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elikajinnie · 7 months ago

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Cold Touch, Sharp Mirror - P.S

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Sunghoon X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Death, Murder, Suggestive Content, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Chasing, Fixation, Temperature Play?

Synopsis: You’ve always liked snow, but you never liked the idea of being chased through it—too loud, too slippery. Luckily, the Entity��s maps were more muddy than snowy. That is, until a new killer arrived, bringing with him a snowy map. And it seems like he’s fixated on finding the perfect beauty to complement him and you're exactly what he’s looking for.

a/n: im so happy my pookies @aceheexx and @concerned-terrapin got dbd :3 also i went a bit overboard with the ending???

heeseung version | jay version

now playing: like a dream by thomas larosa | frzzn by ozzie | chills -dark version by mickey valen

Now, normally, you loved snow. Back before you were taken by the entity, you’d always be thrilled when it snowed—watching the snowflakes drift from the sky, each one unique and delicate, settling on the ground and transforming it into a soft, white wonderland. It felt comforting, like nature’s own little gift. But time doesn’t follow the same rules in the entity’s realm. Seasons don’t change, and winter becomes a distant memory, a concept rather than a feeling. You haven’t felt real snow in what feels like forever.

So, when you first saw it again you felt a flicker of joy. You landed on the ground, expecting that chill on your skin, the cold air filling your lungs. But instead, you were met with something... wrong. The snow didn’t fall naturally, but seemed to be pasted onto the world, cold only in appearance. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t alive. The snowflakes didn’t twirl through the air, and the ground beneath your feet felt too solid, too still. No crisp bite in the air, no damp chill seeping through your clothes. Just a hollow echo of the winter you once loved. The excitement quickly faded, replaced by a bitter disappointment. It wasn't real. It never was.

You didn’t expect much when you were called for a trial. They were all the same at this point—different maps, same routine. But as soon as you arrived, something felt… off. The air was sharp and biting, your breath fogged in front of you, and a chill ran down your spine as you took in your surroundings. You were standing outside a massive manor, its roof blanketed with thick snow and sharp icicles hanging from the edges like teeth. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, it was quiet and the crunch of snow under your boots felt too loud. You hugged yourself against the cold, shivering as it nipped at your skin.

This was new.

Your eyes scanned the manor, its grandness both stunning and foreboding. You didn’t recognize it from any previous trials, and that only made your chest tighten. This map was new. And if it was new, there was only one explanation.

A new killer.

You took a hesitant step forward, your nerves on edge as you climbed the steps to the manor’s entrance. The door creaked open with little effort and your heart sank as you took in the strange décor. The walls were lined with mirrors—some shattered, their jagged shards glinting menacingly, others cracked just enough to distort your reflection. A few were pristine, their surfaces smooth and unbroken, but something about them felt wrong. The reflections didn’t look quite right.

Your breath came out in quick puffs, the cold seeming to seep through the walls themselves. You forced yourself to keep moving, knowing you had to find a generator. The sooner you started, the sooner this trial could be over.

Your search led you to a massive ballroom, and your breath caught in your throat. It was unlike anything you’d seen before. The floor was a sheet of ice, polished to a mirror-like shine, and the room seemed to stretch endlessly. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, but instead of glass, it was crafted entirely from icicles, their razor-sharp points glistening as they swayed ever so slightly. The windows—or where the windows should have been—were replaced with cracked mirrors.

You stepped carefully onto the icy floor, your boots slipping slightly as you made your way further in. The cold seemed to deepen here, clawing at your skin and making you shudder uncontrollably. You glanced around, half-expecting to see a generator, but there was none in sight.

You huffed in frustration as you slid across the icy floor, your footing unstable. The sharp cold gnawed at your fingers and toes, even through your clothes. Just as you steadied yourself, a scream tore through the air, slicing through the quiet like a blade. It was distant but blood-curdling, the cry of a survivor encountering the killer.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you moved forward, walking through a pair of wide, icy double doors that led to a balcony. The scene that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.

Below you stretched a massive, frozen garden. Rows of tall hedges loomed like the skeletal remains of a long-dead maze, their branches brittle and crusted with frost. The labyrinth twisted and turned, the pathways obscured by fog that clung to the ground like ghostly tendrils. Scattered throughout the garden were ice statues—figures frozen mid-motion—but the distance made it hard to tell if they were just art.

Movement in the maze caught your eye. You squinted and leaned over the balcony’s edge. It was Nancy. She was running through the labyrinth, her hands flailing as she waved desperately in your direction. Panic was written all over her face, her wide eyes darting between you and something behind you.

It took a moment for you to process what she was trying to convey. That’s when it hit you—a cold breeze that wrapped around your body like icy fingers. Your breath caught as you shivered violently, your teeth chattering. Slowly, as if against your own will, you turned around.

And there he was.

A tall man loomed behind you, unnervingly still, his presence so cold. He was clad in a tailored suit, though it was torn and frayed in places. An icy sheen coated the fabric, frost clinging to him as if he were part of winter. His hair was white, and the tips seemed frozen, as though frost had begun to consume him from the edges.

But it was his face that sent chills down your spine.

The left side of his face was hauntingly beautiful—sharp, elegant features carved from pale skin, veins of icy blue tracing faintly on his neck. His lips, pale and slightly blue, parted slightly as a frosty mist escaped with every breath, and his eye, an unnatural, glowing blue, fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you in place.

The right side of his face, however, was hidden beneath a mask of cracked mirrors, the shards reflecting distorted images of yourself. The fragments shifted slightly, catching the dim light as if they were alive, twisting your reflection into a grotesque parody.

In his right hand, he held a massive shard of glass, its edges jagged and sharp, covered in frost that glittered like deadly diamonds. Ice crawled along the surface, spiraling down to the hilt where his gloved hand gripped it tightly. His other hand, bare and pale as death itself, hung loosely at his side, frost coating his fingertips.

He tilted his head slowly, the motion unnatural. You couldn’t tell if the sound you heard was the creak of his neck or the faint crackle of ice forming in the air around him.

Your breath hitched as you took a shaky step back, the icy floor beneath you making it nearly impossible to find stable footing. The cold wasn’t just external anymore; it was inside you, crawling through your veins almost like a parasite.

The killer took a step forward, the shard of glass dragging across the ground, leaving a thin trail of frost in its wake. The sound it made was sharp and grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

The only thought screaming in your mind was run.

And you didn’t hesitate. Your survival instincts kicked in, and you pushed off the icy floor, sliding awkwardly toward the edge of the balcony. Without a second thought, you vaulted over, your heart leaping into your throat as you braced for the impact below. The landing was rough but the adrenaline forcing you to ignore the ache.

As you straightened up, you glanced back over your shoulder, just for a split second, and froze.

He was leaning over the balcony, his hand resting on the icy railing, his head tilted again. He wasn’t rushing after you. He wasn’t angry or even fazed. Instead, he watched you with a cold calmness, like a predator confident in its prey’s inevitable capture.

That made it worse.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Turning on your heel, you took off running into the labyrinth, the snow crunching loudly beneath your boots. Every step a reminder of how exposed you were.

You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Away from him. Away from the cold and the glass shard that promised pain and death. Your breath came in quick, visible puffs as you ran, your lungs burning from the freezing air.

The labyrinth was a maze in every sense of the word, the fog making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. You turned left, then right, your boots sliding on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow. Your mind raced as you tried to recall the layout you’d glimpsed from the balcony, but it was no use. Every path looked the same—dead and endless.

Another scream rang out, sharper and closer this time. Your heart sank. You couldn’t tell who it was, so you forced yourself to keep going, your legs burning with the effort of running on the uneven, frozen ground.

Your legs burned, your lungs screamed for air, and the cold gnawed relentlessly at your skin. You finally skidded to a halt, leaning against the icy hedge for support. The snow beneath you crunched as you shifted, each breath coming out as shaky puffs of mist. You sniffled, shivering as you tried to gather your thoughts.

That’s when you saw it.

To your right, standing innocently against the frozen hedge, was a tall mirror. It was pristine, untouched by the cracks, the frame was silver, almost shimmering, and frost curled delicately along its edges like it had been painted there. The glass itself was so smooth it reflected everything perfectly, capturing your wide-eyed, disheveled image with startling clarity.

You tilted your head, your breath hitching as you stared. It had been so long since you’d seen your reflection—so long since you’d stopped to even think about what you looked like. The sight was strange, foreign even. You didn’t recognize the exhausted, frost-bitten figure staring back at you, but something about the mirror pulled you in.

Your feet moved before your mind could stop them, carrying you closer. You stood before the mirror, your breath fogging the glass slightly as you studied yourself. Hesitantly, your hand lifted, trembling as your fingertips hovered just above the icy surface. You shouldn’t touch it. You knew you shouldn’t. But something about it was calling to you, drawing you in like the lure of a siren.

The instant your fingers brushed the glass, it happened.

A sudden force yanked you forward, your breath stolen as your vision blurred. You didn’t even have time to cry out as the cold wrapped around you, dragging you into the mirror. The world flipped and spun, shards of glass and light flashing all around you. Your reflection fractured into countless pieces, each one distorting your image—your face twisted, stretched, broken in ways that made your stomach lurch.

When you finally came to, the spinning stopped. You opened your eyes, but the sight that greeted you was nothing like the labyrinth you’d been running through.

You were inside the mirror.

The world around you was endless and disorienting. Shards of glass floated in the air, twisting and turning, each one reflecting a fractured image of you. Some pieces were small, no larger than a coin, while others were enormous, towering over you like walls. Each shard seemed to hum faintly, a sound that vibrated through your skull and made your head throb. You reached out to steady yourself, but there was nothing solid to hold on to—just the endless, shifting glass.

You felt dizzy, your legs weak as you struggled to comprehend where you were. The reflections moved strangely, showing parts of yourself that weren’t in the same position as the rest of you. It was like watching a puzzle where the pieces didn’t quite fit.

Then, a voice.

It cut through the humming like a blade, low and smooth, with an icy edge that sent a chill straight to your core.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the voice purred, dripping with mockery. “So eager to touch what you shouldn’t. Did you really think the mirror was just for show?”

You whipped your head around, searching for the source, but there was no one there—just more glass reflecting your panicked face.

The voice chuckled, soft and cold. “Do you like it in here? It’s my little masterpiece. Every broken shard tells a story, you see. And now, you’ve become part of it.”

You spun in place, your breaths coming faster. “Where are you?!”

The laughter grew louder, echoing all around you, each shard vibrating with the sound, but he did not answer you.

Instead the glass around you began to shift, the shards rearranging themselves into new patterns. They moved closer, boxing you in, the reflections multiplying until it felt like you were being watched by a thousand versions of yourself—and something else.

In one of the largest shards, his reflection appeared. The killer.

He stood just on the other side of the glass, staring at you with a calm expression. Slowly, he raised his gloved hand and pressed it to the glass, the icy surface fogging slightly under his touch.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled back, you moved until your back hit something solid—the mirror you’d touched before.

Before you could process what was happening, the glass behind you pulled you in again. The world spun, shards flying past your vision as you felt that same sickening tug. A freezing chill washed over you, and then suddenly—

You were out.

Your feet hit solid ground, and you collapsed forward onto your hands and knees, gasping for air. The disorientation left you dizzy, your head pounding as you tried to steady yourself. The cold still clung to you, biting at your skin like a lingering phantom of the mirror world.

You forced yourself to your feet, legs shaky and unsteady, your breath coming out in frantic clouds. As you looked around, you froze.

This wasn’t where you’d been before.

Instead, you were in a dark, underground section of the estate. The air here was thicker, heavier. The walls around you were frozen, their icy surfaces glinting faintly.

Above you, sharp icicles hung dangerously from the ceiling. They were long and jagged, some as thick as your arm, and looked as though they could fall at the slightest provocation.

You took a cautious step forward, the crunch of snow under your boot echoing unnaturally loud. Your eyes darted upward, watching the icicles sway ever so slightly. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. One wrong move, one too-loud sound, and those deadly spikes could come crashing down.

“Stay calm,” you thought to yourself.

You continued forward, your steps careful and measured. The way revealed more of the icy corridor ahead, branching off into several paths.

Then you heard it.

A faint, distant crack.

Footsteps.

Your blood ran cold. He was here.

You turned, your eyes darting around for any sign of an escape, but you were offered nothing more but dead ends.

Then his voice cut through the air, smooth and taunting.

“You can’t run forever.”

You turned sharply, picking a path at random and running, your boots sliding on the slick ground.

Behind you, the footsteps quickened, you didn’t dare look back, the sense of him closing in enough to keep you moving forward.

You rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.

A dead end.

And the only way out was the way you’d come. You spun around, your back pressed against the frozen wall, your breath ragged as you watched the corridor you’d just come from.

The footsteps stopped.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, he stepped into view, his towering frame filling the narrow passage as he took a step forward.

You pressed harder against the wall, your fingers numb from the cold, your mind racing for a way out. But there was none.

He stopped just a few feet from you, his breath visible in the icy air.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gloved fingers brushing along the edge of the mirror shard in his hand and slowly, his gaze began to travel downward, starting at your face, moving over the trembling rise and fall of your chest, your arms clinging tightly to yourself, and finally down to your legs and boots, still trembling slightly from your desperate run.

A low hum escaped his lips, soft and almost contemplative, a sound that sent chills crawling up your spine, as if he were truly appreciating what he saw.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, his voice smooth. He took another step forward, closing the already-small distance between you. You pressed harder against the frozen wall, your entire body stiffening as he leaned closer.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

His pale hand rose slowly, as if to savor the moment. You flinched as his fingers brushed against your cheek, and the touch was so cold it burned. You froze entirely, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The air left your lungs in short, visible puffs as your body tried in vain to fight the cold spreading from where his hand lingered.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, his tone almost... tender. He tilted his head again, his lips curving into a faint, chilling smile. “No need to be afraid, my dear. I wouldn’t dare ruin something so... beautiful.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, your body refusing to obey your frantic thoughts screaming at you to move, to run, to do something. But the cold was paralyzing.

His hand trailed along your cheek, the frozen burn spreading as he brushed his thumb over your jawline, tracing the edge of your face with unsettling care. “Your face... so delicate. So perfect.”

His cold breath brushed against your face, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Your eyes...” His thumb stopped, resting just beneath one of them, his frosted breath clouding in the air between you. “So full of life. So bright, even now. You’re unlike any I’ve seen before.”

You couldn’t respond. The cold had stolen your voice, your teeth chattering too hard for you to form words. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he appeared amused by your silence.

“You’re trembling so much,” he murmured, his hand shifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, the motion almost... gentle. “Is it the cold? Or... me?”

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost brushing your ear as he whispered, “Perhaps both.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him away, to do anything, but all you could do was stand there, trapped in his icy grip. You felt like you were being frozen alive.

His hand moved to your neck, his fingers grazing your skin as he chuckled, his breath like a biting winter wind. “I could keep you here forever,” he mused, his tone almost dreamy, as if the idea truly pleased him. “Frozen, perfect, untouchable. Just... mine.”

His words sent a wave of panic crashing over you, momentarily snapping you out of the icy haze clouding your mind. Your body twitched, an instinctive attempt to break free, but his grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you just how powerless you were in this moment.

“You’re frightened,” he said, his tone shifting to one of mock sympathy. “Good. Fear suits you.”

And just as the tears began to sting your eyes from the cold and helplessness, his fingers left your skin, and he pulled back slightly. He studied you for a moment longer, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

Then, in a soft, almost wistful tone, he murmured, “Run.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your mind barely processing the command before his smirk widened and he stepped back, his hand once again gripping the icy shard at his side.

“Go,” he said, his voice sharper now, like the crack of frozen glass. “Let’s see how far you can get.”

The moment your body allowed it, you bolted, stumbling past him and into the freezing corridors, his cold laughter echoing behind you like the toll of a bell.

Your legs carried you forward, slipping and stumbling over the icy ground. The sound of his laughter followed you, echoing through the frozen halls. It was as though it bounced off the very walls, coming at you from all directions, mocking your panic and desperation.

The floor beneath you shifted unexpectedly, the ice slick and uneven. Your foot slipped, and you went sprawling to the ground with a sharp gasp. The impact jarred your body, pain shooting up your arm as you braced your fall. For a moment, the world spun, the sound of your ragged breathing filling your ears.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” his voice called out, closer than it should have been.

Your head snapped up, and you realized the light above you had shifted. You turned your gaze slowly upward, and there he was, standing just above you.

“You’re quite resilient,” he mused, his icy voice calm, almost teasing. “But you’re slowing down. The cold is catching up to you.”

Panic surged through you, overriding the pain in your arm as you scrambled to your feet. You bolted again, ignoring the way your legs screamed in protest.

Then you spotted it.

A faint glow ahead—warm and flickering, like firelight. Fire.. fire meant heat, warmth and safety.

The glow grew brighter as you neared it, and you realized it was coming from an arched doorway. Beyond it, you could see the orange flicker of flames. You practically threw yourself through the opening, your body collapsing in front of the roaring fireplace in the center of the room.

The warmth hit you like a wave, washing over your frozen skin and sending sharp, painful tingles through your fingers and toes as the feeling began to return. You gasped for air, curling into yourself as the heat began to thaw the icy grip that had taken hold of your body.

But the relief was short-lived.

You turned your head slightly, and your stomach dropped. The room wasn’t empty.

Surrounding you were tall mirrors, each one angled slightly toward the fireplace. They reflected the room in perfect, chilling detail. And in every single one, he was there, standing behind you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you whipped around, but the room was empty.

The mirrors, however, told a different story. He stood just behind your reflection, his piercing blue eye meeting yours through the glass.

“Did you think the fire would save you?” his voice echoed around the room, no longer calm but mocking.

The flames in the fireplace flickered violently, the warmth suddenly waning as frost began to creep across the floor toward you. The temperature plummeted, the ice spreading like veins across the room and snuffing out the fire entirely.

You stumbled backward, heart racing as you turned to face one of the mirrors. He was no longer just standing there—he was moving. Slowly, deliberately, his reflection stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and yours.

Before you could react, a hand shot out of the glass, his icy fingers gripping your wrist with inhuman strength. You screamed as the cold burned your skin, his grip dragging you closer to the mirror.

“Don’t fight it,” he said softly, his voice echoing in your ears as the shards within the mirrors began to hum again. “You belong with me now.”

You struggled against him, your free hand clawing at the icy surface of the mirror as it began to pull you in. The frost crawled up your arm, spreading rapidly as the world around you began to distort, shards of glass spinning wildly in your peripheral vision.

With one final yank, he pulled you through the mirror.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was your own reflection, frozen in terror, staring back at you as the shards swallowed you whole.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your body trembling violently. The cold was overwhelming, gripping you like an unrelenting vice, and as you looked around, your heart sank. You were back in the mirror realm.

The shards around you showed you in unnatural ways. Every angle of yourself felt alien, wrong, like the mirror was trying to break you down piece by piece.

“No,” you whispered, voice weak and trembling, your breath fogging up the air in front of you. Your legs were shaky, but you forced yourself to stand.

There was no time to waste. You spotted another mirror—a whole one this time—standing pristine just a few feet away. Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped toward the mirror. This time, you didn’t pause to study your reflection. You didn’t let yourself think. You pressed your palm flat against the cold, smooth surface.

The pull came instantly, like an icy wind yanking you forward. Your body jerked as you were sucked into the mirror’s depths once more. The same nauseating sensation returned and you clenched your teeth to keep from screaming.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

You stumbled forward, your feet catching against a thick rug as you fell to your knees. You blinked, the room slowly coming into focus.

It was another part of the manor, entirely different from where you’d been before. The walls were still coated in frost, but it was quieter. You looked up to see a grand fireplace crackling with warm, golden flames. A luxurious couch sat nearby, its velvet cushions looking inviting, though a thin layer of frost clung to the edges.

You didn’t hesitate. The fire called to you like salvation itself.

You dragged yourself to your feet, stumbling toward the fireplace. The warmth hit you in waves, and you let out a shuddering breath as you collapsed onto the rug in front of it, stretching your trembling hands toward the flames.

The heat seeped into your frozen skin, painful at first as the biting cold fought to stay. You held your hands closer, rubbing them together desperately as you tried to thaw yourself.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. Your body still shook from the adrenaline and cold, but the warmth was soothing, grounding you.

You took a glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. It was richly decorated, though the frost and time had dulled its once-luxurious beauty. A massive portrait hung above the fireplace, but the frost obscured the faces in the painting, making it impossible to make out who—or what—it depicted.

The couch loomed nearby, its plush cushions tempting, but you didn’t dare sit. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down for long, not when he could appear at any moment. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, despite the fire’s warmth.

You stared back into the flames, your mind racing. The mirrors... they were clearly part of his power, his trap, but they also seemed to be a way to move through the manor.

But even as you thought that, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly down the hall.

Your heart leapt into your throat, the warmth of the fire suddenly feeling far too distant. You froze, every instinct screaming at you to move, to hide, but your body refused to obey.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel the chill creeping back into the room, the warmth of the fire retreating as if it couldn’t stand him.

“Found you,” his voice purred, low and laced with amusement.

Your body tensed as you slowly turned your head toward him, your breath hitching in your throat. He was closer than you expected—far closer. You hadn’t even heard him cross the room, but there he was, towering over you.

You gasped, your back pressing harder against the rug as though you could somehow melt into the floor to escape him.

He reached out, trailing dangerously close to your face, but he stopped just short of touching you. His icy breath curled in the air as he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe.

“I should end this,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, but there was an edge to it—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “You’re the last one left. There’s no one else. No one coming to save you.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. The others were gone. Nancy, the others—they’d all fallen to him. You were alone.

He crouched suddenly, leaning over you with a grace that felt almost unnatural. His free hand came to rest on the floor beside you, pinning you in place with his sheer presence. You tried to scoot back, but the icy chill radiating from him seemed to freeze you in place.

“But…” he continued, his voice softer now, contemplative, “I can’t bear to ruin something so… perfect.”

His words caught you off guard, and your eyes widened as he his hand brushed your jaw, his cold fingers gripping gently but firmly. You sucked in a sharp breath, expecting the freezing touch to sting, to burn like the cold always had before.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his touch was… comforting. The cold seeped into your skin, chasing away the ache from the fire’s heat. It was strangely soothing, like the cool side of a pillow on a restless night, or the air of an early winter morning.

Your body reacted involuntarily, your tense muscles relaxing slightly despite the fear coursing through you.

It all left you disoriented.

“You see,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly against your jaw, tilting your face up so your eyes met his. “There’s something about you, survivor. Something… different.”

His gaze roamed your features with an unsettling intensity, his icy breath brushing against your face. You tried to look away, but his grip kept you firmly in place.

“You’ve caught my attention,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, almost intimate. “And that doesn’t happen often.”

You didn’t even respond—couldn’t even respond.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice soft but commanding, “are you afraid of me?”

Your heart thundered in your chest, but the answer wasn’t as simple as it should’ve been. Fear clung to you, yes—but so did something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

When you didn’t answer, his lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “No matter,” he murmured. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

His hand trailed down to your throat. The cold seeped deeper now, sending a shiver down your spine. His grip was firm but not constricting.

“You’re lucky,” he said softly, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze again. “I’ve decided to spare you. For now.”

“But don’t think for a moment that you’re free,” he added, his voice colder now, sharper.

Before you could even react, his cold, strong hands gripped your waist. A startled gasp escaped your lips as he hoisted you effortlessly into the air, slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“W-What?” you stammered, your breath hitching as you felt the solid, cold muscle beneath his tattered suit.

He didn’t talk, nor did he falter as he began walking, his movements steady. You squirmed slightly, your hands pressed against his broad shoulder in an attempt to push yourself free, but his grip on you was firm, unyielding.

It was then that you noticed something strange—the ground beneath his feet was transforming. With every step he took, the floor froze over, leaving a trail of ice in his wake.

Behind him, the mirror shard he dragged in his hand left another trail, the jagged glass carving faint grooves into the icy floor. It gleamed faintly, catching the dim light of the room, but it was the strange magic in it that drew your attention. The frost along the edges seemed alive, swirling and shimmering in ways that didn’t seem natural.

And the mirrors along the walls reflected your current state back at you. It was almost unrecognizable.

Your hair was dusted with frost, strands glittering like they were laced with snowflakes. Your lashes and brows were coated in icy crystals, and your lips… they looked pale, almost blue, like the color had been drained by the biting cold. Even your skin had taken on a frosty tint, its natural warmth replaced by something delicate and ethereal.

You blinked at the reflection, your breath catching. For a moment, you almost didn’t look like yourself. You looked… otherworldly, like you belonged here, in this frozen hellscape he commanded. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and not just from the cold.

“I see you’ve noticed,” his voice rumbled, deep and laced with amusement. You jolted slightly at the sound of it, and your gaze darted to the back of his head.

“What—what’s happening to me?” you demanded, though your voice came out shaky, far weaker than you intended.

“It suits you,” he said simply, his tone calm, almost admiring. “The frost, the cold. It brings out something… exquisite.”

His words sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through you. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or horrified.

“Let me go,” you hissed, though there was little force behind your words.

“No,” he replied, almost lazily, as though the very idea amused him. “Not yet.”

His footsteps echoed as he carried you deeper into the manor. You couldn’t tell where he was taking you, but the icy walls became thicker the further you went.

The air felt colder than ever when he suddenly stopped, and without warning, he threw you down, the impact rattling through your body as you hit the frozen ground. A hiss escaped your lips at the cold biting into your palms, but the sting didn’t linger for long—because that’s when you saw it.

The hatch.

It was right in front of you, its familiar wooden frame stark against the glistening frost around it. Your heart leapt in disbelief. He was letting you go.

You looked up at him, confusion and suspicion warring within you. Was this some sort of trap? But when your eyes met his, he was already staring at you, his calm, piercing gaze sending shivers down your spine.

He crouched down, his movement eerily graceful, and brought his hand to your cheek once more. The coldness of his touch was no longer unbearable—almost like your skin had adjusted to the frost.

“You survived, little one,” he whispered, his voice soft and low, laced with something unidentifiable.

His breath curled in a frosty mist around your face as he leaned closer, his lips just a whisper away from your ear.

“I’ll see you real soon.”

Before you could say anything—before you could even think of a response—he rose to his full height, turned, and walked away.

You didn’t wait to see if he would change his mind. Scrambling forward, you gripped the edge of the hatch and pulled yourself in.

The cold vanished immediately as you fell, the icy chill replaced by a strange weightlessness. For a moment, you floated in nothingness, then, with a thud, you landed on the soft, familiar dirt of the survivor’s camp.

Warmth washed over you instantly, and you sucked in a deep breath, relief flooding through you. You looked around, the familiar sights of the campfire, scattered supplies, and makeshift shelters grounding you. It was over. The trial was over.

But as you sat there, staring into the fire’s comforting glow, the memory of his voice lingered in your mind. His words. His touch. His frost.

He had let you go.

Your next few trials were nothing short of a nightmare—though, what else was new? First, it was The Trapper, he had almost caught you at the exit gate, but a perfectly timed flashlight save from one of the other survivors gave you just enough time to slip away.

Then, there was Ghostface. His knife had grazed your back once, almost claiming you as you worked on a generator, but somehow, you managed to outmaneuver him, staying just steps ahead of his blade. The trial ended with you sprinting through the exit gate, heart pounding and lungs burning.

But just when you thought you could catch your breath, the Entity had other plans.

The next time the fog swallowed you up and spat you into a new trial, the familiar chill hit you like a slap to the face.

Your boots crunched against the snow as you took in your surroundings, your breath already visible in the icy air. Dead, frostbitten hedges towered around you, stretching into a labyrinth.

Your stomach dropped.

His map. Again.

You took a cautious step forward, trying to steady your breathing as the icy wind bit into your skin.

It didn’t take long before the sound of a generator humming faintly reached your ears. You turned a corner in the maze, spotting one sitting in the center of a small clearing. A teammate—Claudette—was already crouched by it, working diligently.

Relief washed over you as you made your way to her. If you could stick together, you’d have a better chance of survival. But as you reached her side and knelt to help, you couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

Your hands trembled slightly as you worked, the cold making it hard to grip the wired properly. Then, without warning, Claudette stiffened beside you, her eyes widening in panic.

“Run,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind.

You didn’t need to ask why. The frost on the ground spreading, creeping toward you like a living thing, said as much.

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

The Frost Warden. At least that is what you and the other has started calling him.

You bolted at the sight of him, the snow crunching loudly beneath your feet as you tore through the maze. The icy wind whipped at your face, stinging your skin, but you didn’t dare look back.

The sound of Claudette’s scream echoed faintly behind you, and guilt clawed at your chest, but you couldn’t stop now.

You turned another corner, your lungs burning from the cold air, and skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling when you saw it—a generator, partially hidden by the frost-covered hedges. Relief mixed with panic surged through you. You had no idea where the others were, but you couldn’t let this chance go to waste.

You ran to it, skidding slightly on the icy ground, and immediately knelt by its side. Your fingers, stiff and numb from the cold, fumbled as you began working. The gears groaned faintly, resisting your touch, but you forced yourself to focus, biting your lip to keep your hands steady.

The sound of the Frost Warden’s footsteps had faded behind you, but you knew better than to assume he’d given up the chase. He didn’t need to run to catch you. This map was his domain, and you were just another mouse trapped in his frozen maze.

The generator sputtered as you fixed another wire, the hum growing louder with each successful connection. Your breath clouded the air in front of you as you worked, the sound of the engine beginning to mask the distant howling wind.

But then, a faint shimmer in the corner of your vision made you freeze.

You glanced up, heart sinking, and spotted a mirror embedded into the wall of the hedges just a few feet away. Its surface rippled faintly, like water disturbed by a pebble, and your reflection stared back at you—pale, frostbitten, and wide-eyed with fear.

For a second, nothing happened. The mirror was still, almost taunting you. But then, the rippling grew stronger, and your blood turned to ice.

You didn’t wait to see what would come through. You turned back to the generator, frantically working to finish it, but your trembling hands slowed you down. The gears groaned again, protesting against your haste.

Behind you, the mirror shimmered one last time, and then the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the snow filled the air.

Slow, deliberate, and far too close.

“Fixing something, are we?” The Frost Warden’s icy voice was low and calm, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

You whipped your head around, your heart leaping into your throat. He stood just a few feet away, his tall figure looming over you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His piercing blue eye studied you, sharp and calculating.

“I have to admit,” he said, taking a slow step closer, “I enjoy watching you struggle. It’s... captivating.”

You scrambled to your feet, hands trembling as you backed away from the generator. He tilted his head slightly, his calm expression never faltering, and took another step forward. The frost beneath his feet spread outward with each step, creeping across the ground and curling around the base of the generator.

You wanted to run, to put as much distance between you and him as possible, but your legs felt like lead. The cold seemed to seep into your bones, rooting you in place as his icy gaze bore into you.

“Go on,” he said softly, gesturing with the shard. “Run. Fight. Survive. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

His words felt like a taunt, and something inside you snapped. You turned on your heel and bolted, the sound of his low, icy chuckle following you as you disappeared into the labyrinth once more.

Your boots slipped slightly on the frost-slick ground as you sprinted deeper into the labyrinth. Every turn you made felt like the wrong one, the frozen hedges looming high around you, cutting off your sense of direction.

You refused to look back. You couldn’t.

Panic clawed at your chest as you skidded around another corner, narrowly avoiding an ice-coated statue that seemed to glare down at you like a silent sentinel. Your breath was visible in the air, coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

A faint light caught your eye—another generator. This one stood in the center of an open clearing, its dull hum barely audible over the wind. You didn’t hesitate. Sliding to a stop, you crouched beside it, your trembling hands fumbling as you grabbed your tools.

Your fingers were numb, making it even harder to work, but you forced yourself to focus. The wires were stiff and brittle, like they might snap under too much pressure, but you managed to connect them, one by one.

The generator sputtered to life, its engine coughing loudly as it struggled against the cold. You winced at the noise, glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing there, watching. But there was no one. So you took that chance.

Standing up up you sprinted back through the labyrinth, turning sharply around a frozen hedge, when a faint hum caught your ears. Another generator. Your heart leapt with a sliver of hope, and as you rounded the corner, you saw him—Bill.

He was hunched over the last few wires of the generator, his rough hands expertly finishing the job. Sparks flew, and the machine roared to life just as you skidded to a stop nearby.

"Bill!" you gasped, barely able to get the word out as you stumbled toward him, your breath clouding in the icy air.

He looked up sharply, his cigarette dangling from his lips, and his eyes widened when he saw you. "Kid, what the hell are you doin'?" he barked, but before you could answer, the faint crunch of footsteps made both of you freeze.

You didn’t need to say a word. Bill’s face hardened instantly, his sharp instincts kicking in. “Go. Now,” he growled, stepping between you and the sound of approaching frost.

“Bill—”

“Don’t argue with me! Get your ass outta here!” he snapped, pulling his flashlight from his belt.

After a moment of hesitation you turned and bolted, your feet slipping slightly on the frozen ground as you took off deeper into the maze. Behind you, you heard Bill shout, “Come on, you bastard! You want someone? Come get me!”

You risked a glance back just in time to see the Frost Warden emerge from the mist, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette. His icy blue eye locked onto Bill.

“Come on dammit!!” Bill yelled, his voice fierce.

You didn’t look back after that. You ran, your legs burning as you pushed forward, weaving through the labyrinth. The sound of their confrontation grew fainter with each step, replaced by the distant hum of generators and the faint howl of the wind.

It wasn’t until you burst through a gap in the hedges and saw the glowing lights of the exit gate in the distance that you realized you were finally in the clear. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning from the effort, but you forced yourself to keep going.

As you reached the gate, you found one of your teammates already there, working frantically to pull the lever. They glanced at you, relief washing over their face as the gate screeched open with a metallic groan.

With one last glance at the icy maze, you stepped through the gate, the warmth of safety washing over you.

You hated the smug, talkative killers. The ones who couldn’t just do their job silently but instead had to taunt, flirt, or throw out some sarcastic quip every chance they got. It wasn’t enough for them to hook you or slash at you—they had to make it personal, priding themselves on the mental games they played.

Killers like that were rare, but when you encountered them, you dreaded every moment of the trial. They made it unbearable, turning what was already a desperate fight for survival into a drawn-out performance where they were the star of the show.

The worst part? They always had that air of superiority, acting as if they were untouchable. They thrived on your frustration, your fear, and sometimes even your silence.

“Aw, don’t run now. We were just getting to know each other!”

You could hear their voice ringing in your ears even now, a mocking lilt that made your skin crawl. Some of them flirted, their words dripping with twisted charm as they chased you through the trial, their weapons raised.

“You look so cute when you’re terrified.”

Others just talked endlessly, like they needed you to know how clever or sadistic they were. They’d narrate every move, every mistake you made, as if you weren’t already painfully aware of how close you were to getting caught.

“Really? That’s the best you can do? You should’ve vaulted back there—might’ve lasted a bit longer.”

And then there were the ones who wouldn’t shut up when they hooked you, leaning down like they had all the time in the world, their breath hot against your skin.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. It’s just business… though you do make it so much fun.”

You hated them. All of them.

It wasn’t just the humiliation—it was how they got under your skin, how their words stayed with you even after the trial was over. You could still feel the phantom weight of their hands brushing against your skin as they carried you, hear the mocking laughter as they walked away from the hook, leaving you there to struggle.

And yet, even if he wasn’t as insufferable as the others, he still had that pridefulness about him—this confidence that made him believe he was better than you, better than all of you. He didn’t need to taunt or jeer with endless, childish words like some of the others, but when he spoke, his voice carried weight. His words lingered, cutting deep, mocking you with a sly edge, and worse, when he flirted… it wasn’t just for show.

There was no humor in his tone, no casual arrogance like the smug Ghostface or the loud-mouthed Trickster. When he spoke to you, it felt like there was intent behind every word. Like he meant it.

That’s why, when you dropped into the Hawkins Lab, you let out a quiet breath of relief, assuming the Demogorgon was the killer this time. The mechanical hum of the underground facility echoed faintly, and you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky for once.

But then you felt it—the subtle, growing thump of your heartbeat.

You froze.

The air changed. A chill crept over your skin, one that was unmistakable.

The frost.

Your breath hitched as your eyes darted around the dimly lit corridors, and when you saw the faint mist curling along the ground, your stomach dropped.

It was him.

He was the killer this round.

Your pulse quickened, the memory of your last encounter with him flooding your mind. You didn’t know if you were ready to face him again. But ready or not, he was here. Somewhere.

And he was already hunting.

You crept through the winding halls of the lab, the flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the steel walls. The chill in the air followed you, prickling at your skin as if a warning.

Finally, in a quieter part of the lab, tucked into a dead-end room, you found a generator. Relief washed over you as you crouched beside it, letting your fingers hover over the familiar knobs and wires. You could do this.

Your hands worked quickly, tightening bolts and rewiring panels, the sound of the generator humming softly beneath your touch. But then, from somewhere deep in the lab, a scream pierced the silence.

It was sharp, panicked, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

One of the others had found him—or, more accurately, he had found them.

Your instinct screamed at you to stop what you were doing, to run and hide before he got too close. But you couldn’t afford to waste time. You couldn’t leave the generator unfinished, and there was no guarantee you’d find another quiet spot like this again.

So you stayed.

Your fingers trembled as you twisted the last wire into place, forcing yourself to focus on the task. Every tick of the generator felt like an eternity, each movement of your hand making your heart pound harder.

And then you felt it—the subtle change in the air.

The frost crept in, curling along the edges of the room like icy tendrils reaching for you.

Your breath fogged as the chill kissed your skin, and your stomach sank just as the generator roared to life, cutting through the silence of the lab.

And then you saw it.

To your left, just beyond the doorway, the faint red glow.

Your heart sank.

The telltale light killers carried with them—always a warning, always a death sentence if you weren’t fast enough. And just past the glow, you saw him.

He stood there, completely still for a moment, then his head tilted slightly, almost curiously, before he took a single step forward. The frost beneath his feet deepened, spreading faster across the floor, as if it were alive and hungry to reach you.

"Impressive," he murmured, his voice smooth and cold, yet carrying a dangerous edge. "You finished the generator all alone? Clever little thing, aren’t you?"

Your legs finally obeyed you, and you stumbled backward, your shoulder hitting the wall as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But there was nowhere to go—no other exits, no windows to climb through.

He stepped fully into the room now, the red glow of his presence bathing the small space as he closed the distance with unnerving calmness.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his lips curling into the faintest smirk as his free hand reached out, his frosted fingers brushing lightly against the wall beside your head.

"I’ve been looking forward to this," he whispered. "Don’t disappoint me now."

Well.. he said it.

With your back against the wall and his towering figure leaning in too close, you knew there was only one way out of this.

Before he could react, you drove your knee up with all your strength, slamming it into his stomach.

He staggered back, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as his hand instinctively moved to his abdomen.

"Really?" he hissed, his voice low and laced with irritation.

But you didn’t stick around to hear what else he had to say. The moment you saw him falter, you bolted.

You sprinted past him, your boots skidding slightly on the frosted floor as you rounded the doorway and darted back into the dimly lit hallways of Hawkins Lab.

You could hear him behind you now—not running, but walking. Slow, deliberate, as if he wasn’t worried about catching up.

And that made it worse.

You risked a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it.

He was there, just a few meters behind you. “Running again, are we?” he called out. “You should know by now—you can’t outrun the cold.”

You turned sharply around another corner, your breath hitching in your chest, but suddenly—bam!—another survivor came barreling around the corner.

“Watch it!” they hissed, just as panicked as you. It was Meg, her red hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, her eyes wide with fear. But before either of you could exchange another word, an icy gust cut through the hallway, and Meg’s eyes widened further.

“Run!” she shouted, but it was too late.

With a flick of his wrist, the shard slashed across Meg’s side, cutting through her jacket and drawing a scream from her lips.

You stumbled back, gasping as you watched in horror.

“Pathetic,” his cold, deep voice echoed, reverberating through the hallway. He stood over Meg, who writhed in pain at his feet, clutching her wound. “So flawed… so imperfect.” His tone was cutting, condescending, as if she were beneath him.

“You’re not worth my time,” he added, tilting his head as he stared down at her, his frostbitten fingers twitching.

Meg groaned and tried to crawl away, but he pressed the tip of his shard into the ground beside her, the ice creeping out in sharp, jagged patterns. He didn’t strike again, though—he didn’t need to. His words alone cut deeper than the shard itself.

“You’ve already been broken,” he sneered, stepping away from her as if she were nothing more than a discarded object.

From his side, he produced a small shard of mirror, its surface gleaming. He turned it in his hands with a strange gentleness, his icy fingers trailing along the edges of the shard as if it were a delicate treasure.

Meg whimpered, flinching as he tilted the shard toward her face. The distorted reflection that appeared in its surface made your breath hitch. It wasn’t just her face—it was a fractured version of her, revealing her deepest insecurities, her doubts, and fears. Her lips trembled as she stared at the cruel image, her reflection seeming to cry out silently as if begging for release.

"You see," he murmured, his voice quiet yet cutting, "this is what you truly are. Flawed. Fragile. Broken beyond repair."

Meg tried to look away, but he held the shard steady, forcing her to confront the image.

And then, with cold, unflinching precision, he drove the shard into her chest.

Her body arched with a strangled cry, her breath coming out in shallow gasps as the mirror shard pierced her heart.

Meg's movements stilled, her eyes glassy as the frost crept across her skin. He remained kneeling over her, watching as her life slipped away, the satisfaction in his expression subtle but unmistakable.

Standing slowly, he looked down at her lifeless body, his frosted hands carefully wiping the shard clean. He inspected it briefly, as if ensuring it was free of imperfection before tucking it away.

Then, he turned to you.

His icy blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“You however,” he said softly, his voice like frost creeping over glass, “are nothing like that.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as he began to move toward you, his steps slow and deliberate.

“So perfect,” he continued, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But even perfection can be elevated.”

He stopped just a few feet away, his presence overwhelming as he tilted his head. “How much more beautiful you’d be…” His voice dipped, a cold whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “…as part of the ice.”

Before you could move, before you could even think, he was on you. His cold hand pressed against your shoulder, driving you back until your spine hit the wall with a muted thud. The opposing sensations—his cold and the warmth your body clung to—warred within you, leaving you frozen in more ways than one.

His gloved hand remained firm on your shoulder, holding you in place, while his other hand brushed against your cheek. The frost that followed his touch bloomed across your skin like a winter’s kiss, cold yet strangely… soothing.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, each word curling around you like an arctic breeze. “The warmth of life… fighting so desperately against the cold I bring.”

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your skin like a whisper of frost. “It’s beautiful… the way your body responds. How it resists, yet…” He tilted his head, “you don’t pull away.”

Your teeth chattered as you tried to speak, but no words came.

“You’re so… fragile,” he continued, his voice soft yet laced with a dangerous edge. “So alive. And yet…” His hand moved from your cheek to trail along your jawline, his touch featherlight but freezing. “…it would take so little to turn you into something eternal. A perfect sculpture of ice.”

Your chest heaved as you struggled to keep your composure, the weight of his words sinking in. He leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours now, his cold breath mingling with your warm exhalations.

“But not yet,” he whispered, his lips curling into that same pleased smirk. “Not when you’re this… captivating.”

His hand lingered for a moment longer before he suddenly stepped back, releasing you. The frost clinging to your skin and the wall behind you melted away almost instantly, leaving you trembling.

He turned away without another word, his presence still heavy in the air. For a moment, you thought he was leaving you, but then he glanced over his shoulder, his icy gaze piercing through you.

“Run,” he said softly, the word laced with chilling intent. “Let’s see how long that warmth of yours can last.”

Your breath hitched as the word settled in the air like a command, and without hesitation, your body obeyed. You pushed off the wall and bolted.

A sharp whoosh cut through the air, and you instinctively ducked, feeling the chilling breeze of his mirror shard slicing the air just behind you. It didn’t hit you—no, it never did—but it was close enough to send shivers crawling up your spine. He wasn’t trying to injure you. He wanted you to feel the cold, to know how close he was, to remind you that you were his to chase.

You rounded a corner, vaulting over a low counter in a desperate attempt to create some distance, but when you landed on the other side, his red light loomed just behind you. A low, cold laugh followed, echoing in the empty halls.

You made a sharp turn, vaulting over another obstacle, and finally, finally, you saw someone. A flash of movement—another survivor! Relief flooded through you as they ran toward you, their eyes wide with panic.

It was Jake.

He looked at you, then past you, his expression hardening as he realized who was chasing you. Without a word, he stepped forward, drawing the killer’s attention as you scrambled to the side, ducking into another hallway.

You hesitated for just a moment, watching as the killer’s calm gaze shifted to Jake. He didn’t speak this time, but there was something in his posture as if he were almost… displeased at the interruption.

Jake shouted, waving his arms to draw the killer further away. “Come one!” he yelled.

With one last glance, you turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, the sound of their footsteps fading behind you.

Eventually you found a dark, quiet corner where you could catch your breath.

You slumped against the wall, your body trembling from adrenaline and the lingering chill of his presence. Jake had bought you time, but you knew it wouldn’t last forever.

You stumbled into another corridor, your heart still racing as you scanned the area. The faint hum of a generator reached your ears, and you followed it like a lifeline. Turning a corner, your eyes landed on a half-finished generator sitting in the middle of a secluded room. Relief washed over you.

Quickly, you moved to it, crouching down and setting to work. Your hands shook, partially from the cold and partially from the lingering adrenaline, but you forced yourself to focus.

You flinched at the sudden distant sound of a scream. Someone had gone down—it was hard to tell who in the chaos of the trial—but you couldn’t think about that now.

Finally, the generator sparked to life, the room lighting up with the mechanical glow and you allowed yourself a small, shaky exhale of victory.

But then, the warmth in the air shifted.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as the icy feeling grew stronger. You froze in place, barely breathing, your eyes darting around the room.

The ground near your feet began to frost over, thin trails of ice spreading across the floor.

Panic surged through you, and your eyes scanned the room desperately. There—a locker, tucked into the corner. Without hesitation, you sprinted for it, careful to avoid making too much noise. You slipped inside and shut the door as quietly as you could, pressing your back against the wooden wall.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from making a sound, every muscle in your body tensing as the steps grew louder, closer. The frost crept higher on the walls, spiderwebbing like cracks in a mirror.

You crouched lower in the locker, your eyes fixed on the small gaps in the slats. Through them, you could see his figure moving closer, the frost trailing in his wake. It spread across the walls, over the floor, and finally, onto the locker itself.

You could feel the chill seeping through, making the air inside colder and colder. Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried desperately to stay silent, but the icy metal at your back made it nearly impossible to stay still.

Through the small gaps, you watched as he stopped right in front of the locker. He stood there for a moment, his back partially turned, scanning the room.

You thought he might leave, but then he turned back, facing the locker directly, standing perfectly still, only inches away from where you were hiding. For a moment, he seemed to just stand there, listening, the silence pressing down like a weight.

The frost continued to spread, climbing up the locker door and along its edges. The cold bit into your skin, making you shiver involuntarily. And that was your mistake.

The faintest sound of your breath slipping past your lips was enough.

His head tilted slightly, his sharp blue eye narrowing as he leaned forward. From the small gap, you could see his mouth curl into a smirk.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, his voice a soft, chilling whisper that made the frost seem warmer in comparison.

You stiffened, pressing your back harder against the frozen wood as he tapped a single finger on the locker door. “Are we playing hide-and-seek now?” he continued, his tone laced with amusement. “I thought you’d know by now—” he paused, leaning closer, so close that you swore his frosty breath was fogging the slats, “—I always win.”

For a horrifying moment, you thought he was going to rip the door open, his hand hovering close. But instead, he straightened up, taking a step back.

You let out a shaky breath, thinking for a second that he might leave. But then he raised his mirror shard and dragged it lightly against the edge of the locker door, the screech of ice making you wince.

“You know,” he began, his voice smooth and quiet, almost too calm, “there’s something about you… something that exhilarates me.” He let out a low chuckle, dragging the shard along the door one last time before stopping. “I’ve encountered many survivors, and they all blur together after a while. But you…” He paused, leaning closer so his breath frosted the slats of the locker. “You’re not like that.”

You could barely breathe, your entire body frozen—not from the cold, but from his words. The way he spoke wasn’t like the other killers you’d faced. There was no mockery, no irritation at your defiance.

“You’re so... special,” he murmured, the shard now resting against the locker as if he were caressing it. “Every time I see you, it’s like I’m looking at something perfect.” He chuckled again, low and chilling. “It makes me want to keep you forever. Preserve that beauty. Make it mine.”

Your heart stopped as his words sunk in, your breath caught in your throat. Before you could think to do anything—before you could even try to scramble or scream—the door to the locker swung open.

“Caught you,” he said softly, as if this was nothing more than a game.

You gasped as his arms reached in, effortlessly grabbing you. The frost where his hands touched your skin seeped into you immediately.

“Struggling won’t help,” he said, almost teasingly, as you tried to push against him. “Not that I want you to. I quite like the way you tremble.”

Before you could protest, he hoisted you up with a strength that made your attempts at resistance seem laughable. Your world tilted as he threw you over his shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. Before he started walking through the lab, while you squirmed in his hold, but it was no use.

Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, he shifted you off his shoulder and set you down with surprising care onto a cold, metal control table in the center of the lab. The frost beneath his boots crept up the legs of the table, spreading like spiderwebs across the surface and surrounding you in a halo of icy mist.

You tried to sit up, but he leaned forward, his hand pressing against your shoulder to keep you in place. “You’re quite predictable, you know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with a tinge of amusement. “Always fighting. Always running. But here you are under me again.”

His lips curved into that same faint, knowing smirk that made your chest tighten. He shifted slightly closer, his free hand resting on the edge of the table, boxing you in.

“You’re the last one left again,” he murmured, almost like he was savoring the words. “Everyone else has fallen. And yet… here you are. Stubborn as ever.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. The others were gone. You were the last survivor again, and there was still one generator left to finish.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as you glanced around the room, searching desperately for some kind of opening, anything to get away. But his body blocked most of your view, and the frost on the walls behind him seemed to spread as if sealing off any potential escape.

“Such a mouth,” he teased, his voice almost a whisper now, his frosty breath grazing your lips. “But I like your fire. It makes it so much more satisfying to snuff it out.”

His hand moved slowly to rest on your chest, the chill of his touch sinking deep into your skin. A shiver ran down your spine as you watched in wide-eyed disbelief. Frost spread outward from where his palm met your chest, intricate patterns blooming like frozen flowers across your skin. It didn’t feel painful—it was cold, yes, but strangely gentle, almost mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but stare at the crystalline designs etching themselves over you.

“You see?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, laced with a quiet satisfaction. “Perfection.”

Your gaze snapped up to meet his as he stepped back slightly. His free hand rose, tugging at the edge of his cracked mirror mask. With a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he removed it, letting the light fully illuminate his face for the first time.

He was… beautiful. His features were sharp and striking, carved with the same precision as the frost he wielded. A few thin scars adorned his face, faint but noticeable. His eyes glowed faintly, studying you intently, as though you were some kind of masterpiece he’d just completed.

“You complement me so perfectly now,” he said softly, as his eyes lingered on the frost spreading over your skin. His gaze was equal parts admiration and possessiveness, as if you were a creation he had shaped with his own hands.

You wanted to speak, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but the words caught in your throat. There was something about the way he looked at you that made it impossible to move.

“You’re so beautiful” he continued, his cold fingers tracing a line along the frost-covered patterns on your arms. “Now… now you’re mine. A canvas perfected by my touch.”

Your breathing hitched as his hand paused, his icy fingertips resting just over your racing pulse. His face was so close now that you could feel the frost in his breath, mingling with the warmth of yours.

“You’ve always stood out,” he said, his tone softening, almost tender. “Among all the others, you are the only one worth keeping.” As his hand rested on your chest, he leaned closer, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I wonder,” he mused softly, his voice almost a whisper now, “how much more beautiful you’ll be… once the ice fully claims you.”

Before you could react, he leaned in, his cold lips pressing against yours. The icy chill of his kiss sent a jolt through your body, and you gasped sharply, the frost on your skin seeming to tighten as if it were alive, responding to his touch. His lips, though cold, were strangely soft it left you reeling, unsure whether to pull away or melt into it.

His hands moved swiftly, capturing yours as your instincts kicked in to push him away. He intertwined his fingers with yours, locking them together. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm, as though he was making sure you wouldn’t escape. The frost from his hands seeped into yours, spreading the intricate, shimmering patterns further up your arms.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could see his breath crystallizing in the cold air between you. “You even sound so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for you. His thumbs brushed lightly over the backs of your hands, sending another shiver coursing through your body. “I could get used to hearing the sounds i could get out of you.”

You tried to tug your hands free, but his fingers tightened slightly, holding you there. “Why fight it?” he whispered, tilting his head, his tone almost coaxing. “You belong here. With me. Look at yourself—you’re already becoming part of the ice.”

Your gaze flickered downward for a moment, catching the glittering frost climbing your arms, wrapping around your wrists like delicate, frozen chains. It was as if the cold itself was claiming you, binding you to him.

“Don’t you see?” he continued, his voice filled with a chilling certainty. “No one else could ever understand your beauty the way I do. No one else could ever deserve you.”

His hands tightened just slightly around yours, pulling you closer as his lips brushed against your ear. “Let me show you how much you mean to me,” he whispered, his breath icy against your skin, sending another shiver down your spine.

His hands suddenlt slid to the hem of your sweater, the cold of his fingers making your breath hitch as he slowly pulled the fabric upward. The icy chill wrapped around you like a second skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

As the fabric bunched up, exposing more of your skin, you felt his lips brush against your stomach—a fleeting, ghostly kiss that left a trail of frost in its wake. His kisses were cold but delicate, as if he were crafting something beautiful out of your very existence. The frost spread wherever his lips touched, etching intricate, crystalline patterns onto your skin like a frozen work of art.

You shivered, your teeth threatening to chatter as the frost claimed more of you, but the chill didn’t burn.

“You don’t even realize how perfect you are, do you?” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing along the curve of your collarbone. His voice was softer now, almost tender. “Each mark I leave… it suits you. Makes you mine.”

His hands trailed along your sides, the frost blooming under his touch like winter flowers. You gasped softly as his lips pressed against your chest, leaving behind more intricate frost.

“I could cover every inch of you,” he continued, his voice deepening as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. His eyes sparkled with an unearthly glow as they traced the frosty designs now covering your skin. “You were made for this. For me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in again, his lips brushing yours so faintly it was maddening. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his voice as chilling as his touch. “You’re already mine.”

The frost tightened its hold on you, the cold sinking deeper into your skin as if binding you to him, you couldn’t tell whether it was fear or something else entirely keeping you from pulling away.

a/n: my mom is sick so i was filling up a hot water bag but i squeezed too tight so i spilled the water on my chest :p pray my piercing dont get irritated...

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lieran03 · 3 months ago

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When You Shatter A Glass

Love and Deepspace Fanfic

When you broke a glass by accident, what would be his reaction? And when he sees you scared, what will he say to you as a response?

Genre: fluff, comfort/no hurt Pairing: Rafayel x fem!reader (usage of Cutie and Miss Bodyguard as nickname) Words: 881 Warning: none!

Writing commission || Ko-fi || AO3 acc

Zayne's || Xavier's || Sylus' || Caleb's

Being dramatic was never really Rafayel's intention. The yelp came out from him when he heard a shattering glass from behind him. Burnt out from painting all day, Rafayel asked his Miss Bodyguard to accompany him. Being a good host, he decided to make some snacks and drinks for her. His generosity burdened her, somehow like telling her she should do something too.

That’s why while preparing food, Rafayel let her pour their drinks.

“Cutie, what was that?” There was a confused look, but the prominent expression on Rafayel’s face was shocked. His hand moves to his chest, massaging his heart from the sudden shock he got.

“I’m … I’m so sorry, Raf. I just … I just broke your glass.”

At first, Rafayel wanted to act like it was nothing, acting it as a joke yet, when he saw how she acted, all of the jokes inside of his mind were gone. Her hand was trembling, her eyes glazing, holding back a tear that threatened to spill. It feels like Rafayel’s mind stopped working, he was short-circuited. It was just a broken glass, why would she act like this?

“Miss Bodyguard?”

The change of tone from Rafayel, and the change of name to his usual nickname, succeed in gaining her attention. This time, she stares into Rafayel’s eyes and drowns in his world. There was worry, and he didn’t try to mask it like he usually did. Frowning, staring, and calculating. Rafayel tries his best to find any crack within her fearful expression.

“I’m—I’m so sorry, I … I ….”

“Cutie, hey?” Alerted by the sudden outburst, Rafayel didn’t waste a second before both of his hands went to her hips, getting her closer to him, far from the shard of glass. “It’s okay? It’s just a glass, I can buy it again. You’re not hurt, are you? Or did it get into you? Let me check, okay?”

There was no waiting for confirmation. Still, at the same place, Rafayel moves one of his hands behind her head before lifting her, bringing her slowly toward the nearest seat. He examined her feet and calf closely, making sure there was no scratch, even the smallest one. A sigh of relief can be heard when he finds none.

She’s not hurt and her reaction didn’t come from any pain.

Then, why?

“Cutie, did you want to tell me something?” Although Rafayel’s tone sounded a bit assertive, there was a gentleness within, telling her that if she didn’t want to say it, she didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry ….” Instead of an explanation, she could only mutter the same words, looking down and ashamed, not being able to see Rafayel in the eyes anymore.

There was question, Rafayel couldn’t process what was happening nor did he know what to do. The only thing he could think of was to stand up and cradle her head to his chest, giving a sense of comfort and warmth. She needs it. No matter how strong his Miss Bodyguard was, there would be times when she couldn’t even trust herself.

“I’m not going to be mad at you for breaking the glass. In fact, you just gave me a reason to change it! I have been thinking about redecorating my tableware, but Thomas keeps saying there’s nothing wrong with it! Can you believe that? Colors are a must and changing moods are good for stimulation while I draw!”

Hearing Rafayel’s rambles, a slow giggle can be heard, making him feel relaxed a bit. It was working, whatever he did was working. Getting a response he wanted, the rambles continued on, even though he didn’t know what else he said to her, spurting anything he could think of just so her mind get off the fact she was the one to break it.

“But … I was the one to break it. I will buy a new one for you,” she said weakly, finally able to calm down and staring at Rafayel’s eyes once again.

“What are you talking about? Hm … instead, as a payment, we could go shopping together tomorrow. You have to choose the perfect glass for this house. What do you say?”

“I-I will try my best!” Rafayel turned down the offer fast, and at the same time gave an alternative choice, leaving no room to say no. “I will pick the one most favorable for you.”

“Choose one that suits your taste too, Cutie.” Couldn’t hold back his feelings, Rafayel cups her cheeks, playing with them cheeks laughing lowly. “I wanted to see how you paint this house with your things, I bet it would help me to get more inspiration. Now, stay here until I finish cleaning up the kitchen. And no, it’s not your fault, you’re not helping me. How could you protect me tomorrow if you’re wounded? I didn’t hire a wounded bodyguard, you know.”

Rafayel was ready to walk away when he felt his pinky finger was being held gently. “Thank you … and I’m sorry.”

“No need for that, Sweetie,” Rafayel replied, looking deeply at her eyes with his usual smile. “I’m not mad at you, and I won’t force you to tell me anything. But when you want to, I’m all ears for you, only you.”

#ran's writing #love and deepspace #lads #lnds #l&ds #loveanddeepspace #love and deep space #rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lnds rafayel #rafayel lads #x reader #lads rafayel #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace rafayel

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mustelidsinlove · 5 months ago

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Dramione one shots that are never far from my thoughts

[in no particular order; mind the tags — some of these are dark]

As Sharp as Any Thorn by Argosy [E, 8.8k]

The road to redemption is a winding one. Christmas at Grimmauld Place, Post HBP.

Art: Night and Her Daughter Sleep (detail), Mary L. Macomber, 1902

Scenes from a Marriage by hiddenhibernian [T, 5.4k]

They say love isn't about what you say, it's what you do. If you see it that way, Hermione doesn't have any reason to complain.

Art: The Lovers, Akseli Gallen-Kallela, c. 1907-1917

Grit by witchsoup [T, 4k]

Hermione attempts to diagnose a secretive patient suffering major curse damage.

Art: Hands Grasping 7, Susan Manspeizer, 2018

remedia amoris by magneticwave [M, 14.7k]

The most amazing thing about Malfoy is not that he managed to build a successful Ministry career out of the total disgrace of his family, but that somehow Hermione only despises him half of the time that they work together.

Art: Circe Offering up the Cup to Ulysses (detail), John William Waterhouse, 1891

Inside by onebedtorulethemall [M, 7.5k]

Something is wrong with Draco Malfoy.

Art: Illustration from The West Wing, Edward Gorey, 1963

With Teeth by provocative_envy [M, 5.4k]

Albus Dumbledore had been wrong about Voldemort’s horcruxes.

Art: Escape Before the Dawn, Devinez, 2023

On the Virtues of Inexhaustible Burning by PacificRimbaud [T, 5k]

In which Draco Malfoy wrestles geology and Hermione receives several gifts.

Art: Saint Augustine (detail), Philippe de Champaigne, c. 1645-1650

I am Sleeping on a Time Bomb by i forgot to blink [M, 4k]

The war is over, and they go to Antarctica.

Art: Barne Glacier, Herbert Pointing, 1911

Tromp as Writ by a_rum_of_one's_own [E, 7.2k]

‘Merlin and Morgana, what’s that?’ he breathed. ‘Muggle underwear. We’re beyond chemises, you know.’ ‘Granger,’ he said. ‘Granger. You can’t. This isn’t fair.'

Art: Saturnina Canaleta de Girona (detail), Federico de Madrazo y Kuntz, 1856

Reset by provocative_envy [M, 4.5k]

And the fear—the fear that he’s learned to swallow, choke on, bury the crushed and fragmented shards of—it's turning the space between him and her and the last six weeks, the last six months, into a gaping yawning brutally invincible chasm; a wall to scale and a cliff to jump and a step he’s never quite been brave enough to take. She takes it for him. Of course she does.

Art: Joan of Arc, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1882

Chiaroscuro by ifyouwereamelody [T, 5.1k]

Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts for sixth year a changed man. Marked, dangerous, and tasked with something terrible, he finds himself haunted by memories of the year before — a bright spark of connection that now he's got no choice but to douse.

Art: Vengeance is Sworn (detail) from the Revenge Triptych, Francesco Hayez, 1851

The Street Where You Live by scullyvasan [T, 10.5k]

Muggle childhood AU. Single mother Narcissa Malfoy co-parents her son Draco and functionally parents the little girl down the street. Light homages to Books 1-4 but no wands, no wizards, no Hogwarts — just human magic and the passing years at work.

Art: Daydreams, Thomas Couture, 1859

The Running Club by winterwells [E, 10.4k]

Hermione returns to Hogwarts for the "Seventh Year Was A Cluster F*** So Let's All Do It Again!" year. The war has left its mark, and she copes in the best way she can. Running. And she might pick up some stragglers along the way...

Art: Stripes of Silence, Lu Guada, 2012

Whistle by witchsoup [T, 1.5k]

Hermione spends the majority of her time on the tube, or dashing around Sainsbury's hunting for the last of the vegetarian wraps for her two-thirds-complete meal deal. Though it would be somewhat off-brand, she feels that it's well within her rights to ask David Cameron to lower the price of a meal deal, while he's at it. Possibly her rent, too.

Art: Untitled, Isabel Bishop, c. 1940s-1960s

Lights Out by Phoebe [E, 10.2k]

She smiles, and it enrages him further. Granger is afraid of many things. She's afraid of what lies outside Hogwarts, what could be lurking within the walls. She's afraid of Voldemort, and probably of his father. And she is inexplicably, illogically afraid of the dark. But she's not afraid of him.

Art: The Woman with the Candle (detail), Cornelis Visscher II, c. 1643-1658

Salvage by storycat9 [T, 1k]

Who is Hermione Granger when there’s no one left to protect?

Art: After Igor Svyatoslavich's fighting with the Cumans, Viktor Vasnetsov, 1880

The Object Lesson by Fleurizel [M, 13.6k]

When Hermione is forced to spend a weekend at the Bulstrodes’ country estate glad-handing for the Ministry, she finds an unlikely ally in the only other house guest who hadn’t fled the country when the war broke out: Draco Malfoy.

Art: Hands of the Puppeteer, Mexico City, Tina Modotti, 1929

i think i've seen this film before by magneticwave [T, 24.8k]

It doesn’t occur to Harry until supper that night, while Luna makes a Spanish tortilla with pink and blue potatoes from her garden, that Granger might actually be his friend now. Not just a transferable friend, comfortable with him because she’d grown up with a strangely domestic alternative version of him with short hair, but a real friend. Since he’s not sure how to feel about it, he eats his half of the tortilla in a silent daze and then helps Luna go over the last of the proofs for next week’s Quibbler.

Art: Still Life with Orange by Süleyman Seyyid Bey, c. 1900

Party Lines by PacificRimbaud [E, 10k]

As the dust settles in the 2000 United States Presidential election, Ivy League student Hermione Granger goes to three different parties, in an effort to think about something- anything- other than the state of Florida. So does that argumentative trust fund prick, Draco Malfoy. A college AU all about enemies who...aren't.

Art: Jasper Johns, Edisto Beach, Ugo Mulas, 1964

i have gone at dusk through narrow streets by i forgot to blink [T, 4k]

Draco, Hermione, and what came before and after the end.

Art: Interior Strandgade 30, Vilhelm Hammershøi, 1901

Breathe by Argosy [T, 14.5k]

The war is over and everyone wants something from Hermione. But that's nothing new; she can handle it. Really.

Art: Cupid and Psyché (detail), François Gérard, 1798

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ladykailitha · 27 days ago

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Spellbound Part 13

Here we are at the penultimate chapter! The climax I have been building to for several chapters is here at last.

This is where all the witches get to have their turn. And I finally pull off the joke I have been holding on to foreeevvveerr!

Also kudos to anyone who spots the reference to Hellboy (2004).

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Steve went to make sure Eddie and the others were safe and let out a noise of distress when he recognized the Witch Hunter. Thomas Hagan had been a family friend. Their mothers had gone to school together. But while Richard Harrington accepted his wife’s witchy ways, David Hagan had not.

He had tried to stamp out any notion of magic and spells from the moment they wed. Then Marianne Hagan fell ill.

Steve had always thought that David had been poisoning her and that’s why he refused to let Mom look at his wife.

What he hadn’t known was that David had told Tommy that a witch had cursed her. But had left out the witch’s name. Probably to avoid actually being cursed.

Then Tommy died in his arms and it was a tragic end to what once had been a good friend.

“Billy!” Max yelled, coming out of the forest.

She was at his side in an instant.

Lady Melisande looked at her and smiled. “He’ll be fine, child. The idiot Witch Hunter managed to miss every single vital organ.”

Max threw her arms around Billy and he held her tight.

“I’m fine, Maxie,” he murmured. “I’m okay.”

She pulled away and then hit him. “Don’t scare me like that again!”

“Ow!” Billy cried. “Hey, I’m still wounded, you know.”

Robin came dashing up to them. “Come quick! The mayor is trying to sacrifice Chrissy!”

Max looked down at Billy, torn. She was a witch. Yeah, a witch in training, but a witch nonetheless.

“Go!” Billy snarled. “You take out this bastard at the source so he can’t hurt anyone else.”

Lord Eanathreal nodded. “We will take care of the boy child and see him safely back to town. You must take him out. We are unable to do so with all the cold iron.”

The four witches nodded and made for town as fast as they could.

With Eddie’s glamour shielding them from sight now that Steve and he had touched and his power had grown, they were able to sneak into the town square.

There Mayor Carver had set up an alter where Chrissy lay unbound, unmoving.

“I will cleanse this land of witchcraft and evil!” Mayor Carver was shouting a knife held in his right fist. “I will take revenge for the death of my son! I will sacrifice her to God so that others might live in Christ!”

The town just watched enthralled, captivated by whatever blood magic he was using.

“She was born for this purpose!” Mayor Carver continued. “She was christened Christine. The feminine of Christian, a follower of Christ!”

“His aura is gross!” Max hissed with a grimace. “It’s black and oozing blood.”

Just then someone joustled the group and pushed Robin out of the circle of Eddie’s influence, landing at the feet of the mayor.

Mayor Carver seized her by the scruff of her neck. “Come to watch your true love die, witch?” he chuckled darkly.

“Let her go!” Robin screamed, kicking and scratching to no avail.

“I will sacrifice you next!” he snarled, shaking her roughly.

When he shook her, the amulet Argyle made shook free from under her dress.

“A witch’s amulet?” he asked cocking his head to the side. “So that how she was able to escape my control. You vermin gave her an amulet of protection! But it is gone now and so to will yours!”

“No! Don’t! Wai–!” Robin tried to warn him.

But he yanked on the leather cord and it came off in a snap.

Suddenly a bright navy blue light sheered through every person in the town square.

Eddie’s glamour wasn’t even protection enough from the sheer brute force of will of Robin’s magic being released on the whole town.

It shattered into shards of black light that also pierced the crowd.

Mayor Carver dropped Robin and the knife, clutching his chest. He fell to one knee. “What have you done to me, witch?!”

Max stepped forward, eyes wide in awe. “Oh my god...” she breathed. “Eddie and Robin’s magic has penetrated his aura. It’s splintering.”

Steve grabbed her and pulled her close. “Don’t touch it! It might hurt you!”

Mayor Carver slumped to the ground and looked Steve right in the eye. “Oh look what you’ve done. You’ve killed me.”

Out of his stomach, a smoky black hand clawed at the ground. Then another, pulling at the ground as more of the arms showed. Then a horned head peaked from the fallen form of the former mayor. It raised its head, its dark red eyes glimmering in the fading light of the day.

The townspeople were finally broken of the spell and the air was filled with screaming and cries as they ran away.

Steve shoved Max behind him and drew his sword. Without taking his eyes off the demon that was crawling out of the corpse of Mayor Carver, he said to Eddie, “Hey, love. You think you make it look like there are a bunch of me?”

Max’s eyes went wide. “Love? Ooh! That’s new! You’re gonna have to tell me all about it once you kick this demon’s ass.”

“Deal!” Eddie cried to both of them and Gawain skittered out from collar of his shirt.

Gawain chittered something and Eddie nodded, following his directions. He began to weave the air with his hands and suddenly there were five other Steve’s in his combat armor.

“Whoa!” Max huffed. “Also new!”

The demon had fully come out of Carver’s body and stood seven feet tall with long curled horns and large bat wings. It had goat’s feet and a scorpion’s tail. The rest of it was human enough to send shivers down Steve’s spine.

The demon spotted the six Steves and snarled as they surrounded him. The beast went for one of the Steves but it was the wrong one as the real Steve swooped in from behind and sliced at his wings.

The demon shrieked in pain and agony as Steve’s blow landed. It whirled around and swung its giant hands toward the one who had struck him. But before it could get close enough it was struck on the back again. This time with torches. It whirled around again. This time to face the gathered Watch, standing there with torches and pistols.

Then the other Steve’s vanished along with the Watch. The demon howled in frustration as its prey constantly eluded it.

Suddenly it let out a loud screech. Steve was on its shoulder, his sword deep in its back. But before it could swing around to dislodge its new rider, it was being pierced by a half dozen swords.

Chrissy moaned and Robin was at her side in an instant, helping her sit up. The true love spell glittered as a flutter of butterflies surrounded them in green and blue.

The demon tried to shield its eyes with its arms from the blinding light of true love.

Chrissy took in the situation in an instant. She yanked something off her neck and threw it to Steve. “It’s a crucifix, Steve!”

Steve used his magic to catch the small glittering object as it arched over his head. He could feel his magic draining. He wasn’t sure he could do it.

Then the air was filled with the cawing and shrieking of Max and Steve’s familiars. Both Zoomer and Circe went for the demon’s eyes. The demon swatted at them. Zoomer was able to bank out of the way, but Circe was struck full force of the demon’s power and crashed to the ground.

Suddenly Steve was filled with energy. “No!” he screamed and jammed the crucifix into the demon’s eye, muttering the spell he would have used on the redcap had he been given the chance.

“For Circe!” he cried as he was thrown to the ground, next to her broken body.

The demon exploded into shards of molten glass, Robin was only barely able to throw up a shield at the last second encasing shards within to prevent anyone from getting hurt.

Eddie stumbled over to Steve and clasped his hand, then he collapsed. The girls ran over to their sides, only to breathe a sigh of relief when they both had a pulse.

“Well, I for one am glad that’s all over,” Robin huffed, leaning against Steve’s back. “But how on earth are we going to get them to safety?”

Max blinked up at the skyline. “Well, how about a moving house?”

Robin looked behind her and sighed. “Right, in all the hullabaloo with what happened today, I forgot Bav could move on her own.” She got to her feet and then helped Chrissy to hers.

Bav lowered herself to the ground and suddenly she was big enough to have both Steve and Eddie on settees, separate but close enough that they could reach out and hold hands if they had to.

Beds were created for the girls and soon the entire house hold was sound asleep.

“Caw! Caw!”

“Shuuush!” Max admonished. “You noisy bird! Steve needs all the sleep he can get. He took on a demon and shouldn’t be awake yet.”

“Croak?” came the concerned reply.

“Circe?” Steve murmured, slowly coming to. He opened his eyes and sitting on a new wooden perch was a smaller raven than his raven. She had a white patch on her chest and her eyes turned to him.

“No,” Robin murmured, “I’m sorry. She didn’t make it. We’ll have a funeral for her when you’re well enough.”

“She came through the window,” Max explained, “just before you woke up. I think she sensed you were coming to and wanted to be here when you did.”

Steve held out his arm and the raven landed on it. She tilted her head and croaked sadly. He stroked her breast. “How do you like the name Morgana?”

Robin clapped. “That will go great with Merlin and Eddie’s Gawain.”

The raven cawed her agreement and Steve let out a sigh. “It’s going to take some getting use to and I will probably call you the wrong name once in a while. So this me apologizing upfront.”

Morgana rubbed her beak along his cheek and croaked sadly.

He sat up and looked around. “Where’s Eddie?”

“Right here, darlin’,” Eddie murmured, coming over to the settee with a steaming mug. “It’s just peppermint tea until we can be sure your magic has evened out again. It was going pretty erratic after Circe died.”

Steve took the cup gratefully and sipped the warm liquid. “That’s because familiars are supposed to be for the life of a witch.” He looked down at the mug and sniffled. “I think Circe martyred herself to give the power I needed to take out the demon.”

Eddie took the mug and set on the floor so he could hug him tightly. “I’m sorry, love. We’ve been looking into it and we think that the Mayor was Jason’s forefather Demetrius. He would have a male child and use that child when it had grown up enough to place his soul into it to live forever.”

Steve let out a shuddering breath and then another. “That makes sense. I always wondered why no one would use anything but Master or Mayor Carver when referring to him.”

“It’s disgusting,” Robin said, shaking her head. “But the difference in town is outrageous, by the way. There is so much color and magic thrumming through it now, you wouldn’t believe it was the same town we woke up in a week ago.”

“A week?!” Steve shrieked, pulling away from Eddie to look at her. “Has it really been that long?”

“I’m afraid so,” Max said with a grimace. “Like all of us were out for awhile. I woke up first and I was out for a full day. Then Robin who was out for two. Eddie only woke up yesterday.”

Steve frowned. “Then who was talking care of us all? Bav is good, but she doesn’t have arms to take care of that many people.”

Just then Jonathan and Argyle came out of a room Steve didn’t recognize. He wasn’t phased, as he figured Bav must have created it for them.

“I thought I heard your dulcet tones, Steve,” Argyle said with a smile. “I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered. We were all worried.”

Steve relaxed back into Eddie’s arms. “It’s so good to see you both. You have no idea.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Jonathan said. “Will told me about your fight with the redcap, and then to fight a demon on top of that, I don’t envy the headache you’ll have once your magic starts coming back.”

“I’ve already got several potions brewed up,” Robin said coming over to the sofa. “And Argyle has powders prepared for teas as well to combat the headaches. So hopefully that won’t last too long.”

Argyle grinned. “She’s been a great pupil. I think she’ll be able to make quite the living selling her potions and powders once she passes her initiate ritual.”

“Now that she’s able to control her magic,” Jonathan agreed, “it should be at the next full moon.”

“That’s great news,” Steve said with a sigh of relief. “Was anyone hurt? How many townspeople did we lose?”

“The only people who died,” Eddie murmured, rubbing circles up and down Steve’s spine, “were the Carvers, the Witch Hunter, and Patrick, who was stupid enough to come between you and Bav.”

“Bav is such a cute name,” Max sighed wistfully. “What is it short for?”

Steve blinked at her for a moment. “It’s short for Bavarian Motor Haus, because that’s what she is? Some witches nickname their house Bav or Haus depending on the gender the house prefers. But others just refer to them as BMHs.”

“Well that’s underwhelming,” Robin said rearing her head back. “I thought it would be something cooler.”

The walls turned a melancholy grey and Robin squeaked. “Sorry Bav! You’re cool. I promise!”

Steve shook his head as he stroked the windowsill. The wall began to warm up to gentle pink as the house mollified by his tender care. He let out a yawn and slumped further into Eddie.

Eddie laid him back down. “Rest. We have plenty of time to speak of the rest when you are stronger.”

He wanted to protest, but too soon the well of sleep engulfed him.

Part 14

Hey, Wanda THAT'S how you deal with someone exploding!

Also, Morgana is a tribute to the fallen Jessamy from The Sandman (good show and comic, don't @ me about the author I KNOW)

Yep. Bav is Steve's Bimmer (BMW being an acronym for Bavarian Motor Wagon). No regrets!

Tag List: TWO SLOTS REMAINING

1- @niniel-karenine @watermelonmite @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @cryptid-system @kultiras @kimsnooks @maya-custodios-dionach

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @bookbinderbitch

4- @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006 @yikes-a-bee

5- @awkwardgravity1 @oopsallgender @fearieshadow @stedestielfrattficlover @dragonmama76

6- @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @counting-dollars-counting-stars

7- @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gutterflower77 @just-a-tiny-void

8- @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss @wheneverfeasible @micheledawn1975 @gloomysoup

9- @dotdot-wierdlife @tartarusknight @ollyxar @yesdangerpls @two-vampires-kissing

10- @themoonagainstmers @estrellami-1 @steddieislife

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #witch au #witch steve harrington #ladykailitha writes

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ourfoxgod · 7 months ago

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39 books to read if you liked ARCANE

CAITVI SHIPPERS –

1. a study in scarlet women by sherry thomas 2. the lady's guide to petticoats and piracy by mackenzi lee 3. plain bad heroines by emily m. danforth 4. the unbroken by c.l. clark 5. iron widow by xiran jay zhao 6. crier's war by nina varela 7. the drowning empire trilogy by andrea stweart 8. the priory of the orange tree by samantha shannon 9. the midnight lie by marie rutkoski 10. the bone shard daughter by andrea stewart

JAYVIK SHIPPERS –

1. vicious by v.e. schwab 2. if we were villains by m.l. rio 3. the secret history by donna tartt 4. the song of achilles by madeline miller 5. the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde 6. a marvelous light by freya marske 7. the magpie lord by kj charles 8. fever syndrome by angela slatter 9. the gloaming by rory power 10. boys, beasts & men by sam j. miller

TIMEBOMB SHIPPERS –

1. six of crows by leigh bardugo 2. war girls by tochi onyebuchi 3. this savage song by victoria schwab 4. the knife of never letting go by patrick ness

JINX & VI'S RELATIONSHIP –

1. we hunt the flame by hafsah faizal 2. girls of paper and fire by natasha ngan 3. the ones we're meant to find by joan he 4. burn our bodies down by rory power 5. sawkill girls by claire legrand

GENERAL ARCANE VIBES –

1. the aeronaut's windlass by jim butcher 2. foundryside by robert jackson bennett 3. gunmetal gods by zamil akhtar 4. cyberpunk: neuromancer by william gibson 5. frostheart by jamie littler 6. the broken earth trilogy by n.k. jemisin 7. black sun by rebecca roanhorse 8. rebel seoul by axie oh 9. we ride the storm by devin madson 10. the drowned cities by paolo bacigalupi

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averalia · 18 days ago

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A Little Much

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3 ( Final)

| Parings: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby x Reader

| Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

| Warning/s: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

The gift of Jane Eyre was a turning point. It wasn't a grand gesture, but its quiet thoughtfulness chipped away at the formidable walls you’d built around yourself. You still carried the invisible scars of your past, the ingrained fear of speaking out, the constant awareness of your own vulnerability. But Thomas… Thomas was slowly, subtly, dismantling the narrative you had created for him in your mind. He was no longer just the enemy who had sealed your fate; he was a complex, unpredictable man, capable of surprising tenderness.

You began to seek out his company, not actively, but by lingering in rooms you knew he’d enter, by taking your tea in the morning at the same time he was having his first cigarette. He, in turn, seemed to seek yours. He’d bring you books he thought you might like, sometimes leaving them silently on your bedside table, other times handing them to you with a slight, almost shy, smile. He'd ask for your opinions on small matters concerning the house, a subtle way of acknowledging your presence, your intelligence.

One evening, a fierce storm raged outside, rattling the windows and making the old house creak. You were in the drawing-room, trying to lose yourself in a book, but the memories of being locked out in the snow, the biting wind, the numb cold, were overwhelming. You shivered, pulling a shawl tighter around you.

Thomas entered, shrugging off his wet coat. He paused when he saw you, his gaze sharpening. "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice softer than the howling wind.

You shook your head, unable to speak, the fear a tight knot in your stomach.

He walked over to the fireplace, adding more coal, stirring the embers until the flames licked higher. Then, unexpectedly, he sat on the ottoman in front of you, closer than he ever had before. He reached out, his large hand gently covering yours, which still clutched the book.

"You're trembling, Y/N," he observed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "What is it?"

The dam broke. The years of unspoken trauma, the hidden abuse, the suffocating fear – it all rushed to the surface. Your voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the storm. "My father… he used to… he'd lock me out. In the snow. If I displeased him." The words tumbled out, shaky and broken, each one a shard of glass. "A speck of dirt, a forgotten chore… he’d just… open the door and push me out. No one ever knew."

Thomas’s hand tightened around yours, a silent anchor. His face, usually a mask of control, was etched with a profound sadness, a deep, simmering anger that wasn't directed at you. "He beat you," he stated, not a question, but a quiet, chilling certainty.

You nodded, tears finally tracing paths down your cheeks. "Senseless. For speaking without permission. For looking at him the wrong way." You pulled your hand from his, instinctively clutching your arm, a phantom pain throbbing beneath your sleeve. "They gave me away without a second thought. I was nothing to them."

He stood then, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "You are not nothing, Y/N," he said, his voice low and guttural, filled with a controlled fury you’d never heard from him before. He turned to face you, his eyes stormy, but no longer with just calculation, but with a fierce protectiveness. "And no one will ever lay a hand on you again. Not while I draw breath."

He reached out, cupping your face gently in his hands. His thumbs wiped away your tears, his touch surprisingly tender. You leaned into his touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort he offered. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a vulnerability you hadn’t thought him capable of. He was still Thomas Shelby, the gang leader, the calculating businessman. But he was also the man who saw your pain, who offered solace, who promised protection. And as he pulled you into a tentative embrace, holding you close while the storm raged outside, you realized with a startling clarity that he was no longer your enemy. He was your unexpected solace, your reluctant protector, and perhaps, just perhaps, something more. The path to love was fraught with the shadows of your past, but in his arms, for the first time, you felt truly, deeply safe.

The revelation of your past, whispered amidst the storm, changed something fundamental between you and Thomas. The fragile trust you’d been building solidified into something stronger, more resilient. He had seen your deepest vulnerability, the raw, ugly truth of your childhood, and instead of recoiling, he had offered unwavering protection.

The days that followed were marked by a quiet intimacy. Thomas, ever the man of action, didn't dwell on your past in endless conversations, but his actions spoke volumes. He became acutely attuned to your discomforts, the subtle flinches, the guarded glances. He’d ensure doors were never locked if you were inside, a small but profound gesture that chipped away at the ingrained fear of confinement. He’d occasionally find you staring into space, lost in a memory, and without a word, he’d simply sit beside you, his presence a silent comfort, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your mind.

One crisp morning, you were having breakfast alone when Thomas entered, a rare occurrence. He sat opposite you, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"You look… more at ease," he observed, his gaze assessing.

You managed a small, genuine smile. "I am. Thank you, Thomas."

He nodded, a flicker of something close to satisfaction in his eyes. "No one ever deserves what you went through, Y/N." His voice was low, laced with a familiar steel, but softened with genuine empathy. "And no one will ever put you through it again."

He didn't just speak the words; he embodied them. He started leaving clear instructions with his staff that you were to be afforded every courtesy, that your word was to be respected. He subtly began to assert your position in the household, not as a decorative wife, but as a valued member of his life. He even started asking for your opinions on minor business matters, not out of necessity, but to genuinely hear your perspective, to foster your confidence.

A Glimmer of Understanding

Despite his unwavering support, there were moments when the sheer depth of your trauma seemed to baffle him, the lingering shadows of fear unfamiliar territory for a man who had faced down so many tangible threats.

One afternoon, you were walking through the bustling streets of Small Heath with Polly, a rare outing. A sudden, loud bang – a carriage backfiring – made you jump violently, your heart leaping into your throat. You instinctively hunched your shoulders, covering your head, a primal reaction to the sudden noise.

Polly immediately put an arm around you, her expression concerned. "It's alright, dear, just a cart."

When you finally straightened, eyes wide with residual fear, you saw Thomas, who had been a few paces ahead, looking back at you. His brow was furrowed, a slight confusion in his eyes. He’d seen the fear, the instantaneous retreat, but the sheer visceral reaction to a simple noise seemed to be beyond his immediate comprehension. He understood violence, understood pain, but the invisible, insidious nature of trauma was a different beast.

Later that evening, back in the quiet of his study, he brought it up. "That bang today… you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

You hesitated, trying to explain something so deeply ingrained. "It's… when you're always waiting for the next blow, the smallest unexpected noise can feel like the beginning of it all again. It's a memory, a warning."

He listened, his gaze intense, but you could see the slight furrow in his brow. He didn't quite get it, not in the way someone who had experienced it would. He understood the logic of it, the fear, but the automatic, physical reaction, the way the past could still hijack your present—that was a chasm he couldn't fully bridge with his own experiences.

He rose from his desk and came to stand before you, reaching out and gently taking your hands. "I can't truly know what that feels like, Y/N," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost regretful. "But I can promise you this: you are safe with me. Always. And if you ever feel that way again, you just tell me. Or Polly. Or Arthur." He squeezed your hands. "We'll face it together."

It wasn't a perfect understanding, but it was an honest admission, a promise. He might not fully comprehend the internal war you still fought, but he was willing to stand on the battlefield with you, to be your shield against the unseen enemies of your past. And in that moment, as you looked into his earnest, stormy eyes, you knew that was more than enough. He was no longer a means to an end; he was becoming the foundation of a new beginning.

The quiet promise Thomas made, to stand with you against the unseen enemies of your past, became a cornerstone of your shared life. He didn't always understand the nuances of your fear, the sudden shifts in your mood, or the way certain sounds or sights could transport you back to moments of terror. But he never dismissed it. He listened, he learned, and he adapted.

You found yourself leaning on him more, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in ways you never thought possible. You’d share fragmented memories, not in a torrent, but in quiet moments, like secrets whispered into the twilight. You told him about the biting cold of the snow, the humiliation of being left outside, the searing pain of the beatings, the chilling silence that followed your father’s rage. Thomas, in turn, would simply hold you, his embrace a sanctuary, his quiet strength a balm to your wounded soul. He'd never say, "I know how you feel," because he didn't. Instead, he’d say, "That bastard. He'll never touch you again." And you believed him.

Your progress wasn't linear. There were days when the shadows of your past felt insurmountable, days when a sudden raised voice, even from someone else, would make you flinch, or a closed door would trigger a wave of panic. But Thomas was always there, a steady, unwavering presence. He learned to recognize the signs, the subtle ways your body would brace for a blow that wasn’t coming. He'd step in, deflecting a sharp word, or simply offer a hand, a grounding touch that pulled you back to the present.

The love that blossomed between you wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was woven into the fabric of your everyday lives, an unspoken language of gestures and quiet understanding. It was in the way Thomas would pour your tea exactly how you liked it, the extra sugar you favored, or the way he’d leave a new book on your bedside table, always something he knew you’d enjoy. It was in the way he’d subtly position himself between you and any perceived threat, his broad shoulders a silent shield.

And you, in turn, began to see him beyond the hardened exterior, beyond the reputation. You saw the weight of his responsibilities, the quiet moments of weariness in his eyes after a long day of fighting for his family and his empire. You saw the fierce loyalty he held for those he loved, a loyalty he now extended unequivocally to you. You started to anticipate his needs, to offer quiet comfort after a particularly grueling meeting, to simply be present, a steadying force in his often tumultuous life.

One evening, as you sat by the fire, Thomas reached out and took your hand, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of your wrist. He didn't say anything, but his gaze, usually so intense and unreadable, softened into a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"You know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, "when I first agreed to this marriage… you were a means to an end. A way to solidify our position. That was it." He paused, his thumb still stroking your skin. "I was a fool."

You looked at him, your heart aching with a bittersweet mix of past pain and present joy. "And I saw you as the enemy," you confessed, your voice a whisper. "The one who took what little freedom I had left."

A small, rueful smile touched his lips. "We were both wrong, then." His grip on your hand tightened, a silent promise. "You are more than just my wife, Y/N. You are… everything."

Tears pricked your eyes, but these were not tears of sorrow, but of a profound, overwhelming happiness. You knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within your soul, that while the scars of your past would always be a part of you, they no longer defined you. You were not entirely free of the shadows, but with Thomas by your side, holding your hand, you were no longer alone in the dark. He didn't just love you despite your past; he loved you for the strength you had found in surviving it, for the resilient spirit that had endured. And you, in turn, had found love in the most unexpected of places, with the man you once considered your enemy, a love that promised not to erase your past, but to build a powerful future upon its foundations.

The quiet intimacy that had blossomed between you and Thomas deepened with each passing season. The memories of your past still surfaced, sometimes unbidden, but they no longer held the same power. You were no longer the terrified girl locked out in the snow; you were Y/N Shelby, cherished wife of Thomas Shelby, and protected by a love that was fierce and unwavering.

The idea of children had, at first, been a distant, almost frightening thought. The prospect of bringing a child into a world that felt so full of pain, and the terrifying notion of being a parent after experiencing such abuse yourself, had been a heavy burden. But as your bond with Thomas strengthened, as his love became a constant, undeniable force, the fear began to recede, replaced by a tentative hope.

It was a cold, blustery evening when you finally broached the subject. You were seated by the fire, a familiar comfort, and Thomas was across from you, engrossed in a newspaper.

"Thomas," you began, your voice soft.

He lowered the paper, his stormy eyes meeting yours. "Yes, Y/N?"

You took a deep breath. "Have you ever… thought about children?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a thoughtful expression. He set the newspaper aside. "It's… not something I've actively considered, not in detail. Running the business, keeping the family safe… it takes up most of my thoughts." He paused, his gaze softening. "But if you have, then I've considered it."

You fidgeted with the hem of your dress. "I… I've been afraid to. After… everything." You gestured vaguely to your past. "I wouldn't want to bring a child into anything but absolute safety. And I don’t know if I’d be a good mother, after what I experienced."

Thomas rose and came to sit beside you, taking your hand in his. His touch was reassuring, grounding. "Y/N," he said, his voice firm, "you would be an incredible mother. Your resilience, your compassion… those are strengths that no one could teach. And as for safety," his eyes hardened with a familiar resolve, "any child of ours would be guarded by an army if necessary. Nothing, and no one, would ever touch them."

His words, simple yet powerful, resonated deep within you. The image of a future, once shrouded in fear, now seemed to shimmer with possibility.

His words, simple yet powerful, resonated deep within you. The image of a future, once shrouded in fear, now seemed to shimmer with possibility. You leaned into his touch, your head resting against his shoulder, finding solace in the rhythmic beat of his heart.

"You really believe that?" you whispered, the question laced with the last vestiges of doubt.

He shifted, turning slightly to fully embrace you, his arm tightening around your waist. "I don't just believe it, Y/N," he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble against your hair. "I know it. Look at you. You survived hell. You’re stronger than anyone I know. And that strength, that resilience, that compassion you carry, despite everything… that’s what will make you an extraordinary mother. And any child of ours," he pulled back slightly, his stormy eyes locking onto yours, "will know nothing but love and safety. I swear it."

In his gaze, you saw not just a promise, but a reflection of his own fierce protectiveness, a quality you had once seen as a threat, but now recognized as the deepest form of care. The thought of a child, once a source of terror, now brought a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the lingering chill of your past. With Thomas, you truly believed it was possible. Not just to survive, but to thrive, to build a family, and to create a legacy of love that would finally silence the echoes of fear.

From that evening forward, the conversation about children became less a whispered secret and more a shared vision. Thomas, in his methodical way, began to consider the practicalities, discussing potential nurseries, the type of schooling he'd want for them, even the future of the family business in relation to their upbringing. His protective instincts, always a formidable force, would now be channeled into building an impenetrable fortress of security and love around your future family.

You, in turn, found yourself envisioning the small, everyday joys: reading stories by the fire, teaching them to garden, seeing a glimmer of Thomas's fierce spirit in their eyes, and perhaps, a reflection of your own quiet strength. The fear wasn't entirely gone – some shadows linger, a testament to what you'd endured – but it was now a distant hum, overshadowed by the burgeoning excitement and profound hope for the future you were building, brick by brick, with the man you now loved unequivocally.

#thomas shelby #Tommy #tommy shelby #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby imagine #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinder headcanon

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batmanlovesnirvana · 8 months ago

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‘our love still remains.’

BRUCE WAYNE X FEM!READER

ONE SHOT | angst, death, murder, depression, drugs, suicidal thoughts.

synopsis : A year had passed since you died, but grief lingered, clinging to Bruce like the ash of a fire long extinguished.

A/N : This was inspired by this haunting scene between Thomas Shelby and Grace’s ghost. It’s one of my favorite moments—so raw and emotional—and I couldn’t help but feel it resonates deeply with Bruce. The weight of grief, love, and unresolved pain feels like a perfect fit for his character.

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes!

WAYNE MANOR had never seemed so empty.

A place once filled with quiet purpose, with the steady rhythm of lives intertwined, was now a mausoleum—a tomb for memories that Bruce could neither escape nor embrace.

You had been dead for a year, and with you, everything human in him had begun to rot.

He was barely functional. No. That wasn't right. He wasn't functional at all.

A ghost of himself wandered these halls, sat in these rooms, wore his skin, but it wasn't him.

Not anymore.

The fire in the study crackled weakly, but its warmth never reached him. It flickered, casting trembling shadows on the dark oak walls, as if mocking his inability to burn with anything but guilt.

Bruce sat hunched in his chair, his head low, his shirt disheveled and sleeves rolled up.

The man who had once stood as Gotham's unshakable guardian, a force of sheer will, was now a fractured thing.

His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, stared into the flames, but they saw nothing. He didn't need to see. He had already memorized the way the world looked without you in it.

The decanter of whiskey shimmered in the firelight, its amber liquid untouched at his side. He had never been one to drink—not before. But since you'd been gone, nothing was the same.

Tonight, though, the glass remained full. Not yet. Not for this.

He couldn't dull the edges of this particular torment. He had to feel it, let it pull him under, heavy and unrelenting, like a stone tethered to his chest, dragging him to the depths.

His hand hovered over the glass, fingers curling tightly around it, the tension in his knuckles sharp and pale. The tremor wasn't from the cold but from the brutal weight of his own restraint. His mind hissed its merciless refrain, over and over, unyielding:

It should've been me. Not you.

Me. Not you.

The glass gave way with a brittle snap, the shards biting into his palm, the sound cutting through the suffocating quiet like a scream. He didn't flinch. The brief sting was insignificant, a pale shadow of the raw, festering wound buried deep within—a wound that time had refused to heal, a wound that still bled.

He craves the burn. Craves the searing pain, the consuming fire that might finally match the inferno raging inside him—the fire that could never touch you the way it's devoured him.

The night presses close, suffocating and merciless, but he doesn't move.

He doesn't patrol. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat.

He simply exists, caught in the liminal space where grief and guilt coil around each other, tightening like a noose. Waiting—for the silence to break, for the weight to crush him, for something, anything, to drag him back from the edge of this endless void.

The door sighed as it swung open, the faint creak swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

Alfred entered, a silver tray balanced in his steady hands, its polished surface catching the flickering glow of the fire. Every movement was deliberate, quiet, as though the room itself demanded reverence. He set the tray down with a soft clink, his weathered face composed, but his eyes—sharp and searching—betrayed the concern he could no longer contain.

"Master Wayne..." His voice was soft, hesitant, like stepping onto fragile ground.

Bruce didn't stir. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes like ghosts of battles fought and lost.

Undeterred, Alfred took a step closer, his measured footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. "I thought you might need something to eat. It's been... some time." His tone was calm, but beneath it lay a quiet plea.

The silence stretched, vast and unyielding. Bruce remained a statue, motionless, unhearing—or perhaps unwilling to hear.

Alfred lingered, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the man slumped in the chair, once an unshakable force—a sentinel against the darkness, a man who bore the weight of Gotham like it was his birthright.

But now?

Now, he was something hollow.

A shadow consumed by grief, its edges blurred, its substance eaten away until nothing but silence remained.

"No patrol tonight, then?" Alfred asked, though he already knew the answer.

Bruce's hands trembled faintly—not from the cold, nor from the blood still drying on his knuckles—but from something far deeper, raw and unrelenting.

The old butler sighed.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a small glass vial and placed it on the tray with deliberate care. The gesture was quiet, pointed—a subtle admonition wrapped in concern.

"I'm worried, sir," Alfred said, his voice thick with the weight of restrained emotion. "About the medicine. You've been relying on it too much."

Bruce's eyes flicked to the vial, his fingers curling involuntarily, but his lips remained sealed.

His gaze turned distant, unfocused, as though he were retreating into some unreachable corner of his mind. The flicker of firelight played across his expression, but it gave nothing away. The silence, though, spoke volumes.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth feeble against the icy void that seemed to envelop the room.

"She wouldn't want this," Alfred ventured at last, his voice trembling at the edges. The words came haltingly, heavy with pain. Saying them was a struggle; even he found it difficult to speak of her. "I know it's hard, but—"

But he faltered.

What could he say to a man who had lost so much? To a man who believed the one constant in his life—the one light in his endless night—had slipped from his grasp because of him? What comfort could Alfred offer someone who carried the unbearable weight of guilt and grief and punished himself for it, day after day?

Not even the ever-thoughtful Alfred had answers for that.

He lingered for a moment longer, his weathered gaze heavy with unspoken worry, before letting out a quiet, resigned sigh. Stepping back, he retreated as softly as he'd entered, unwilling to disturb the fragile stillness any further.

The door closed behind him with a muted click, leaving Bruce alone once more in the oppressive quiet, the firelight casting shadows that danced like ghosts around the room.

Bruce didn't move. The tray remained untouched, its polished surface glinting dully in the flickering firelight. The room seemed colder somehow, emptier, as though the flames themselves were losing the will to fight against the encroaching dark.

The silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.

His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, reaching for the vial. His fingers trembled as they closed around the cool glass, the faint quiver betraying the storm raging beneath his impassive exterior. He held it up, watching the liquid swirl under the amber glow of the fire. For a moment, he hesitated—then tipped his head back, letting the bitter contents slide down his throat in one unbroken motion.

The burn was sharp. Familiar. Almost comforting.

But it fixed nothing.

The ache inside him remained, raw and unrelenting. He stayed rooted to the chair, unable to move, the weight of his grief pinning him down. His eyes drifted to the shards of glass scattered across the carpet, their jagged edges catching the firelight like cruel reflections of his fractured soul.

With a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the empty vial into the flames. It shattered on impact, the fire greedily consuming the fragments until nothing remained.

His head dropped into his hands, shoulders curling inward as though trying to shield himself from the crushing weight of everything he couldn't escape. The room fell silent again, save for the crackle of the fire, each ember rising like a ghost of what once was.

And then, it happened. Just as it always did.

The impossible.

You appeared.

Bruce's cold, detached eyes flickered, his breath hitching as the warmth of an illusion—one he neither welcomed nor could let go—took shape before him.

You were perched on the edge of the canopy seat by the window, your silk pajamas catching the soft firelight in a way that felt achingly real. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily, your toes grazing the rug in that familiar way that sent a sharp pang through his chest.

Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders, soft and untamed, just as it had on those stolen nights when dawn would catch you both mid-conversation, the rest of the world forgotten.

And then there was the smile. That quiet, tender smile—the one that had unraveled him every time, breaking through walls he hadn't even realized he'd built.

The billionaire swallowed hard, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. "What now?"

Bruce's bitter smile wavered as you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your eyes like embers in the fire.

"What am I, a genie?" you teased, your voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken. Your gaze darted to the flames, where the shattered remnants of the vial had disappeared. "Summoning me with your little bottle of dope?"

His laugh was dry, almost inaudible. "I take it for the pain," he murmured, the words heavy, fragile, as if they might shatter under the weight of his grief. His eyes found yours, softening in a way that made him feel utterly exposed. "To keep warm."

You moved then, gliding across the room with that effortless grace he had memorized, your bare feet soundless against the carpet. He stiffened when he felt your fingers ghost across his shoulder—a touch too warm, too tender to be real. Yet he didn't pull away.

"Is that what it's for?" you asked, your voice wrapping around him like a balm for a wound that would never heal. "The warmth?"

Bruce closed his eyes, his head dipping forward slightly as if trying to catch just a moment more of the phantom sensation. "The warmth," he echoed, his voice breaking. "All this time..."

You moved again, slipping into the space beside him on the couch, your presence as vivid as the firelight dancing in his peripheral vision.

He turned toward you, and for the briefest, most treacherous moment, it felt real—your scent, your nearness, the way you looked at him like you could see straight through to his soul.

He leaned in, his breath catching as he inhaled the memory of you, his eyes fluttering shut in the desperate hope that he could hold on just a little longer. Just a little longer.

But deep down, he knew.

It wasn't real.

It never was.

The realization struck like a knife twisting in his chest, but he clung to the illusion all the same. He would take anything—anything—to feel you again, even if it was a cruel lie conjured by his own fractured mind.

To touch you. To kiss you. To lose himself in you, the only solace he had ever known.

Since your death, there had been no one else. No empty arms, no fleeting connections. He didn't want anyone else. Couldn't. It was always you. It would always be you.

"I know," you whispered, your hand brushing his cheek in a gesture so gentle, it nearly broke him. His breath hitched, a tear slipping free.

"Our love still remains," you said, your words a quiet promise in the suffocating silence.

And you were right.

Because no matter who tried to step into his life, none of them could ever compare to you.

Bruce's head bowed, his shoulders trembling as he pressed his forehead to the illusion of your hand.

He didn't speak, didn't dare. He let the hallucination linger, let it fill the gaping void inside him for as long as it would. When it faded—and it always did—the cold would return, and he would be alone once more.

They lingered in that fragile silence, heavy with the weight of unsaid words, the room echoing with everything neither could bear to voice.

At last, you broke it, your tone steady yet tender. "But you have to listen, Bruce. To the voices you hear. To what they're telling you."

His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes squeezing shut as if to block out everything but you. "There's too much to do," he whispered, his voice trembling, breaking under the strain. His breath hitched unevenly. "The kids... the city... it never stops."

When he finally opened his eyes, they met yours, glassy and filled with unshed tears. "I need to say goodbye," he confessed, his voice a raw whisper, hoarse and fractured.

He rubbed his face with trembling hands, weary to his bones. "I need to sleep... just for a little while."

Your hands cradled his face again, grounding him in the moment, as real to him as the warmth of the fire. "Then think, Bruce," you urged, your voice a mix of unwavering love and quiet strength. "Think about what I would tell you. About what you need to do."

A tear slipped down his cheek, his body trembling as he leaned into the phantom touch. He tried to form words, but they came out as fractured pieces of his anguish. "It's too much... I can't... I should've..."

His voice cracked and faltered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've protected you. I should've saved you."

"You don't need to apologize," you said softly, your voice cutting through his despair like a light in the dark. "I was never angry with you, Bruce. I never could be."

His chest clenched painfully, a fresh wave of tears spilling free. "But I failed you," he choked out, his voice barely audible.

"You didn't fail me," you replied, your words sharp yet soothing. "But you're failing yourself."

You moved in closer, kneeling in front of him, your hands lifting his face so his eyes met yours.

There was a love in your gaze that steadied him, but also something more—a heaviness, a truth he couldn't yet name. "This isn't the way, Bruce. I won't let you destroy yourself like this."

His grief overtook him, his entire frame trembling with the force of it. "I can't let go," he admitted, his voice breaking as fresh sobs racked his body. "Not of you. Not yet."

Your smile returned, soft and filled with sadness. "Then let go of the pain," you said gently. "Let go of the guilt. Let go of the past. I'm here, but I can't stay. Not like this. Not while you're lost in the dark."

His heart shattered again, the pieces cutting deeper, but he couldn't deny the truth in your words.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw, pleading, desperate. "Please don't leave me. I can't do this alone."

But you were already slipping away, your warmth dissipating like smoke, fading from his grasp.

He reached out, his hands trembling, but there was nothing there—nothing to hold onto. The room grew colder, your presence vanishing into the shadows, leaving him alone in the silence.

The fire crackled softly, its flames flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. The emptiness of the room settled over him, pressing down with a weight he couldn't bear.

"I'll never let go," he whispered, his voice fragile, a shattered promise he knew he could never keep.

But you were gone. And the silence consumed everything.

Bruce's hand lingered on his cheek, still warm from where you'd touched him, but it too began to cool, slipping away too quickly.

Long moments passed before his voice cracked through the stillness, breaking the silence like glass. "I'll think," he murmured into the void. "I promise."

Even as the words left his lips, they felt empty—hollow echoes in a room full of nothing.

As hollow as the man who spoke them.

go check [ TU’BURNI (Bruce Wayne fic) ]

Little thing while I write the next chapters of TU’BURNI :)

I’ve been considering publishing one of my Tommy Shelby fics, so if anyone’s interested, please lmk.

#bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne #batman #the batman #dc comics #the batman 2022 #dc movies #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #oneshot #battinson #batfleck #bale!batman x reader #gotham

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dirtyl0ver · 4 days ago

Text

Safety Off - Part 2 (Brian Thomas/Hoodie x F!Reader)

CW: Sexual content, gunplay (non-lethal), object penetration, squirting, degradation, power imbalance, psychological domination, themes of obsession and control.

Summary: Two whole weeks of aching. And then - release. Everything you tried to push down comes flooding back. And just like that, it’s happening all over again - harder, deeper, worse. This time, you knew better. And still, you let him in.

Wordcount: 7.5k

Part 1: HERE

Two weeks. Fourteen days, give or take a handful of hours.

That’s how long it had been since your little… car incident.

You didn’t know his name.

Didn’t know where he came from, where he was going, or if he even existed outside that goddamn car. Sometimes you convinced yourself you’d made him up, like some feral corner of your mind had clawed out a man from loneliness and heatstroke and the smell of scorched rubber on the roadside. But you hadn’t. Your body wouldn’t let you forget.

That first night, when you finally got home - after hours of twiddling your thumbs at that diner, staring blankly at melting ice in your glass, waiting for a family member to come pick you up - your body betrayed you.

You woke drenched. Sweat clung to your spine, thighs slick and trembling. Sheets tangled like restraints around your ankles. You hadn’t dreamt of him. Not once. Not even a flicker behind your eyelids. But your body remembered. Stored it somewhere deep - some raw pocket of muscle and nerve. As if he’d touched you all over again.

You hadn’t dreamt of him.

But you felt him.

Still did.

In your bones. Your joints. The tender ache in your thighs when you walked too fast. Your stomach turned in on itself when you passed a dark car idling near the curb. Never him. Never would be again. Still, you looked. Craved.

You left your phone in the fridge last week, next to the milk. Didn’t even realize it until it vibrated against a carton of eggs. Missed calls, pointless messages. None from him, of course. You didn’t even know what number to hope for.

You weren’t thinking straight anymore. Couldn’t.

Everything felt a little… disconnected. Like your body kept moving through the motions of a life you no longer lived, while your mind was stuck somewhere else. Stuck in a memory. In him.

Last night, you fell asleep in the bath. Water cold, skin puckered, fingers wrapped around your wrist in the exact way he held it down. You told yourself it wasn’t on purpose, but you knew better.

You weren’t sleeping right. Weren’t living right. Because somewhere deep inside you, your body was still waiting for him to come back.

Sometimes, your hand drifted to your ribs just to feel the pressure again. Ghost of his palm. His gun. Cold metal still living somewhere under your skin, like a shard you never pulled out. You didn’t cry. That wasn’t the kind of ache this was.

It was want. A slow, brutal hollowing.

And God, you missed it.

You missed him, whoever the hell he was. That voice. That silence. You’d let him do it again. Worse, maybe. If he asked, if he showed up, if he pulled up beside you on some empty stretch of highway and told you to get in–

You would. No questions or hesitation. You were already his.

And maybe you should’ve been worried. Any reasonable person would be. This was a man who’d picked you up off the side of the road, made you kneel in his car, pressed a loaded gun to your skin and made you crave every second of it. A stranger with dead eyes, with a brutal grip, with a fucking mask in his backseat. Who in their right mind keeps a creepy mask in their car and puts it on during sex? It was unsettling.

But you weren’t worried. Not then, not now. There was no fear lodged in your ribs, no dread clawing at you throat - just heat. Familiar. Bone-deep. You didn’t care why he had the gun. Didn’t need an explanation for the scars and wounds scattered across his skin. He was dangerous. And you wanted him to claim your body again.

He hadn’t meant to think about you again.

He told himself it was a one-time thing, just a fucked-up moment, an itch scratched hard enough to leave marks. He’d left you exactly where he said he would.

But two weeks later, you were still in his head.

Buried under late-night surveillance logs and half-loaded clips. Under hours spent hunched over schematics, pushing himself through the kind of silence he used to savor. Not anymore. Silence meant space, and space meant memory - and you filled every inch of it like smoke in his lungs.

It wasn’t even your face he remembered first.

It was your mouth.

Your lips stretched around the muzzle of his gun, wide and wet, eyes blown wide with something between fear and hunger. That image had branded itself into the backs of his eyelids, singeing over every thought he tried to layer on top.

You’d let him do it. Welcomed it.

He wasn’t used to that.

And then there were your panties.

He’d found them days after - crumpled under the seat of his truck, soft with your scent still clinging to the fabric. He should’ve thrown them out. Should’ve burned them, buried them, whatever the hell normal people did when they stumbled across proof of something they weren’t supposed to want.

But he didn’t.

He pocketed them.

First in his glove compartment, then in the inner lining of his jacket. Kept them close, like a fucking keepsake. When he touched them - just his fingers brushing the lace - he swore he could feel your heat again. The ghost of you pressed against the side of his thigh. Mouth open. Panting. Begging without using a single goddamn word.

Some nights, when the ache got too sharp to ignore, he’d press them to his face.

Not to jerk off, at least not at first. Just to breathe you in.

And then the thoughts would come flooding in. He remembered the tremble in your thighs when he told you to open wider. He remembered how you moaned with your tongue curled around the barrel. He remembered how soft you were in his lap, so fucking trusting.

He’d tried to forget. Tried to move on. But you were still in his jacket pocket, clinging to him in lace and scent and silence.

And… here’s the thing.

He hadn’t meant to remember your license plate.

But he did.

He saw it when he pulled up behind your stalled car - sitting there like bait with you, pretty and helpless, beside it. He made a habit of noticing details, cataloging things without thinking. It was second nature. Tactical.

Still, he should’ve let it go. Should’ve let you go.

Instead, he repeated those numbers to himself the entire drive to the diner. Locked them into his head like a code, just in case. At the time, he told himself it was nothing. Just a precaution. Habit. Insurance.

But now?

Now he whispered those numbers when the nights got long and his hands got restless. Let them fill the empty spaces in his brain like coordinates. And eventually, when he couldn’t take it anymore - when the scent of your panties wasn’t enough, when the image of your lips around his gun made him sweat with something deeper than lust - he gave in.

He looked you up.

Simple enough.

He had the tools. The training. The reason.

Ran the plate. Traced the registration. Found the name tied to it, the address. A neat little digital breadcrumb trail that led straight back to you. The second he saw it on the screen, something in his chest snapped into place. Sharp and precise. Right.

He leaned back in his chair and breathed slow.

You’d been haunting him for two weeks.

Now it was his turn.

He was going to find you. Not just watch. Not just smell you on lace soaked in memory. He wanted you in front of him again. Real. Shaking. Ruined.

And this time? He wasn’t going to leave you.

You hadn’t expected to feel good tonight. But you were trying.

You lit a candle. Poured yourself something to drink. You’d cleaned a little, folded laundry you’d been avoiding, put on a playlist you liked. Just enough effort to pretend things were normal.

You were in your favorite pajamas - soft cotton, pale, worn just enough to feel like home. The shorts clung to your thighs, riding high as you padded barefoot through the apartment. Loose top hanging off one shoulder, the swell of your collarbone exposed. You looked like comfort. Like softness. Like something safe and untouched, even if you didn’t feel that way.

You were halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

You froze.

No one ever came by unannounced. Not here. Not this late. You weren’t expecting food, or friends, or anything, really. Your heart beat once, hard and dull, like a knock from the inside.

You walked to the door on instinct. Bare legs, bare feet, no bra. The air kissed your skin and reminded you just how unready you were for anything on the other side.

You looked through the peephole.

And then everything stopped.

Oh. No fucking way. Your stomach dropped.

Your breath caught halfway up your throat and just stuck, tight and burning.

He was standing there.

The mask. The hoodie. The stillness in his shoulders. Like time didn’t touch him.

The red frown was seared into the fabric - that crude, jagged line of paint that curved down over where his mouth should’ve been. Still, grim, and somehow more expressive than any face you’d ever seen.

Your knees nearly buckled. You hadn’t seen him in two weeks, but it was him. The shape of him burned into your body like muscle memory. He wasn’t moving, just stood there, quiet, like he had all the time in the world.

He found you. But… how?

He came back for you.

And instead of fear, something in your chest bloomed wide and aching.

You pressed your hand flat to the door to keep from falling through it. Your pulse skittered like a live wire under your skin. Your thighs clenched together on instinct.

You opened the door.

Just a crack at first. Just enough to let the air shift between you, like maybe you were imagining it - that he was real, flesh and blood and not just some fever dream your body had never recovered from.

But then his eyes met yours through the holes of his mask.

And everything stopped moving.

The door swung open slowly, quiet on its hinges, and there he was - shadowed in the hallway light, that same unreadable stillness carved into the broad lines of his body. His hands were loose at his sides. He didn’t speak or twitch. He just looked at you.

Like he could see everything.

You stood there barefoot, heart hammering. The air between you tasted like heat and memory and something sharp curling beneath your ribs. It felt like hours passed in the space between your breath and his. Like the world had slowed to watch. Every second dragged heavy and hot, thick with the kind of silence that presses against your skin like touch.

He didn’t move. Neither did you. You just stood there, staring - suspended in that too-still moment, like if either of you blinked, it would all disappear.

Then, without a word, you took a step back.

It was small. Barely more than a shuffle. But it was enough.

Permission.

He crossed the threshold like a storm. Every movement heavy with intent. Without taking his eyes off of you, he reached behind him and shut the door, a solid click that sounded like a lock sliding into place deep inside your chest.

You trembled. Your breath stuttered. Your hands flexed at your sides like you didn’t know what to do with them.

And then you moved.

You didn’t even think.

You launched forward, bare feet catching on the floor, body crashing into his like a wave. Your hands grabbed at his hoodie, the fabric rough under your fingers. He caught you without a sound, arms locking under your thighs like he’d known, like he’d been waiting for it.

He lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his shoulders. Your mouth went to his without thinking - but the mask was still on. You kissed him anyway. Pressed your lips to the seam of it, desperate and hungry, like your body didn’t care what was in the way. The fabric was rough, the taste of it familiar. You moaned against it.

That’s when his hand came up, fast and sure, and tore the mask off with one hard pull, not breaking stride. He threw it to the ground like it meant nothing. Like nothing else mattered but your mouth. And oh God.

Your mouth met his.

It was heat and hunger and two weeks of silence bursting open like a wound. His tongue swept into you, claiming and sure, and you opened wider. Let him have you. Let him take. You clung to him like you’d never let go.

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in, grounding you like anchors. His back hit the wall, your body pressed to him like a puzzle piece that had always belonged. His mouth was all teeth and breath and need, kissing you like a man who’d been starving.

You couldn’t breathe.

There was no space left for anything but him.

Your lips barely left his, but your breath stuttered - words breaking free before you could stop them, mumbled against his mouth like a prayer or a curse.

“You’re here,” you breathed, lips brushing his. “How’d you… how’d you find me?”

Your eyes searched for his - dazed, wide, caught between shock and need. You wanted answers. You wanted his hands. You wanted both and more and now.

He didn’t explain.

He just said, low and rough, like gravel under heat–

“You’re mine.”

That was it.

That was all.

The words crashed through you like a trigger pulled - sharp, final, right. Your fingers fisted in his hoodie, dragging him closer even though he was already everywhere. His mouth claimed yours again, deeper this time, hungrier, his teeth dragging along your bottom lip like he needed to mark something, anything, just to prove he’d been here.

You gasped, and he swallowed it whole.

His grip shifted, tightening under your thighs. One hand slid up, flat against your back, keeping you flush to him as he turned, moving through your apartment like he already knew the layout. Like he'd built it for this.

You barely noticed the bedroom door until it hit the wall.

And then he was on top of you.

Or maybe you were still wrapped around him - it didn’t matter. The bed caught your fall, the mattress groaning beneath both your bodies as you landed in a tangle of limbs and breath and sweat-slick cotton. His hoodie dragged up your ribs, exposing skin to the air, to him. His mouth didn’t leave yours, not even when he shoved the fabric higher, not even when you arched into him like your body remembered this better than your mind ever could.

“You’re mine,” he said again, quieter this time. A whisper against your mouth.

And you nodded.

Because you felt it. Down to the bone.

He finally pulled away - just enough to breathe, just enough to see you beneath him. His eyes raked over your face like he was trying to memorize it all over again. Then his hands moved, slow and deliberate, gripping the hem of your shirt and dragging it up, knuckles brushing heat along your ribs.

You lifted your arms, pliant under his touch, and let him strip you bare.

The shirt hit the floor. Then your shorts followed, peeled down your legs and tossed aside like they offended him. All that was left was the soft stretch of your panties - thin, damp, clinging. He didn’t touch them, but his eyes lingered there like a promise.

Then he straightened up and started undressing.

The hoodie came off first. Then the shirt.

And you stopped breathing.

He was big, just like you remembered. All broad shoulders and cut lines, thick arms flexing as he threw the clothes aside. The room felt smaller with him bare in it, like there wasn’t enough space to contain the heat rolling off his skin. Every inch of him was sculpted like violence. Solid. Built to hold down. To break.

But it was the scars that made your breath hitch.

Old and new. Pale ridges across his ribs. A jagged line slicing down his shoulder. A fresh bruise blooming purple under the swell of his collarbone. You stared, eyes wide, drinking him in like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to worship or weep.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just let you look.

But then your gaze dropped, past his chest, down the hard plane of his stomach, and there it was.

Tucked into the waistband of his jeans, matte black and gleaming even in the low light. That gun. The one he’d pressed to your tongue in the car. The one he’d pushed inside of you. The one your body remembered better than your mind ever dared to admit.

Your breath caught.

He saw it. Saw you freeze. Saw your eyes land exactly where he wanted them.

And he smirked, slow and dark.

Fingers curling around the grip, he drew it free - easy, casual, like he’d done it a thousand times. The sound of it sliding out of his waistband sent a shiver down your spine.

He held it loosely in one hand, thumb brushing the side of the barrel.

“Remember this?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

Your thighs clenched.

Because yes.

God, yes.

You remembered.

“Missed it?” he asked, tilting the gun just slightly - letting you see the weight of it in his hand, the memory of it between your lips.

You swallowed hard. And nodded.

No words. Just that slow, breathless nod that said yes, said please, said again.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like something darker, something hungry. Then he took a step back from the bed, just enough space for the air to shift, for your knees to hit the floor if you knew what he wanted.

“Then show me,” he said. “On your knees.”

Your pulse stuttered. Heat shot through you, sharp and low. But your body was already moving before your mind could catch up - rising from the mattress, limbs trembling, breath caught somewhere between shame and desire and something deeper, darker.

You slid off the bed and onto the floor, knees meeting the cool surface with a soft thud. The air felt different down here - heavier, like it knew. Like it remembered too.

He stood in front of you, looming, the gun loose in his grip. He lowered it.

And you leaned in.

Your lips parted as your eyes lifted to meet his - wide, glassy, obedient. Then you wrapped your mouth around the barrel, slow and careful. Reverent.

Your tongue traced the metal, warm and wet against the cold steel. You closed your lips around it, cheeks hollowing just slightly as you began to move - slow, deliberate, mimicking everything you’d done that night in the car. Everything he’d made you do. Everything you hadn’t stopped thinking about since.

He watched you in silence.

Watched the way your mouth fit around it, the way your spit coated the black finish. The way your eyes never left his, even as your lashes fluttered and your throat flexed.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

You began to move, slow at first, then deeper, letting your lips glide along the length of the barrel. You bobbed your head like it was his cock in your mouth, tongue working under the weight of it, spit slicking the steel. Your jaw ached, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink. Because this wasn’t just a performance. It was memory, need, ritual.

He watched every second of it in silence, predator-calm.

His hand came up, thumb brushing the hollow of your cheek, feeling the way it caved around the shape of the gun. His touch was soft, almost tender, in sharp contrast to the cold weight of steel in your mouth.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Eyes wide, lips stretched around metal, tears just beginning to prick at the corners of your lashes.

That was when he moved.

He took a step back, just one, and let the gun fall to his side. His other hand dropped to the waistband of his jeans. He undid them slowly, one button at a time, like he wanted you to watch. Like he knew you would.

When he finally freed himself, you sucked in a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Big. Thick. Hard and flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. Just like you remembered. Maybe worse.

He wrapped his fist around the base and stroked once, slow.

Then he looked down at you, eyes burning, lips parted, and said:

“Who do you like more?”

Your breath hitched.

“My dick…” He gave himself another lazy stroke. “Or the gun?”

You whimpered.

He smiled, just barely - a flicker at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward slightly, holding both out toward you. One hand, one weapon. One cock, one barrel. Both aimed at your mouth like you were made to take them.

“Blow them both,” he said.

You didn’t hesitate.

You leaned in, switching from one to the other - mouth wrapped around the gun first, then sliding to his cock, tongue swirling around the head, tasting salt and skin and the groan that broke from his chest. Then back again - spit trailing between metal and flesh, your jaw working, your lips red and wet and stretched.

He let out a low breath. Almost a laugh, or a growl.

“You really don’t care, do you?” he murmured. “Just need something to fuck that pretty mouth.”

You moaned around him, whatever was in your mouth at that moment, and nodded, eager, messy.

And he looked down at you like he’d won.

Your mouth wrapped around his cock again, wet and eager, spit already slicking your chin. You tried to keep a rhythm - tried to focus - but then his hand curled in your hair.

And he took over.

He didn’t give you a warning. Just a low grunt, a shift of his weight, and then his hips were rolling forward, slow at first, then deeper. More insistent. More his. You choked around him, gagged once, but he didn’t stop. Just let out a breath that sounded like it had been locked in his chest for days.

His other hand lifted.

The gun. He pressed it to your temple, smooth and cold. Just there. Reminding.

You moaned around his cock, the vibration making him hiss through his teeth. Your eyes fluttered shut, but his grip in your hair tightened.

“No,” he said. Voice low, rough. “Look at me.”

You obeyed.

Tears streaked your cheeks, spit smeared across your lips, throat raw as he fucked into it with deliberate control, unrelenting. Like he wanted to feel everything. Like he wanted you to feel it too.

And you did.

Every inch. Every drag. Every pulse of him against your tongue with the press of metal at your skull like a seal.

When he finally pulled back, you gasped - coughing, mouth red and swollen, jaw aching.

But he didn’t give you long to recover.

He dropped the gun onto the bed behind him, leaned down, and hauled you up by the arms, fast, decisive. He threw you onto the mattress, following you down like a shadow.

He hovered above you, chest heaving. Hands braced on either side of your head. His eyes raked over your body like a man starved, taking in every exposed inch of skin, every twitch of your thighs, every tremble you couldn’t suppress.

Slowly, almost reverently, his fingers hooked into your panties.

He dragged them down your hips. Past your thighs. Off your ankles.

Then he just looked at you.

Still fully clothed from the waist down, towering over you like a force of nature. The gun was beside you. His cock hard, slick from your mouth. Your legs were open, your breath shaky.

And all he did was tilt his head, eyes burning into yours.

“How do you want it?” he asked.

Like he’d give it to you. Or not.

For a moment, you didn’t answer.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Just breath - ragged, shallow, burning. His eyes were on you, waiting, watching, that impossible stillness like he had all the time in the world.

And then, quietly, almost shy, you turned over.

No words or theatrics. You just rolled onto your stomach, tucked your knees up, and arched your back until your ass was high and waiting, your face buried in the sheets. Vulnerable and open. Offered.

“From behind,” you whispered. Barely audible.

But he heard you.

And he laughed. Low. Like he’d expected this.

“Good choice,” he murmured. “I knew I’d picked the right slut.”

You heard the rustle of denim, the drag of skin, and then he was there, behind you, over you, between your thighs. One hand gripped your hip, the other sliding down your spine like he was lining up something inevitable.

The first push of him made your breath catch, thick and slow, stretching you inch by inch until your thighs shook. He didn’t rush. He let you feel it all. Let you squirm and gasp and clutch the sheets like they could ground you.

“God, you’re so tight,” he muttered. “Like I didn’t ruin you that night.”

You whined, the sound torn from your throat. Your fingers curled into the bedding, desperate for something to hold onto as he began to move - slow at first, dragging out every thrust like a lesson. But it didn’t stay slow for long.

He gripped your hip tighter, fingers biting into flesh, and picked up the pace - harder, deeper. Every slap of skin to skin echoed through the room, primal and obscene. You were already so wet it was filthy, soaking, the sounds of it enough to make your cheeks burn if shame had any room left inside you.

Then his hand tangled in your hair.

He yanked your head back. You gasped, arching harder, back bowing under the pressure, your mouth open and useless.

He leaned in.

“You wanted this,” he growled against your ear. “You begged for it with that little fucking body. Still do.”

You nodded, moaned, couldn’t speak.

And that’s when you felt it.

Click.

The weight of the gun again - back in his hand, cold and real and pressing against your lower back. Sliding down, slow and deliberate, along the curve of your spine. Like a mark. Like a warning.

“Should never have let you go,” he muttered. The muzzle skimmed over your hip, down to your thigh. “Should’ve kept you in the car. Left you tied up in the trunk, pretty and wet and screaming just for me.”

You shuddered - from fear, from need, from both.

“Bet you missed me,” he continued, voice a low rasp, thrusts getting sharper now, more ragged. “Didn’t you? Missed this. Missed the way I take you.”

You tried to answer - tried to say yes, say please, say don’t stop - but all that came out was a broken sob of a moan as he rammed into you, the gun now pressed flat against your ribs, metal branding heat into your skin.

“I could fuck you with this,” he whispered. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

Your breath hitched. Because you would. And he knew it.

He pulled out, and you gasped - empty, wrecked, trembling. Your hips chased him instinctively, chasing the friction, the fullness, the claim. But he was already moving.

“On your back,” he ordered, voice low, breath rough with restraint.

You obeyed instantly, rolled onto your back, legs still shaking, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. He knelt between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dragging down your body like he was mapping it, burning it into memory.

And then the gun was back.

Worshipful.

He dragged it down your chest slowly, the cold barrel trailing between the swell of your breasts, down the dip of your sternum. You shivered under it, nipples tightening, stomach tensing with every inch it traveled. He paused at your navel, circled it once, then dipped lower, tracing slow patterns over the sensitive skin just above your pussy.

You whimpered, hips rising, breath caught behind your teeth.

But he didn’t give you what you wanted. Not yet.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping all over yourself. For this.”

The barrel slid lower - just brushing over your clit, barely a tease, and your back arched off the bed like he’d electrocuted you. He smirked, pulled back.

“Beg for it.”

Your lips parted. You hesitated.

Then his thumb came down, pressed against your clit hard enough to make your breath stutter. The gun hovered at your entrance, close enough to feel, not enough to satisfy.

“Beg,” he repeated, voice darker now. “I want to hear it.”

You met his eyes, wide and wrecked and gone.

“Please,” you breathed. “Please– I need it. I need you. I need that. Just– please– use it– use anything, just–”

He didn’t let you finish.

The barrel pushed inside, slick and cold and so wrong it felt right. Your legs fell open wider on instinct, muscles straining as he eased it in, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. Taking it so well.”

You cried out.

He moved it slowly, fucking you with the gun, careful but firm, deliberate. One hand anchored your hip, the other guided the weapon in and out of you, metal glinting between your thighs. You were soaking, ruined, your body clenched around it like it was made for this.

Every thrust sent sparks shooting up your spine.

You were gasping, thighs trembling, your back arched into the push and drag of cold metal inside you. Every slow thrust of the gun made your breath hitch, your hands claw at the sheets, your body burn. You couldn’t even tell where the pleasure ended and the humiliation began - and you didn’t care.

But somewhere, between the high and the haze, your voice cracked through.

“What’s your name?”

The question slipped out like a whisper, barely louder than your breathing, but it hit the air like a shot.

He stilled.

Just for a second.

His eyes found yours - darker now, more focused. Something flickered behind them. Not surprise, exactly, but something close. Like he hadn't expected you to ask, not here, not now, not like this.

The gun stayed inside you, motionless.

His hand curled tighter around the grip.

Then he spoke. Plain and simple.

“Brian.”

The name landed heavy in the silence. Real. Weighty. Yours to keep now.

Then he started moving again, slow and deep, fucking you with the gun while you trembled under him, your head swimming with names and pressure and the sting of something achingly intimate in the middle of something so goddamn dirty.

And he never looked away.

“Come for me,” he said. “Right on the gun. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You did.

Hard. Fast.

Like your body had been waiting for that command since the moment he walked through your door. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your hips bucking, walls clenching down around cold steel as your orgasm hit you.

And he watched you the entire time. Like he owned every inch of you.

Your orgasm tore through you like a wave crashing over stone - wild, helpless, complete. You convulsed around the barrel, legs shaking, mouth open in a wordless cry as your body gave in entirely.

He watched the way your stomach clenched, the way your nails dug into the sheets, the way you came for him. For the weapon still buried inside you.

Slowly, he slid the gun out of you - dragging it through your oversensitive walls, wet and slick and obscene. You whimpered, a broken sound, your body twitching as he held it up to the light.

Coated in you.

A ruinous little trophy.

Then he leaned in - close, breath brushing your ear.

“Clean it,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered open, wide, dazed. But you nodded. Of course you did.

You sat up on trembling elbows, reached for his hand, and brought the barrel to your lips. Your tongue flicked out, tasting yourself on the cold steel, then wrapped your mouth around it fully - licking, sucking, submitting. He didn’t look away. Just watched you do it, chest rising and falling, cock still hard and flushed between you.

When you were done, he pulled it away, slow, satisfied. Tossed it to the side like he was finished with it for now.

Your eyes dropped to his lap. Then climbed back up to his face.

Shy. But wanting.

You shifted, crawling into his space, one thigh brushing against his waist, your soaked heat begging to feel him again.

“Can I…” you bit your lip, eyes searching his, breath still shaky. “Can I ride you?”

His brow lifted, a smirk tugging at his mouth, smug, knowing, just a touch cruel.

“You want to be in control now?” he asked, mocking just enough to make your cheeks burn. “After I fucked the sense out of you with a gun?”

Your face flushed, but you didn’t look away. You just nodded.

He laughed once - low, dark, and maybe a little impressed.

“Alright,” he said, leaning back, arms stretched behind him like a throne just for you. “Let’s see what you’ve got, sweetheart.”

You straddled him slowly, thighs still trembling from the aftershock of everything he’d already pulled from you, but that didn’t stop you. Your hands braced against his chest, your hips sinking down until the thick, heavy length of him pressed right against your entrance.

You gasped as you eased onto him - inch by inch, stretching full, the stretch hitting different now, deeper, more devastating. You rolled your hips once, then again, testing your rhythm, finding that sweet spot of friction that made your breath catch and your lashes flutter.

Brian just lay there. Watching.

His eyes tracked the movement of your body - the bounce of your tits, the flex of your thighs, the way your jaw went slack every time you sank down and took him to the hilt. One big hand rested on your hip. Just there. Heavy. Like a leash without the pull.

You looked down at him through half-lidded eyes, flushed and panting, trying to find control in the chaos, in the way your body felt like it belonged to him now. You ground down harder, a moan catching in your throat, hips picking up speed. The slick, wet sounds of you riding him filled the room.

He still hadn’t moved.

Still watching. Almost bored.

But then–

You moaned his name.

“Brian…”

Soft. Breathless. Full of need.

And that seemed to catch his attention. His eyes met yours, darker now. Focused.

He hissed between his teeth, fingers digging hard into your hip like he’d been holding back and you’d just cut his last thread.

“Say that again,” he growled.

“Brian.” You said it again, softer this time, like a secret, like something sacred.

And that was it.

His grip on your hip tightened suddenly, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. And then he moved - hips snapping up in a brutal thrust that knocked the air right out of your lungs.

You gasped, hands splaying against his chest as he fucked up into you, taking over the rhythm you’d tried so hard to keep. The illusion of control shattered in a heartbeat - he let you pretend, for a while. Let you ride him like you were the one in charge.

But now? He was reminding you exactly whose body you were breaking on.

Each thrust drove deep, dragging a whimper from your throat. The slap of skin filled the room, rough and relentless. You leaned down instinctively, hips still rocking against his, your mouth brushing against his as if you could soften the moment with a kiss.

Your lips grazed his. Your tongue flicked over his bottom lip, begging to enter his mouth.

And then you heard it - a low, sharp laugh right against your mouth.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” he muttered, voice thick with heat and something crueler.

His hand came up, fingers threading into your hair, tugging your head back just enough to meet his eyes.

“This isn’t love-making.”

Another thrust - hard, cruel. You cried out, your body shuddering against his, lips still parted like you didn’t know what you’d been about to say.

“This is mine,” he growled, punctuating it with another brutal roll of his hips, “and you don’t get sweet.”

Your breath hitched. Your moan cracked. Because he was right.

This wasn’t soft or safe. It was him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed - barely audible, mouth still brushing his as he slammed up into you, hips pistoning with controlled violence. “I’m sorry, Brian–”

That was all he needed.

He grunted low, grabbed you by the waist, and flipped you.

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t pause.

Just rolled you under him in one brutal, seamless movement, keeping himself buried deep inside you like you were just something to be moved, claimed. Your legs flew up and over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half beneath the weight of him, your back arching off the mattress.

And then he fucked you.

No more rhythm or teasing. Just punishing thrusts that slammed into your core, made you cry out, made your whole body rock with the force of him. Your knees were nearly to your chest, the angle obscene, so deep it felt like he was splitting you open.

His face hovered just above yours - flushed, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple. Unmasked. Unfiltered. Brian.

His eyes didn’t waver. They stared. Dark and wild and locked onto yours like he was watching every thought flicker across your face.

And then it hit you. The stretch, the pressure, the pace - every nerve ending lit up, your body already strung so tight it hurt. And him, him, right there, chest brushing yours, breath hot on your lips, his face so close you could smell the sweat and smoke clinging to his skin.

It was overwhelming. Too much. Too much after the silence, after the distance, after losing him and pretending you were fine.

Being beneath him again, feeling him inside you, hearing his voice, it cracked something open. You didn’t stand a chance.

And you broke.

Your voice cracked on a sob, your body trembling as your orgasm started to build again - sharp and inevitable.

“I missed you,” you whispered, tears slipping from your eyes. “I missed you so much–please don’t leave me again–”

The words came out raw, desperate, real.

He didn’t stop.

If anything, he fucked you harder.

“Didn’t think you’d fall apart this easy,” he growled, mouth close enough to taste your breath. “Just needed a little dick and a death threat, huh?”

You whimpered, tears streaking your cheeks, your fingers clinging to his shoulders like he might disappear again if you let go.

He didn’t say he’d stay. But the way he looked at you - like he owned you, like he was devouring you - it wasn’t empty. It was dark and full.

And you loved it - being taken like this. No mask or mystery. Just Brian, bare-faced and brutal, fucking you so deep you saw stars, holding you in place like nothing else had ever mattered.

Your body couldn’t take it anymore.

The pressure broke.

You shattered with a cry, legs trembling violently on his shoulders, your back arching up off the mattress as your orgasm hit, hard. It ripped through you like a live wire, snapping every nerve raw.

And then you squirted. All over him. Yourself. The sheets. Everything.

Brian froze for a heartbeat.

Then a low, sharp laugh pushed out of him - more breath than sound, but it was there. That little flash of deja vu from the last time he fucked you, in the car, like something he’d been waiting for.

“Again?” he said, half-laughing, half-mocking, hips still rolling. “You really can’t help yourself around me, huh?”

You moaned - wrecked and soaking and open beneath him - and he pulled out just enough to watch it, to feel it, dragging his cock through the mess between your legs before plunging back in, slow and deep.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Draining you.

Fucking you soft, then wrecked again, then soft again, like he couldn’t decide what version of you he liked better.

You whimpered, fingers twitching, completely gone.

And he wasn’t finished.

He picked up the pace again - rougher now, urgent, the kind of rhythm that screamed close. His breath went ragged, his thrusts sharper, harder. You could feel the tension in him, the heat coiling low and tight, his muscles clenching under your hands.

Your fingers tangled in his dark blond hair, tugging him down until your foreheads touched.

You looked up at him like you couldn’t help it - like every inch of you belonged to him.

Because it did. And he saw it.

He groaned, low and guttural, his eyes locked on yours as he bottomed out one last time.

And then he came. Hard.

His body jerked, hips grinding down into you as he emptied inside, deep and thick and claiming. He let out a broken growl against your cheek, his hand fisting in the sheets beside your head, his whole frame taut and shaking.

You felt all of it.

The pulse of him. The heat. The weight.

He finally pulled out, slow and thick and still hard enough to hurt. You gasped, hips twitching at the drag, walls clenching around nothing as slickness spilled down your thighs. You collapsed against the sheets - trembling, soaked, ruined - legs still parted, body left open for him like an altar.

He stood up, quietly zipping himself back into those same jeans like he hadn’t just split you open on the bed. No words. Just the sound of denim, the stretch of fabric over muscle, and then him turning toward the door.

He was about to leave.

You blinked, dazed.

And something broke in your chest.

“Wait,” you said, voice hoarse, barely there. “Brian–please. Just… stay.”

He stopped.

Didn’t turn around.

Just stood there, shoulders tense, jaw sharp in profile. The silence stretched. Long. Awkward. Heavy.

You stared up at him from where he’d left you, thighs sticky, heart aching, your body still pulsing with aftershocks he’d left behind.

He didn’t move. And for a moment, you thought that was it. Of course he’d leave. That’s what he always did.

Then - a sigh.

Almost a groan. Frustrated. Reluctant.

He turned back. Walked to the edge of the bed. And sat down.

Not beside you - at the edge, facing away. Hands braced on his knees, head slightly bowed like he was already regretting it.

But he stayed.

The silence hung thick between you - not soft or safe, but full of everything unsaid. You stayed where you were for a while, body limp, spent, the ache between your legs pulsing like a bruise.

Then slowly, quietly, you shifted.

Not much - just enough to move closer. Just enough that your body curved toward where he sat at the edge of the bed, his broad back to you, shoulders tense. You didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak.

Just existed near him.

And he felt it.

He didn’t look at you when he said it - voice low, flat.

“This doesn’t make us boyfriend and girlfriend.”

The words landed like a warning. Or a line he didn’t want crossed.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. You just let the silence swallow it, let it settle inside your chest with everything else he wouldn’t give you. You weren’t expecting softness. Not from him.

And that was okay. Because for now - this was enough. The ruin, the silence, the fact of him.

Still, when your voice came, it was quiet. Careful. “Will you come back?”

There was a long pause. He didn’t move. Didn’t look at you. Just breathed, slow and even. Like he was deciding whether or not to answer at all.

Then finally, low and rough, “…Mhm.”

Drawn out. Not rushed. Like it was a promise he wasn’t used to making, but meant.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Then, tentatively, half a smile tugging at your lips, you asked, “Do I at least get your number this time?”

He didn’t even glance back at you, just shook his head once, low and amused. Then, almost too quiet to catch, came the answer: “I already have yours.”

Your brows lifted. “...You do?”

Finally, he turned just enough for you to catch the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I found out where you live,” he said simply. “You think I don’t have your number too?”

Your stomach flipped. That sick, sharp heat curling in your chest returned all over again.

He stood, grabbing his hoodie. “I’ll be back.”

And just like that - he was gone. You heard the front door open and close, and you were alone again, still naked in bed, his cum dripping down your thighs.

Your body ached. Your chest was hollow. But your lips were curled around something close to a smile.

He said he’d be back. And he didn’t seem like the kind of man who said things he didn’t mean.

So you would wait. Of course you would.

#brian thomas x reader #hoodie x reader #brian thomas #hoodie #marble hornets #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta

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