming over the curve of your ass while the other cupped the back of your neck.

“Otherwise, I’ll just have to warm you up properly.”

You couldn’t even respond. He tilted his hips up again, dragging himself against you, and the pressure sent a spark of heat shooting through you.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “That’s what you’re doing to me.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, and his hand slid down to grip more firmly as he shifted you against him again.

“Good girl.” he said, the words like velvet, and you felt your face heat at the praise.

It wasn’t enough. You wanted more of him, needed it, and you leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss that was anything but soft. He met you with equal intensity, his tongue sliding against yours as his hands tightened their grip on you.

His breath was warm against your mouth when he finally pulled back, his eyes dark as they studied you. “You still cold?”

You shook your head, feeling far too warm now, and he grinned, his hands starting to roam again.

“Good.” he said, voice rough and teasing. “Then I don’t have to hold back.”

“Mmm…no.” you mumbled, your attention drifting back to his neck, hips grinding down in those slow, wavy patterns that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. He felt every shift, every deliberate twist of your spine as you moved over him, brushing over his cock with a rhythm that seemed to leave him undone and enraptured at once. His eyes followed the path your body carved, mesmerised by the way you melted against him.

“Do you want me?” he asked, voice quiet and rough, pitched low enough for only you to hear.

You made a soft noise of agreement, not trusting your words, and the sound seemed to trigger something in him. He chuckled and his hands tightened. His nails dug into your flesh right where the edge of your panties met bare skin, the sting sharp.

You whimpered at the sensation, your body involuntarily jerking at the pressure, and that was when he twitched beneath you — hard and insistent, the reaction so obvious you couldn’t miss it. It pulled a heat from you, a flush that crawled up your chest and neck.

“She’s watching.” he murmured, skittering down your spine. “You want me to fuck you with her watching?”

For a moment, you couldn’t quite follow his words. Your mind, muddled with need, caught up too slowly, and then realisation struck you.

“She’s…” you trailed off, suddenly uncertain, the moment teetering on an edge you weren’t sure how to balance. What would he think if you said it? Would it matter? “She’s…dead.”

It felt wrong to say it. Wrong in this moment, and wrong in this space that he had filled with something unknowable. His brow furrowed faintly at your words, but not in anger or even sadness.

“Death isn’t that simple.” he said, his voice a little softer now, like he was trying to explain something you couldn’t yet understand.

“I know, but-” you started, but he interrupted.

“She’s not gone, you know?” there was a strange conviction to it, the kind that made you pause. “I’ve seen death. Real death. I’ve watched beings…go away, slip through my hands. And somehow, she’s still here. I know it.”

You froze, your movements stilling. The intimacy of the moment felt suddenly inappropriate, like you were intruding on something sacred.

But he noticed the hesitation, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, pushing you forward, forcing you to move again. He didn’t say anything about it, but the look in his eyes told you enough: don’t stop.

“Do you believe me?” he asked after a moment, his voice low and insistent.

“I…I don’t know.” you admitted, breathless as you fell back into the rhythm he demanded, your body responding even as your mind swirled.

He hummed, vibrating. “You don’t have to know. You’ll see. She’s here, in this space…I feel her.”

Your movements faltered again, but this time, he didn’t push you. Instead, he reached for your face, cupping your cheek in one large, warm hand. “She’s not watching to judge. She’d want this. She’d want you to feel alive.”

It didn’t make sense — not in a way you could fully comprehend — but the way he said it made you believe it, if only for the moment. You nodded slowly, your body relaxing into his touch, and he rewarded you with a smile that felt both dark and soft, a combination that was so uniquely him it made your heart stutter.

“Now, don’t stop. Make her proud.” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the strange weight of the conversation.

And with that, he guided you again, his hands firm on your hips, pulling you against him in a way that chased away every other thought but him. He was an odd man. Jesus Christ, he was strange, and yet that strangeness pulled at something in you. Maybe he saw it too, sensed it somewhere deep inside.

“Make me proud.”

That you would. Or at least, you’d try. Something inside you drove you to obey him — not for your own pleasure, but for his. Somehow, his pleasure became yours, as though his approval, his satisfaction, was all you craved.

Your hands trembled slightly as you hooked your fingers under the waistband of his pants, slowly pulling them down. Your eyes darted back to the spots on his neck, the faint shadows where your lips had kissed and bitten earlier, fixating there as you worked.

He noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything.

“Why’re you looking there?” he murmured. You didn’t answer, but your pupils twitched, refusing to settle on one spot. His eyes followed your gaze before dropping back to your face. “You can look at it.” he said softly, like a suggestion.

But you couldn’t. Not yet. You glanced into his eyes instead, searching for something, though you didn’t know what.

“Look at my cock.” he said again, this time with a tone that left no room for argument.

A quiet command, steady and unrelenting. Something about it shut you up and stripped away whatever resistance was left in you. Your gaze dropped almost involuntarily, and when you saw it, you swallowed hard. It looked just as good as it had felt the last time: thick, flushed, and solid in a way that made your thighs clench together.

Your hand reached for it tentatively at first, fingers wrapping around the base to feel its weight and warmth. He hissed softly at the contact, but his hands never left your waist, steadying you as much as they anchored him.

You leaned back into his neck, pressing your lips against the bruises you’d already left there, letting your breath tickle his skin. “Fuck me.” you whispered, barely audible.

“What was that?” he hummed, one eyebrow lifting as his fingers tightened their grip on you.

“Fuck…me.” you said again, louder this time, punctuating it with another bite, firmer now, to make your point clear.

He hummed again. For a second, it almost seemed like he was disappointed. Like he wanted you to ask better, to beg better.

“Please.” you tried, your voice trembling as you tilted your head against his.

His response wasn’t verbal. His hand slipped between your thighs, pressing lightly over the cotton of your panties. The faintest brush of his fingers sent a jolt through you, a teasing promise of something more.

“Daddy, please.” you said again, desperation seeping into your voice. It wasn’t just need — it was need, raw and exposed, and the whimper that followed made it sound like you might cry.

And that was it. That was what he wanted.

“There we go.” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke. One hand stayed firm on your waist while the other pushed your panties to the side. The cool air against your bare skin was sharp and shocking, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except him, the way his fingers grazed over you, gathering your slick and spreading it as though savoring every second.

“You’re such a good girl.” he said, his voice a low rasp. “All mine, aren’t ya?”

“Yes.” you whispered, your breath hitching. “All yours.”

“Prove it.” he said simply, and then his fingers slid inside you, slow but deliberate, making you gasp. His thumb pressed lightly against your clit, teasing, testing, until your hips bucked into his hand.

You tried to speak, tried to say something, but all that came out was a moan. He chuckled, pleased, and kissed your temple softly as he worked his hand against you.

“You can take me, can’t ya?” he asked, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. His fingers scissored inside you, stretching, testing your limits. “Say it. Say you’re ready for Daddy.”

“I’m ready.” you whimpered, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I’m ready for you.”

“Mhm…” he said with a grin, pulling his fingers free and wiping them on your thigh. Then, with both hands firm on your waist, he adjusted you, guiding you over him like you were meant to be there, like you were meant for him.

“Go on.” he said, his voice low and taunting as he positioned himself against you. “Show me how much you want me.”

You took him all at once, your walls stretching to accommodate him, and the sharp gasp that escaped your lips was matched by the low groan rumbling in his throat. A shiver ran through his entire body as he gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin. His reaction told you everything — you knew he liked it, maybe even more than you did, though that was hard to imagine.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” he murmured, his voice rough and shaky.

Your response was wordless at first, just a low moan as you started to move, slowly at first, finding a rhythm. But soon, you bounced on him, seeking more. Somehow, you were so wet that the obscene sounds of him filling you drowned out everything else, even the crackle of the fire just a few feet away.

It sounded dirty. It felt dirty.

And he loved it.

“Listen to that.” he said, his eyes half-lidded as he glanced down between your bodies. His thumb brushed against your clit for emphasis, spreading your slick around, and the way you clenched around him made him groan again. “You’re a mess. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimpered, your head tipping back, heat pooling in your stomach as your hips ground down onto him. “I- God, I can’t…you’re so big.” you managed to say, words tumbling out without thought.

“You’re takin’ it.” he said, his voice filled with pride and teasing. “Every fuckin’ inch, huh? Look at you, so good for me.”

Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tightly for support as your movements grew more frantic. He helped you along, meeting your bounces with upward thrusts, deep and deliberate. Each time he filled you, he made you feel so utterly full, and you knew he was hitting every spot just right, making you cry out. He hit every spot so perfectly that it left you breathless, your mind reeling with the overwhelming sensation of him stretching and claiming you.

Then, without warning, he stilled.

You gasped in confusion as he pulled out of you completely, the emptiness leaving you clenching around nothing. Before you could ask why, he was stroking himself, right in front of you. All slick with your wetness, his cock gleamed in the firelight, his fingers wrapped tightly around the base. He wasn’t subtle about it either, groaning low as his thumb traced over the swollen tip, teasing himself.

“Why-” you stammered, blinking at him. “Al…why?”

He looked up at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “Beg for it.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“You heard me.” he said, his tone firm but teasing, his strokes becoming slower, almost lazy. “You want it back, you beg for it.”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, and your pride twisted in protest. But the ache between your legs was louder, demanding, insistent. “Please.” you whispered, voice trembling.

“Not good enough.” he said, leaning back slightly, his free hand resting on your thigh. “You want me to fuck you again, you better tell me exactly how bad you want it.”

You swallowed hard, trying to find your words. “I…I need you.” you said, your voice cracking. “I need you so bad. Please, I want to feel you inside me again. I’ll be good, I promise.”

His smirk widened. “There’s my girl.”

He shifted forward, his hands finding your waist as he guided you back into position. His cock brushed against your entrance, and the tease of it made you squirm. Then he wrapped his fingers around the base again, stretching them wide along the length of it, making it look even bigger as he angled it to press against you.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice thick with restraint.

You nodded, bracing yourself.

Alexander didn’t let go of his cock. His fingers stayed wrapped around the base, stretched wide and firm. He was already thick, so solid. And when he pushed you down, it was immediate, almost unbearable, his fingers sliding in alongside his cock, stretching you impossibly.

You gasped, your nails digging into his forearms as you tried to take him, as your body trembled at the intrusion. The feeling made you feel so unbearably full, every nerve ending sparking as you sank lower.

“Shit-” he hissed, his jaw tightening as he watched you struggle to take it all. “That’s it…just like that. Feel that? How full you are?”

“Al- oh my God-” you whimpered, your voice breaking. You felt yourself teetering somewhere on the edge of pain and pleasure. You didn’t even know what you were taking, how much of him was inside you. All you knew was that it was too much and still not enough.

But Alexander was transfixed, his gaze locked on the way your body struggled. His mouth hung open, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, the fabric of his sweater stretching with each motion. His fingers flexed, pressing against your walls as he pushed you down further, his cock filling every inch of you at the same time. “You’re so goddamn tight.” he muttered. “I can feel you squeezing me already. Fuck- keep going, princess. Don’t stop now.”

“I can’t…it’s too much.” you whimpered, tears prickling in your eyes as your body fought to adjust.

That finally caught his attention. His eyes flicked up to meet yours and when he spotted the shiny traces on your cheeks you could practically see the sparks inside his head.

“Yes, you can.” he said firmly, his hands gripping your hips as he took control. He moved you, dragging you down further. He was encouraging enough that you didn’t feel like you were only being used, but he was using you all the same. You didn’t mind it either way. But words did help, and it also meant you got to hear his voice. “Look at you. Look how good you take me.”

Your head tipped back, your chest heaving as you gasped for breath. The heat pooling deep in your belly was unbearable, the pressure building with every inch. “It hurts.” you whimpered, barely able to form the words.

“Hurts so good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his voice low and coaxing. His fingers twitched again, pressing deeper, as if testing your limits. “God, you’re a greedy little thing. Taking all of me like this.”

You shook your head, your hands scrambling at his shoulders. “I…I can’t-”

Finally, he released you, letting his hands trace up your sides, his fingers leaving ghostly trails of heat in their wake. His cock twitched inside you now, and the feeling of him pulsing against your walls sent a jolt straight through you.

“Fuck.” he groaned, his head tipping back. “That’s all me, baby. All mine.”

“Alexander-” you gasped, your nails digging into his skin through his sweater.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, and your head went over the mocking tone in those words even as his hands kept you firmly in place.

“I- I’m so close.” you said, your voice trembling as the pressure inside you built.

“Yeah?” he teased, smirking up at you. “You gonna come all over me? Gonna make a mess for Daddy, huh?”

You could barely respond, just a desperate nod as your movements became erratic. He slowed you slightly, forcing your hips into a deeper, slower grind that had you seeing stars and nothing at all, all at once.

“There it is.” he said, taunting. “Feel that? That’s me, deep inside. You love it, don’t ya?”

“Yes.” you whimpered, tears prickling at your eyes all over again. “Yes, I love it, I love-”

His hands gripped your face suddenly, forcing you to look at him, your movements stuttering for a moment. His eyes burned into yours, wild and dark but filled with something…more.

“Say it again.” he growled, his voice rough.

“I love it.” you said, your voice breaking slightly.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He thought you would have…maybe. But you didn’t. He didn’t know why he was expecting that of you. You’d get there eventually. Now he just held you, his gaze unrelenting, his hips still rolling up into you. Then his lips crashed into yours, messy and consuming, swallowing every sound you made as you came undone.

“So good for me.” he murmured against your mouth, his own voice trembling now. “All mine.”

“All yours.” you echoed, clinging to him as the world seemed to blur around you.

“Good.” he said, his lips brushing against your ear as he thrust into you one last time, harder and deeper than before. “Now come for me, princess. Let me feel it.”

And you did.

And then his torso twitched beneath your hands, his muscles tightening as he hovered on the edge. You held onto him, clutching at whatever part of him you could find — his shoulders, his arms, even his hair, that tightly tied thing your fingers fought their way into — anchoring yourself as the intensity swept through you both. He hissed through his teeth, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths as he took in the way your body gripped him, inside and out, everywhere.

With a shudder, he pulled out abruptly, leaving you trembling and clinging to him for balance. The sudden absence made you gasp, but the heat of his skin against yours didn’t falter. He leaned back slightly, his fist wrapping around himself, stroking with quick, wet pulls coated in a mix of you both. The sight was mesmerizing, the slick sounds filling the air as he hovered close, his eyes never leaving your flushed face.

And then it happened. A guttural groan left his throat, low and broken as his release spilled out, painting your stomach and the curve of your thighs. His hand moved slower now, coaxing out every drop as he cursed under his breath. Somewhere between the heat of it all, you could feel the remnants of him pooling between you, sticky and warm.

But before the moment could fully register, he was back, pressed into you.

“Ah- no, no-” you babbled, your body jerking at the sensation of being filled again, the stretch almost too much to bear. Your hands flew to his shoulders, pushing lightly as your lips quivered around the words.

“Shhh…” he hummed, like a low, calming vibration that only made the sensations sharper. His movements were slow, easing you into the overwhelming fullness.

“Fuck…” he muttered, almost to himself. His breath fanned hot against your temple as he nuzzled closer. “I’m jus’ keeping you warm.” he reasoned, his tone tinged with something unrelenting, his body trembling with restraint.

You whimpered, unsure if you could take more, but when his hands brushed over your skin, soothing and steady, you let out a shaky breath.

“…Okay.” you whispered, your voice fragile but consenting.

“Good girl.” he murmured, the praise slipping from his lips like a prayer as he stilled inside you. His nose brushed against your jaw, planting a soft kiss there before pulling back to watch you.

Your fingers traced weak, mindless patterns over his chest, your breaths uneven as you finally found words. “I didn’t think…” you started, voice hoarse, searching for the sentence as if it might steady you. “I didn’t think it’d feel like this. That you’d feel like this.”

He hummed low in his throat, something soft and unbothered, but his mind was miles from your words, lost instead in the feeling of you. The way your body still clung to him, tight and warm, like it knew him, like it wanted to keep him. He could barely feel the air in his lungs because it was all concentrated there, at the seam where you met, holding him hostage in that perfect, agonizing grip.

“What do you mean?” he asked after a beat, his voice a rasped afterthought. He didn’t mean to sound so absent, but his thoughts wouldn’t still. The way you looked — so undone, marked by him — the way you squirmed when his cock shifted ever so slightly inside you. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop imagining what it would look like if he kept going, if he didn’t stop.

You sighed, your forehead falling lightly against his as you searched for the right words. “I don’t know. It’s just-”

“Yeah?” he urged, but even that sounded distant. He wasn’t really listening, not because he didn’t care but because he couldn’t focus. His whole body buzzed with the knowledge that you were still holding him inside you, still so tight, still so wet from him. Every nerve ending screamed for him to stay there, to sink deeper, to never leave.

And yet, somewhere in the dark corners of his mind, the sharp memory of the tea interrupted. The pot, the fire, the burner still going. It was like an unwelcome ghost in the room, taunting him with the threat of reality.

“Fuck.” he muttered, low and bitter.

You blinked, startled by the sudden change. “What? What’s wrong?”

He exhaled hard through his nose, his hands reluctantly sliding to your hips. “The tea.” His tone was tight, like the word itself hurt to say. “I- hold on.”

You whimpered as he withdrew, the absence sharp and uncomfortable. He could feel it too, like losing a piece of himself, and it took everything in him not to push back in, to keep you where he wanted you.

His hand lingered at your waist, almost apologetic as he tucked himself back into his pants. The wet, sticky remnants of you made the movement slow and deliberate, and when he pulled them up, it felt like locking away something vital.

“Stay here.” he said, his voice low and rough, but not unkind. “I’ll be right back.”

As he moved away, his body felt heavier, like gravity pulled harder without you against him. He glanced back once, just to see you there, mussed and flushed, staring after him with something too soft, too fragile. It made him want to destroy whatever distance was forming between you.

But he forced himself to turn away, his strides purposeful but slow, the weight of his own longing heavy in the room. The burner hissed quietly when he reached the stove, and the faint, metallic scent of gas was much sharper now. He twisted the knob, killing the flame, and for a moment just stared at the pot.

The tea was forgotten again in an instant, his mind rushing back to the sight of you, the feel of you, the way you’d whispered his name like it was a prayer. The pot clattered as he set it aside, more forceful than he intended, his hands already itching to return to you.

This was always going to end badly, he thought. You, him — whatever this was — it had no end in sight that wasn’t ruinous. But maybe he liked it that way.

When Alexander came back, his steps softened as he approached the room, though his gaze immediately sharpened at the sight before him. You were leaning over the table by the window, your hands braced against its edge. The flickering light of the fire painted shadows along your back, your half-naked figure exposed in the dim glow.

“Thought I told ya not to wander.” he said, his voice a low drawl.

“I didn’t.” you shot back without turning to face him.

It was only when his words settled that you became acutely aware of yourself — how vulnerable you were, bent over, bare from the waist down. The realization came with a flicker of heat that spread through your chest and flushed your neck, but it didn’t affect you nearly as much as it did him.

He froze for a moment, a sharp intake of breath breaking the quiet. You turned your head, a small, knowing smirk tugging at your lips. “She came to say hi.” you said, stepping aside to reveal Lulu sitting primly at the edge of the table, her tail flicking lazily against the wood.

Alexander exhaled through his nose, his expression softening as he walked over and set the cups down on the table. The faint clink of porcelain on wood was followed by the heavier weight of his presence as he stepped behind you. His arms wrapped around you, warm and solid, pulling you back against his chest. The scent of him surrounded you again and you felt the soft press of him against your spine.

You expected something more — maybe words, maybe his lips at your neck — but he pulled back just as quickly, a sudden sharp crack splitting the air as his palm connected with your ass.

The force of it made you stumble forward, your hips pressing into the table’s edge. A few drops of tea spilled from the cups, trailing like rivulets down the sides. You gasped, the sting blooming across your skin, but before you could say anything, he spoke.

“You should go. It’s getting late.”

The words hit you harder than the smack, though the tone in his voice kept the hurt from settling too deep. He didn’t want you gone, you realised. He wanted you safe.

“Is that what you want?” you asked softly, turning to look at him.

His gaze flickered, the weight of his internal struggle evident in the way his jaw tightened. “What I want doesn’t matter.” he said, but his hand lingered at your hip, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your skin.

“It matters to me.” you pressed.

He sighed, his forehead dipping until it brushed yours, the moment heavy with unspoken words. “You’ll be back.” he murmured, more a promise than a question.

You nodded, leaning into him just enough to feel the solidity of his chest one last time. “Yeah.” you whispered.

“Good.” he said. Then, reluctantly, he let you go.

a/n: I’m not fully happy with this one, but it’s fine. I just feel like it doesn’t make a lot of sense at times, whatevah. It’s fine.

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #goblinontour #you’re so dark

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fourmoony · 1 year ago

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I cannot stop thinking about infatuated Remus x reader in the library 🙏 I’m dying for a part two of their date - maybe where Remus shows reader the constellations and there’s lots of sweet fluff and vulnerability and flustered Remus <3

i can't stop thinking about them either! maybe i could make a lil mini-series out of them???? maybe. thanks for requesting, lovely! hope you enjoy!

1.6k remus x fem!reader fluff language probably completely wrong astrology information

masterlist

"Are you cold?"

You're sitting across from Remus on a blanket he stole from Lily. He's not sorry about stealing it, but he is sorry that he didn't think to steal another to wrap around you. It's the middle of December and even though you're bundled up in one of the university's merch jumpers and a puffy jacket, Remus is worried this date is his worst idea - like, ever - and that you're going to freeze to death. But despite the cold, thin air, you're smiling happily over at Remus, gloved hands wrapped around a cheap hot chocolate from the canteen and your cheeks rounded out in a smile.

You look so gorgeous, Remus thinks. Your nose has gone slightly red from the cold, and your cheeks have followed suit, but your eyes are glistening with the glow of the festive fairy lights hanging from the lampposts in the distance that line the walk ways of the university grounds. He'd really like to kiss you, he thinks. He has done. Twice, since that day in the library. It'd made his knees buckle both times. Once, leaving the pub a little tipsy and dazed, high off of the flirtatious talking and touching all night, pressed up against the wall with the smell of smoke in the air, and once more when he'd dropped you off at your flat door. That one had been sweet, much softer than the one outside of the pub. A simple goodnight followed by bashful smiles and a heartfelt promise to see each other again soon.

He doesn't kiss you, but he does rub a doting hand up and down your leg, attempting to bring some warmth to it under your thin leggings, even when you protest and promise him devotedly that you're okay. How could you not be? You're there with him, after all. Remus concedes under your assurances, moving so he's directly next to you. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. He can smell the sweetness of your perfume, the strawberry of your shampoo, and he's so beyond grateful you've given him an opportunity to be so close to you, again.

"So, are you gonna tell me why we're out here?" You ask Remus, head turned and tilted to look up at him.

You're giving him that smile. The one that makes his chest hurt and his blood thrum in his veins. The one that he likes to believe means you're happy to be spending time with him, that you're enjoying yourself, that you'd be happy to be out here counting the blades of iced over grass just because he's there. You'd never admit it if he asked, but you know in yourself it's true. You'd sit here all night freezing your arse off with shitty canteen hot chocolate just to spend time with Remus Lupin. It's sick, honestly. Marlene would laugh at you something awful.

Remus hums, eyes flitting to your lips distractedly before he remembers himself, "The stars."

It's a poor explanation, Remus knows, but he hopes you remember your tipsy giggles, the way you'd gushed about how pretty the stars were this deep into the countryside, and how you'd love to know everything you possibly could about every last one. Well. Remus isn't good at a lot. He's constantly forgetting to remove his reds from his washing and dying all of his clothes pink, he can't cook to save his life, he can't sing, or wax poetic, but he can sure as hell lie on the freezing cold ground in the middle of December and tell you about the constellations. For goodness sakes, it's part of his degree.

The excited smile that comes over your face does absolutely nothing good for Remus' heart rate nor his sanity. He thinks you're going to drive him mad. James says it's not possible. He did, eventually, ask if your beauty could be a leading factor in Remus' inevitable death via heart attack and James confidently told him that it's simply not possible. Remus disagrees. What does he know, anyway? He's not even fully qualified, yet. Idiot.

"Ooooh," You shimmy impossibly closer to Remus excitedly, eyes alight with joy, and pull him to lay down with you.

He complies, your bodies pressed together and emulating a warmth that shouldn't be possible for the minus two degree weather. It startles Remus how right this all feels. You're here, with him. Pressed comfortably to his side, your left hand threaded through his right, puffs of cold air coming from your mouths and fading away into the night air. He'd not sure what he ever did to deserve such an opportunity, but he'll be damned if he's not going to make the most of it. Of his time with you.

"Okay, so, this one." You point to a cluster of stars directly above you both with the hand that's not interlocked with his.

Remus does his best to follow, mapping with his eyes the collection of stars you've pointed to. "That's Orion. Most visible in the UK during the winter, supposed to be January til' April, but it's a really clear night, I s'pose."

You hum to show you're listening, lips parted ever so slightly, and Remus extends his own hand, "If you follow southeast from here," he wiggles his finger and you press the index finger of yours to his, following his line with a giggle, "it leads to Sirius."

"Brightest star in the sky." You whisper, voice in awe of the bright, twinkling star just right of you both.

Remus scoffs. Hell if he'd ever forget it, he's heard his best friend proclaim it enough times. You seem to come to this realisation, too, laughing and pushing the side of your face into Remus' shoulder. He rests his head atop yours, allowing you to take the warmth and hiding place from him, continues on in his mini-astronomy lesson with a finger pointed at a new collection of stars.

"Ursa Major is over here," His voice is a quiet murmur, careful and sticky sweet, "It's like, one of the most famous in the Northern Hemisphere. It's known as 'The Great Bear'."

He looks down to find you staring at the cluster of stars with a smile he can't read. He thinks it's you realising how big the universe is, how small you and Remus are, in comparison. Remus would disagree. He thinks wherever this thing with you goes, his feelings are going to carry on throughout the entirety of the universe. He's sure of that much. And listen, he's studied an astounding amount about the universe, it's gravitational pulls, the sheer size of it, the possibility that there are more out there. He's spent hours upon hours writing thesis papers, studying the actual cold hard facts, the universe is massive. That's a simple statement in and of itself.

But Remus knows. He knows for damn well sure that he's going to fall head over heels in love with you, and he's going to make sure that love fills every single bit of the universe there is to cover. He's not an idiot, though. He's not going to tell you that on the first - official, anyway - date. He thinks maybe you're having a similar thought process, though. At least, he'd like to think.

"Do you ever think about how tiny we actually are?" Your voice is soft, awe stricken, almost, and he doesn't have to look down at you to know your kind eyes are still roaming the night sky.

He makes an amused sort of hum, lips tilting into a cocky smirk and you meet his gaze, a questioning look lingering there. "Well, no. 'Cause I'm a whopping six foot and you're five foot nothing, love."

Your eyes light up when you scoff, using your free hand to whack at his chest and Remus laughs. It's loud and it's obnoxious but you're laughing too. His eyes find yours again, soft and careful, hoping you can read just how genuine he's being when he tells you, "All the time. In the grand scheme of things, we are specks of nothingness. At least, I used to think that."

Your brows furrow, Remus reaches up to pad his thumb over the crease lines before you can even talk, "Why don't you anymore?"

Remus shrugs. Is it too sappy to admit you've singlehandedly changed his opinion on such a subject in the three weeks he's properly known you? Is that coming on too strong?

You're looking up at him, soft lips parted, waiting on an answer and Remus decides fuck it, he's not going to ever refrain from telling you how much power you have over him. "You."

"Me?"

Remus nods, the ghost of an overly fond smile on his lips as he reaches up to push a fallen strand of hair away from your face, "Yeah. How could a girl like you be anything like an insignificant speck of nothingness?"

You both preen at and shy away from his praise, his flirtatious comment, and Remus feels his heart thrashing against his ribs at the way you whine his name. He chuckles softly as crimson takes over your neck and cheeks, an obvious change from the wind bitten skin from before. He smiles cheekily, chasing the line of your sight, head dipping to meet it.

"I'm serious, you know." He tells you.

You look transfixed for a moment. Ethereal. Entirely too beautiful and enamoured with his words. He's about to kiss you when your own cheeky grin comes over your face, eyes bright as you turn to point at the sky, "No, silly," You chide jokingly, "That's Sirius."

And oh, for fucks sake, Remus is well and truly done for.

#marauders #fourmoonysasks #remus lupin #remus lupin fic #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin one shot #remus lupin x reader #james potter #sirius black #lily evans #love #fluff #regulus black

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kotton-kandy953 · 4 months ago

Text

━ 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙻𝚈 𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙳

➛ various!yandere!male oneshots x fem!reader

title page┆word count: 2k┆warnings: cursing, description of a dead body, HEAVY blood/gore depictions, implied torture, manipulation, murder

FRIGID ━ boyfriend ! shoto todoroki x fem ! reader

⤷ 𝕿𝕳𝕰

bloodied teenager cut his pretty, Heterochromic eyes at the red mess he had made below himself. He lifted his hand, wiping the blood off his bottom lip with his thumb.

His hands were clad in black gloves.

To not leave fingerprint evidence, maybe?

His chest rose and fell rapidly. Deep, heavy breaths escaping his lungs, the only thing keeping his tired figure going is pure adrenaline.

And the thought of his beautiful girlfriend.

Even so, the boy still felt burning hatred for the pathetic being by his feet.

With a sigh, he pulled back his hood and wiped the sweat off his forehead. His short, half white and half red hair being revealed.

He ran a hand through it, getting the two-toned locks out of his face only for them to fall back in place.

The half-and-half boy thought it was all over until the body below him began to squirm and writhe in agony.

His gaze quickly jolted to their direction, clenching his teeth in frustration.

"P- please! Spare me!!..." The person lying at the teen's feet called. The teen only stared dead at them, his eyes void with all human feelings and emotion.

He wasn't thinking straight, all he could think of was how much this person made his girlfriend happy. How they made her smile.

How they managed to comfort her when she was sad or angry.

How he wished he was the only one allowed to do that.

The more those thoughts rushed back and forth in his head, the more he lost control.

It was sending him straight over the edge.

He subconsciously clenched his left fist, smoke emanating from it.

He could care less about their pathetic pleads for mercy. About their cries as he makes their blood paint the ground red.

"...please... j- just let me go!" They shouted, choking and gargling on their own blood in their mouth. Tears streamed down their bruised face, along with blood rolling down their nose.

The boy rolled his eyes at his pleading victim. He could've sworn he had already tortured and beaten them enough for them to be bleeding out on the ground, dead — or dying, at the least.

They should've died of blood loss minutes ago, he thought with his stoic expression still present.

His face was unfazed and uninterested in their desperate weeping and begging for mercy.

Their face was bruised and broken, as if they were beaten up over and over again.

Not saying that's not what has been happening for the past few hours.

Their body was weak and it even hurt for them to breathe, but the boy could care less.

Sighing his eyes, the teenage boy finally spoke, "Shut up."

He lifted his right foot and kicked the person's stomach. They jerked in pain and coughed up more blood, knowing that they couldn't fight back against him.

The boy had the power to kill them right then and there. He could have even killed them from the start.

But he didn't.

He's going as slow as possible on purpose.

He wanted them to suffer.

To suffer for all the moments they've spent with Y/n.

To suffer for all the moments they made Shoto resent them even more.

"You've lost too much blood and you're probably in indescribable pain," The boy reached down beside their body, grabbing a large golf club he had set down not too long ago.

"You're not going to live much longer."

The boy activated his quirk on his left side, slowly heating up the metal golf club, making it flush a soft shade of red.

He lifted it up above his head with a death grip, his eyes locked on the person below him.

"So I might as well put an end to your suffering already."

• • •

You placed your phone back down onto your bed after it went back to voicemail.

What the hell, Shoto!?

It has been two, no, almost three hours since you last heard from your boyfriend Shoto Todoroki.

He had promised to arrive at your home by 2pm but now it's almost five.

"What the fuck could he possibly be doing!?" You sat down on your bed while scrolling through your contacts list until you found his.

"And why couldn't he just text me sooner to let me know that he'd be late!?"

You angrily read at the texts you spammed him only a few minutes ago. He had left you on delivered for hours which isn't very common for him.

Calm down, clam down... You took a deep breath, he probably just misplaced his phone!

Your attempts at calming yourself down worked for a little, before you started thinking of the worst possible scenarios.

But there have been many disappearances lately... you placed your phone in your jacket pocket, and everyone that's been going missing has had some sort of relation to me...

You felt your heart pounding against your chest, But that doesn't mean Shoto was kidnapped!

You slowly stood up and walked towards your bedroom door.

He would never let himself get kidnapped...

...Right?

You swung your bedroom door open and ran to your front door. You called out to your parents that you were leaving, but you left before they could even uttered a response.

I have to get to Shoto's house as fast as I can!

• • •

Shoto grunts as he swings the red, hot, golf club down onto their already bloodied and broken body. More blood splatters on his face and black hoodie as he repeats this heinous action in cold blood a few more times.

Finally, he lifts the club and rests it on his shoulder.

"Shit..." He muttered quietly to himself, "...I must've lost track of time."

He kept his cold expression as he licked the splattered blood off his lips.

The persons face, or what was left of said person, was mangled and beaten far beyond recognition. It was just a disgusting , gory, mess.

He dropped the heated golf club onto the ground, causing it to clang loudly against the cement floor of the basement. The large club fell right beside the mutilated corpse beside his feet.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, Shoto used his ice power to regulate the temperature of his body.

After doing so, he kneeled down beside the body and grabbed their wrist. He was checking for a pulse or any other signs of life.

nothing.

Finding out that they were gone, a very soft smile, crazy, appears on the boys face.

He dropped their broken wrist and stood up, his slight smile growing wider.

Once standing upright, the heterochromic eyed boy coldly stared down at the crimson mess he had made beneath his shoes.

His eyes were dark, full of resentment and zero remorse for the heinous act he had just committed.

More blood than one could ever imagine coming from another human oozed around the corpse. Shoto slowly took a few steps back to avoid staining his shoes further.

Shoto's smile softly faded as he wiped the blood off his face, only smearing it further. He slowly took his gloves off and threw them on top of the bludgeoned dead body.

He walked over to a stack of boxes and grabbed his phone, examining each and every text and call notification he received from you.

Y/n is still waiting for me at her house... he thought as he read the texts you sent.

"She's probably worried sick..." he mutters to himself, "...This took way longer than anticipated."

The heterochromic eyed male turned around and placed his phone is his pocket, preparing to leave the basement.

He glanced up at the stairs, and what he saw made him freeze in surprise.

"Sh- Shoto..." said a trembling and crying female voice. He took a step back, almost tumbling on his own two feet.

"Y/n..."

You were about to run up to your boyfriend and hug him, but what you had saw shook you to your core.

Blood.

It was everywhere.

Crimson blood was all on the floors and your boyfriend's pretty face.

And on the dead body lying only a few feet away from him.

You placed your hands on your mouth, the strong, disgusting, stench of blood made you feel dizzy.

Shoto put on his normal, neutral expression but you could tell there was an emotion he was masking behind it.

What was that masked emotion, exactly?

You didn't know.

But what you did know was that your seemingly loving boyfriend has turned into a cold-blooded monster.

You ran to the bottom of the stairs, keeping a distance between you and your bloodied boyfriend.

Tears streaked down your (s/c) face, you couldn't ever believe that he would do such things as this.

You choked back sobs as he reached his hand out to you.

"Y/n..." He begged, "Y/n, listen to me..."

Shoto started to slowly take a few steps towards you. Before he got any closer you backed away out of pure fear.

Your hands fell limp at your sides. "Wh- Why the hell should I listen to you!?" You shouted at him with clenched fists.

He relaxed his expression once more and shoved his hands back in his pockets.

He tilts his head and asks, "What are you—"

You stomped your foot to the ground, "-You know exactly what I'm talking about, dammit!!"

You paused, biting your lip as tears of frustration rolled down your cheeks.

"You went on hiatus for three goddamn hours and when I finally find you... yo- you're..." you trailed off.

"Just let me explain..." He took a step closer and you took a step back once more. You both repeated this until your back hit the wall behind yourself.

You mentally cursed yourself for not retreating up the stairs and calling for help

He reached his hand out to caress your face, you flinched at the feeling of his red-stained hand against your soft skin. He stared deep into your (e/c) eyes, his filled with pure love and adoration for you.

The way he touched and looked at you made you feel sick to your stomach. How could someone brutally murdered another human being and still manage to act as if nothing happened.

How psychotic could a person be to do that!?

"I wouldn't kill somebody without a proper reason, Y/n." He said quietly, almost a whisper.

You brought up your trembling hand and took his off your face. The more he touched you the more disgusted you felt.

"Then... then why?" You muttered, "Then why did you do it...?"

Shoto Todoroki takes note of your expression and body language.

You were deathly afraid of the boy— no, the monster standing in front of you.

He didn't want to make it worse by telling the truth. That he killed an innocent person out of pure jealousy and love for her.

That would make him sound crazy.

So he lied.

He lied to you about everything.

He sighs quietly, "The many unexplained disappearances... the one who mangles their face beyond recognition... was them."

He silently gestures to the mutilated corpse behind him.

You look beyond Shoto's shoulder, your petrified eyes rested on the brutal murder scene. You tried your hardest to resist the urge to throw up right there.

You fixed your gaze in his mismatched irises. "B- but you still murdered them without proof of them being behind this!"

He reassuringly placed a hand on your shoulder, "I do have proof, Y/n."

He glanced behind himself, "They even tried kidnapping me, Y/n."

His eyes locked with yours, "You have to believe me."

You looked him in the eyes, they were sincere and full of love. And there was no visible sign of him being dishonest.

I should trust him.

Shoto would never lie to me...

...Right?

Back to Title Page?

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scary-grace · 5 months ago

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Enough to Go By (Chapter 10) -- a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Chapter 10

The feeling of hollowness doesn’t wear off. Not through the rest of your shift at work. Not through the class on the assessment and treatment of major trauma you’re taking, although you managed to take notes that will hopefully be legible later. It doesn’t feel even slightly better until you’re home, out of sight from everyone, where you can let the mask drop. It’s hard to wear it all the time. You’re getting tired.

Inside your apartment, you look around for Tenko, but he’s not in the kitchen, the living room, or the bathroom. Maybe he changed his mind about coming back. You head to your bedroom, stripping off your work clothes and throwing them into your laundry basket as you go. You did laundry a few days ago. The basket shouldn’t have much in it. But something catches your eye, and when you peer in for a look, you see a set of black clothes that looks a little too familiar for the fact that it’s not yours.

You realize whose it is in the same second as you hear a strangled sound from behind you, and the question bursts out of you at a volume that’s probably too high. “Tenko?”

“I’m not looking,” Tenko snaps. You glance over your shoulder and find him without the model hand and with both gloved hands covering his face. “Do you just start taking your clothes off the second you get home?”

“Usually there’s nobody in my apartment!”

“I told you I’d be back. Did you not believe me?” Tenko’s still averting his eyes, but he’s lowered his hands for the purpose of crossing his arms over his chest, which draws your attention to what he’s wearing. “Why are you staring?”

You can’t stop yourself. “Those are my clothes.”

“So? They fit. I have to wash mine and I don’t have anything else.”

You do buy your sleeping clothes oversized, and the difference between your height and Tenko’s isn’t enormous, but it’s still weird to see him sitting on your side of the bed, wearing a pair of your grey sweatpants that have seen better days and a tie-dyed shirt you made in high school. It’s undeniably bizarre, but – “You look cute.”

“I’m not cute. Don’t say weird things.” Tenko’s turning red. “Are you going to put on clothes or what? I want to talk to you.”

“Just a second.” You were going to put on your pajamas, but Tenko’s wearing them. You pick out another pair, change quickly, and come back, sitting down on the other side of your bed. “What did you want to talk –”

Tenko kisses you, cutting you off. In no time at all he’s rolled you beneath him, pinning you back against the pillows while his mouth opens against yours. His kisses are messy, his hands eager as they alight briefly on your shoulder, against your cheek, molding to the curve of your jaw or gripping hard at your hip. Tenko’s breathing is uneven, almost hyperventilating. He needs to slow down.

But you remember what he said the night the League stayed over: I don’t know how to do this. You’re going to have to show me. So in spite of the fact that he’s got you pressed to the pillows and his hands are all over you, you raise your hands to cradle his face, giving you more control over the kiss. Something about it seems to agree with him. He matches your pace, the sloppiness evening out, then deepening into longer, more involved kisses. His lips split again, but in fewer places than before, you think. The taste of blood in your mouth is lighter this time.

One of Tenko’s hands slides beneath your shirt and you draw back slightly. “I thought you wanted me to put clothes on.”

“I’m not saying take them off,” Tenko insists. “I just want – come on, please –”

You’re not sure what he’s asking for. He’s not even trying to do anything. Then it clicks. “You’re touch-starved.”

“What? No.” Tenko objects instantly, but he’s not a good liar. He can’t make eye contact, and his face, flushed before, is turning darker – and as if that wasn’t enough evidence, his hands are still in motion, seeking points of contact, places to hold on. “I need to touch my girlfriend. That’s not weird.”

You try to figure out if girlfriend is a step up or a step down from sidekick. “So I’m not your sidekick anymore?”

“Of course you are.” Tenko gives you an exasperated look. “Saying I need to touch my sidekick is weird.”

Your brain supplies you with the image of any of the top ten heroes telling the world that they need to touch their sidekicks, and you start laughing. Your laughter’s a little wheezier than usual, courtesy of Tenko’s weight on you, but it feels good to laugh. It’s not like you haven’t laughed at all since Kamino, but laughing with others is different. When you laugh with Tenko, your guilt doesn’t matter. He’s guilty, too. And if it doesn’t bother him, then it shouldn’t bother you.

Tenko watches you suspiciously. “What are you laughing about?”

“What would happen if Endeavor started his next interview talking about how much he needs to touch his sidekicks.”

“That’s disgusting.” Tenko’s expression twists, but he’s laughing, too. “Don’t bring up heroes. It kills the mood.”

“Does it?” You’re still cradling his face in your hands. You leave one hand where it is, cupping his cheek, and lower the other, tracing your fingers over the lines of his throat and running along his shoulder. Your touch is light as your fingers run down the back of his arm, avoiding anywhere ticklish until you’re touching the bare skin of his forearm. He’s thin enough that you can feel his muscles tense at your touch. “I don’t think so.”

“It does,” Tenko says. You kiss his birthmark, then his jaw, and feel him swallow hard. “It does. They ruin everything.”

Even as he complains, he’s tilting his head, exposing more of his neck for you to kiss. “It doesn’t feel like they’re ruining everything,” you say. You lift your other hand away from his forearm and slip it beneath his shirt, and he makes a sound through clenched teeth when you drag your fingers along his bare skin, just above his waistband. “You can admit it. I won’t tell anyone.”

Tenko’s body tenses, stiffens. “Admit what?”

“That making out with me is so good that even heroes can’t ruin it.”

Tenko laughs, a raspy, startled sound that trails off into a rough gasp as your teeth scrape over his neck. “I’ll admit that,” he says. His hips roll forward and you shift your legs apart so he can fit between them. “You can tell everybody. They’ll be jealous that I’m the only one who gets to –”

His hips jerk sharply. The sweatpants don’t leave anything to the imagination as far as his erection goes, and you startle at the pressure between your legs and the flood of heat that accompanies it. You pull away from kissing his neck, conscious that you’ve already left a mark, and kiss his mouth again.

His kisses devolve into messiness almost immediately, but this time you’re with him, as your priority shifts to finding a way to improve the sensation of grinding against him through your clothes. You’ve had some experience, made out with twice as many people as you’ve slept with, but you’ve never had a makeout quite as hot as this one. Tenko’s gloved hands clutch desperately at you, the needy sounds he makes muffled by your lips. You drag your fingernails the length of his spine and lift your hips up against his. Tenko whimpers, shudders. Then he pulls away.

Not just partially away, either. He’s all the way out of your grip, curled in on himself, every visible inch of his skin red. “Tenko,” you say, and he shakes his head. “What’s wrong?”

“We have to stop. Or I’ll –” Tenko makes a sharp, uncomfortable gesture. “Like some kind of –”

“Virgin?” You fill in the blank, and Tenko nods. “That’s not a bad thing, Ten.”

“You have experience.”

“Like, two condoms’ worth of experience,” you say, and Tenko snorts. He’s still too far away from you, but he’s not quite so folded up. “We can stop and do something else. Or I can make you come.”

Tenko stares at you for a second. Then he starts nodding – but just as quickly, he’s adding a caveat. “Don’t look. At my face. I don’t want –”

He’s embarrassed about his O face. You wonder if he actually knows what it looks like, or if he’s just assuming it’s weird. You can’t imagine him jerking off in front of a mirror to check. But this is workable. You part your legs further. “Sit here. Lean back against me.”

Tenko does it, and you situate yourself around him. You can’t see his expression, but you can kiss his cheek and his jaw and his neck, and your hands have free rein over his body. The urge to take your time getting to know him, to run your hands slowly over every inch of him until you know exactly how to make him squirm, is almost overpowering. But if you do that, he might come before you even touch his cock.

Speaking of that – you tug lightly at his waistband, and Tenko pulls the borrowed sweatpants partway down with shaking hands, along with the pair of clean but very old underwear he’s wearing. The first thing you note, inconsequential as it is, is that while the hair on his head is that odd blue-grey shade, his pubic hair is dark, like all his hair was when you were children. The second thing that captures your attention is his cock, hard and already leaking slightly at the tip.

You fight the urge to take him in hand immediately. You slide one hand down to his exposed hip, rubbing your thumb idly over the sharp crest of bone while making it clear where your objective really is. “Can I touch you?”

“Uh – yeah.” Tenko coughs, his voice already strained. “Yeah. Go ahead. Please.”

“I want to do this. You don’t have to say please.” You’re surprised by just how badly you want to touch him, how much you want him to fall apart in your hands, just for you, only for you. “Do you want to show me how to touch you? Or should I learn as I go?”

“You didn’t give me a tutorial about kissing. You don’t get one, either.”

“Fair enough.” You gently press your lips against the side of Tenko’s neck, then move the hand that was on his hip to fit around his cock instead.

Tenko jumps, shudders at your touch, and you move your hand cautiously, stroking the length of his shaft, swiping your thumb over the head the same as you’d do with your tongue. Tenko moans, a low desperate sound that drives a spike of heat through your abdomen, and you repeat the motion again. You kiss the side of his neck, lightly at first, then longer, lingering on the texture of the scar tissue under your lips.

Tenko’s back arches, his head falling back against your shoulder. “Faster,” he says, and you increase your pace. “Like that. More –”

He’s shaking. You feel it at every point where your bodies are pressed together. One of his hands grasps your thigh, hanging on for dear life, and you feel a sharp surge of pain, but your attention’s caught by Tenko’s other hand, still gloved, covering his mouth. You can’t let that happen. Not when he makes such pretty sounds. You peel his hand away from his mouth, press it to yours instead. Tenko gasps, shudders. His hips thrust unevenly into your hand, and he comes.

You slow down – the first time you gave a handjob, the guy snapped at you for not easing up fast enough – but Tenko shakes his head, almost frantically. “Not yet. Don’t stop –”

You keep touching him, as requested, drawing out smaller spurts of cum than the first, as he squirms and twitches and makes increasingly pained sounds. It worries you. “Tenko –”

“Stop.” Tenko’s voice breaks. He slumps back against you, his grip on your thigh loosening. “You – sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for. “Overstimulation – is that something you’re into?”

“No. I just – you’re never going to do that again, so I wanted it to last.”

“Tenko –” You struggle to wrap your head around what he just said. It doesn’t make any sense. “Of course I’m going to do it again.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not,” you say. “I’d do it again right now.”

“You wouldn’t. I thought it would be okay if you didn’t look at me but then I made all those stupid sounds –”

“I thought those were really hot.”

Tenko coughs. “What?”

“I like them. I like everything about what we just did.” You’re not sure if it’s possible to overstate this, and you’re not sure how to convince him, except – “If you want to touch me, too, I can prove it.”

You’ve barely finished the sentence before Tenko’s twisting to face you, pulling up his sweatpants one-handed. You get a look at his expression before he leans in to kiss you, just enough to confirm that there’s nothing weird about it at all. He pulls at the waistband of your pants. “Take them off.”

You pull them down, leaving them hooked around one ankle. Tenko studies the pair of underwear you’re wearing. They aren’t anything special. You wonder if he’s going to comment on that, or on how visibly damp they are, but instead he reaches out, touches you through them. A second later his eyes light up. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did.” Your fingers are still sticky with his cum. You think about wiping them off on your shirt, then change your mind and suck your fingers clean, swallowing in a hurry and noting the way Tenko’s jaw drops. “I told you. It was – hot –”

Tenko sits forward to kiss you, his mouth sealed to yours as his hand presses flat against your stomach and slides beneath the waistband of your underwear. The texture of his exposed fingertips is rough enough to make you startle as they slide past your clit, but that’s not on his radar at the moment – he’s too busy probing around in the wetness between your legs, fingers brushing maddeningly close to your entrance before finally pushing inside. He starts with two fingers, not one, which is a stretch, but not quite more than you can handle. You gasp, and his lips curve into that too-wide smile against yours.

Tenko’s overenthusiastic at first, just like he was with kissing the first time, and you catch his wrist. “Slower,” you say. He nods. “Curl your fingers a little bit.”

“Like that?”

Your legs are starting to shake. You nod, and Tenko does it again, and again. His other hand yanks the waistband of your underwear, pulling it down and out of the way. With more room to maneuver, the angle of his fingers changes, increasing the pressure against the most sensitive place inside you and bringing the heel of his hand into contact with your clit every time he works his fingers forward. You’re so wet that there’s next to no resistance. His gloves are going to be ruined.

You feel hot all over. Your nipples are hard, visible through your shirt, and Tenko’s free hand is under your shirt within seconds of noticing it. He circles one of them with his thumb, then rolls it between thumb and forefinger, and the roughness of his fingertips makes even the gentlest motions all too intense. “Tenko –”

“What else?” Tenko’s eyes are intent on your face in a way that almost makes you uncomfortable. “I can do more. Tell me what else.”

“Kiss me.” It’s all you can think of, all you want, and Tenko’s mouth crashes down against yours as soon as the words have left it. You wrap your arms around his neck, take a loose grip in his hair, and stop fighting the wave of pleasure sweeping through you. Every muscle in your body clenches, tight and straining, through thrust after thrust of his fingers – and then the heel of Tenko’s hand presses against your clit for a second too long, and you fall apart, head spinning. You clutch Tenko closer, kissing him until you have to pull away to breathe.

Tenko’s fingers slip out of you, and even though you’re oversensitive to an almost painful degree, you whimper at the loss. Tenko notices, smirks – no, smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m definitely doing that again.”

It makes you laugh. “So you’re convinced?”

“Yeah.” Tenko raises his fingers to his mouth and sniffs them, then tastes them. He’s grinning when he lowers his hand again. “I’d say we leveled up.”

Your face flushes, and worse when you see how much moisture is still clinging to his fingers. “Sorry about your gloves.”

“I’ll just wash my hands.” Tenko looks like he’s never been less concerned about anything in his life. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You’re not sure your legs would hold you up, and Tenko looks a little shaky himself as he slides off the bed and heads to your bathroom. You think about putting your underwear back on, but they’re way too wet, and you throw them into your laundry basket without getting up. You still feel too warm to put your sweatpants back on, so you pull the hem of your shirt down and stretch out on the bed anyway. Tenko comes back a moment later. He looks pleased to see that you haven’t left – but then his expression sharpens. “What is that?”

You don’t know what he’s referring to. You give him a puzzled look, and he sits down on the edge of the bed, yanking your leg roughly into his lap. “These. Where did these come from?”

These – the three raw marks in your thigh, not scratches, more like burns or sores. They’re not so much bleeding as oozing. You remember the sharp pain in your leg when Tenko grabbed it, something you’d written off in the moment. “I think you. You were holding on.”

“That’s not how my quirk works,” Tenko says sharply. “It takes all five. And I can’t stop it when – it can’t have been. You’d be dead.”

“No. You’ve used your quirk on me before and I’m still here.”

“I didn’t,” Tenko snaps. “You wouldn’t be. You’d –”

He breaks off, because you’ve pulled up your sleeve. The injury to your wrist on the night you saw Tenko for the first time was healed before the sun came up, but the scar is still visible – jagged furrows in your skin, extending around your wrist from five points of contact. Tenko stares, jaw clenched, eyes wide, and you think through what you know about his quirk. It’s called Decay. It only activates when all five of his fingers make contact with something, or it’s supposed to. And based on what he’s saying now, it’s supposed to function as a chain reaction, something that can’t be stopped once it’s triggered. Except it can be stopped. He has stopped it, both of the times he’s used it on you.

Tenko’s expression twists in a way that looks agonizing. Both his hands lift from his sides, clawing hard at his neck, but only one of them stays there. The other comes up to scratch at his face instead, to yank hard at his own hair, to tear into the skin above his right eye, in the same spot as his scar. You’ve seen him melt down before, when you were kids, when he got too stressed or too upset or when something had gone wrong at home and someone had asked him about what happened. But never anything like this. It’s horrifying. You can’t just sit here and watch.

“Tenko, stop. Please.” You keep your voice calm, even as it shakes. You catch his wrist with both hands, ignoring the hand scratching his neck in favor of dealing with the one that’s tearing at his face. “You don’t need to do that. Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Tenko doesn’t answer. His eyes are glazed, and he’s fighting you, stronger than you. His neck is bleeding. Soon his face will be, too, unless you keep his hand away. You keep talking, senselessly. “You don’t have to hurt yourself. Please don’t, Tenko –”

One of his nails bites deep into the side of his neck. Too deep. A spurt of blood comes up, and something in your mind snaps. You let go of his wrist with one hand and cover the marks on his neck, taking his scratches on the back of your hand instead. His blood is hot against your palm, and you fight down a surge of panic. You can’t stop him. He can hurt himself badly, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You don’t even know why he’s this upset. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. Whatever it is, it’s not worth –”

Tenko lurches away from you, tearing completely out of your grip, and stumbles to the bathroom. A moment later, you hear him retching. You don’t waste time thinking about what to do next. You get up and chase after him.

The last time you followed him when he was trying to get away from you, he hurt you. This time he’s in no condition to hurt anyone. He’s on his hands and knees vomiting on the bathmat, blood staining the collar of his shirt. The instant the vomiting stops, Tenko slumps forward, and you barely manage to pull him back in time to stop him from going face-first into the mess. He’s almost completely limp when he falls against you. You keep his head and shoulders elevated in case he throws up again and struggle to come up with a plan.

If a patient at the clinic melted down like this, you’d stabilize them and maybe call an ambulance. Stabilizing Tenko is well within your abilities, but you have no idea where this reaction came from, whether it’s within the range of possibilities for him or it came completely out of nowhere. Does that even matter as far as treating him goes? No, you decide. It doesn’t.

You were just learning about treatment for major trauma tonight. You start by checking Tenko’s breathing and heart rate. He’s hyperventilating and his pulse is fast, his skin pale. His eyes are open and his pupils are dilated. The biggest injury to deal with is the claw mark on his neck. You yank a towel off the bathroom counter with one hand and press it against the side of his neck, trying to contain the bleeding, then reach up again and turn the sink on cold. Once it’s as cold as it’ll go, you cup your hand, fill it with water, and splash it into Tenko’s face.

He startles in your arms, tries to lurch upright. “What –”

“It’s just water. Your heart rate’s really high, and I’m trying to bring it down. Cold water activates the diving reflex. That’s all.” You do a better job keeping your voice calm this time. Tenko doesn’t need a quirkless sidekick or a terrified girlfriend right now. He needs a medic. “Your neck is bleeding. I want to fix that before we do anything else. Is that okay?”

Tenko doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t try to get away from you, so you take that as a yes and drag your first-aid kit out from under the sink. Bandaging the wound effectively without letting go of him is difficult, and you’re still watching his heart rate. It’s higher than you want it to be, but not as bad as before. You keep talking, explaining everything you’re doing, not asking for or expecting any response. You don’t know what triggered this. You need to keep him stable.

By the time you’ve got the wound on Tenko’s neck bandaged, he’s shivering. You’d get him to bed immediately, but his clothes are a mess, and soaked with cold sweat in the bargain. “Let’s get up and get changed, okay? It’ll just take a second.”

Tenko gets to his feet ahead of you, then offers you a hand up. You take it but get up under your own power, and as you do, you see that the gloves are a total loss. You’ll have to figure out something else. You lead Tenko over to your closet, switching out everything he’s wearing for your largest, most comfortable clothes. The only thing you can’t replace is the underwear, and the gloves. Tenko stands there, eyes blank, unmoving but for the shivers, while you try to think of a solution. His quirk is in his fingers, right? Only his fingers. What if you cover them?

Bandaids and medical tape. You cover Tenko’s ring finger and little finger, first on his right hand, then on his left. Tenko doesn’t protest, warn you against his quirk, or offer to help. He just stands there, lifeless, until you link your little finger with his and lead him over to the bed. He gets in on your side without being prompted, then looks up at you. “Are you coming?”

His voice sounds awful, but at least he’s talking again. “In a second,” you promise. “I just need to clean up.”

Part of you is hoping he’ll be asleep when you get back, but the rest of you knows better than to hope for that. You rinse the bathmat out in the shower, then carry it to the washing machine, along with all the clothes in the laundry basket, including everything Tenko just took off. Then it’s your clothes, and while you’re starting the washing machine, you notice the scratches on the back of your hand.

Those need cleaning, too, along with the marks on your thigh. You give up on putting on pants, change into a clean shirt and underwear, and detour to the hall closet for your pocket first-aid kit. The big one is too much for this.

Tenko’s voice follows you. “You’re leaving.”

“No,” you say. On second thought, you need to bring other things, too. You fill a glass with water from the sink and set it down on the bedside table. Then you sit down on the other side of the bed, over the covers. “I’m right here.”

Tenko doesn’t answer, but when you open the first-aid kit, he turns toward the sound. “What are you doing?”

“I just need a band-aid or two.” You regret the words instantly when Tenko sits up. “No, I’m fine. Just rest.”

“I did it.” Tenko’s voice is dull. “I’ll fix it.”

You shouldn’t let him do it. He needs to rest. But if he wants to do things, if he’s doing things under his own power, maybe you shouldn’t stop him. You lift your hands away from the first-aid kit and let him poke through it on his own, working awkwardly around the band-aids covering the tips of his fingers. Tenko starts with the marks on your leg, cleaning them clumsily. When he speaks up, he says the last thing you were expecting to hear. “I should have killed you.”

Your stomach drops. “What do you mean?”

“My quirk doesn’t stop. I can control what I touch, but once it activates, I can’t stop it. When I touched you then, I should have killed you. I should have killed you tonight. Just like I killed them.”

Tenko’s voice is flat, emotionless. Are you in danger? You don’t think so, but there are two questions running through your mind, and you ask the more immediate one, not the more important one. “Did you want to kill me? Tonight or then?”

He threatened to kill you the night you met him again, and it would have been easy for him to follow through, but he didn’t. Tenko shakes his head mechanically. “I never wanted to,” he says, and the relief you feel shames you into silence. “I didn’t want to kill Mon, either.”

You remember Mon. You loved Mon, just like Tenko did – less than Tenko did, because Mon was his dog. You can’t imagine Tenko hurting Mon. But you found what was left of Mon in the wreckage of Tenko’s house. And although you’ve seen the effects of Tenko’s quirk before, you’ve never seen, start to finish, what happens when he uses it on a living being. A terrible thought builds in the back of your mind, gaining speed and power. “Tenko, what do you mean?”

“I wondered if you’d guessed. You never said it, so I thought maybe you had.” Tenko smears Neosporin over the first rotted fingerprint in your thigh – too much Neosporin, just like before. “What happened to my family – I did it. It wasn’t some villain. I’m the one who killed them.”

You didn’t know. Not consciously. But even though the thought’s just occurring to you, it doesn’t feel like a surprise. If a villain had killed Tenko’s family, the Tenko you knew would have wanted to avenge them. But he’s been focused on All Might, on society, not on some other villain. The only way that makes sense is if he knew who it was already, if he’d dealt with them already – or if the person who did it was him.

It’s silent in your apartment. You’ve been silent for too long. “You didn’t know,” Tenko concludes, and you shake your head. “You know how to say things right. Tell me what it means.”

It’s not that you know how to say things right, it’s that you know him. You know how his mind works, know where the connections break, know how to piece it back together. “Your quirk doesn’t stop once it’s activated, but it stopped with me,” you say hesitantly, and Tenko nods. “You didn’t want to hurt me. But you didn’t want to hurt Mon, or – or Hana –”

Hana was your friend, too. Tenko’s loss crushed you so badly that you barely mourned her. “And you couldn’t stop your quirk with them,” you say. Tenko nods again. He’s been trying to open the same band-aid for the last thirty seconds. “You were five years old, Tenko. Nobody can control their quirk that young.”

“Try again.” Tenko doesn’t look up from the band-aid. “If I didn’t kill you and I killed them, then – say it.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

“No.” You’re not going to do this. You’re not going to buy into this idea someone planted in Tenko’s head that he killed his entire family on purpose when he was five years old. You can picture what happened that night in your mind’s eye – how he would have reached out to someone for help, how he wouldn’t have realized until it was too late, how quickly things would have spiraled out of control. “I know what you want me to say. And I know you. So I won’t.”

“Sensei said –”

“He didn’t know you.” The words leave your mouth with more venom than they should. “Not yet. Not that day. I did.”

You remember it so well – not because it was different than any other day with your best friend, but because it was the last day, because you went over every detail of it in your head until it was etched into your memory forever. You’d swapped lunches – he liked the awful onigiri your mom made, and you were always after the expensive snacks his grandma bought. You’d played heroes at recess and kept the game going on your way home from school while Hana walked ahead. Tenko was All Might, again, and that day you were Sir Nighteye, All Might’s sidekick who could see the future.

Nobody knows how Sir Nighteye’s quirk actually works, so you had to make it up, and you made up so that you had to touch the person to see how their future would play out. No matter how many times Tenko tried to get you close to the villain, it never worked, and on the way home, you came up with the perfect solution. “All Might,” you called out, and Tenko turned to look at you, deadly serious. “Give me your hand!”

He held it out, and you seized it in both of yours. “I can’t see his future, but I can see yours,” you said, and the brightest, widest grin crossed Tenko’s face. “You’re going to win.”

“We’re going to win. I can’t do it without you,” Tenko said, in his awful All Might impression that always made you laugh. You let go of his hand, but he didn’t let go of yours. “Tell me how we do it.”

You didn’t mean to, but you held his hand the rest of the way home, while you described the battle with the arch-villain, how it was going to be close but how Tenko would win. You needed to hold on, or you’d lose sight of his future. The two of you were just getting to the good part of the fight when you reached your street, your houses. You were disappointed, and so was Tenko. “Can’t you come over? You have to finish telling me so we can play for real tomorrow.”

You wanted to. You always wanted to, and that day more than ever, because you were holding Tenko’s hand and he hadn’t let go yet, even when you tried to. Even if it was just for the game, you didn’t want it to end. “I could ask –”

But you couldn’t even get the sentence out of your mouth before your mother shouted from across the street. Your name, followed by a brisk order. “You had all day to play around! Get in here and help me!”

Your throat closed up, but you didn’t want to cry. Tenko’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll play tomorrow,” he promised. He smiled. Not the All Might smile – the real one, the one that the people he saved were going to see someday and believe in, the one that said everything would be okay. “Keep looking at my future. Tell me how we win.”

“I will,” you said. Your mother shouted again. You squeezed Tenko’s hand and let go. And then you turned, looked both ways, and ran back across the street to your mother.

That was the last time you saw him for fifteen years, and everything might have changed between then and the first time you saw him again, but it can’t change the truth – Tenko’s master didn’t know him then. You did. So you know for sure now.

Tenko can’t hold your gaze. “You’re not right about this. He chose me. He knows.”

“Then we disagree. Nobody ever said we have to agree on everything.” You can’t push too hard. Not tonight. “Maybe you’ll win and convince me one of these days. Or I’ll win and convince you.”

Tenko’s mouth twists, turns down at the corners. He turns his back. “Don’t look.”

You move the first-aid kit out of the way and scoot closer to him, pressing yourself against his back as you wrap your arms around him. “I’m not looking.”

You hold him like that for a long time, not flinching when his hand grips your wrist again, when his palm flattens against the back of your hand to pin it to his chest just over his heart – and when he turns back in your arms, his eyes are clearer than they’ve been since he saw the marks on your leg. He looks exhausted. “Get some sleep,” you tell him. “I’ll be right there. I just have to finish this.”

The marks on your leg still need to be bandaged, and the scratches on the back of your hand are deep enough that you should cover them, too. Tenko shakes his head. “I did it. I’ll fix it. Aftercare, right?”

You smile in spite of yourself. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

He’s faster at it this time around. He covers the fingerprints on your leg with too much Neosporin and a giant band-aid, then slaps a sterile pad down on the back of your hand and secures it messily with gauze. “Don’t do this again. If I want to tear my own skin up –”

“I’m not going to sit here and watch you get hurt. Even if you’re doing it to yourself.” That’s not up for negotiation, at least not tonight. “Come on. If you want to cuddle, we’ll be more comfortable lying down.”

Appealing to Tenko’s touch-starvation seems to be a winning strategy. As soon as you’re both under the covers, he crawls into your arms, halfway on top of you with his face buried in your shoulder. You hang onto him tightly. Not so tightly that you can’t free one hand to play with his hair, and Tenko makes a sound. You wouldn’t call it contented, but he’s not as tense as before. What he says is muffled by your shoulder, and it comes completely out of left field. “I’m not going to do that every time we hook up.”

You almost laugh. “I know.”

Like he did last night, he falls asleep quickly. You don’t, or can’t. Half of you is scared that if you fall asleep, you’ll wake up to Tenko gone, snatched out of your grip again by All For One. It’s a stupid thought. All For One is in Tartarus, under twenty-four-hour guard – but Kurogiri follows his orders over Tenko’s, and if Kurogiri came for Tenko, there would be nothing you could do. Nothing except hold on tight, and make sure that you and Tenko went wherever he was going together.

Part of what’s keeping you up is fear. The rest is fury, the kind you can barely contain, aimed at a single target. You don’t have a clue about most of what All For One did to try to erase Tenko and replace him with Tomura, but you know the first thing – convincing him that he killed his family on purpose. Tenko’s pursuing the vision of someone who’s tried to destroy him, who’s thrown him into a battle he can’t win. And you’re supposed to help him do it.

You can’t stomach that, but maybe you don’t have to. You don’t have to be loyal to All For One’s vision or to Tenko’s efforts to follow in his footsteps. You just have to be loyal to Tenko, and that’s easy the way breathing is, as unconscious as blinking. After all, you’ve been doing it your whole life.

#shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #shimura tenko x reader #tenko shimura x reader #tenko shimura x you #shimura tenko #shigaraki tomura #x reader #reader insert #please hold

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dantesunbreaker · 1 year ago

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Red Velvet Lines

(Dracopia)Papa Emeritus IV x GN!Reader

It's the Clergy's annual Halloween ball, and you're without a date. But its seems a certain pair of mismatched eyes are watching you from across the room.

TW: Alcohol, blood drinking, suggestive themes, implied hypnotism 2.3K words (There is potential to write a NSFW part two later? Maybe?)

GIF by preqvelle

All Hallows Eve is one of the most celebrated occasions amongst the clergy, and tonight is no exception you think as you find yourself mingling amongst your fellow siblings of sin. Every year a grand ball is held, siblings and ghouls alike invited to in or out of costume to drink, dance, and socialize. Many come with partners in tow, few getting a kick out of silly couples costumes, while others come alone. Whether it be in hopes to leave with a newfound bed mate for the night, or simply to have a good time by themselves. You aren’t sure which of those you would consider yourself.

Without a date for the night, you find yourself sticking to the outskirts of the room, mingling with your siblings and making a clear point to avoid the dance floor. But as the night drags on, you find yourself leaning against the bar, whiskey sour in hand. That’s when you feel eyes on you from across the room, a prickling tingle that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Play it cool. Don’t draw any extra attention. Slowly, casually, you turn around, eyes making a wide sweep until they stop on a pair of eyes staring right back at you. Breath leaves you in a hot gasping huff. Cool winter mint and frigid white ice watches your every move. Something about his eyes both chills you to the bone and sparks a burning flame at your core.

Of course you know who he is, the former Cardinal turned Papa. But you can’t understand why his attention is on you of all people. There were plenty of other brothers and sisters of sin in attendance. Siblings that are far more attractive than your own plain features. Yet, you still feel his gaze on you even as you turn back to your drink. Why would he have any interest in you? You attempt to put the current reigning Papa far from your mind, focusing on savoring the last sip of your drink. But that turns out to be a little hard to do.

“May I have this dance, mio caro?” You spin around at the feeling of a hand on your shoulder. There is a flutter of your heart as you come face to face with the same multi-colored eyes.

“Oh, um... Papa?” You stammer nervously, wringing your hands and shifting from foot to foot. “Are you sure that you want to dance with me? I mean.. I’m sure there are plenty of beautiful sisters that are simply dying for the opportunity to dance with you. And well.. I’m just me.”

A warm, hearty chuckle is your response, dismissing your self depreciative comments as a gloved hand takes yours, whisking you away to the center of the dance floor. It amazes you how effortlessly he moves you, as if you were floating on air, pulling you to his chest with practiced ease.

“I have no doubts that there are many siblings desperate for the chance to be in your place,” Copia hums into your ear, keeping your hand in his, while the other hand rests on your waist. “But, they all share the same flaw. None of them are you, piccolino.”

Heat flushes your cheeks, eyes cast down to your feet with a wave of embarrassment while giving no resistance as Copia begins to sway you both in time with the song softly echoing around you. That feeling soon is all but forgotten though as suddenly you are being spun out from Copia’s arms, only to circle back in until your chests touch. You are far from being a dancer, more than likely to trip over your own feet. But Copia seems to know how to lead you well enough, swaying you both across the room with ease and skill that would make onlookers think you have been doing this for years.

As the song draws close to an end, Copia pulls you up from a dip and brushes his lips against the shell of your ear. “Let’s go outside, catch some air, si?” It’s a hushed whisper, only loud enough for you to hear, and you find yourself nodding in agreement before you have even processed what he said. Too caught up in feeling enraptured by the way he moves your body and holds you close.

The music fades, and Copia seamlessly transitions from dancing to holding your hand and leading you off the dance floor. Together you slip from the room unnoticed, a brisk walk through the corridors of the abbey until coming to a secluded balcony. It feels like a rush of adrenaline as you step outside into the crisp air, goosebumps rising as it feels like little pin pricks biting at your cheeks.

But that shoves to the back of your mind as you are spun around, back facing towards the beautiful gardens below. Something tells you that you should be afraid, ready to turn tail and run, but you are mesmerized by soft alluring eyes as Copia draws near. Under his spell, you don’t want to run. You would allow yourself to be devoured by the beast.

“Do you trust me, amore?” Your back presses into the cool stone of the railing, caged between Copia’s arms resting on either side of you. His voice is rich as honey, putting you at ease and leaving you wanting more. Even as he leans into you, breath tickling your neck, you can’t seem to resist the charm of his soft and sweet touches. No matter how much your brain screams no, your body succumbs and outweighs all rhyme or reason.

“Yes,” you whisper, breathless, eyes closing as your head tilts back at the feeling of Copia’s lips brushing the delicate skin of your neck.

You feel rather than hear the soft vibrations of Copia’s chest as he gives a pleased hum, a hand snaking around the back of your head and anchoring in your hair. Lips press against you, soft and warm along your neck, lulling you into a false sense of safety. For a moment later, you feel twin sharp pin pricks of pain from the very spot Copia presses against your neck. Eyes snap open, mouth dropping in a silent gasp as you clutch at Copia, fingers digging into one shoulder and grabbing a fistful of his hair. Tugging harshly barely has Copia moving even a fraction of an inch.

Warmth spreads from your neck, you can feel something trickle down past his lips in the brief second you break the vacuum seal Copia has on your flesh. Blood no doubt. Your blood. Though it should send fear striking down your spine, there is something about the way Copia’s tongue soothes over the wound he has created that has you slowly returning to a lax state in his arms. The grip in his hair loosens, the hand clawing at his shoulder smoothing to a soft caress as you instead hold him to you.

A sudden rush of euphoria seems to drip through your veins, pleasure keeping your limbs heavy and compliant. Pain fades until all you have to focus on is the feeling of Copia’s plush lips, the soft lapping of his tongue as he greedily drinks up whatever you have to offer him. Carding your fingers through Copia’s hair, you focus on the heat that pools between your thighs. You feel almost suspended on air, as if Copia’s teeth at your neck were the only thing keeping you from floating away.

But through your haze of ecstasy, you notice the freckles of black that are closing in on your field of view, sucking in a deep breath becoming suddenly difficult. A spike of fear hits your chest, but lethargic limbs keep you from being able to struggle. All you can manage is a trembling double tap to Copia’s shoulder as your fingers tighten in his hair. You plunge head first into darkness, a feeling of peace washing over you.

“Tesoro,” through the dark silence, a soft voice breaks through, calling to you in a loving tone.

Softly groaning, your heavy eyes gradually flutter open to find piercing eyes inches from your face, watching you with great intent. Your mind is foggy, but you recognize Copia’s gentle features. Though, the crimson that paints his bottom lip, bleeding into the once crisp white along his chin is peculiar. A lucid smile paints your face as a hand drops to cup his painted cheek.

“Guess I took a little too much this time.You were unconscious there for a few minutes” Copia gives you a sheepish look, arms around your back and supporting the back of your neck. “Mi dispiace amore mio. You taste so delizioso, I couldn’t help myself.”

“It’s okay, C,” the smile on your face reaches your eyes, regaining your senses the longer that he holds you in his arms. “Besides, it’s not all on you. I should have signaled sooner.... I may have also gotten a bit too carried away. Still haven’t quite learned my limits yet.”

Gathering your strength, you push up to crash your lips against Copia’s in a heated kiss that is all tongue and teeth. You taste the salty copper tang on his lips, a unique hint of sweetness that you’ve come to learn is entirely you. It doesn’t take long though before you need to pull away, gasping to suck much needed oxygen into your lungs. Copia of course has full composure, though his paint is a bit worse for wear. Black and white paint has mixed with your blood into a dull brown from lip to chin.

“Give me a minute to get my breath back and I’ll fix your paint up,” you sigh between gasps, holding Copia by the shoulders as you work on supporting your own weight. There is a soft twinkle in his pearly eye that is full of adoration. "We can't have you going back looking like this, Sister Imperator would be livid."

Gentle lips brush yours, not quite a full kiss, but enough you feel their presence without being deprived of the room to breathe.

"Why bother going back?" Copia's nose touches your own, his cool breath fanning across your cheeks. "I can think of plenty of other things I'd much rather be doing with you back in my chambers."

You scoff, giving a playful swat to his shoulder. "Because a certain Papa is expected to give a speech, and I won't be taking the fall for the reason you are late again,” you fix him with a stern glare, recalling the reaming you received from Sister the last time.

At least Copia has the decency to give a flash of shame, like a puppy being caught being naughty. But it doesn’t last long.

"You can have me however you want later tonight,” you catch the look of mischief in Copia’s eyes and quickly amend your statement. “After! You can after you are finished with your expected Papal duties for the night."

Overly dramatic, Copia deflates, bottom lip jutting out in an adorable little pout. But he concedes. He is just as worried about the harsh lecturing you both would get for being late the second time in a row. It’s best not to play on thin ice. So Copia doesn’t fight it, your eyes locked together as you take the time to collect yourself, placing a firm hand at the center of Copia's chest when you feel you are able to manage on your own.

Knowing what to expect as the outcome from your game of cat and mouse, you have one of the emergency make up kits that would normally be used for when Copia was on tour stashed behind one of the statues in the corner of the balcony. While ideally you would want to clear his whole face of paint and start with a blank slate, that wasn’t an option. It would take too much time, and you would be late, which if that were to be the case you would rather skip it all and go to Copia’s room.

So you settle for scrubbing at the stubborn paint of his chin, only stopping once it gives way to pale white skin. Once patted dry, you dip into the white grease paint, slathering a thick layer across the bottom half of Copia’s face. When you have achieved a full and even coverage, you shift your focus to touching up the black of his lips. As you set about setting the paint, you think that it certainly isn’t your best work, but under the dim lights of the ballroom you doubt anyone will notice.

“All done,” you humm happily, giving Copia a light pat on the shoulder as you pack the supplies back into the kit. When you glance back up, Copia’s smile is practically radiant.

“So,” Copia takes a step back, giving an extravagant twirl before spreading his arms out as if to display himself. “How do I look, amore mio?”

“Handsome as ever, Papa,” you smile fondly as you tuck the paint kit back away in its original hiding spot, knowing one of the ghouls would later come by to retrieve it. “Come, let’s get back before Sister sends someone after us.”

Stepping in stride with you, Copia spreads an arm out across your back, tucking you close into his side as you enter the building. Music still filters down the hall, a quiet hum that lets you know Copia’s cue hasn’t been missed yet. You might just yet might be able to go without any suspicion being aroused.

“Amore,” Copia however, cuts your train of thought short just as you open the double doors to the ballroom. “My apologies..but you uh have a little..something dripping from your neck.”

Of course, you catch sight of the twin red velvety lines slowly dribbling down the side of your neck in the reflection of Copia’s white eye....Just as you hear Sister clearing her throat from beside you. Copia gives you a sympathetic smile, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. But in the end, you think that your fun is worth a little ass chewing from Sister.

#papa emeritus iv x reader #cardinal copia x reader #papa emeritus x reader #copia x reader #popia x reader #dracopia x reader #dracopia #papa emeritus iv #cardinal copia #hot damn this was fun to write #spooky season is upon us #not getting my hopes up that this will be well received but damn do I love this one

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websterss · 1 year ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐄 𝟐/𝟒 — 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐘

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Your plan to get the group's attention becomes too difficult of a task especially with Ethan leaving your bracelet in his dorms, forcing you to be stuck in his dorm until he returns. You start to wonder whether he'll keep you locked up forever until he presents you with the idea of going to a party for the night.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): A bit graphic, mentions of blood and dying, angst, implications again but no smut, sad flashback

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4,005

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Ethan Landry x fem!Ghost!Reader

𝐀/𝐍: I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed! I based this off the song by Lizzy McAlpine - Doomsday

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Perhaps you had overestimated Ethan’s true intentions that night. Being pinned down both alive and dead brought on stress, pain, and ptsd, that wretched night scarred you. Flashes from the night he killed you remain true and gory. The color red turned into your most hated color of the rainbow. The second worst color; was brown. It was the color of his eyes. You used to adore having his attention, wanted nothing more than for him to swing that gaze on you with that charming grin he bore. Now you just wanted to erase every touch, conversation, and his whole existence. You knew the repercussions of attempting to bring justice for yourself, the whole obstacle of being invisible to the human eye; to your friends mostly. They couldn’t see you, and try as you wanted, they would not be able to hear you plead and beg for their attention, which you craved and yearned for the most. Anything but Ethan’s, anything but the heavy reminder of him stabbing you over and over with his knife.

You were oblivious to his attack. You saw him coming, and you let him into your home, but you never saw his intentions. You would have guessed what the night would have potentially led to had it gone the way you hoped. A kiss, maybe even more, but not this. Not him, and the war he was battling behind his eyes, as he stared at you with a lost expression.

“Hey Eth, do you want anything to drink? There’s water, and juice, a few sodas that I haven’t drunk yet. I’m not much of a beer person, but we can go to that bodega on the corner to get some if you want. I’m kind of craving some chips honestly.” You called out to him. Ethan had excused himself to use your bathroom. He needed to go after a few hours of trying to absorb every painstaking word from his econ textbook. You teased him for his class requirement. Why would anyone put themselves through such a class? Cause it was required for his degree of course. You shook your head as you opened your fridge up. The bright light from inside illuminates your face. Your brows pinch together when you get no response from him. Do guys usually take long to pee?

“Ethan?” You glance at your fridge one more time before closing it. The second the door was closed you turned, and you wished you never did. “Ethan you okay in ther–” You cut yourself off seeing him stand there at the door of the bathroom. A black robe was now thrown over his clothes, and his hands dawned gloves; also black, but what made your heart sink was the knife he twiddled in his hands. His gaze was solely on the weapon. All you could see was his dark brown curls. “Ethan?” You take a small cautious step back. You kept trailing your eyes up and down his entire. Trying to find the butt of this really fucked up joke. There didn’t seem to be one though, just cautionary fear tingling up and down your spine. You had never really been in a flight or fight situation and you really didn’t want to be. You cringe when he tosses the mask onto the island between you both. The mask revealed all you needed and everything you were afraid of. Your breathing picked up as you stared down the all too familiar ghost face mask your friends warned you about. Your watery gaze rose to meet his detrimental stare. One look at his stance, the way his eyes burned with hate. The tight grip he had on the hilt. It screamed a man with the intent to do harm. And he would because your sweet dorky Ethan was gone. You didn’t recognize the intensity of the man before you. “W-What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna give you two options okay?” His voice was shaky. His jaw clenched. You sucked in a breath as he continued. You were on the verge of sobbing. “You can run, and you might get away with some injuries, or I can get it over with so you won’t suffer as much.” How generous…You look away, walking over to the farthest counter and placing your hands on it. You eye the pan you had left on top of the stove, before looking over your shoulder in distraught.

“W-What’s the third option?” You cry softly.

“There isn’t one baby…My dad…” His eyes glistened. “He wouldn’t change his mind. He couldn’t be swayed, Y/n. I tried…” He looked down at the knife. “Believe me when I say that I tried. He wouldn’t let up though, he wants you dead.”

“What?” You shook your head confused. “You tried? What the fuck does that mean? Why would he want me dead? W-We were just studying a few minutes ago Ethan. For your Econ exam. If you wanted to take a break you could have just said so, you didn’t have to go to such extensive measures!” You gesture to the robe hysterically. “Why are you doing this? I-I haven’t done anything to you. I haven’t done anything!” You breath hitches and cracks with every exhale and inhale of your cries. “I-I don’t wanna die Ethan…” You cower back against the door of your refrigerator. “Please, y-you’re my friend. You’re supposed to be my friend...”

“I know baby…” He closes his eyes shut. Then looks back up at you. “But I don’t have a choice. It was either you, or me.” He tilts his head. You go still, terror overtaking your face. You straighten, balling your left hand into a fist. The small pan was hidden behind your back, out of his sight. If he did notice you grab it, he didn’t mention it, maybe to allow you some peace of mind before everything went to shit.

You walk over to him slowly, cautiously, hoping not to trigger his fight response. “Will you give me something then, before you start?” You let out shakenly.

“What?” His brows furrow.

You slowly reach up with your left and cup one side of his face before bringing his lips onto your own slowly. Your hand slid behind his head and curled your fingers into his locks, tugging him closer. Ethan nearly dropped the knife then and there. You caught him off guard. Might as well right, you thought. If you were going out then you’d go out believing and dreaming of what could have been. Maybe someday, somewhere right? Yeah right. Your breath hitches as you pull away, a tear slipping down your face as you pat his cheek gently. Then you swing the frying pan you grabbed into the side of his head before bolting down the hall to your room. Ethan's stance faltered. He stumbled back into the bathroom door, before falling onto his side. You had barely rushed past him when he tried to reach for your leg, but he missed. Not so safe to say he didn’t appreciate the sudden whack across the head since he thudded heavily towards your locked door. It took him about three powerful kicks before he got it open. You flinched by the window having it halfway lifted by the time he got in. He stood at the entrance, his eyes narrowed. He sighed heavily, as he shook his head.

“Option one then…” He cracked his neck before he stormed towards you. You cried and fought him off, but the knife still got lodged into your stomach. You cried out in pain as you felt a sudden pinch snip at your wrist before he threw you across the room, you fell to the carpet, doing a horrible job at staying upright. He had gutted you well and efficiently enough to cause you to bleed tremendously. One thought and one thought only ran through your mind then and there. The door. The front door was the goal. The dream really. It was wishing thinking at this point honestly. But you began your crawl in agony. You grunt and whimper as your limbs and organs hurt with every movement and push you force your body to move forward. You couldn’t stay here, you had to get out, You just had to.

Ethan begrudgingly sat at the edge of your bed. He rubbed against the side of his temple, his fingers drawn back with blood now smeared across his tips. Fuck, he thought. He looked over at you pushing yourself out the door with a struggle. How long he would let you do this for, was the real kicker. He thought it best to let you hope for a little longer. To let you continue ‘escaping’ as he assumed that is what he was looking at. He knew he said he wouldn’t let you suffer, but for some fucked up reason, he couldn’t let you die just yet. He wanted to enjoy a bit of your drive, your determination, and the sound of your voice regardless of the fact you were crying out in pain. He wanted to save it to memory for a few more minutes. You, just being alive. Just a little bit longer, he thought. He couldn’t get your kiss out of his head. Had you wanted to kiss him before? He hadn’t known, nor would he after this. He looked up again to find you out of his sight, had you moved that quickly? He strained his ears to be able to hear your faint grunts. You were slowly dying and he was only dragging it on further than he needed to. He placed his hands on his knees and stood up. He glanced around your room, letting his eyes roam over everything that screamed ‘you’. To the lights, to the fun colors on your bed, to the wall of pictures, to the now bloody carpet. He looked away, feeling a tinge of sadness for turning your most sacred place of comfort into a horror scene in the span of only a few minutes. He’d been in your home for over an hour, and it only took him minutes to ruin everything good in this little home you created for yourself. He walked over to the door, shifting his eyes to a picture you hung on the wall. It was of him and you. Bemused and silly is what he would describe the vibe he felt when he looked at it. Maybe someday, somewhere. That’s what he’d hope for. With one last glance at the pictures, he tapped it with his glove and moved into the hall. You had made some distance, but it was never going to be enough. He couldn’t keep watching you attempt to crawl your way to what you hoped would be your best chance of survival. He had to put you out of your misery. It would probably be the one good thing he could grant you.

Any future attempt at trying to gain the attention of anyone other than Ethan was a no-go. The first few times he hadn’t suspected much when he brought along your bracelet. Your one and only means of transportation to and from places. He threatened to leave it in his room when he caught onto your intentions. You hated how much you begged and pleaded to be let out, be ‘taken out for some sunlight’ if you will. You had become reliant and dependable on Ethan as much as you despised it. He really had been your only source of sanity, without him as he smugly liked to remind you, you’d be stuck in his room. He even went ahead and left the bracelet under his pillow just to prove a point to you. You beat on his chest when he saw you storm up to him as he entered his room. You wanted nothing more than to slap that stupid smirk off his face, so you had, and he kissed you roughly, pinning you to his door.

It was routine, and he seemed to enjoy every minute of it, and you, you just had to go through with it or you’d end up cooped up in his room again waiting for him to return, just like today, on all the days. Halloween has been your absolute favorite and the asshole left your bracelet on his night stand. It mocked you as you sat on his bed staring off into space. You thought back to your Princess Diaries costume that was gonna be awesome, but now it sat in your closet, in your apartment that was covered in blood, your blood, which was now also a crime scene, so now you had nothing to wear but the clothes on your back. You lift your head as the door to his room opens. The devil himself walks in. Ethan approaches you, leaning down to give you a rough slow kiss. His hands cupping the back of your head to bring you closer. You sigh as the kiss goes on longer than needed. A scowl paints your face as he pulls back and bites back a smile. He straightens up and looks down at you with adoration.

“Get off your cute butt, we're going out.” That made you perk up.

“Out? Where are we going?”

“A party. It’s Halloween remember, let’s go have fun.” He smirks seeing your face contort with confusion. You should have been thrilled, ecstatic even, but his sudden mood shift put you on edge. You noticed that after days turned into weeks. How he’d be nice and touchy feelings with you, then be an absolute sociopath the next. His sudden emotional outbursts scared you. Even dead he could still hurt you. “Come on, get up!”

“I-I don’t get you.” You shook your head. You knew better than to fuel the flame he had tucked away at the moment, but you didn’t know how to deal with his change of emotions anymore, it was exhausting when he out of nowhere felt the need to play ‘Mr. Nice Guy’. You were over it.

“What do you mean?” He stopped looking for a long sleeve to look back at you.

“You’ve kept me trapped in your room for five days, and now, all of a sudden you’re kissing me again, and being sweet? I don’t get you, Ethan.” You look away from him. Shrinking in place when he draws near.

“I wanna take you out, what’s wrong with that?” His shoulders slumped. “You wanted out of here, you’re getting that.” He walked over to his nightstand and picked up the small gold chain. Mocking you with it as he dangled it out to you. Then proceeded to tuck it into his jeans. “Now get up, I’m supposed to meet Chad there. Unless you want me to leave you here.” You immediately got up from his bed.

“I don’t even have anything to wear.” You gesture to your shirt and jeans that you’ve been wearing since you showed up. The red sneakers are your signature trademark. The group used to find it endearing. You wondered if they were missing you right about now.

“Why should it matter, no one can see you anyway?” Ethan immediately tensed seeing your face fall. “I didn’t mean it like that…look how about we- we could ya know…” He trailed off then met eyes with his white bedsheets then stilled. You watched wearily and then curiously as he stripped his bed of his flat sheet. Who the hell owned a flat sheet?

“What's with the sheet?” You raise a brow in question.

“Would this even work? I mean you couldn’t even touch your bracelet. It just went right through you.” He eyed the sheet and then walked over to you. “Can I?” He gestured to you then the bed linen in his hands. He took quick notice of your hesitance. “Just trust me.” He waved your doubts away. His words made you laugh out loud causing him to grow still.

“Says my murderer…” You roll your eyes.

“Humor me then.” He grunts then before you can protest he throws the linen over your head and watches it drape over your frame. When it remained over you, his heart began picking up. “Holy…shit!” He backed up, his hands frozen in mid-air as he surveilled you from head to toe. “No fucking way that worked. Holy shit!” You heard him breathe out aloud. What was he so shocked about?

“I can’t see anything.” He couldn’t see it but he imagined you were pouting.

“Oh right, sorry. Here take it off!” He pulled on the sheet until you came back into his view. Your hair was in disarray. Wild and full of static. A cute pout on your lips as you stared at him. Observing as he dug out a pocket knife and cut into the fabric. Two eyes holes from what you could tell, and then he was turning back to you, reaching forward to fix some crazy strands. The kiss placed on your lips caught you by surprise. He smiled at you and then went to throw the flat sheet over your head again. He adjusted it until your eyes were directly over the two holes he made. You could see out of it now. “Oh my god, you look fucking cool!” He ushered you to his thin mirror. What you didn’t come to realize soon enough was that the linen over your body did not go through you. Your eyes slowly widened as you began to grasp what this would mean for you. People would be able to see you.

“Holy shit…” You gasped as you stared back at your reflection. You had a reflection. You couldn’t see your eyes, but you could see the very visible bed sheet that was placed over your frame. “Holy fucking shit!” You exclaim, excitingly. You knew what this entailed, but you realized that Ethan had yet to understand why you were so excited about the sheet being placed over you and why it didn’t phase through you like the bracelet had. You figured that he figured you were only freaking out because he thought you thought this was cool. It was, that was no lie, but you were hopeful again.

“No one will think twice about it.” Ethan laughed at your reaction.

“It worked!” You extend your arms out and do a little spin.

“It’s fitting honestly going as a ghost, I mean who’s gonna question the girl with a sheet draped over her head?” He chuckled. He nodded in agreement. You were though, a ghost and all. Dead or costume didn’t change that. Not one bit. You hadn’t known why you let your intrusive thoughts win in the moment. Perhaps you rushed towards him because you wanted to express how you were feeling and needed an outlet. Needing to show Ethan just how happy you felt, though you knew you had acted in such a way because your plan to try and find a way to communicate with your friends was back on track, and Ethan was none the wiser about it. You had shed the sheet and brought his lips onto yours. This had been the second time now that your initiated kiss had caught him off guard, but he welcomed the affection nonetheless. He walked the both of you backward until he fell back onto the bed, taking you down with him as the kiss grew heated and rougher. You stayed on top until he had flipped you both. The hungry gaze behind his eyes knew you were gonna be a little late for the party, but you hadn’t really been too worried about it.

The walk to the frat house had been interesting. You kept turning your head towards every wandering eye that landed on you and Ethan. You bet you both looked like quite the pair. A sheeted ghost and a cardboard knight. You had judged Ethan’s look with love and some honesty. You still didn’t get it when it had to explain to you who he was. He went into detail about his inspiration from the movie Murder Party. A movie you had no idea existed until he showed you a scene in which the character Ethan was being tonight wore said costume. It felt like trivia.

When you both walked through the door. You were both immersed in the chaos and music blasting through a speaker somewhere in the house. Bodies, bodies, and bodies all around, grinding, talking, drinking, and of course the occasional hookup. You were feeling a bit better than you and Ethan had your own pre-hookup before arriving. You knew better than to let your heart lead, but you couldn’t help the swarm of butterflies in your stomach when he reached behind him, extending his hand out for you to grab, and you did, allowing him to lead the way around the various of party goers fully and barely intoxicated. It wasn’t long until Ethan had found Chad. And boy were you not prepared for him to finally see you. See your ghost costume.

“And who is this unlively thing?” Chad joked but teasingly nudged Ethan over and over. You had barely registered Chad’s faint words of ‘That’s my boy’ and ‘I told you, full snack baby!’ before he turned his attention back onto you. “What’s your name sweetheart?” Oh his smile, his beautiful grin that you had missed having be directed at you.

“This is Wyen!” Ethan introduced you. You were glad they couldn’t see the questionable expression you gave under the sheet for the very questionable name he gave you. What the fuck Ethan?

“Wyen?” Chad's brows pinched together in question as well. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with such a unique name.” He shook his head.

“Yeah…she gets that a lot, just think of her name as the letters Y and N and you’ll be fine.” Ethan waved it off.

“Why would I–” Chad sputtered in confusion. Then turned to you. “What? Is he messing with me? Please tell me he’s fucking with me?” Chad laughed your way. You shook your head and said.

“No, if only you knew though.” You said. Ethan eyed you, but Chad hadn’t heard you one bit.

“Is she good?” Chad leaned over to Ethan, as he took note of your lack of responses. “She's not…you know.” He gestured to his ears.

“Deaf? Oh no, yeah she’s fine, she’s just staying in character tonight. Halloween is kind of her favorite holiday.” You wanted to slap him right then and there, so you did. You reached forward and smacked him. Chad found your interactions amusing.

“Ahh okay. Well apologies, ole friendly ghost. I was in the dark of such information, but I respect your wishes to continue to haunt our youth in silence!” Chad placed a hand over his naked chest. You breathe a laugh aloud, but you realize your laugh didn’t reach his ears. It made you tear up a bit, but you concluded that the shake of your shoulders was enough for him to register you did in fact find his teasing funny because his head was thrown back as he laughed. God you had missed him. You tipped your chin down and curtsied, adding to the bit he was doing. “She’s funny too. I like you already.” He pointed at you. “Well, Ghostette and Mr. Landry, enjoy yourselves, not too much of course, but get drunk, and make out. I’m gonna go see where the girls are alright, find me if anything goes wrong okay? Anything. That goes for you too Wyen. Find me for anything!” With that, he tapped Ethan’s cardboard chest in what you assumed was approval and walked in the opposite direction. You scoff knowing that Chad considered you to be Ethan’s conquest for tonight. It looked like trying to gain their attention was going to be harder than you expected...especially since Ethan was hesitant to let you out of his sights now.

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry x fem!reader #ethan landry imagines #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry series #writings by juls #my gif

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operatedness · 3 months ago

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Maybe I’m brainrotting about my own fics that I haven’t even finished but like hear me out on the concept/teaser rq so I can feel confident to finish it

❤️🧡❤️🧡❤️🧡🧡❤️❤️

Context: Diluc stumbles upon an injured Fatui Harbinger in the forest of Mondstadt. Conflicted, he attempts to assess the situation.

- - -

“Bloody Petals”

- - -

. . .

. . . . . . .

Diluc approached cautiously, his eyes studying Tartaglia's injuries and trying to assess the severity of the situation.

"Tartaglia... of the Fatui Harbingers..."

The name rolled off his tongue with a mixture of disdain and venom. He walked closer to the injured Fatui, his expression carefully guarded. He hovered over the man like a scavenger. His eyes scanned over Tartaglia's form, observing the stains and blood and torn clothing that cling to his person, Diluc could feel himself wince at the sight.

"What are you doing here? And in this state..."

Tartaglia was alive, barely. He had been clutching at his wound so hard that his arm was twitching on reflex, how long had he been like this?

Surprisingly, Tartaglia’s chest shook slowly as he chuckled. Opening a single lightly cut eye to look up at Diluc, who looked at him with much distrust and anger. He didn’t seem bothered by that reaction from Diluc though, he seemed to be very used to it.

“Now now, The Uncrowned King of Mondstadt? What an honor that—“ His words are ripped off his tongue and he wheezes with an urge to try and breathe. A trickle of salvia mixed with blood falls from his mouth as he coughs. His lungs burn, the feeling of fire swirling through his insides like a knife was indescribable.

He hasn’t felt pain like this before, not even in the Abyss he thinks. Part of him deep down found a comforting humor in that fact. He, however, continued to laugh to himself after he finishes regaining his composure from his moment of anguish.

“Well, if you must know… At this exact moment I seem to be dying. However-“ He raises a palm to his mouth as he coughs into his glove, soaking the dark leather red, “That is surely just my opinion.” He spoke as if this was a casual conversation between the two of them, speaking like old friends.

Diluc's expression darkened at Tartaglia's attempt at levity. His jaw clenched as he listened to the Fatui Harbingers words. Despite his irritation, he found himself slightly impressed by Tartaglia's seemingly fearless demeanor.

"Dying, huh? You don't seem very concerned about that."

Diluc's gaze drifted down to Tartaglia's wound. It was severe, and it was baffling how the Harbinger could still manage to joke around in such a state. Diluc's hands itched, there was so much wrong with this situation, this scene. Diluc didn’t know if he could even trust the blood he saw.

Tartaglia tried to straighten himself up, grunting in pain as he found the strength to sit himself up straight, bending a knee as if to make it seem like he would try to stand.

“Well what can ya do? Happens to the best of us… even Harbingers bleed.”

Tartaglia looked up at Diluc, his head tilting to the side slowly. Darkened azure blue eyes pierced through Dilucs form, eyes empty of a void that could never be filled again. And yet the Harbinger grinned, a splatter of blood visible in the corner of his mouth.

“Isn’t that funny?”

He said with an odd tone as he looked up at Diluc. His face seemed pale, maybe the blood loss just makes him talk as nuts as he looks. His legs shook and he wasn’t even applying any pressure, much less he was still sitting down. His face was tight as he tried to endure the excruciating pain he was experiencing.

But through and through, he was a Harbinger before he was a victim. That was always how Diluc would see it as. And he knew Tartaglia was fully aware of this fact. In a way it relived Diluc to know Childe wouldn’t give an annoying bicker to plead for his life.

The other half of him was unsettled with the way he was seeing the gears in the hydro users head turn.

Diluc couldn't deny that there was a twisted sort of irony in the situation. A Fatui Harbinger, known for their arrogance and strength, reduced to this. Despite himself, Diluc felt a strange mix of anger and… concern. He pushed the latter feeling aside, refusing to show any semblance of sympathy to an enemy.

He was a Harbinger before a victim.

- - -

I had written more but it’s not blended in well enough and also I have been so exhausted lately :(( I worked 45 hours this week… and that’s not counting from my second job. Sniffles n cries, where my pyro hubby at

#childe x diluc #chiluc #diluchi #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x childe #genshin ajax #genshin diluc #Genshin chiluc #Diluc has conflicting morals #Diluc is a loser and we love him for it #Ajax totally didn’t think he was seeing an Angel for a split second through the blood loss lol who said that #I NEED THEM SMOOCHING (I say as the author)

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op3ra · 11 months ago

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hi tumblr this is my wrench cosplay. I built her in 8 days in july for some reason

some build talk under the cut (and a picture of the kneepads). feel free to ask or reach out with questions!

she is built almost entirely of EVA foam and contact cement and is my first ever foam build. her leotard and gloves are prepurchased and my hair was already dyed these colors (blue velvet + cranberry + blood moon from lunartides)

her shoulder piece is actually an exceedingly simple build; it's just a bunch of 6mm (or maybe 8? I can't recall) rectangles + trapezoids, then smaller rectangles and triangles for the shoulder bits. the trim of the red part is just 2mm EVA foam cut into strips and glued on. it has a split velcro closure in the back.

the actual shoulder bits of the shoulder piece are held in place with black vinyl; which would allow them to flip up if I hadn't messed up the silver bits lol. the silver stripes are scrapbooking cardstock, cut to size and glued on after the pieces were painted. I would like to upgrade to vinyl-wrapped foam on future iterations

the belt is a 8mm base with 6mm silver parts, and the coupler rings are 12 inch EVA dowels glued into circles and then glued on and held in place with 4 mm strips. the belt has a velcro closure in the back.

the tabards are honestly the one piece that needs to be replaced the most at this stage; they're also 6mm EVA foam with 2 mm details, then spray painted silver and hand painted with the blue details. the lower tabard pieces have not held up well to movement :I the top ones are connected to the belt with two velcro straps at the bottom corners, and to eachother at the top with black vinyl straps. there's also Velcro on the leotard to hold flush to my body.

all of the foam construction was glued together, then heat sealed, then plastidip sealed, then spray painted, then coated with a clear coating. unfortunately only the shoulder piece was really properly sealed, but it SHOWS. my neighbor stepped on it on Halloween and the damage was like, NOTHING.

the neckpiece is pretty much a mockneck that I pull over my head, with a red vinyl collar that I sewed and then studded using leftover cats cosplay collar studs. the headband is just Eva foam with elastic. the kneepad base is pretty much a lycra sleeve dyed silver.

the kneepads are a two-piece EVA foam construction that I patterned off of... an existing kneepad, I think? they're glued, heat formed, and then have elastic straps around the back of the knee to hold them in place.

I know the lettering is ass but. recall that this was an 8 day con crunch and I have never painted foam before lol

finally, the elbows are just also 2-piece Eva foam constructions that I just patterned directly off my elbow. I actually built bumpers but ran out of time to figure out a way to attach them lol. the arm band is just a simple 4mm rectangle with 2mm trim and a velcro closure.

overall the velcro closures are one of my favorite things on this costume; they're all sturdy strips of velcro sewn onto neatly sewn black vinyl rectangles and are VERY STURDY.

my main issues with this build was mostly the paint I used, to be honest; it was an absolute nightmare and in the end I wish I had used krylon for everything, BECAUSE IT IS THE ONLY PAINT THAT IS STILL HOLDING UP (the red)

overall the build was a ton of fun! I spent up to 14 hours a day working on her bc i went absolutely insane. i still don't know what happened to me.

once my motivation returns, I will be rebuilding a lot of her and learning the proper techniques; my next major part of this project is building the proper unitard, coil legwarmers, and latex-cast wheels and bumpers

#did you enjoy my nerdy cosplay build post #also there is so much hairspray in my hair here #and also i didnt have my glasses on yet so i couldnt see that the selfie was blurry :(#starlight express #stex #starlight express cosplay #wrench the repair truck #stex cosplay #starex

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farshootergotme · 2 months ago

Note

With whumptober along, it's time to make our favs suffer...

Got anything you plan to write for Dick? Or prompts?

I'm kinda working on the 'Permission to Die' prompt... Thinking how Dick would react if he knows for certain that he is going to die...

Could be something fast, like, getting badly hurt during a fight and there is no way to get help.

Or could be something relatively slow, like getting a terminal diagnosis.

Thinking how Dick and the others would react to knowing he is going to die...

I wasn't planning on writing anything as I'm not really a writer. I mean, I do something on occasion, but it isn't often, and I don't usually participate in things like Whumptober.

However, I can think of something:

Flashback, panic and PTSD.

(tw: panic attack, mentions of blood, suicidal(?) thoughts)

Dick is helping Jason capture a criminal. They're both pursuing him across the city; have been since he escaped a group that's already been taken care of by both vigilantes. He's fast, but that doesn't help him long because Nightwing and Red Hood are even faster. In no time, they catch up to him.

The crook's cornered, he has no way of sneaking past the two. When he tries to fight, he's quickly intercepted by Nightwing, who maneuvers to push him on the ground, lying on his stomach with the weight of a body on his back. He's successfully immobilized.

Taking the chance to hit him with enough force without doing any lasting damage, Dick knocks him out and gets off him when he doesn't feel him moving anymore.

He starts walking towards Jason and makes the mistake of turning his back to the criminal.

Nightwing sees Red Hood falter, then he looks back, and sees the criminal who he was certain wasn't conscious anymore lounging at him with a knife.

Ah, probably a meta, then.

Dick was fast enough to stop him and take the knife away from him, but his plans come to a halt when a shout from Jason, "move out of the way!", catches him off guard, and he listens to his brother instead, stepping aside.

That was the wrong move.

The next second, a gunshot goes off and Dick's mind is too caught up on the sound to hear the man shouting in pain.

He's staring off somewhere. He's sure his eyes are on the criminal, but all he can see is the red pouring out of his skin.

He's not dead. The bullet is in his shoulder. He isn't dead. There's barely any blood. He is not dead.

But he is.

And suddenly, Dick is no longer standing on an alley.

He's on a building, on the stairs, and there's a body before him.

He doesn't think he's breathing.

His hands—he looks down at them. There's red. Blood. They're covered in blood, and why is his chest so tight?

He thinks he's moving, but he can't be sure. He can feel his feet shift, but he's not looking at his steps. He's looking down, but there's only his gloves. There's blood.

He's dead.

Blockbuster is dead.

Dick killed him.

Breath.

He clawed at his chest. It isn't working. Why isn't it working? His chest is moving, he can feel it. So why can't he feel any air filling his lungs?

He can't breath.

Something grabs him. Something is pulling his hands away from his chest. His dirty, bloody hands.

Stop it!

Somewhere, there's rain. But Dick thinks it can't be real because it isn't washing away the blood. His hands are still red, and he still killed him.

There wasn't rain, but he was shaking. There wasn't rain, but something wet fell down his face. There wasn't rain, but his ears were pounding. There wasn't rain, yet he felt so cold.

Maybe as cold as the body.

No, no, no...

He was dying. He was going to kill himself and– Bruce. He disappointed Bruce. He wasn't going to forgive him. He killed someone and now he was killing himself because he couldn't fucking breath.

Please, breath.

He was trying. He was hitting his chest. His hands were pulled away again. And he still wasn't breathing.

The rain was getting louder and it was starting to sound like screams.

Breath.

Breath!

"Dick, fucking breath, dammit!"

Dick gasped for air.

Jason.

He could recognize that voice.

It was Jason.

But he couldn't see him. He couldn't see anything. His vision was blurry. He was sure there were dark spots clouding his sight.

And there was red.

Fuck.

"Help him!"

There was red. And it was moving. And then there wasn't.

It was black, and now it covered all of his view.

Did he die? He just died. He didn't breath. His heart stopped and he died.

Death was strangely warm.

"Nightwing."

Another voice. It wasn't screaming. Or maybe it was just muffled by the blood pounding in his ears.

"Chum, you're okay."

He's not okay, he's dying.

"You need to breath. You're having a panic attack. You're not dying."

A panic attack. He's not breathing because he's having a panic attack. No. His heart stopped, he's dead. But his heart is beating too fast to have stopped. He's having a panic attack.

"B..ce."

Bruce. He was talking to Bruce. And Bruce was talking to him. He was having a panic attack and he needed to breath.

But his lungs aren't cooperating.

"It's me." Dick thinks that sounded relieved, but he can't be sure. "Listen, Nightwing, you're going to be okay. You just need to count with me and breathe."

Right. Panic attack, breathing. He can do that. He can count.

"Hold your breath."

One...

Two...

Three...

"Release."

One...

Two...

"Breath in."

He keeps counting and his body does the rest. He keeps listening, and the instructions start to be clear in his head. At some point he stops counting, but the voice never desists.

He's breathing, and the black hasn't left, but now Dick can recognize it as Batman's suit, and the warmth as his cape covering his body.

"B."

He's exhausted.

"You're okay now."

He really hopes that's true.

"How long...?"

"Not too long."

It felt like an eternity.

If he was less tired, he would pull away now and smile at Bruce. And Jason. Jason was there too, wasn't he? But his limbs were heavy, and his eyelids were too. He was sure he'd lose consciousness soon.

"It's okay. I'll take you home."

Dick wanted to ask about the guy they were following. He wanted to know if his brother was okay. He wanted to be sure nothing happened because of him. But his body didn't listen, and all it took was those words to give in to exhaustion.

He didn't get to hear the conversation the other two had afterwards.

Well, that was a mess to write. Why is it so hard to write panic attacks? I hope I did it justice because it's been a while since I had one myself.

Since this was about Blockbuster, I know it'd be expected to also include what happened with Tarantula. But I didn't feel like I'd have enough space to deal with that and it's also a pretty sensitive theme that would need some more thought on my part to be written properly.

At first I actually began with another idea until I realized it was just hurt/comfort and not whump.

(I was also planning on just writing the prompt, but I couldn't bring myself to stop so it ended up becoming a short fic)

I'm not checking for grammar errors now. But if there's any (which probably will be since I wrote this in a rush), I apologize beforehand.

Thanks for the ask!!

#dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #bruce wayne #batman #dc #dc fanfic #whumptober #anon ask #my writing #panic attack

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snailsgoingdowntown · 1 year ago

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Red Stained Relationship

Prologue i

Slight yandere! Blade x fem! Reader

Warnings: Implied past child and domestic abuse, twisted sense of ‘love,’ toxic relationship(s), blood, character death.

Blade didn’t abuse the reader btw. He just sucks at anything that is healthy.

Blog contains dark content/dead dove don’t eat.

You'll see why I added "slight yandere' as the series goes on.

Minors/blank blogs dni.

Word count: 684

===

“To kill something is to love it, and to love something is to kill it.”

It was your parents’ favorite saying; behind the jaded eyes and sloppy love they would give. And, of course, you never understood it. Never wanted to, even as a young child, simply nodding your head away whenever they would tuck you into bed at night, kissing your forehead before repeating these words to each other the moment they closed your door.

While you were curious, you never bothered to understand them. They felt alien. You felt alien, an outsider looking in. You couldn’t return your parents’ love as is – your love language was different. Less violent. Less confusing. And more gentle, as gentle as a child could get.

The foundation of your very family was unsteady at best and broken at worse. Even your brother would agree, comforting you on nights that were just a little too noisy. And you would return the favor, perhaps in a less effective way, but all the same. And the cycle would repeat, some days noisier than the others, a mess to be cleaned up. And on others, it almost felt normal.

Almost.

But now, as the dying man rests his head on your lap, you think you get the gest of their oh so favorite saying.

Even so, you still don’t want to hurt him. His blood was staining your dress, and you feel the warmness of it. His breaths were labored, chest slowly moving up and down. There’s blood running down his face, with stab wounds decorating his entire body. But he doesn’t let out any painful whines, barely lets out a grunt.

His wounds weren’t healing. As gruesome as they could be, the wounds stay open. You could attempt to put pressure on them. Especially the gaping one on his chest. You rake your fingers through his hair instead. A small comfort, and maybe even a small celebration. He was the only one happy about it, though.

“You should rest. Close your eyes and everything will be over.” You’re surprised at how steady your voice is. Like you weren’t breaking apart from the inside, cracking like glass. You feel like crying, but nothing comes out. Not even a sob.

“I… I’ve been waiting for this day,” Blade coughs out, wheezing after it. Shakily, one of his arms raises, knuckles grazing your cheek. His vision must be hazy, for when you move his hair out of his face, his eyes are dazed. Unfocused.

“It must be a good day for you then.”

“It… it is. But – fuck – a horrible one for you.” Another coughing fit, but he doesn’t retreat his hand.

“You shouldn’t talk too much. I know it hurts. So, rest.” Blade doesn’t say anything but struggles to keep his hand in the air. His glove prevents him from feeling your skin. And in his mind, it’s probably better this way. Otherwise, he might have second thoughts.

And it’s too late for that.

“… I know that I shouldn’t love you, and that you were a horrible person. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you, actually. But even so…,” your eyes start to water the more you take everything in. He’s really going to die.

“Yeah… I was… horrible to you. I… I wanted to treat you… nicely. Gently. But I’m no longer… capable of that.” He wheezes out, taking gulps of air. “I’m surprised you stayed…,” he trails off, death knocking at the door louder than before.

He wishes he treated you better. That the bloodlust he had towards you didn’t exist. Maybe then, you could have been happier. No. he should have left the moment he felt something deeper, addicting developed for you.

You close your eyes before covering his own with your hand. Any more of this and you really might cry. Or call for help, something he wouldn’t want. Should you kill him, or let him die on his own?

Even as horrible as he is, you still loved him. Common sense had long gone away the moment you accepted him as is.

“Goodnight, Yingxing.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #blade x reader #Yandere blade #yandere blade x reader #honkai star rail #Honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader

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boxofthings · 1 year ago

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Originally was gonna write 09 soaproach angst but decided to fulfill this request that was sent months ago (anon I'm so sorry but if you're still around I hope you enjoy!)

This was heavily inspired by THIS art post by @miilkybnn (it hurts me deeply)

09 ghostsoaproach for all you masochists :)

Read on AO3

-- -- --

He can feel the painful snap of his fingernails underneath gloves that claw desperately into rust. The roof tile comes away from the sudden pressure of his weight.

There's heavy smoke in his lungs, and if the universe had given him an extra ounce of precious time, maybe he'd let the smell funnel down into his stomach, imagining for just a moment that it tasted like Villa Clara's.

His heart races as the hand that shoots out for him falls short by mere inches, and his body drops to the ground in a blackened hush.

It doesn't help that their worried voices screech into his shock-delirious brain as he comes to. If he were a less determined man, he'd stay right where he was, admit defeat and fall right back into that blissful, unconscious nothing.

"Roach!"

But he's not. Because despite his wounds, his defeats, his lack of a weapon, and the sheer absurdity of his chances of survival—he wants to live.

And if not that, then at least he wishes hopelessly to have a sendoff with blue and brown eyes to watch over him like guardian angels.

He pulls himself to his feet, limbs screaming at him for mercy, and he runs like it'll be the last time he ever will, and it just might well be.

Bullets and their casings fly through the air like deadly confetti, and Roach can only push forward as the captain's poignant concern rings deep in his ears.

He's probably been shot—multiple times likely, but there's a red over his mind that pumps wild adrenaline through his body. He wonders if, from the safety of the carrier, he must look like a madman.

"Thirty seconds! We're runnin' on fumes here!"

If he makes it out of this, if he lives to tell the tale, this'll be one hell of a conversation starter—one for the history books, that's for sure.

His chest is beginning to burn, and he can feel the familiar, dreadful indication that his legs are starting to drag like stones.

Not yet.

The only thing that keeps his blood boiling with stubborn life is what awaits for him on that carrier, no doubt with bated breaths and mirrored anxieties.

Fifteen seconds.

Blades slice the air of the sky in pulsating waves; each gust feels like it hits Roach harder as he hangs onto his last drop of fuel like a fraying rope.

So close.

Sliding down the debris of the favelas, each bump another bruise to his body, he can only think of how hard he'll collapse after and if he makes that final leap.

"Jump for it!"

With his tank nearly empty, he musters the remaining energy he has and jumps with his whole heart in his throat. The murky waters below will not be as merciful as the ground of militia-ridden streets.

His fingers make jarred contact with the ladder of the carrier, and he clings to it with heaving breaths that rattle his entire body. In his ear, he hears the sharp intake of a gasp as Nikolai flies them further away from the chaos of gunfire.

He's alive. And he's damn well feeling it if his aching bones and bleeding flesh have anything to say for it.

As soon as he's dragged into the opening of the Pave Low, a deadly grip yanks him into a shuttering embrace.

The lieutenant says nothing at first, only holding him with a restlessness typically reserved for dying men.

"Fuckin' hell."

Fucking hell's right. He falls into Ghost's solid weight with laboured limbs and a pounding heart. If, from now on, the captain decides to bench him for his deficiency in acrobatics, he's not so sure he'll protest.

Behind him, he can feel how Soap's eyes pierce scrutinizing daggers into his back, and he fears the tongue-lashing he'll receive as soon as he turns around.

But when he finally releases from Ghost's arms and meets icy blues, there's a pause in the air from the silence that meets him.

Mouth set in a grim line, fists clenched at his sides, the captain is the epitome of tension. As he watches Roach longer with that look of grievance, his head hangs, shaking it frustratingly and turning away to speak to Nikolai.

Roach can't help how his heart drops down to his stomach, shame pooling hotly down his throat.

The post-adrenaline rush makes his head float, and he's not too certain he didn't earn a concussion from that fall. A shaky exhale takes with it the muscles that keep him standing, and all of a sudden, he feels the brittleness of his bones.

"Bug," Ghost says, hand intertwining with his, pulling him down gently to sit next to him.

Roach acquiesces easily, slumping down like a sack of flour.

His lieutenant holds his hand tighter, and Roach leans his head on the older's shoulder.

Despite this victory, he can't help but feel the looming fear of what will come next. His injuries hurt terribly, but he's content to sit like this for just a little bit, pretending for just a moment that everything will be okay.

– – –

The safe house they hunker down in becomes blanketed in a constricted silence as they wait for US forces to transfer them to their next location.

The captain ushers him to the kitchen, first aid kit supplies already splayed out on the table.

Roach feels the beginnings of a timer go off in the space between them.

His commanding officers bracket him, dabbing saline into his wounds and applying gauze over the reds that spread across his skin.

It's only when Soap begins to wrap bandages around his middle does the air around them suddenly freeze into a tangible outrage.

"You bloody fool," he hisses, fingers ripped away from the bandages and digging urgently into the flesh of his arms.

Beside him, Ghost goes still.

"Just how many jumps are you going to miss until it kills you?"

There it is, the bated agony that masks itself as scorn—the dam Roach had been anticipating to burst any minute since he'd made contact with that ladder.

There's anger in the air that feels sharp and critical, but Roach can't fight against it because the underlayer of that deadly heat swirls a deep, visceral anguish. Fear that threatens to rip them apart right through the heart.

"I-" his wretched throat scratches out. There are words he wants to say out loud, words that his captain and lieutenant deserve to hear, but that burn on his tongue trickles deep into his larynx, and it renders him quiet, like a pathetic coward in the face of blame.

"I'm sorry," his hands finish for him, fingers never heavier. And he watches as the captain's face falls so awfully, how the lieutenant turns away like he can't bear to watch him any longer.

Is this what they are doomed to be? Three lovers trapped in a perpetual cycle of fear and loathing, trapped in an echo chamber of a cacophonous "who will be next?"

There are no words to ease their ailing minds because, at the end of the day, who knows if and when they'll become lies?

A sigh. The hands gripped so tightly around his arms drop defeatedly.

Soap wordlessly exits the room, leaving Roach with a heavy tongue of unspoken atonements. The unfinished wrap of bandages feels like it scalds his skin.

Ghost looks back at him, eyes crushing but quietly soft, something only reserved for Roach and the captain.

He takes up the space Soap had emptied and continues where the other had left off, holding the bandages with sure hands.

"He's just worried," Ghost says as soon as the wrap is secured, helping him slowly put on his shirt.

Roach can't muster the will to look Ghost in the eye, which is a first for them.

The other takes both his hands into his, urging Roach's gaze to land on him.

"Just–be more careful, yeah?"

The fingers that smooth over his battered hands shake like there's an all-consuming dread that threatens to spill right out of every pore.

In a second, they retreat, replaced instead by the warmth of a full body wrapped around him in a desperate embrace.

"You have no idea how it felt, watching it all from the Pave Low."

It's so rare to hear his lieutenant speak so weakly. Such a voice did not suit Ghost, or perhaps it did, as how else were battered and spent soldiers meant to sound? But Roach did not like knowing he was the cause for it.

"You're one hell of a fighter, bug."

So are you, he wants to say, but he knows Ghost won't care for it.

It's not just the sheer, dumb luck that keeps him alive. It's the two men he found at the wrong and right time, in the midst of a war that offers them no comforting promises for the future, but also bringing a lightness at a time where his life had never felt so dark.

He doesn't want to lose this.

He sees a small grin begin to imprint on the lieutenant's balaclava.

At the arch of Roach's brow, he chuckles minutely.

"It's just funny, 'innit? How the roles 'ave swapped." Ghost's eyes crinkle in soft reminiscence. "Years ago, it would've been me stormin' out that door."

Roach mirrors his smile. He remembers the start of it all, how the captain had so readily accepted Roach's affections, open and carefree, before the stakes of war had tipped so precariously to where it was now.

"Probably be needin' me to swoop in and save yer arse wherever we go," the captain had said after Roach had bashfully pressed cold lips to warm ones in an impulsive confession of love.

It was so easy to talk to Soap, as he was everything Roach had strived to be and more. A stable force in his life that made him feel nearly invincible.

And Ghost...well, he was much the opposite, almost averse to that same tenderheartedness that had won over the captain.

He remembers how he got shot, pushing the lieutenant out of harm's way, how the lieutenant had screamed at him once they arrived back on base, how Soap had held him back, and how distraught Roach had felt once he'd stormed out the room, a sizzling anger that took Roach weeks to understand was, in reality, fear.

It's so strange to look back on now, to envision a Ghost who was so pent up with wrath it followed him wherever he went.

It makes him realize how much has changed—is still changing.

Ghost takes off his sunglasses, and like this, Roach can stare into pretty browns that gaze at him lovingly.

"Back then, I just never knew how to express my damn emotions."

Roach brings the lieutenant's face closer to him, kissing slowly regardless of the fabric that separates them.

"You do now, though," Roach signs when they break apart.

Ghost eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Only for you two."

– – –

Ghost had shooed him away when he tried to help clean up the mess of bloodied cotton balls and scattered gauze pads.

He'd taken this as his sign to seek out the captain. Pushing the door to the only bedroom slowly, like a child in worry of waking their parents.

Soap sits on the edge of the bed, hands clamped together with his head hung low—lost in turbulent thought. It shoots right up at the creak of the door hinge.

For a moment, neither man knows what to say, Roach shuffling closer till the older has to look up at him.

When he opens his mouth, the captain's arms shoot up to drag the sergeant down onto his lap in the tightest hug he's ever received from the other.

"God, you're so stupid," he whispers, head burying deep into Roach's chest as if he wanted to be merged with it. "Why'd I get assigned such a dafty for a sergeant?"

A melancholic lilt seeps to his lips as he rests his cheek on Soap's head.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, as sincere as his love is true.

Soap's head lifts, hands flying to Roach's face, and he can see the desperate ache in those eyes.

"Don't be sorry, you oaf. You nearly died." The crack in the captain’s voice strikes a chord so deep in Roach’s chest that it almost makes him cry.

There's a weight that sits like a thousand marble statues on the captain's shoulders, and with each passing day, Roach sees as that load drags heavier behind him.

"Funny how history repeats itself. First mission with my captain, nearly falling to my death. First mission as captain with my sergeant doing the exact same."

He'd said it right after their first stint in Kazakhstan.

It was meant as a jest to lighten the post-haze of a near-death experience, but Roach had seen the slight cynicism in the captain's eyes that he had yet to pick apart.

Weeks later, he'd sit outside the base during the quiet of the night, with MacTavish's cigar flicking soft light into the darkness, and understand, for the first time, that the captain was just a man, just like him. A soldier with burdens like everyone else.

"With every man that I lose on a mission is another ghost that haunts me when I go to sleep."

"It's not your fault," the sergeant had said then, and meant it earnestly, because how could Captain John MacTavish—the man who'd jump after you if you fell into a pool of molten lava if it meant even the slightest chance of saving you—ever be to blame for the death of a soldier?

But it was more than just that. It was the spectre of a past mentor, one that left daunting footsteps to fill that Soap had fought with every breath to satiate with justice.

It had made the beast of a man before him appear so painfully human, and Roach had only yearned for him more because of it.

Now, as they hold each other, Roach can see how that weight must feel like the most crippling force. And he knows how deeply every failure hits the other like real bullets.

When he'd nearly drifted off in the Pave Low, he'd caught the tail-end of a hushed exchange between Ghost and Soap. Voices tense, waiting to snap any minute.

"I couldn't catch him," the captain had muttered, broken off and deprecating.

Soap picks at the hem of Roach's shirt, inhaling sharply when he sees the bandage peek out.

"One day," he starts, and it's melancholic yet intimate like Soap had thought of it a million times. "There'll be a mission where I won't be there to catch you."

Roach frowns, seeing that familiar burden of responsibility that the captain readily throws onto his shoulders.

"It's not your job to."

Fists clench around his shirt.

"Yes, it is," he says fiercely. "If not as your captain, then-"

His mouth hangs open, words caught in the emptiness of the air around them, and Roach can't bear to look at that awful anguish in Soap's eyes.

Then as someone who loves you.

It makes his chest hurt how easy it all was before—or maybe not easy, but how much less consequential their actions meant back then—when their love had only been labelled as one-off jokes, when the task force wasn't stretched so thin and smaller than when it had started. When Roach could say he cared for someone and not have to worry whether they'd disappear to ash the next day.

"I'm sorry," Roach offers instead, "for making you worry." It feels like it's all he can say.

The smile he receives is bittersweet, but it's such a rarity nowadays to see anything happier. Even so, he wishes he could fix it—to smooth out those worry lines that make the other look so haggard.

The captain tilts his head, surging tentatively to capture Roach's lips in his own, and the kiss makes him think of everything that defines their relationship.

When rough lips touch his own, it's so familiar, like the nostalgia of a home that exists only in his mind. The tang of cigars and the bitterness of Earl Grey tea. How does he even begin to describe how intrinsically this love has changed him?

Such small things that he previously couldn't have cared less about now mean everything to him. And it makes him notice all the things that only he is meant to notice.

Like how Ghost prepares coffee in the mornings, despite preferring tea, all because the captain and himself once mentioned they only slightly prefer it to the latter.

Like how Soap begrudgingly supplies the base with that shitty off-brand version of Earl Grey that Ghost, for some reason, likes so much.

Like how when the lieutenant or sergeant go to bed aching, there's an unsuspecting bottle of painkillers and water glasses on their nightstands that they don't remember leaving there.

Like how little aspects of himself change to become a little bit more like the ones he loves.

Despite preferring coffee, he thinks he'd choose tea over it now.

And every time the captain offers out a cig, Roach easily declines because there's a much better way for him to enjoy the taste.

Every kiss they share is one that could be their last. So Roach savours every minute of it, commits to memory the feel of Soap's hands on his waist, the way the other breathes heavily as their lips intertwine in a longing embrace, the heat that emanates between them because the other is a living space heater, the way how every time, without fail, the touch of Soap's lips makes his heart soar like a teenage girl's on prom night.

I love you, he mouths against the other, and even though his soundless words disappear into the air, at least he knows the universe will bear witness to this truth.

"My sergeant," the captain purrs adoringly, and it makes the blood rush faster in his veins. "Just don't know when to die, do you?"

Their foreheads touch, an unspoken moment of peace between them that they pretend will keep them safe.

They know that today, they are alive, but tomorrow may not bring such luck.

The arms around his middle move to his thighs as Soap stands up abruptly, hoisting Roach up with him and moving towards the side of the bed.

Roach grins, wrapping strong arms around the captain's neck, even as he's laid down on soft sheets.

Soap pulls him till they're flush together, with Roach's back to his chest, and the older snakes an arm around his front, resting a hand atop Roach's heart.

"Just to make sure you're still alive by mornin'," Soap had joked the first time he did it. But it was after Roach had taken a nasty stab to the lung, and the captain's fixation with feeling for his heartbeat had not been lost on the sergeant at all.

"In pain?" he asks softly into the crook of the Roach's neck.

The younger shakes his head, exhaling soft exasperation.

"Sorry. Just can't help but worry."

Roach knows how that feels.

He lets his eyes droop to a close, letting his hand climb atop Soap's, intertwining them so that they lock together solidly on his steady pulse.

He breathes in the captain's grounding, pine scent and hopes with every fibre of his being that they'll be okay in the morning—that after this shitstorm passes, they'll make it out the other end only slightly dishevelled.

He always did have plans to introduce Soap and Ghost to his family one day.

– – –

Later, with his mind drowsy and battling the final drops of wakefulness, he'll feel the bed dip beside him along with Ghost's hushed "All good?" and the captain's answering kiss that calms the lieutenant's concern.

He'll lay in bed, held by two people he loves with all his heart, who love him just the same, and he'll thank the world for granting him this rare moment of tranquillity.

Tomorrow, they'll be extracted for their next operation. They'll break into the gulag and find whoever this prisoner is that Makarov hates so much, and who knows what will happen?

But until then, Roach will sleep, knowing that the two things important to him are safe next to him.

– – –

Brown eyes hidden behind a screen of shade, and Roach wishes he could rip them off.

His body aches, as does his heart.

Price's shouts carry over his earpiece, and he can't help but feel bitter.

He wishes to hear his captain's voice one last time, wishes for once in his life, Simon didn't wear those blasted sunglasses. He wishes, so pathetically, that it didn't end like this, with one piece of himself dead beside him and the other miles away.

His mind grasps at threads, trying to find comfort in the gaps where pain has not yet sullied.

Despite how lonely he feels, staring at the face of an already dead lover, he'll thank any God above that he'll join him soon, that at least two of them are adjoined, even in death.

In a way, all three of them are together, connected by a commlink that spans the entire distance of their longing, like a tether.

It's such a sad, desperate pull at a sliver of comfort, but it quiets Roach's aching chest just a little.

There's the tang of Earl Grey tea leaves on his tongue, and as he closes his eyes for the last time, he can imagine that the smoke that suffocates his lungs tastes like Villa Clara's.

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