At last, my dark twisted fantasies for the world to read.
Long and delicious, just like Tamsy’s d…
Warnings: +18, an actual plot of religious horror, dubious consent, incubus like energy, blood play, cutting, heavy sacrilege/blasphemy, mentions of cannibalism, desecration of remains, just dark twisted shit overall... if you're a well adjusted person do not engage.
Notes: English is not my first language. It's my first time writing so it might suck but the concept is what matters, overall I'm satisfied with the result. I threw in some Gachiakuta names just to fool around, nothing deep.
Enjoy~
The sun was setting slowly, its rays hitting throughout the window of the black Lincoln Town. A bumpy road leading to St. Jude the Martyr Convent. It wasn’t a secluded place, however it had a history. St. Jude the Martyr Convent was built in 1863 by a French businessman as a gift for the Bishop. Since then, it has also been used as a hospital and war headquarters.
After a few minutes the car parked in front of the building, neo-goth style with a captivating energy. Outside was standing a lone figure wearing a black cassock. A young, tall and slim man with pale skin, with each step a scar adorning the right side of his face became more visible. His hair was another feature to highlight. A messy oversized ash-blonde bun on top and long navy blue layer drapes over his shoulders perfectly framing his face, even if it was an unusual look for a priest.
The skirt of your black habit flew with every step. Once you reached the top of the stairs and stood in front of him the intensity of his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. Light and pupil-less, he was staring right at yours.
Without exchanging a word you bowed before him, “Father” you spoke in a soft voice. He gave a small nod, “Caines” he said with a slow almost hypotonic voice “Tamsy Caines”. After a small pause he said “and you are Sister Y/N, I was of the understanding that you would be arriving tomorrow”. You looked down while explaining “The driver had another assignment today, Father Corvus considered wise to spare him the trouble”. A subtle smirk appeared on Tamsy’s face “Of course he would”, even with your face down you could still feel his eyes focused. “Rise your head Sister, no need for such formalities around me. After all I’m just a priest”. Once your eyes met he said “Besides you’re gonna mess up that habit” a polite smile adorning his face. The whisper of a smile appeared on your face “That would be a trouble”, he nodded slightly “Certainly, and fixing it would interfere with the tour I have planned for you”. Unconsciously, your left hand rose to fix the habit. With a smile still present on his face Tamsy instructed “Walk with me”.
The heavy oak doors groaned as he pushed them open, welcoming you into the large, echoing sanctuary. The air inside instantly shifted; it was cold, heavy and with the lingering sting of frankincense."Striking architecture, isn’t it sister?" Tamsy began, his black cassock swishing softly against the floor as he led you down the center aisle. He pointed up toward the vaulted ceilings, where long shadows stretched like reaching fingers. "I presume it was built to remind humans of their insignificance beneath the heavens. Though, the history here is far more... earthly."
You walked beside him, with both hands folded neatly inside your sleeves. Even when you tried to keep looking forward, his gaze was intoxicating and heavy. The soft texture of his hair and intensity of his eyes drew your attention back to him every few seconds.
"In the early 1900s this place was converted into a wartime hospital, the pews were cleared out to make room for rows of cots," Tamsy murmured, his tone serene and conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. "In fact, you are standing right where they performed the rushed amputations. Word says the oak planks beneath the modern patchwork are still stained so deeply with iron that the termites refuse to touch it." A cold sensation prickled at the nape of your neck. You looked down at the grey stone beneath your shoes, a low whisper leaving your mouth. "A tragedy, Father."
"Necessities of war," he corrected smoothly, flashing a bright, calm smile that didn't reach his pupil-less eyes. He paused in front of a massive, masterfully carved statue of Saint Jude near the front of the nave. "And there is our patron. Exquisite craftsmanship. It is unfortunate that the scaffolding collapsed twice during its execution, " he made a small eerie pause “Nearly three hundred laborers plunged to their deaths right onto this stone to get that drape of the robe just right." Tamsy leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic whisper. "A few parishioners have said when the church is empty they get a scent of sweat and blood from this stone.”
A shiver ran down your spine, an unwanted bliss in response to a priest who spoke of such horrors with a permanent, unbothered smirk. Before you could speak, he turned on his heel, his ash-blonde hair shifting dynamically as he guided you away from the altar and down a narrow, dim corridor leading toward the residential wing of the convent. The hallway grew tighter, the walls lined with austere, dark portraits of previous clergymen whose eyes seemed to track your movement.
"Here we are," Tamsy said, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door at the very end of the hall. He unlocked it with a heavy brass key, pushing it open to reveal a sparse, shadowy room. A single window overlooked the yard, a small wooden desk sat in the corner, and a narrow bed was pushed against the wall. He stepped inside first and walked over to the bed, slowly running a long, pale finger along the dark wooden headboard. Tamsy’s hand lingered there, looking down with an uncanny interest behind his eyes. In a swift motion, he moved away from the bed, gliding past you toward the doorway. The fabric of his cassock brushed firmly against your arm, leaving a trail of heat in your body. He stopped at the threshold, hand resting on the iron doorknob.
"I hope the room treats you warmly, Sister Y/N," he said, that polite, deceptive smile stamping itself back onto his face. "Have a pleasant night. I expect you at the altar early tomorrow morning to help me prepare for the liturgy." Those were his last words before stepping back into the hallway and pulling the heavy door shut.
A heavy darkness swallowed the small room. You lay on the narrow bed, the distant silhouette of the yard outside the window the only marker of where the world ended and the shadows began. Hours passed in a restless blur until a sudden, rhythmic vibration jolted you awake. The frame of the iron bed shook slightly, a heavy tremor vibrating through the mattress. You blinked into the dark, heart pounding, but the room remained perfectly still. A low exhale left your lungs. Just a trick of my sleepy mind, you reassured yourself, rolling back onto your side.
Your eyelids drifted shut again, but the air in the room grew suffocatingly dense. The hair-raising sensation of a gaze boring into your body, making the skin crawl. Someone standing right at the edge of the bed, staring down at you in the dark. An instinct screamed to open your eyes, but fear locked your lids tight. You chose to ignore it, forcing your breathing to remain steady, desperately trying to fake sleep.
Then, the blankets shifted.
A sudden, violent tug caught the fabric at the end of the bed, yanking your ankles. The force tore you upright, eyes snapping open as you sat up suddenly in the dark, gasping for air. But before a sound could leave your throat, an invisible weight slammed you back down onto the mattress.
Panic flared, but your limbs refused to move. A force pinned your arms to the sides, your legs anchored to the mattress by an immense, unseen pressure. You were completely paralyzed.
The hot, heavy wave of air washed over you as a presence shifted directly over your body. The faint scent of iron and a predatory flesh overwhelming your senses, followed by the terrifyingly real sound of low breathing right against your ear. An invisible mouth brushed the column of your neck, exhaling a searing heat that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.
Each phantom touch was merciless. Cold, unseen fingers slid down the front of your nightgown, trailing over your ribs before settling firmly around your waist. The grip was heavy and possessive, squeezing your hips with a bruising force that felt agonizingly physical. You tried to scream, but your jaw was locked, a desperate whimper trapped behind your teeth.
With each passing second, the pressure shifted lower, forcing its way between your knees. An empty warm sliding up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The touch was slow, deliberate, and deeply invasive, but still driving you past the point of terror and into a volatile pleasure. A wetness creeped between your thighs. Every stroke against your folds was hyper-real, dragging you through a suffocating, dark euphoria until your breath caught entirely. The imminent release of your body shuddered in a silent, overwhelming flood that left you trembling against the sheets.
Morning light cut sharply through the small window, shattering the experience.
You sat up abruptly, gasping for breath, your hands instantly flying to your face. The room was empty. A shaky trembling breathless chuckle left your body, pressing a hand to your racing heart. It was sleep paralysis, your rational mind tried to reassure. Just a horrific, hyper-realistic trick of the mind probably born from Tamsy’s unsettling tour.
But as you threw off the heavy blankets to get dressed for the morning liturgy, your movement froze.The distinct, lingering dampness clung to the skin between your thighs, the cool air of the room hitting the undeniable stain left behind. Faint bruises resembling fingers shadowed your thighs. A breath caught in your throat. The heat in your core hadn’t vanished with the sun. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream after all.
Even daylight could not warm the sanctuary of St. Jude the Martyr. Dressed in your clean black habit, you stood beside the high altar, your hands trembling slightly as you prepared the liturgical books for the service. The nerves in your body felt raw and completely exposed.
In the background, the heavy swish of a cassock signaled his arrival.
"Good morning, Sister Y/N," Tamsy’s voice echoed through the empty nave. He stepped into the sanctuary, those navy blue strands draped over his shoulders, catching the morning light. Always wearing that permanent, serene smile. "I trust the room treated you warmly?" You forced your gaze to remain on the pages of the lectionary, with a voice that was barely a whisper. "Yes, Father. Very." He didn't reply immediately. Instead, stepped up the altar to adjust the heavy brass crucifix. The space behind the altar was narrow, forcing him to pass directly behind you.
In a movement that appeared entirely accidental to anyone who might be looking from the pews, his large, pale hand reached out to steady himself against the tight confines of the altar space. His palm slid firmly around the curve of your waist, his long fingers wrapping around your hip. Your entire body violently jolted at the contact. The pressure of his thumb digging into your side was an exact, flawless match to the possessive grip that had pinned you to the bed just hours before.
A phantom heat of the night flared back to life instantly, a quiet gasp escaping your lips as your knees threatened to buckle. Tamsy didn't pull his hand away immediately. He let his fingers linger for a fraction of a second longer, his pupil-less eyes flicking down to catch the sudden flush creeping up your neck. The polite smile on his face never wavered, but a sharp, dark glint flashed behind his eyes. "Careful, Sister," he murmured, his voice dropping to that slow, hypnotic cadence as he finally let his hand slide away. "We wouldn't want your collectedness to waver before the liturgy even begins."
The days that followed passed in a tense, claustrophobic blur. Each morning began exactly the same: you would stand at the altar, nerves raw and waiting for the heavy swish of Tamsy’s cassock. But as the week progressed, a pattern began to emerge. In every other parish you had ever served, it was the strict duty of the sacristan or assisting nun to help the priest purify the Holy Vessels after Mass. Consuming any leftover consecrated wine and meticulously washing the silver chalice with water. Yet, Tamsy never asked for your help. The moment the liturgy ended, he would dismiss you immediately, locking himself alone in the sanctuary. Whenever you returned later to put the Vessels away, the silver chalice was always bone-dry, scraped clean of even a single remaining drop. The Sacred Sink would occasionally end up completely drained despite being full a day before. Even some columbarium doors seem to be left unlocked.
The mysteries only made nights more intolerable. By mid-week, a thick, suffocating odor began to bleed through the walls of your room, the heavy reek of rotting flesh. This kept you awake for hours, your eyes strained in the dark as you stared at the finger-shaped bruises fading on your thighs.
During the morning chores, the older nuns noticed your pale face and dark circles, whispering warnings over the washbasins. They spoke in hushed, solemn tones about the two previous priests who had occupied the rectory before Tamsy. Father Regto and Father Surebrec, both had been found hanging from the rafters of the nave. The soil of St. Jude was cursed, they warned. You were told to keep your head down and pray.
But by Sunday night, prayers were not enough.
The stench in your room had grown so thick it felt physical, choking the breath from your throat. Unable to endure the confinement of those four walls any longer, you slipped out of bed, bare feet silent against the cold stone corridors. Driven by a desperate need to find the source of the rot, you followed the phantom scent down the winding residential hallway, through the tight corridor of staring portraits, and straight toward the doors of the main church. You pushed the door open just an inch, steeling yourself for the wave of decay. But once inside the shadow-drenched sanctuary, that smell vanished completely. The air became dead and impossibly still. The only scent left was the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood and heavy frankincense, drawing your eyes toward the high altar where a faint, flickering glow pierced the dark.
As your eyes adjusted to the flickering gloom, the true geometry of the space unveiled itself. This was not a standard nocturnal vigil; it was an obscure and meticulous inversion of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.
Sitting in the very front pews, flanking the center aisle like grotesque sentinels, were the desecrated remains of Father Regto and Father Surebrec. Positioned carefully on the right and left, they sat upright in their stiff, fading clerical vestments. Their hollow eye sockets fixed forward. Tamsy had transformed them into his compulsory, silent congregation.
Behind the high altar stood Tamsy, fully adorned in a crimson chasuble, mocking the liturgical vestment worn during the feasts of martyrs. His messy ash-blonde hair and long navy-blue layers were completely undone, cascading over his shoulders like a dark, frayed veil that partially shadowed his face.The skin of his face was smeared with sharp, skeletal lines. Looking closer, you noticed it wasn't charcoal or theatrical ink; it was a gritty, gray-white paste composed of stolen holy water and the calcified ashes he had raided from the columbarium .
Laid out across the consecrated stone altar table were the precise tools of the inversion: a silver chalice filled with the dark unpurified wine of every mass, the sacrarium water bowl with ashes, a blackened double-edged ceremonial dagger, the altar crucifix deliberately inverted so the corpus faced down, two black tallow candles burning on either side. Every element a symbol of rejection for the divine.
Tamsy looked up from the table, his pupil-less eyes catching the flickering flame. A sharp, unbothered smirk broke across his painted face as he recognized your footsteps. He didn't flinch or attempt to cover his work. "You walk with such quiet grace, Sister Y/N," Tamsy murmured, his voice dropping into that slow, hypnotic cadence that vibrated through the high stone arches. He gestured faintly with the blackened dagger toward the pews. "My perfect addition to the liturgy. The ancient rites always require a gift to bridge the profane with the sacred."
You stood frozen at the base of the altar steps, caught between terror and magnetic captivation. "Father... what have you done?" your voice whispered. His smile widened, gaze locking onto yours with an intense, predatory focus. "Just a customary offering. Descending is not for free, sister." Tamsy moved the blade across his right palm, pouring into the chalice whatever blood emerged. "They spent their lives guiding a mindless herd and kneeling before an empty sky," he said. "But you... you have been an obedient little lamb. You followed the scent straight to the heart of the sacrifice. I guess that deserves a reward."
The sensation of an unyielding grip on your arm appeared. Your body moving automatically, guided by the intoxicating force. As you reached the platform, Tamsy’s suffocating presence pulled you deeper into the narrow space behind the consecrated stone table. His chest pressed against your back, caging you between the altar and his figure.
“Those eyes might be hollow, but they’re looking at us… they’re all looking at us.” He whispered, sending chills down your spine. Tamsy lifted his right hand to place it under your chin. “Such inviting lips,” he grabbed the dagger resting it against your mouth. In one swift motion he dragged it across your lower lip, the taste of blood flooding your senses. Immediately after, the chalice filled with tainted wine and his blood was pressed against your mouth. Forcing the content past your teeth, but before you could swallow Tamsy’s lips pressed against yours, trapping the liquid between your tongues in a messy, suffocating kiss.
He released your chin and calmly started tracing down your body, the blood in his right hand leaving a smear of crimson against the nightgown. When his hand settled on your waist, he caressed your silhouette through the fabric. “You know, they found them hanging right where we are standing.” His mouth moved closer to your ear, a heavy whisper invading your mind “Bodies spent the whole night here… just like us, little lamb.”
The blade in his other hand rose to your neck, his slender fingers pressing it against your throat. “I could kill you right now…” an eerie pause creating a void in your stomach. “But hanging you would be such a waste.” Tamsy’s mouth moved down to your neck, biting the flesh with calculated force. An electrifying shock surged down your body as he murmured, “I’d rather preserve your body as my doll.”
Suddenly, the blade left your neck and started to move in sync with his mouth down your body, still covered in fabric. With every passing second the trail of bites lengthened until it reached the hem of your nightgown. Tamsy lifted it slowly, revealing your bare skin. “I figured nuns would have more decorum.” His mouth moved up your inner thigh stopping over your bare heat, “Perhaps I could dine a piece of your flesh.” Those breathy words hit the dampness between your legs, sending a low ache through your core. Right then, you felt the coldness of the blade against your inner thigh. Before you could protest, Tamsy sliced a shallow line into your skin, releasing a trail of crimson liquid. Once he duplicated the cut on the other side, his tongue rolled over your wounds, collecting the blood with his mouth.
Your body stiffened and once his mouth was covered in your blood he moved to invade your core. The overwhelming sensation released a loud gasp from your mouth. “F-Father… w-wai” you couldn’t even finish the sentence when his dark voice cut through the shadows “Silence little lamb, you might disturb the dead.” Tamsy dived back into your soaked area, licking up and down your folds while mixing both fluids. His mouth stained you, smearing the blood along your inner thighs. Small whines and moans escaped your lips, not being able to control each reaction. With each passing second, your dampness grew, flooding Tamsy’s mouth, coating his throat in a glistening layer. “I can’t… Father, I-” your breath grew heavier, the warmth in your stomach expecting a release. Without a word, he started working on your clit, sucking and licking strategically. Your legs started shaking aggressively, knees threatening to buckle beneath you. Tamsy swiftly placed his hands over your hips, to steady each movement. Right before you could let go, he moved away.
“A ravishing dinner… I do wonder what your flesh tastes like” His voice was rough and visceral, sending a jolt down to your core. Tamsy placed the dagger back on the altar while lifting himself up. The dark shadow of his body swallowing you completely. With both hands back on your hips, Tamsy bent you over the table. “Open wide,” your mouth opened automatically, mind short-circuiting from the overwhelming rush. Right then, his mouth released a thick strand of all your fluids mixed together. You immediately swallowed, finally submitting to his dark liturgy.
Tamsy reached for his braided gold cincture cord, placing both hands behind your back, binding your wrists together as tightly as possible. He leaned over, crushing your body against the altar. “Pray little lamb…” That same hypnotic voice echoing in your brain. Your throat tightened, the words slipping out in a trembling, desperate chant. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” before you could keep going, Tamsy bit your ear harshly before whispering “Not to him, to me.”
His command sent a thrill down to your core, igniting it again. “Please Father, allow me to drown in your sin.” your voice a distant and needy whisper. A sharp uncanny smirk appeared on his face, reaching down under the chasuble to free his length. “Blessed be Sister. Let our waters rise. In the name of the flesh, the blood, and my unholy shadow…” Right before you could answer, Tamsy lifted your nightgown to align himself between your legs, sinking in with a harsh thrust. Your loud moan resonated deeply. His left hand yanked your head backwards, while the right one covered your mouth as he murmured, “The sound of a dying lamb.”
You could feel his length pulsing deep inside, building up the warmth in your stomach. With every hard and steady thrust, your body shook while tightening around him. “Focus little lamb… you’re clenching around me and we haven’t even started.” Just the sound of his voice made more fluids run out of your folds, soaking him completely. “Oh, do you like this dear Sister?” A mocking smile appeared on his face. “Should we do it more often?” He stopped abruptly, before whispering against your ear, “Make you my little lamb?” Your hips moved on their own, grinding against him, desperately trying to pull him back to you. Tamsy scoffed cruelly, slamming his hips forward to answer your silent plea. “Very well.”
In that moment, his left hand gripped your hips tight enough to bruise. Every thrust grew faster and harder, pushing even deeper than before. Your drooling mouth against his right palm, muffling every whine. Tamsy felt your warmth swallow him fully, squeezing tightly. With every movement, the soft flesh of your curves bounced back and forth, low animalistic growls leaving his throat. His hands moved under your nightgown, leaving a trail of rough scratches all over your skin. In between thrusts, he moved the left hand closer to circle your clit. The sensation forced a jolt of fluids that covered his hand instantly. “There you go…” his voice was rougher than before. “Same as last time.” An image of her first night in the convent rushed through your head.
His movements came more erratic, turning his focus to a particular spot. The clenching of your insides spoke louder than your moans. Tamsy’s dark voice pierced through your ears. “I’ll taint your womb little lamb… just like he did with Virgin Mary.” Every single word sent a wave of electricity down your body. Feeling the impending release building inside, “Please Father, drown me in your seed…” every muscle in your body was shaking from the pleasure. With a heavy groan, he exploded buried deep inside of you, a warm sensation connecting you both. The mixed fluids running down your thigh, “Next time I will mix it with our blood for you to drink.” Tamsy’s breath was heavy against your neck.
He buckled against you one final time while a violent shudder ran through your bodies. With a last, consuming kiss that stole the remaining breath from your lungs, he pulled back just enough to look down at your ruined figure, whispering into the quiet gloom. “Now you are marked, Sister.”
Hiiii Can you do Easterman with reagent reader and Easterman has them on a literal leash? Tia!
Chat Log Name : Sometimes Father needs a little pep or a little help relaxing…
Chat log description : A dog is a man’s best friend and everyone knows that even Doctor Easterman.
online users : Doctor Easterman, Reagent! Reader
‼️CONTENT WARNINGS : MDNI 18+ NO PLOT, SECOND POV, OOC! Doctor Easterman, Power Dynamics, Unhealthy behaviors, Leashes & Collars, Stepping, Degradation, Erotic Asphyxiation, Mutual Masturbation.
<< ao3 link
Your trembling hands gripped the metal lining of the shuttle tubes, pulling yourself up while the blaring alarm echoed that there was only mere seconds till your ESOP would shock you repeatedly.
Your legs stumbled into the shuttle, the pungent stench of sweat, blood drifted around the air. Your teammates were always so silent, already sitting the leather chairs—already strapped in to go back to the sleep room to become more moldable for the trials. A wave happened of feeling the shuttle moving backwards despite being strapped to the leather chair by metal restraints—hearing the gears turning and hissing as the screeching noise of wheels stopped in front the examination room to receive your grade.
You walked into the shuttle tube, feeling as it twisted you forward to step into the examination hallway; smelling the antiseptic and disinfectant spray across your skin when you stepped onto the pressure plate that was surrounded by a mix of water and antiseptic.
Your eyes looked at the television screen that held up the grade— D. You bit your cheek, hearing the upset words from the recording that stung.
“I’m not angry,” he said. “Just disappointed.”
The voice of Doctor Easterman was very familiar to your ears—you were always troubled. But he needed some relaxation when dealing with such difficult cases like yourself and many others.
His hands fastened the collar—so tightly that you had started to form black spots across your vision. His calloused thumb wiped away the trickling of drool that came from your lips, his thin lips grew into a smile.
“A gentle caress when you need love.” He tightened it further and smacked away your trembling hands that dug into his wrists. “A firmer hand when you need discipline.”
You could only muster out breathing gasps and half worded pleas while his hands adjusted the collar to the correct size. He held the leash in one hand while tugging you to him. As his freshly polished shoe began slowly applying pressure onto your crotch, moving side to side and occasionally going in circles.
His hand tugged on the leash pulling you forward, his eyes stared at you writhing and trying to buck your hips against his shoe.
“Do you have something to say to me?” He inquired.
You shook your head, no in response. Only for a trail of gasps to escape your lips due to him tugging hard on the leash, the strip was wrapped around his palm.
“You know that you’re failing yourself.” He tugged on it harder, pressing harder against your crotch. “I know that you’re trying but are you trying hard enough for me?”
It was building that familiar high that you always had to lie about getting—the shame but it was so sweet. The wet spot in your sweatpants started to get even more pronounced—feeling his lips scattered sloppy kisses across your now exposed skin. Tasting his bitter saliva that made the walls feel as if they were pulsating; in and out.
“You are disappointing me,” he murmured. “You’re supposed to be special, my how high. Did I misplace my judgement on you?”
His spare hand lit up a fresh cigarette from his desk, eyes that stared at you with such discontent.
“You are going to do better, yes?” He inquired.
You nodded while an incoherent moan escaped from your lips as he pulled his shoe away from your crotch, his hand still wound around the leash. The begs of him trying to bring you to pleasure were going unheard.
“You don’t want to be a mistake?” He asked. “And I put so much hard work in you…I could ship you off to Mount Massive if you’re incapable of getting the therapy correctly.”
You shook your head, no. As the fear started boiling in your stomach alongside the bubbling of the pleasure since reading the occasional files in the trials burned into your memories of the Experimental population were former lab rats to the original project LATHE and what would Murkoff do to your skin in Mount Massive. It was already comforting in the facility that nurtured violence and everything that the outside world tried to keep hidden.
“You just need to relax, don’t you?” He asked. “You need my help, don’t you?”
You nodded in response. Your sweatpants pooled around your ankles, his hand went into the waistband of your underwear and played with your genitalia; stroking and rubbing on the over sensitive parts. The stench of cigarette smoke wafted around the room, he sat you down on his thigh.
Your trembling hand lightly squeezed the erected flesh of Easterman, his lips left a trail of messy kisses on your nape.
“You don’t want to be a failure, again?” He gasped, softly. “I know that you don’t want to be troubled.”
You stroked it up and down while subtly feeling his hips almost thrust into your hand. But it only felt like mush in your foggy mind, as his fingers were coated with your fluid and repeatedly playing with your overstimulated genitalia with no end even if you had been reduced to a pile of overstimulated mush.
Tags: established relationship, size difference, dry humping, nipple play, fingering, unprotected sex, riding, mating press, coming inside [so much damn come], multiple orgasms, dacryphilia, squirting, wet and messy, overstimulation, Tommy is straight lost in the sauce, sweetness, some aftercare, allusion to round two
Note: While there is size difference in this, the reader is not described physically as petite or small, I actually wrote it with a plus sized reader in mind though that's not particularly described in detail either. Tommy is about 6'5" and over 300lbs, even my 5'11" ass is small compared to him, so I'd wager the size difference still works very well
Oh shit, guess who's turn it is this Kinkmas day? The one and only Thomas motherfucking Hewitt! Round of applause please everyone for this delicious mountain of a man and the freak shit he gets up to.
Damn do I adore writing for Tommy, he is my fucking muse and I would do anything for him. Which is probably why this fic might be the messiest of the bunch yet, and why I love it so much. I hope you all will too, and will show some love for this man! Now go forth and enjoy!
Thomas Hewitt hates condoms. He never knew he could hate something so simple so much, but he did. He still let you put one on him before you had sex, understanding the comfort and protection it gave you but there wasn’t a bone his body that wasn’t dreaming about getting to fuck you without one.
Would you feel different? Well, obviously, he knew it must feel different but how different?
Would it feel softer? Warmer? Wetter? He wanted to know more than anything but the last thing he would ever do was push you.
He still loved having sex with you, feeling you under him, holding onto him, letting out small moans with every thrust of his— fuck. Now he was hard while working again.
Thomas huffed and dropped the cleaver that was slowly dripping blood from the blade to the table, wiped his hands off on his apron and went to leave the basement to look for you.
He had an inkling for where to find you and felt his heart racing with every step he took up the stairs. When he walked into the living room he saw you.
You were bent over the coffee table that was covered in stockings, carefully dropping sweet treats and little bone contraptions into them. It was something you had started doing earlier in the year, gathering animal bones, cleaning them and using metal wire to bind them together into different shapes. The small decorations had started appearing all over the house and he cherished seeing them, seeing you spreading yourself all over.
Another thing he immediately noticed that wasn’t helping the throbbing hardness in the pants was how the dress you were wearing was riding high and revealing your thighs to his hungry eyes. The winter didn’t get as cold as it did in other parts of the country but even then, the house was kept warm enough for you to not have to wear those skin thigh pants underneath your dress inside. Though he didn’t mind them even when you did since they left about as little to the imagination as when you weren’t wearing them.
He walked up behind you and dropped his hands to your hips, slowly grabbing and squeezing the soft flesh under the fabric.
“Hello Tommy,” you chuckled and finished filling the last stocking. “You all done downstairs?"
You straightened and turned around in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck affectionately. Tommy nodded and pulled you into him by your hips, pressing the bulge in his pants against your stomach.
When you smiled wide at him he could feel a part of him melting, wanting nothing more than to pick you up and carry you away to privacy. He was still stuck in his day dreams of you bent over and moaning his name when you spoke again, “Let me hang these back up and then I have a little surprise for you.”
Tommy tilted his head and reluctantly dropped his hands from your hips, letting you pull away to hang the now overflowing stockings back where they belonged.
Next thing he knew you had wrapped your hand around his and were pulling him up the stairs to your shared room, locking the door behind you.
“C’mere,” you mumbled and opened your arms for him to walk into. You wrapped your arms around his wide shoulders when he stepped closer and pressed a soft kiss against the front of his mask. He couldn’t deny how it made his heart sing whenever you did that, a slow burning heat spreading over his chest and face. He couldn’t have dreamt up someone more accepting than you, never pushing him to reveal his face, only cherishing whenever he took the mask off himself.
You walked him backwards until his knees hit the bed, pushing him until he sat down and was staring up at you with wide eyes. As quickly as you sat down on his lap, Tommy’s hands flew back to your hips, making a soft giggle escape your lips.
Slowly and with deliberate movements you took hold of the skirt of your dress and pulled it up over your head, exposing your tits to Tommy who was at perfect eye level with them now. He couldn’t help his instinct and immediately buried his face between them, his hands shifting to your clothed ass and pulling you forward to grind against his aching cock.
“Fuck, Tommy—,” he groaned when you whimpered his name, pulling you down onto him harder.
Your hands found his on your ass and pulled them away, up your body and to your chest. Before Tommy could complain you made sure to keep grinding your hips over him in the same rhythm he had set.
Tommy kept his eyes glued to your tits as he palmed them with his hands, slowly grabbing and rubbing against your nipples. You gasped at the action and arched your chest into him, your head falling back as you felt yourself slowly leaking through your panties.
The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes, the man under you pinching your nipples between his calloused fingertips and minutely pulling on them to hear you whimper and sigh. He could never get enough of your noises, wanting to be the cause for them all the time. He’s had dreams that were just filled with you, laying on the bed spread out before him, beckoning him between your legs as you moaned his name so sweetly he woke up with an ache in his jaw.
It was never lost on him how lucky he was to have you in his bed, and he always felt unbelievably honored to feel you like this.
The bulge in Tommy’s pants was twitching with every slow drag of your hips and you decided to take mercy on him. You slowly stopped your rhythm and lifted off of his lap, smiling at the resulting whine from the man.
“Need to take your pants off for this next part, love.”
As soon as you finished the sentence Tommy was up with you, tearing his pants off of his hips faster than ever, then taking hold of your panties and kneeling to pull them off too.
He didn't immediately get back up though, he stayed on his knees in front of you, his cock hanging aching, red and leaking between his thighs, but he paid it no mind.
Tommy pressed his masked jaw into your thigh as he lifted the other over his shoulder and ran his fingers through your folds. You sighed heavily and tried to keep your hips still as Tommy’s fingers explored the wetness of your cunt, eyes never pulling away.
He slowly drew circles over your clit before sliding down to collect the leaking evidence of your arousal on his fingers, then he slowly pushed one into you.
The feeling of him starting to thrust in and out of you already had your head spinning.
Tommy was a big man, one of his fingers alone had your heart racing and your leg over his shoulder twitching.
“Tommy,” you moaned and he rumbled in satisfaction at how broken you sounded when he only had one finger in you. “Fuck, just like that, love.”
You knew from experience how well Tommy responded to praise so you made sure to always tell him good he was doing, how good he was making you feel. And it was never a lie either, the man knew exactly how to make you putty in his hands.
It didn’t take long for Tommy to slip a second finger into you while relishing in the gasping moan you let out, and how your cunt tightened and dripped around his fingers as he sped up.
It was very rare that Tommy and you had sex without him fingering you open first. Partly because he simply enjoyed it so much, and you did too, and partly because it was absolutely necessary.
When you looked down between Tommy’s legs you couldn’t help but stare at his cock, the way it was leaking precome onto the floor, how it was twitching a little whenever you moaned his name, and how it looked like he was absolutely throbbing with need.
“So good for me, Tommy,” you sighed and watched as his dick twitched and spilled more precome, his hips tilting forward with it.
You didn’t want to stop what was happening even if it meant finally having Tommy inside you again, his fingers just felt too fucking good the way he was curling them on every thrust. Not to mention how intently he was staring at your cunt and the way you were practically pulling him back in whenever he pulled his fingers out.
But when you looked at his cock again you knew you needed him inside you soon or you would lose your mind completely.
So you reached down and buried your hand in Tommy’s hair before slowly pulling him away from your thigh. The man groaned and looked up at you questioningly without stopping the movements of his fingers.
“Want you, ah fuck, want you inside me.”
With that, Tommy finally slowed his fingers before pulling them out of your pussy, making you immediately miss the feeling.
He got up off his knees and went to sit back on the bed, his back resting against the wall, legs slightly spread and cock standing proud and needy to feel you around him.
Tommy watched as you walked over, expecting you to open the drawer of your nightstand for a condom, so he was very surprised when you climbed onto the bed with him.
As you were crawling up his thighs he reached over to the nightstand himself, thinking maybe you had just forgotten. Once you were sitting on Tommy’s hips he turned back towards you holding a condom between his fingers.
You smiled at him and took it out of his hands before unceremoniously throwing it behind you onto the floor.
You wrapped your hand around Tommy’s cock and lifted your hips, lined yourself up and then slowly began sinking down until he was inside you completely. With a moan you let your head fall back and were slightly grinding your hips to get used to the feeling of Tommy filling you up which was always a stretch.
The man under you couldn’t believe what he was seeing, hell, he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. Your cunt was so warm and hugging his cock like he had been gone for months. Tommy didn’t know what to do with his hands until they naturally settled on your hips.
He let out a choked off moan before a string of questioning noise followed.
You were still getting used to how his cock stretched your pussy when you looked back at Tommy through lidded eyes, “Surprise.”
Understanding washed over his face before his hold on your hips tightened. When you moved your hips back and forth with more purpose Tommy groaned and his eyes slid shut, his thighs twitching under your.
“Feel good, baby?” you chuckled slightly and kept moving your hips slowly back and forth.
No matter how often you had Tommy inside you, the sheer size of him never failed to make you whine and revel in the stretch. He filled you so perfectly you swore you could spend a whole day just having him stuffed inside you.
The need to move was slowly becoming unbearable and you lifted your hips smoothly before dropping back down fast and hard, moaning at the pang of pleasure shooting through your whole body and mixing with the slight feeling of too much. You started a slow but hard rhythm of lifting and dropping your hips, Tommy’s hands loosely holding onto your hips through it all .
The man was struggling to process what was happening, your cunt gliding over his cock felt so good he could cry but it was taking all of his brain power away from him.
When his eyes wandered over your naked form, admiring how gorgeous you looked with your head thrown back, nipples hard and tits bouncing in front of his face, they finally settled on your pussy. He watched entranced at how your folds spread obscenely to accommodate the thickness of his cock, how your cunt was covering him in your wetness and making him glisten in the light.
Your cunt. Your bare cunt.
You could tell the exact moment it all finally clicked for Tommy, because he rumbled a deep groan, grabbed your hips hard and started driving his cock up into you way faster than you had been going. With your controlled pace gone, your moans turned into loud broken versions of themselves, echoing in the room and spurring Tommy on to move harder, to slam his hips up into yours with enough force to bounce you upwards.
“Fuck, Tommy—,” the man in question groaned, interrupting you and making you whine with a particularly harsh thrust. You could barely keep your eyes open with how good you felt, having to support yourself with your hands on Tommy’s shoulders.
“So good Tommy,” you whimpered and dropped your head on his shoulder next to your hands.
The reaction from Tommy was instantaneous, a loud groan that turned into a broken whine as his hips stuttered. He thrust deep up into you a few more times before you felt him spilling inside you. Part of you was surprised he had even made it this long.
You talked him through his orgasm, grinding your hips into his last few strokes and telling him how good he was doing.
When his hips stilled completely and Tommy was breathing heavily you started lifting yourself off of him. He stopped you though, pulling you back down and making you moan as he bottomed out, a bit of his come dripping out of you and forming a puddle above his cock.
“Good surprise?” you sighed and looked up to see Tommy nodding his head frantically, squeezing your hips and making sure you stayed firmly seated on his cock. You didn’t even care you hadn’t come yet, the warm feeling inside you was making your eyes unfocus and flutter. Plus, you knew Tommy would make sure you got to come afterwards, he had never let you go unsatisfied before.
The two of you stayed like that for a little while longer, Tommy’s cock softening inside you and still filling you up perfectly to make sure your cunt stayed sensitive and needy to finish.
You expected him to lift you off of him eventually,use his fingers to make you come or his mouth, but he didn’t move, just kept his hands on your hips and let out small grunts whenever your pussy clenched needily around him.
Tommy still couldn’t believe it actually happened and he didn’t want it to end yet, he didn’t want to lose the feeling of your bare cunt around him, the warmth and pleasure. He started slightly moving your hips back and forth, making you whine and dig your nails into his shoulders.
“Tommy?” he heard you whimper in question, but only groaned in response, losing himself further in the feeling of your cunt. After already coming inside you he was sensitive, yes, but he knew he would be able to handle it for longer this time, and he would make sure he felt you fish with his dick buried deep inside you.
You were completely unaware of this plan Tommy was already forming in his head, continuously whimpering at the small movements of your hips and how his soft cock was grinding along your walls. Oh.
All of a sudden you felt him hardening inside you, the soft grinds making the slow pleasure shooting through you more intense again, your whining getting louder.
Then Tommy was moving, he lifted off the bed with you still speared on his cock and his hands supporting your weight under your ass. He quickly dropped you onto the bed and lifted your thighs before pressing them down to your chest as far as they would go.
Your arms were still wrapped around Tommy’s bulky shoulders and before you could say anything, the man groaned and pulled his hips back.
When he thrust back into you the angle almost made you scream, and then Tommy kept going, setting a fast and brutal pace, the sounds of his hips slamming into yours echoing through the room and mixing with the wet squelching of your cunt.
You were trying desperately to hold on but to no avail, your arms dropped from around his shoulders and you buried your hands in the sheets beside your head.
Tommy was grunting with every harsh snap of his hips, relishing in every noise that escaped from your mouth. He was looking down at you which you didn’t notice since your eyes had rolled back in pleasure, and he was admiring how fucked out you looked. He couldn’t tear his eyes off of you because God help him– You were gorgeous.
When he leaned back just enough to be able to look at your cunt he groaned louder and sat back a little more, entranced by the way you were stretched open to accommodate the size of his cock. A ring of glistening wetness mixed with his come had formed around his cock and was making him drool behind the mask, your pussy was leaking onto the sheets and if Tommy had the ability to stop fucking you he would have leaned down and gotten a taste.
He would lick up your essence from the sheets if he had to.
Below him, you were moaning so loud your throat felt raw, your pleasured noises sounding more and more broken by the second. You swore you could feel Tommy in your throat with how deep he was stuffing his cock into you, how he was splitting your cunt open for him to bury himself inside like it was the only place on earth he cared about being.
Your orgasm wasn’t a surprise, you could feel it building and tensing in your stomach, what was a surprise was how violently it hit you. It started suddenly and intense, making you sob out Tommy’s name like a prayer as he fucked you through it. Your thighs were shaking in Tommy’s grip, unable to close around his bulk, and your hands were digging into and pulling at the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you afloat.
When your cunt started rhythmically squeezing around his cock, Tommy grunted and redoubled his effort, hitting the perfect spots deep inside you with every thrust and prolonging your orgasm until you couldn’t think straight anymore.
You were sure you felt Tommy come inside you again, felt the unmistakable warmth of him shooting ropes of come into your used pussy, heard the slew of groans and grunts that always escaped him, but he was still hard, still frantically pounding his cock into you.
Shortly after the first, a second orgasm crashed over you, the feeling of it making tears sting in your eyes before rolling down your cheeks as burning hot evidence of how wonderfully overwhelmed you were with the pleasure coursing through your body and making you feel better than you could handle.
Tommy didn’t falter once, he pushed your thighs down against your chest harder and bullied his cock into you through all the clenching your cunt was doing. He felt gushes of liquid spray out of you with every deep stroke and rumbled happily, looking down to see you soak the sheets and his hips as well as your own thighs.
When you had come down from your second peak you were sure you couldn’t handle any more, but Tommy kept going. He kept up his pace, kept you pinned down and kept grunting whenever you weakly tightened around his throbbing length.
“Tommy, I—-,” your words were interrupted by your own moans and whines but you kept going anyways, “I can’t, aah fuck, please. Tommy, please.”
What you had intended to be a plea for Tommy to come inside you again, the man currently using your cunt perceived as a request for him to make you come one more time.
So Tommy let go of one of your thighs and slid his hand to your clit before furiously rubbing over it with just enough pressure to make more tears spill from the corners of your eyes.
You truly didn’t think you could come again, convinced your cunt had done its job and done it well, but it was finished. Instead you felt a deep pressure where Tommy was pounding his cock into you and then you were crashing over the edge again.
Unbeknownst to you, your pussy was gushing again, spilling over Tommy’s fingers which were still rubbing over your clit and spraying the liquid even more.
You were helplessly twitching and shaking under the man, sobbing and moaning his name as you became more and more incoherent.
The intense feeling of your cunt squeezing around Tommy’s cock so tight he was sure he’d not be able to move anymore soon, made the man drop over the edge right behind you. He thrust into you hard, pumping his come as deep inside as he could get, stuffing you so full that some of it was being pushed back out and dripped down your ass onto the sheets.
Tommy was groaning and whining above you, lost in pleasure, but his fingers were still rubbing over your clit with abandon.
You came twice more, making more and more of a mess out of both your hips and the sheets before Tommy softened enough to have to stop moving, burying his cock as deep into you as possible, and finally stilling his fingers too.
When he looked back up at you properly and saw your face covered in wet streaks of tears at varying stages of drying, your eyes red, mouth open and drooling, he let out a series of concerned grunts and whines, wiping away the still wet tears on your face.
“I’m okay, love,” you barely managed to whisper out and looked up at Tommy with a delirious smile.
Tommy slowly let your thighs rest on the bed before carefully pulling out of you. He watched as an obscene amount of come spilled out after him, your exhausted whine mixing with his satisfied rumble.
He couldn’t help himself and lifted his hand to run his fingers over your swollen and red cunt, making you gasp and your hips twitch away from touch due to oversensitivity.
“Fuck, that was a lot,” you sighed and looked down at Thomas who tilted his head at you while stroking over your thigh slowly.
“And absolutely perfect,” you said at his silent question and smiled softly.
He kept stroking over your thighs while waiting for you to come down completely before picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom for a hot bath.
He made sure to clean you thoroughly, not letting you do a single thing as he took care of you, cooing softly when you whined as his hand dipped between your legs to wipe up the mess there. The hot water was doing wonders for your tired muscles and used cunt.
Once you helped Tommy clean himself up as well, blushing furiously when you realized just how much of the mess you were actually responsible for, you dried off and changed the sheets on the bed. Then you finally laid down with him with your head on his chest.
“So,” you said while trying not to grin too openly, “I can assume you want to do that again at some point?”
Tommy grunted softly and you looked up to find him nodding slowly.
“Without those?” you weakly pointed at the nightstand where the condoms were hidden and Tommy followed your indication before snapping his head back to you, nodding frantically. He pulled you fully onto his lap and pushed his hips up into yours, letting you feel his quickly hardening cock against your still fucked out and sensitive cunt.
“Not immediately now, Tommy,” you giggled incredulously, but let him turn you over to lay on the bed with your legs spread apart for him to slot between anyways.
Oh well.
Consider leaving a comment or reblog along with your like, they're always lovely to see. Eitherway, thank you for reading! <3
⚊ (You need me I gotta' take care of you) ft. akadeymia zandik.
syn. needy!zandik x fem!reader
content warnings. MINORS DNIIIIIII, lwk submissive zandik, Dom reader, inexperienced & virgin zandik, experienced reader, he gets called a good boy at some point, p in v, riding, chocking (reader is doing the chocking)
a/n. a little treat for me disappearing / all ageless / blank blogs will be blocked minors do not interact beyond the cut. this was not proof read so my apologies for mistakes!!!
needy!zandik who constantly lashes out and snaps at everyone from how frustrated he his.
needy!zandik who often excuses himself during class to relieve himself in the wash room, using his other hand to cover his mouth to hide his pathetic whimpers that escaped from his lips.
needy!zandik who can't help but stare at you in between classes, the tent in his pants growing the longer his eyes lingered on you.
needy!zandik who paired up with you for an analysis project which led to him having to stay overnight at your dorm multiple times a week to work on said project
needy!zandik who can't help but critique every outcome you came too and deem them all incorrect due to ‘lack or evidence’ or some other bullshit excuse.
all though you had to admit, he was kinda cute with that unexplained red flush across his cheeks as he explained how you were ‘wrong’ when he wasn't even doing shit.
needy!zandik who starts bitching about how you can't do anything right and are a useless disadvantage to him, his voice was getting shaker by the moment as the red tint on his face increased the longer he scolded you.
you where not oblivious so the fact that he was obviously frustrated and not taken care of. it was cute how he was trying to stay together but ⚊ god, was he insufferable and annoying.
needy!zandik who make the fatal mistake of getting all up in your face and calling you a ‘good for nothing pretty faced whore. ’ that was your last straw for his pentup bullshit.
needy!zandik who froze mid sentence when he felt a hard grip on his belt earning a small pathetic moan from him that you probably would have missed if you weren't so close it him
‘is this the reason why you've been so bitchy towards me zandik huh? ’
you didn't even give him a chance to respond before you pushed him on to your bed undoing his belt and taking his pants & boxers off with your teeth.
‘w-w-wait-!’
needy!zandik who was a sobbing whimpering mess under you. he lost track of time and how long you had been riding him for, an hour? two hours? fuck he didn't know.
needy!zandik who lost count of how many times he came in your sweet tight pussy that was so desperately clenching around him.
needy!zandik who kept on turning his head away from you due to how embarrassing he felt, you didn't like how he was turning away from you. you wanted him to see how you were fucking him into your soaked sheets.
‘ zandik stop turning your head away from me. look at me when at me when I fuck you’
needy!zandik who slowly turned his head back towards you tears streaming down his red cheeks from how rough you were being with him:(
‘ aww your such a good boy for me zandik ♡’
that was all it took for him to arch his back and loudly moan you name as he came in your warm cunt.
needy!zandik who ended up taping out with his eyes rolling back into his skull.
needy!zandik who woke up with his head resting in your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair. when he looked down he had on one of your robes, a red one with fur accents at that.
it was now raining, the sound of the rain hitting the glass made him feel calmer.
‘I guess your up sleepyhead, you've been out for 2 hours...well, at least you won't be so insufferable now’ you said teasingly. his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he remembered the events from a couple of hours ago.
‘dont get too cocky now.’ he said flicking your chin with his fingers.
Tamsy Caines moved quietly, hungrily - a predator in disguise.
You’ve teased him. Dared him with your eyes, your mouth, your bratty little games. And now you’re paying the consequences.
Your legs were spread wide open. Ankles tied to your wrists to keep you from moving, or closing your legs. Tamsy appreciated your helplessness as he dragged the blunt head of his cock up and down your wet slit.
“You think I wouldn’t catch you?” he chuckled as his mouth dragged over your knee. “You wanted this, pretty. But I know sluts like you like to play games.”
He bit you and smirked when you gasped.
His cock pushed in deep, knocking the air from your lungs. You were split open so wide as he rammed his whole cock into you in one thrust. It was too much.
“That’s it,” he hummed. “Fucking take it.”
Not once he slowed down. Tamsy drove into you so hard and fast that your body tried to squirm away - no matter how wet you always got for him.
Secretly you needed it like this, and he couldn’t be satisfied until you were broken into million of beautiful pieces.
“Eyes on me,” he snapped. “Wanna see you fall apart.”
When you did - when you sobbed his name and creamed his cock - Tamsy’s face turned into the devil and he slowed down. Relishing in the feeling of your cunt clenching around him.
“That’s it. That’s how you’re supposed to be,” he untied you and caught your collapsing body. cock still lodged inside you. “Next time when you’re a brat I won’t bother stopping when you break.”
The promise had you shivering, whining. But you both knew it was a challenge you greedily accepted.
Could I have husband wanderer and his wife (reader) is getting horny and she wants to ride him so badly 🥺
Marriage cravings
AFAB! Wife! Reader x Husband! Wanderer
CW: smut, riding, teasing and slight begging, nicknames (darling, wife)
How can he say no when his wife wants him that bad?
A/N: might be a mess but anyways
Not proofread.
If anyone would have told Wanderer a few years ago he'd be happily married he would have straight up denied that ridiculous statement, maybe even laughed at whoever dared to spout such nonsense.
Who would love someone like him? A heartless imitation of a human being?
Yet here he is today, sharing his life with his sweet wife and wearing matching rings on their fingers.
You love and accept him as he is, you don't try to sugarcoat any mistakes he might have made in the past nor are you blind from the affection you hold for him.
Flaws don't make you feel for him any less, even if you're very clearly aware of them.
So how can he deny his precious spouse when she desires him, yearning for him in such a carnal way?
The second he takes a seat on your home's couch you're climbing into his lap, straddling him and seeking closeness.
Even after a long exhausting day at the akademiya he can tell from your eyes alone how much you want him.
No words have to be spoken, your gaze speaks for itself, almost begging.
As he leans back against the cushions you immediately follow his movement, not allowing any space between you two, basically clinging onto him like a leech.
Nuzzling your face into his neck your arms wrap around him, pressing yourself as close as you can against him, desperate for contact.
His own limbs snake around your waist, returning your embrace, small strands of hair tickling his cheek as he rests it against your head.
"Missed me that much?" Voice dripping with teasing undertones he feels you tighten your hug as a response.
You always manage to bring out his soft side, a side no one else gets to see.
Rubbing his hands up and down your back he lets you cuddle him to your hearts content, feeling relaxed in your hold after such a bothersome day full of other students trying to get to know him.
People at the akademiya seriously can't take the hint that he wants to be left alone and just love to pry into his life.
But here, in the space he shares with you and only you, none of those idiots matter to him.
None of them can ask invasive questions the moment they see his ringfinger.
Here he can be himself without a care, here he can just be without having to justify anything.
Your warmth is calming, a steady presence in his everyday life that he can look forward to coming home to.
Feeling you breath against his skin is soothing, it constantly reminds him of the fact you're exactly where you're supposed to be.
Innocent and peaceful thoughts abruptly come to an end when he feels you start to squirm on top of his thighs.
At first he brushes it off as you getting more comfortable, shifting to prevent soreness.
However you keep shuffling around, lips finding his jawline before trailing lower, teeth nipping at his sensitive neck.
Wrecking a shiver through him his grip on you reflexively constricts as he almost chokes on pure air.
"Biting me now?" He finally figured out what you're up to it seems.
"Don't tell me my darling little wife is getting riled up for me?"
The quiet little whine you let out is enough confirmation, pulling back slightly you look up at him with glazed eyes and flushed features.
Right now you're the textbook definition of needy.
With deliberate slowness you drag your very obviously wet cunt against his crotch, earning you a groan in return.
Tugging at his pants he seizes your hand in his own, tutting at you like a disobedient pet.
"Don't you know how to be patient anymore?"
Frustrated you squirm some more in his lap, you've been horny all day while he was away, you're sick of waiting even a second longer.
"Just let me ride you." The demand is spoken out loud before you can even think twice about it, your face instantly heating up even more.
Blinking once, twice even from pure shock at your unusual boldness, your words shoot straight to his cock, you can feel it twitch below you, hardening.
It's your sign to keep going, only more determined to get what you've been craving for hours.
"Please...?" Such a small little plea, he would have missed it if his focus wasn't entirely on you and you only and it's all it takes to unravel him completely.
Letting go of your captured limb he gives you the go ahead with a small nod.
Not wasting any time you peel away his shorts and your own bothersome fabric, grinding your now bare pussy right against his dick.
Sighing in bliss you move back and forth, coating him in juices of arousal, supporting yourself by holding onto his shoulders.
Head falling back against the soft surface of the sofa it's almost embarrassing how fast he gets rock hard but he can't help it, you just have that effect on him.
Finally you sink down on him, careful and without a hurry, enveloping him in your drenched heat
His breath catches in his throat at the sudden bliss, stare never leaving your quivering form even as you chew on your lower lip.
Unsteady exhales escape your lungs as you get used to the familiar intrusion, only then you start bouncing on top of him, lazily and slow at first.
Up and down, deeper and deeper you feel every drag of his tip against your inner walls, driving you insane with every single slightest movement.
Your fingers clench around his tops fabric, scrunching it in-between them, it's the only thing keeping you anchored.
Unfiltered moans fill the air around you, getting louder every time you hit his base, bottoming out, singing praises without any actual letters.
Quicker, faster you slam down, your mind is blank, only thoughts of your husband cursing through you.
Absolutely captivated by your display his palms once again find your hips, guiding and supporting you when you falter from the strain in your legs.
He could watch you like this all night and day, his loving wife absolutely ruined, quivering and speared open on his cock.
Thrusting up to meet your bounces he reaches places you couldn't imagine, pleasure humming in every nerve of your body as you pant out his name.
Revenge is sweet, taking the form of little hickeys he sucks onto any exposed surface he can reach.
Thighs burn from the repetitive action but you don't care about that, the only thing that matters right now is him.
One thumb finds your clit, brushing against it, pinching and caressing, basically worshipping it as the keeper of where you're both currently connected.
Seeing your orgasm crash over you, gushing around his member, insides fluttering is enough to have him cum as well, the image of you trembling on top of him burned into his memory forever.
Gently he massages your thighs, no doubt you'll be sore after the workout you just went through.
A blanket finds its way around you as you sag against him, boneless, snuggling into him as occasional aftershocks zap through your body.
Back then he would have grimaced at the mention of a sappy marriage but now he wouldn't give it up for anything in the universe.
more more more angel devil smut with the death gone FEED US PLZ
He’s been obsessed with groping you lately.
Angel Devil lacks shame, especially when it comes to you. Now that the death devil has been eating and death on longer exists, he’s always touching you in one way or another.
And that includes sexually.
His hands reach out and fondle your tits are you’re standing in line at an ice cream place, his fingers trying to find your nipples through your bra. Angel enjoys the little sounds of surprise you make when he touches you.
Sometimes he lifts your skirt, blinking as he stares down at your underwear… or sometimes lack thereof.
But he enjoys toying with your cunt the most.
You’ll be minding your own business when he comes up from behind, pulling your hips closer before his hand dips below your waistband. He slips into your panties, his thumb tracing your clot until you’re nice and slick.
Then he pull away like nothing happened, casually licking your cum from his fingers as if he’s savoring a nice treat.
In which a routine checkup on Zandik's most successful subject goes so wrong it somehow circles back to feeling entirely right.
Notes: Apologies for any inaccuracies caused by this author not having a penis of their own, experts on the matter were consulted during writing. Apologies also for any inaccurate medical terminology.
Tags: original old man Zandik x male reader, age gap, harbinger x subordinate, power imbalance, dubcon (reader is doing the dubconning), medical examination, needles (non sexual), manhandling the old man, frotting, brief assplay, implied prior dottolone
3.3k words
Reblogs and comments are much appreciated
Minors DNI
"What is he doing here?"
"Hm? Ah, Feofan, I weren't expecting you today. He's here for his weekly checkup."
"You mean to tell me that you're wasting elixir on this-.. this brute?"
"There's nothing wasteful about having more than one subject, especially with different physiologies. This one is in peak physical condition, a marvel of nature really. Remember, you were just one of many once and with the rate you're ruining your body with those bad habits, there'll be many more after you as well."
Zandik remembered his words to Feofan on the matter well.
It was a discussion that had arisen multiple times over the past months. Every time, without fail, it left Zandik with a persistent headache.
At least you never said anything, not even the times where you'd been discussed like you weren't present. He quietly rubbed the bridge of his nose and adjusted the monocle. Five minutes past. You were late.
In all honesty, what could a regular soldier say when two harbingers were arguing back and forth?
Zandik went over his equipment once more, the movements practiced and methodical. Everything was laid out neatly across several trays, stethoscope, syringes, needles of various thickness, bandages, scissors, scalpels, pinchers, and carbolic acid. Clean vials containing a preservative solution had been set out in case he found reason to take a biopsy.
The door creaked open just as he'd allowed himself a moment to sink into a chair. But Zandik couldn't even find it in himself to scold you for your tardiness, not when you were already trying to curl in on yourself like some pitiful puppy caught misbehaving. He didn't care one bit for your stiff salute or the hurried excuses leaving your lips, simply tapping the end of his cane against the examination table.
A versatile piece for both live examinations and autopsies.
You were a far easier subject than Feofan, neither fussed nor protested, and actually stuck to the directions you were given (which had allowed Zandik tight control over both your training and diet, variables that were otherwise pesky to manage). But archons above you could be so utterly dense at times.
He cleared his throat, meeting your questioning gaze with raised brows. A faint gesture towards his own coat made you perk up and nod in understanding.
"Every week the procedure is the same" Zandik got to his feet slowly, aching from how long he'd been standing today already. "And every time, without fail, you need a reminder to undress before we begin. Maybe I should check your head this week as well?"
Zandik knew he should be keeping up the cold facade he'd spent his entire youth building, but seeing a flush creep up your cheeks and hearing the sound of your embarrassed chuckle made his chest tighten with something unpleasantly familiar. Something that only existed in memories too distant for his now crooked fingers to grasp.
"I think my head's fine sir."
"So you can think now, what a wonderful development."
The flush now extended down your neck to the top of your shoulders. Zandik scanned every inch of skin being bared the same way a chef might inspect fresh produce. Light bruising on one shoulder and across your midsection, faint abrasions on knees and elbows, no visible cuts.
There were no complaints about the frigid metal pressed between your shoulder blades as Zandik listened to your breathing and heart. Steady and strong. Like the rest of you. A single shiver ran down your spine and Zandik felt his lips twitch.
"Your dining habits?"
"According to the schedule."
"Training?"
"Following the plan you made. Except last Thursday, I was assigned night patrol and fell asleep before I could stretch when I got back."
Zandik made a mental note to check what officer had interfered with his experiment. "So I'm guessing your sleep has been consistent as well?"
"Mostly." The brief pause before you'd answered didn't go unnoticed.
"Mostly," Zandik parroted.
He walked around the table, coming to a stop before you. Without much fanfare, he grasped your chin and tugged your head down. Eyes bright, untarnished by fatigue, no notable bags, no changes skin elasticity. One thumb pushed your lips apart. Teeth pristine, no signs of infection.
Once satisfied with the outer condition of your body, Zandik went to prepare everything for your injections. A mixture of vitamins, hormones, and a new formulation of the experimental elixir.
"What's been keeping you awake then?" The lab was silent as Zandik popped off the needle cap and inserted it into the vial, sucking the elixir into the syringe. He heard your nails tap against the metal while he changed the needle. "Go on then."
"I didn't say anything had been keeping me awake Lord Harbinger?"
Zandik tapped the vial, watching as the tiny air bubbles gathered at the top so he could carefully push out the air with the plunger. "You said you'd 'mostly' been maintaining a consistent sleep schedule. Explain." It was such a minor tell from you, never wanting to 'disappoint' your superiors, but having been scolded enough times for not being truthful when self-reporting that you knew better than completely conceal the truth. So no, Zandik was not planning to let this go.
He caught you shrugging out of the corner of his eye.
"I've just been dreaming more lately, no big deal. It does mean that I sometimes wake up at night and spend a little time awake."
Zandik patted your knee with his free hand, a silent acknowledgement for your honesty and swift surrender.
"Are you awake for more or less than half an hour when you wake at night?"
With complete disregard to proper conduct, you scoffed at him. "How am I supposed to know that?"
The incredulous look on your face was quite amusing, enough that Zandik didn't mention your tone, instead wiping your shoulder in preparation for the injection, giving you a moment to think. You seemed to catch on surprisingly fast, perking up when the needle pierced through skin and hit a vein.
"If I had to make a guess," you began, and Zandik quietly nodded in approval while slowly pressing down on the plunger. "I'd guess it's below half an hour every time?"
Below half an hour, good. Not enough to be considered a problem. Thought not precise, your guess was the best Zandik could get without having to monitor your sleep directly.
Zandik didn't quite catch himself before he had one hand atop your head, ruffling your hair, while he muttered a soft 'good boy'.
Time froze, and for a moment there was nothing but your widening eyes and the raspy sound of his own breath catching in his throat. That hadn't been planned. It came too naturally with you. Stupidly loyal and always preening at the faintest hint of praise. It was endearing, as much as Zandik might have wanted to deny it.
That was also part of the reason why he adamantly refused to let any of the segments take over your checkups in particular. Zandik knew himself, had come to make peace with who he'd been, and letting any of his younger selves take charge was likely to disturb the fragile peace.
The other injections were easier to give, directly into a muscle instead of a vein, and he noted the unrest that had settled into your body. It couldn't be discomfort from the injection themselves. Intramuscular injections can cause mild discomfort, sure, but you had been on the receiving end of far worse without flinching.
He straightened his back and caught sight of a small frown before you turned your head. Disappointment from the lack of praise? Ridiculous. It had only happened this once, surely you wouldn't already have come to expect it. It was rare for you to look him in the eye in the first place, but usually it was either due to the difference in height or the way you had a tendency to obediently lower your head.
A single bead of sweat rolled down your temple and caught the cold light of the lab. Was your skin a little flushed as well? An adverse reaction to one of the injections?
Zandik grasped your jaw and turned your face towards him, confirming his suspicion. Dilated pupils. A sheen of sweat across the bridge of your nose. Allergies could technically develop at any time, in which case he'd have to either change the formulation of the elixir or terminate your participation.
"Status." There was no longer any trace of warmth in his voice.
Your lips were slightly puckered until Zandik eased his grip. "I'm fine."
"You're lying." He shouldn't have to tell you the danger of an incompatible injection in your bloodstream. Shouldn't have to do anything but ask for you to obey. Of course this was the time you'd get stubborn.
Zandik pushed two fingers against your left jugular, confirming his suspicion that your pulse would be elevated. The startled little noise that left you made him falter, never had you flinched back from his touch in this way. That was the moment his gaze dropped. All the air left his lungs.
He'd stepped between your legs just a few moments ago, and there, only inches from himself was a tent in your pants. A sizeable one at that.
The sheer absurdity made him want to laugh, drag a hand down his face, but no sound left his lips and his body remained unwilling to move. Your breath on the other hand was loud, gasping for air and stuttering out apologies. 'It's not what it looks like.' An interesting statement, there were certainly things in this world that were deceptive in nature, but Zandik doubted that your erection was one such thing.
"Stop looking!" You sounded every bit as uncertain as you looked, but the way you swatted his hand away from your throat and tried to nudge him away with your legs caught Zandik by surprise.
Without thinking, he sneered quietly. "Behave. This is still a medical examination and you are still my subordinate." Zandik adjusted his collar with quiet frustration, not necessarily directed at you, but at the heat that crept up his neck. He was above this. Above getting flustered like some hormonal young stud. "I suppose your current predicament can explain the symptoms of distress."
Had it been the discomfort that had turned you on? It was unlikely that you'd always enjoyed it, or he would've noticed similar signs during earlier injections. An acquired response? But not one you could've learned from him. There'd never been anything but professionalism although softer around the edges than he were with many others. A reaction to a new type of stimuli then?
Zandik sighed. Wanted to laugh, in all honesty. Could feel it bubble in his chest.
He'd called you a good boy and you'd gotten hard.
He waved a dismissive hand, forcing down the warmth that bloomed at how little it had taken. It was endearing, respect or perhaps awe becoming affection when wires crossed in your mind.
The timing, however, was a little unfortunate.
You seemed to have realized as well, with the way you'd been eyeing the door for the past minute. Zandik tapped your knee to bring your attention back, ignoring the little jerk of your body.
"Try to relax for me, steady breaths. Tell me if anything hurts."
He didn't give you time to protest or fidget further, hands descending on your shoulders as he felt along the spots where muscle and sinew attached. Shoulders, wrists, neck, back, pectorals, everything was meticulously inspected. Tension in your lower back, most likely from heavy lifting.
The laboratory saw around two minutes of relative peace. Zandik could ignore your shaky breaths and silent groans, write them off as caused by his bony fingers digging into sore spots. You were warm. Pleasantly so.
Issues arose when he moved to stand before you once more, your palms moving to grasp his waist. Zandik made the mistake of letting his eyes wander down your body. You were fully erect, straining and leaking against the cotton underwear. He couldn't pull away, not from your iron grip, not when you tugged him in between your parted legs and rested your forehead atop his shoulder.
At that moment, Zandik became fully aware of the gap in raw physical strength. You weren't doing anything truly improper yet. You were a valued specimen. You made his heart ache for something he'd sacrificed decades ago. Before he knew, his hand was carding through your hair.
"I'm sorry.. You're just-.. beautiful.."
Zandik froze. What a preposterous thing to call him. He was a harbinger, cold, cruel, health declining despite his efforts. He wasn't 'beautiful'. Certainly not enough for someone to utter the word with such sincerity and devotion. To say it had no effect would be a lie. His cheeks did feel hot. After so long, the little throb of blood gathering low in his groin felt foreign.
It was dangerous to indulge in fantasies that your affection could be genuine.
Zandik's body went rigid when he felt you shift closer to the edge of the examination table, your bulge rubbing against his thigh. Hesitant at first, which was when he should've stopped you, and then more insistent when it managed to pull a breathless sound from Zandik.
The last time he'd indulged this way was years ago, back before he'd begun swatting away gloved hands covered in rings when they became too curious. Had convinced himself it was better, that his body wouldn't be able to keep up anyway. Better let the younger ones take over.
You didn't seem to care at all, not about the hand that had been pushing at your chest, nor about the one tugging on your hair. If anything, Zandik felt a satisfied purr rumble in your chest.
His voice felt too quiet, too vulnerable, but he needed to know. "You truly think so?"
That seemed to awaken something in you, your head snapping up to meet his eyes. Within seconds, you'd cupped his cheek and pressed your mouth against his. It was clumsy but eager, no romantic buildup before your tongue tried to push between his lips. It was refreshing in a way, no clear plan but only raw want from you.
You tasted sweet, like biting into a plum on a warm summer day. Tasted like memories when one of your hands cradled the back of his head like he was something precious. Or so you could angle his head and better lap into his mouth.
Zandik couldn't hold back a breathless chuckle when you pulled away, his lips and chin wet with your spit and your own face in no better condition.
"Aren't you an eager one," he whispered, allowing himself another moment of tender care as he wiped his thumb along the corner of your lips. "But this is improper. I understand that a young man has his urges, but there are better outlets than this for you, such as-"
Before Zandik could finish, his words cut off into a yelp as the world spun. His rear ached where it had hit the examination table and humiliation and disbelief burned beneath his skin. You'd picked him up. Picked him up and deposited him like an unruly child.
Now it was you standing between his legs, still rubbing your bulge against him like it'd become second nature by now. Your fingers dug into his narrow hips, palms warm even through his clothes and feeling so safe.
"There aren't."
Zandik's brow raised at the sheer finality in your words, his body shivering from pleasure when a particular rut of your hips pressed against his own length just right.
"There aren't better outlets. Wake up with dreams of this every night."
Ah. So he was the cause for your change in sleep pattern. Flattering.
Zandik let his head slump against your chest, the steady beat of your heart calming his fraying nerves. He wanted to touch himself. For the first time in years. Wanted to know if you'd touched yourself while thinking about him. If you'd moaned his title or - archons above - his name.
"Surely you can find better candidates than an old man who can't even get it-.." Zandik felt your movements still and immediately realized his foolish mistake.
Your hand snaked from his waist and cupped him through his trousers, and against his will, Zandik rutted into your palm. Zandik looked up to see you smile, the fondness in your eyes making him pause.
"Really?" You huffed softly, cheeks still burning hot.
In that moment, Zandik made his decision. "Oh be quiet and show me how much you want it then."
Clearly, you didn't need to be told twice, already tugging down your underwear to free yourself. The size made Zandik's heart leap, part from fear and part from excitement.
Exactly as with the kiss, there was nothing practiced or elegant about the way you kicked off your boxers and immediately went to unbutton his trousers. Part of Zandik wanted to stop you, to keep himself as covered as possible. But it was clear you wouldn't have it that way.
You didn't flinch at the sight of his varicose veins, bent down to kiss his thighs even, and some part of him relaxed a little. His own cock was painfully hard as well, the sight of your adoration doing things that should be forbidden to his mind. A single drop of pre had gathered at his tip before you kissed it away.
Zandik brazed his hands atop your shoulders as one of your hands wrapped around both your cocks, rubbing the shafts together gently. The difference in size was obscene, but you didn't seem to mind, praise having not stopped leaving your lips since you laid eyes on Zandik's cock. The movement of your hand sent spikes of pleasure up Zandik's spine, the movements becoming slick as you continued to leak precum in a steady stream. Every gentle twist of your hand made Zandik throb until he couldn't suppress his groans any longer, biting down hard on your bicep to stifle his sounds.
Though Zandik briefly worried if he'd bitten too hard, his doubt was dispelled when you moaned, loud and unashamed, before kissing down his neck. Zandik felt your free hand wander down his back, caressing his tailbone with quiet inquisitiveness, and when he didn't protest, your fingers slipped further down.
At the first press against his rim, Zandik's vision went white and pleasure took hold of his spine. He had no control as his hips buckled between your hands, something far too close to a sob leaving his lips as he came.
You followed soon after, but Zandik barely registered, completely limp against your naked chest while you continued to circle his rim and fuck your own cock against his softening shaft.
Once the haze had slowly begun to clear, Zandik became aware of the worry in your gaze despite how your own release now covered your abdomen in a sticky mess. He cupped your cheek, checking with a stone in his heart that the affection was still there. That it hadn't been a ruse. Your next question told him exactly what he needed to know.
"Bath?"
Zandik nodded, grateful though a little embarrassed when you didn't hesitate to pick him up and wrap his coat around him to protect from the cold air. He wouldn't have been able to walk on his own, not even with the cane, would've probably collapsed back onto the table several minutes ago if not for your steadying hands during this entire farce.
"Private quarters, door in the corner."
The way you brightened, little stars almost appearing in your eyes, was far too innocent for a soldier. "Private harbinger quarters... Does that mean warm water?"
"Ah," Zandik chuckled, reaching up to pinch your cheek, "so you did want something selfish from this encounter."
idol!reader x assassin!lohen (+ small art in the middle !)
synopsis: Lohen is an assassin who thrive on the thrill of the hunt—especially the moment fear breaks in his targets' eyes.
But when tasked with eliminating a famous idol, you had offered acceptance rather than fear and that single moment turns his mission into a twisted game: he will show you life beyond the stage before ending it at your peak.
However, the more he pulls you into the world, the more he dreads for the end.
contains: 10.9k wc, female reader, modern au, depressive themes, mentions of death/suicidal ideation, attempted murder, psychological distress, implication of eating disorders, violence, controversial (?) takes on the idol industry, lohen might be ooc, fluff with a bit of angst
notes: this came out longer than i expected it to be but i just couldn't stop when i started..whoops. tbh i saw an edit of lohen with 'fame is a gun' as the audio and instantly got inspired to write this. (somehow i always get ideas on trains LOL)
not beta read, so please excuse any mistakes
aso i rlly cant draw anatomy or do any rendering so yikes..
STAGE 0. THE MISSION
'M1RAGE'
Almost everyone knew of them. Even those who had never deliberately followed idols had, at some point, heard of their songs drifting through public spaces—playing softly in stores, trending in edit across countless fandoms, woven into the background of a world that never seemed to stop talking about them.
So it was no surprise that Lohen recognised the name the moment it appeared in the file handed to him.
But what did interest him was not the group iteself—it was the specific target.
[Name]
Of course he knew who you were too.
It would have been difficult not to.
You were, by far, M1RAGE's most popular member.
Your face was impossible to avoid. Billboards stretched across city skylines, advertisements flashed your image beside brands, and your smile had been perfected into something both inviting and untouchable. Entire marketing campaigns seemed to orbit around your existence. It was said that anything you endorsed would sell without question—that your name alone could influence markets.
That was the kind of fame you held.
Which made the assignment almost amusing.
You who were adored by millions.
A person whose every movement was documented, discussed, and scrutinised by the public.
And yet someone, somewhere, had still decided that your life was worth paying to erase.
"Hm."
Lohen rested his chin against one hand, eyes lingering on the photograph clipped to the file.
His gaze lingered for a moment before he flipped to the next page.
"I wonder what you're actually like.."
The thought appeared and disappeared just as quickly.
It didn't matter.
People were people.
Once the fear set in, they all become predictable.
The paper shifted quietly beneath his gloved fingers as he reviewed the remaining details. At some point, a small dagger found its way into his hand. He rolled it lazily between his knuckles, the polished blade catching the light before disappearing again.
"I wonder why the Grandmaster accepted such a case?"
No answer came.
Not that he expected one anyways.
With a small shrug, he closed the file.
"Eh, not my concern."
If it was a job assigned to him, then it would be completed the same way as all the others—without hesitation nor questions.
His eyes drifted back toward the photograph one last time and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Still.."
The dagger stopped spinning.
"I wonder what face you'll make when you realise you're going to die?"
STAGE 1. THE TARGET WHO WASN'T AFRAID.
Now standing on the rooftop a short distance away from the massive stage where M1RAGE was set to perform, Lohen blended into the night without effort.
His dark clothing absorbed what little light remained, turning him into something indistinct against the skyline. From below, the city was noise and colour, thousands of voices merging into a single living thing, but up here everything felt distanct, reduced to silence.
He exhaled once as he set the case down and opened it with practiced precision.
The sniper came together in his hands piece by piece, each movement calm and familiar to him, guided by repetition rather than thought. After years of doing this, assembling a weapon felt no different than buttoning a shirt or tying a knot.
Tonight's plan was simple.
A warning.
The purpose wasn't to end your life tonight. Death was far too quick to be satisfying. No, that would come later, after anticipation had been given enough time to fester into something uglier.
He had chosen the rooftop carefully, sacrificing the perfect firing angle for one that offered greater visibility. The distance was still more than enough to gurantee the shot, yet close enough that, if fortune favoured him, your eyes might catch the sihouette of a man standing against the night, a sniper rifle resting in his hands.
Recognition was all he needed.
Fear would do the rest.
Lohen could already picture it unfolding. The exact moment when the illusion of safety shattered beneath the realisation that someone was out to harm you.
The sleepless nights that followed.
The bodyguards.
The constant glances over your shoulder and the way every unfamiliar face would become a potential threat.
Paranoia had a way of hollowing people out from the inside—it was slow but relentless, almost beautiful in its efficiency to wear someone down.
By the time he returned to deliver the final blow, most of his targets had already done half of the work for him. Exhaustion had stripped away their judgement and fear clouded instinct, leaving them isolated and vulnerable.
He wondered which kind you would be.
Would you scream, like so many before you, your voice tearing itself apart as reality finally caught up to you?
Or would you belong to the quieter ones—the people whose terror swallowed every sound before it could escape, whose mouth opened but whose voices never came, frozen in the suffocating grip of panic?
The thought of his past victims earned the faintest smile.
As time passed, the performance began.
The stadium exploded into life.
Floodlights carved through the darkness in sweeping arcs while music thundered across the area hard enough to rattle the steel beneath his boots. Ten of thousands of voices merged into a deafening roar as M1RAGE emerged beneath a storm of colour, smoke and blinding white light.
Lohen shifted without hurry, settling comfortably against the concrete ledge.
The sniper rifle rose in one fluid motion, fitting naturally against his shoulder. Within seconds, he'd found the perfect angle, his breathing slowing until even his heartbeat seemed to fade into the silence inside his own head.
Through the scope, the world tightened into focus, everything outside the frame dissolving into irrelevant blur. The stage became sharp under the flood of lights, the crowd an indistinct wave of movement and sound.
And at the centre of it all—
You.
For a brief moment, he understood why people became so obsessed.
The stage seemed built around you.
Even surrounded by your group members, attention drifted toward you effortlessly, drawn by some quality he couldn't immediately name.
Perhaps it was charisma.
Perhaps it was the effortless confidence of someone accustomed to standing beneath the gaze of thousands.
Whatever it was, it made sense why your face was everywhere.
Lohen adjusted his breathing again, allowing the rifle to settle naturally into position. His finger rested against the trigger, simply waiting.
Timing mattered more than accuracy.
Accuracy had never been the difficult part.
He centred the crosshair over your face.
But then your gaze shifted.
It rose from the crowd, past the cameras, the building stage lights, and setlled somewhere far beyond. It aligned with his position with unsettling accuracy, as if the distance between you had never existed at all.
He held his breath, wondering if you were going to scream—
And then you smiled.
Right at him.
As though acknowledging his existence up there was no different than acknowledging a member of an audience.
For a moment, Lohen simply observed you.
Fear was something he knew intimately.
He'd watched it bloom in countless forms. Shock that cracked across someone's face before they understood what was happening. Denial that stubbornly insisted everything was fine until reality became impossible to ignore. Blind panic that sent people running without direction, convinced movement alone could outrun death.
Those reactions were familiar to him, predictable enough that he could anticipate them before they formed. Even the ones who hide it still leaked something—fear, confusion, that ugly little instinct to survive.
What he was seeing now didn't belong to any of those categories.
There was no break in your performance. You moved through the choreography with effortless precision, laughing with your members, waving towards the crowd as though nothing had happened.
As though meeting the gaze of someone pointing a rifle at your head hadn't interrupted your evening in the slightest.
Lohen let out a low delighted sound under his breath, his thumb tracing the edge of the scope absently as he watched you continue your performance without a single visible fracture.
"Oh? That's not right.."
He leaned back slightly from the scope, just enought for his eyes to leave the lens for a moment, but his weapon stayed trained forward regardless, held steady by muscle memory alone.
One hand rose to his face, and with slow, unhurried motion, he pulled his mask down. The cool air hit his skin, but he barely registered it.
It felt unnecessary to keep hiding behind it now.
He then leaned forward again, but not to aim properly—just to look. To confirm what he already knew he was seeing.
"No trembling," he murmured, almost fascinated. His eyes tracked your movements effortlessly as you crossed the stage, "No hesitation...no nervous eye movements.."
The grin forming on his face widened.
"That's new."
His heartbeat had always remained steady during jobs. Now, however, he could feel his pulse quickening in excitement.
Because for the first time in a very long while, something unexpected had happened.
Every assignment before this had followed the same predictable progression.
He locates the target, the target realises they're being hunted, fear takes root and they try to run only to be hunted down by Lohen with quiet efficiency.
Whether they screamed, begged or fought, the ending never changed.
He still enjoyed the hunt, but even enjoyment dulled when every chase ended the same way.
Predictability was efficient, but efficiency was boring.
Then there was you.
You had looked toward the rifle aimed at your head with impossible precision, met the gaze of the man behind it, and smiled.
Not the brittle smile of someone pretending everything was fine or the strained composure of someone refusing to panic.
A genuine smile.
As though the possibility of death standing hundreds of meters away wasn't alarming enough to deserve even a second thought.
A quiet laugh escaped him, richer this time, carrying amusement.
"This isn't how prey behaves.."
His finger eased away from the trigger without him consciously deciding to do so. The shot he'd been preparing moments earlier no longer held any appeal.
Instead, this attention fixed entirely on you, studying you as you moved around.
Either you possessed extraordinary control over your emotions..
Or you really didn't fear him.
And it seems it was the second possiblity which made it far more interesting.
What would make you afraid?
"I guess," he said softly, grin unwavering. "There's a change of plans."
Slipping backstage proved almost laughably easy. Security existed to keep fans out, not people like him.
By the time anyone realised an unfamiliar face had wandered into the restricted area, he was already seated comfortably in the makeup chair inside your dressing room.
He leaned back in the chair as though it belong to him, lazily spinning in slow circles while his gloved fingertips drummed against the armrests. His eyes wandered across the neatly arranged cosmetics, bouquets of congratulatory flowers, and handwritten letters from fans scattered across the vanity.
The company must have really liked your group to give everyone their own private rooms.
The door opened.
You stepped inside, still dressed in your performance outfit. Sweat clung to the loose strands of hair framing your face, and a towel rested around your shoulders as you closed the door behind you with a tired sigh.
The moment your eyes landed on the stranger occupying your seat, you paused.
Confusion crossed your features before melting into polite concern.
"Oh." you said, offering the same practiced smile that had greeted thousands of fans only minutes earlier. "Are you..a fan? I don't think visitors are allowed backstage."
"I wasn't"
The chair completed one final turn before Lohen planted both feet on the floor, bringing it to a smooth stop. He rested his elbow against the armrest, supporting his chin with one hand as a slow smirk spread across his face.
"But maybe I am now."
His gaze lingered on yours for a long, thoughtful moment, as though he were comparing the person standing before him to the one he'd watched through the rifle scope earlier.
"Tell me something."
You tilting your head slightly, waiting.
"When you looked toward the rooftop during the concert," His tone remained almost conversational, "..what did you see?"
Recognition flickered across your face.
"Oh..! Were you perhaps the fan up there?"
Lohen blinked, "..What?"
"Our concerts usually sell out almost immediately." A quiet laugh escaped you, "I figured maybe a fan couldn't get a ticket and decided the rooftop was the next best thing."
For the first time since you'd entered the room, genuine amusement crossed Lohen's face.
"You looked at someone trespassing on a rooftop," he said, leaning back on the chair, one hand coming up to cover part of his mouth as delight flickered openly across his face. "And somehow concluded they're just an overly enthusiastic fan?"
"It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud." You hum, shaking your head at yourself. "But fans have done stranger things before. Some followed our vans..climbed fences, waited outside venues for hours just to wave at us for a few seconds.." You shrugged lightly. "Going up to a rooftop to see a concert didn't seem impossible."
"No.." His grin lingered for another moment before dropping slightly. "I suppose it wouldn't" he sighed.
No wonder you smiled.
His eyes remained on you, studying you with the same careful attention he'd given you through the scope earlier.
"Ah a shame..I made sure you could see me, you know?"
The sudden confession of his made you raise an eyebrow.
Lohen leaned back further into the chair, lifting one ankle and casually resting it over the opposite knee as though he were reminiscing about a pleasant evening rather than discussing an attempted assassination. His fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the armrest once again.
"I even gave up a better firing position for one where the sihouette would be obvious! Plus my rifle was exposed."
Your brows knit together.
"Rifle?"
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He straightened in his seat, one gloved hand lifting as if presenting an invisble outline in the air, his eyes brightening with mischief.
"Yes indeed! If you had seen it instead of merely thinking I was a fan.." He paused, tilting his head as though picturing the scene all over again. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I wonder..."
His voice trailed off, entertained by the thought more than the answer.
You lowered your gaze, smoothing an absent wrinkle from the towel draped around your shoulders. Your fingertips lingered against the soft fabric as you searched for the words.
"I..If I had been shot by your said rifle, then at least I would've died with a smile."
The smile disappeared from Lohen's face.
The tapping of his fingers stopped.
He didn't laugh. Instead, he watched you in complete silence, searching your expression for the slightest crack—for a nervours smile, an exaggerated flourish, anything that might reveal it as a joke.
Finding none, he slowly leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"...You're remarkably accepting of death."
You met his gaze before giving a small shake of your head.
"No..I don't think that's quite right." you countered, "I don't want to die. But if I had seen the rifle from the start, I don't think panicking would've changed anything either."
Your eyes drifted toward the brightly lit vanity mirror. Under its glow, your reflection still looked every bit the perfect idol, immaculate beneath the makeup and stage lights, even as exhaustion settled heavily across your shoulders.
"Are you here to finish me off?"
Silence settled over the dressing room.
For several long seconds, Lohen remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed on you without wavering. Then, with an almost inaudible sigh, he rose from the chair.
The soft squeak of its wheels echoed across the room as he stepped away from it. One hand slipped into his pocket while the other idly adjusted the cuff of his glove.
Rather than stopping, he wandered a slow circle around the dressing room, his fingertips brushing over the edge of the vanity, lingering briefly against a bouquet of congratulatory flowers before absentmindedly straightening one of the ribbons tied around it.
Only then did he stop—now a few paces from you.
Close enough now that you could see the faint glint returning to his eyes.
"No."
He turned back to the nearest bouquet, plucking a loose petal from a flower, rolling it between his fingers before letting it flutter to the floor.
"That would be dreadfully dull."
"Dull?"
"You know what I enjoy most?" he asked quietly, picking up one of the neatly wrapped gifts from the vanity next. He turned it over in his hands with idle curiousity before setting it back exactly where he found it. "It isn't the killing."
You stayed silent, and that seems to encourage him to continue more.
"It's the waiting."
He wandered a few more steps, aware that your eyes were following him wherever he went.
"I enjoy the part before the ending." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "The part where people realise someone is after them. That they have too much left to lose..and suddenly become desperate to survive."
He turned around, back now facing you as his hand came to rest against the vanity.
"They stop sleeping properly. They start second guessing every sound, every shadow. Every stranger who glances at them for a second too long becomes a suspect." He chuckled quietly. "Eventually, even familiar faces begin to feel wrong."
Looking up, he looked at your reflection in the mirror rather than at you directly, "By the time I return," he mumured, almost thoughtfully, "most of them have already started falling apart on their own."
Only then did his eyes leave your reflection to meet yours.
"But you..."
A quiet breath escaped him, somewhere between disappointment and reluctant curiousity. He studied you for another long moment, his head tilting almost imperceptibly, as though he were discarding one conclusion in favour of another.
"..You already accepted the possibility."
"I didn't say that."
The protest came more quickly than you intended, though even to your own ears it lacked conviction. Your grip tightened around the towel before slowly easing again.
"You didn't have to." he replied, almost gently, as if correcting something self-evident instead of arguing with you.
That made you fall quiet.
Lohen regarded you for another few seconds before speaking again, his voice stripped of any of the playfullness he had from before.
"You bore me."
The words should have stung.
Instead, they landed with surprising indifference, less an insult and more of an..honest conclusion. The disappointment on his face lingered only briefly before something brighter took its places.
His eyes sharpened, the corners of his mouth lifting as though he'd stumbled across a puzzle he hadn't expected to enjoy.
"And yet." he smiled. "You fascinate me more."
"Becauseee," he let the word linger, almost savouring it. "I've never met anyone who reacts quite like you do."
The room fell silent once again.
"If that's true.." Your fingers finally released the towel, dropping back down to your side, "..maybe you're simply early."
Lohen tilt his head.
"Early? Do explain."
"You said you enjoy watching people become afraid when they realise they have something to lose."
You slowly met his gaze again.
"If that's what you're looking for.." A faint, almost apologetic smile touched your lips. "Then perhaps I don't have enough to lose yet."
Something unreadable flickered across his face, but before he could response, the words left your mouth first.
"Show me that life is worth holding onto."
The sentence surprised even you. Your brows drew slightly together, as though you hadn't meant to say it out loud, yet once the silence setlled between you, you found yourself unable to take it back.
"Show me why tomorrow matters. Show me something that makes me want to wake up excited instead of simply because my schedule says I have to."
Your eyes drifted towards the bouquets and gifts lining the vanity. So many congratulations. So many smiling messages..
"Maybe one day, I'll be terrified of losing all of it too." you mumbled, your eyes shifting back to him.
Lohen stared, considering your proposal and soon enough, the excitement spread across his face, his eyes brightening with fascination, as though you offered him something far more valuable than anything he has ever owned.
A quick death would answer nothing.
Watching someone slowly rediscover the joy of living—only to witness the exact moment that joy transformed into desperation...
Now that was worth waiting for.
A low laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, almost in disbelief, his eyes never leaving yours.
I accepted a contract to kill an idol," he murmured, sounding more as though he were speaking to himself to you. "Somehow.." his grin widened. "I've ended up with the most entertaining game I've ever been given."
He straighted his clothes with meticulous care before turning towards the door. His polished shoes clicked softly against the floor as he crossed the room, each step unhurried, as though he had already decided there was no need to rush.
"The day you finally look at me and beg for your life.." He rested one hand on the doorknob without opening it, quiet excitement threading through every word. "I wonder whether you'll still wear that smile of yours."
STAGE 2. BORROWED FREEDOM
The next time you met Lohen, it was inside your dorm.
You had just returned from a filming schedule, exhaustion still clinging to your shoulders as you stepped inside and let the door shut behind you.
The silence of the room should have been familiar, a brief moment of privacy between obligations, but the moment of peace was broken almost immediately when you noticed who was there.
Lohen stood there with his shoulder resting lightly against the frame, as though he had been waiting there for some time without any urgency or concern about being discovered—if anything, he looked almost bored.
In his hand, a small dagger turned lazily between his fingers, catching faint reflections as it spun with practiced ease.
Then his gaze lifted and settled on your properly, and something in his expression eased, as if your arrival had simply completed a thought he had been holding onto.
"Oh." he said, pushing himself off the window frame as he straightened, slipping the dagger away with a smooth motion. "You really do come back at this time."
Your grip tightened slightly on the strap of your bag as you took a cautious step further inside, your eyes flicking once more toward the window before returning to him.
"How are you in my room?"
He glanced over at the window too for a brief second, then back at you, as though the answer was too obvious to elaborate on.
"It wasn't difficult," he said simply, with a small shrug that offered no real explanation at all.
Then, as if the conversation had already moved past that point in his mind, he tilted his head slightly and spoke again, his tone shifting.
"Say, have you ever been to a festival?"
You blinked once, caught off guard by the change in subject.
"A festival?" you repeated.
He didn't clarify immediately, only watching you as if your reaction mattered more than your answer. The silence stretched long enough that you began searching your own memory properly instead of giving him the easiest response.
"I guess I have," you said eventually, though even as the words came out, they felt incomplete. "For filming..variety shows, promotional events...things like that."
His expression didn't change much, but something in his gaze sharpened slightly, like your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
"That's not what I meant," he said, "Have you ever gone for yourself? You know..enjoy the food, the atmosphere blah blah.."
You frowned faintly, the distinction he was drawing wasn't something you had really considered before. Festivals had always been work environments to you, even when they were dressed up to look like enjoyment. There were cues, timings, expectations, cameras always somewhere nearby, even if they weren't obvious.
"I don't know," you admitted more quietly, your voice losing some of iter certainty. "I've been there, but it's always been..part of something else. I don't think I've ever gone for myself."
"Huh." Lohen moved, pulling the chair out more to reveal a duffle bag sitting on it.
"Get ready then," he smirked, confidence high. "I'll show you exactly what you're missing out on."
Thawck—!
The sound of the target being hit entered your ears as you stood beside Lohen, cleverly disguised with his help.
He had changed out of his outfit from earlier too, the sharp edges of his usual presence softened by something almost casual—an open collar white button up instead of his usual dark clothing, sleeves rolled slightly at the forearms as if he belonged here among ordinary crowds rather than something else.
"Here." He held out the ball towards you, nudging his chin toward the remaining setup on the stall, "Try it."
You hesitated only briefly before taking it, your fingers closing around the small weight as you stepped closer to the counter. The stall felt closer than it should have, the expectation of attention from nearby strangers sitting somehwre at the edge of your awareness, even if no one was actually looking at you for once.
You drew your arm back and threw—
Just for the ball to miss completely.
"PFt—Hahaha!" Lohen laughed, shaking his head, "yout technique was wrong from the start," he grinned, tossing the worker a few more coins for another try.
"You did the same mistake you did the last time you tried games like this."
"Wh—?"
"The trick!" he interrupted, picking up one of the balls from the new mini basket now placed in front of the two of you, placing it in your hand as he adjusted your stance. "Is to aim it higher than where the target is.."
Satisfied with his adjustments, Lohen took a small step back.
"Try again.
You let out a sigh, before drawing your arm back again.
The throw followed a clean motion this time, at least in theory, but the results didn't change. The ball veered off just enough to miss the can entirely, bouncing harmlessly away while the last can remained stubbornly upright.
You paused, then turned back toward him with a sheepish look. "Whoops..?"
"Hm." Lohen tilted his head, his grin never fading.
“Or maybe you’re just bad at this.” he said simply, shrugging as he picked up another ball and threw it from where he stood. The ball struck the center of the last can cleanly, sending it flying off the stand it was on.
The stall owner rang the bell to signal a win, the sound sharp and final against the festival noise. A few seconds later, they returned with a slightly oversized blue bunny plush, its floppy ears uneven in a way that made it look more endearing than intended.
Without ceremony, it was placed into Lohen's hands.
He barely looked at it before turning toward you, extending it forward.
"Here," he said. "I have no need for these."
You accepted it carefully, your fingers sinking slightly into the soft fabric as a small smile formed without effort.
“Oh,” you murmured, glancing down at it for a moment before looking back up at him. “It’s adorable… thank you.”
The sincerity in your voice seemed to linger for a fraction longer than expected. You adjusted your grip on the plush absentmindedly, still caught in the quiet satisfaction of the small victory, when something he had said earlier began to settle properly in your thoughts.
Your expression shifted slightly.
You looked up again, brows drawing together just faintly.
“Wait,” you said slowly. “Earlier—you said last time?”
There was a brief pause in which the surrounding festival noise felt suddenly more noticeable. Lohen didn’t immediately respond, which only made the question hang heavier between you.
Then, as if it were nothing worth hiding, he let out a soft sound of acknowledgment.
“Ah,” he said, almost lightly. “You think I wouldn’t do my research?”
He turned his attention away from you then, gaze drifting over the crowd as though the answer didn’t require further explanation. But the faint curve of his mouth didn’t disappear, and something in the ease of his posture suggested he was enjoying your reaction more than the conversation itself.
“I spent a long time watching every video of you that exists on the internet,” he added, tone almost conversational.
You stared at him.
Not startled enough to react loudly, but visibly trying to process where exactly this line of logic had come from.
Before you could find a response, he lifted both hands slightly in mock surrender, as though pre-emptively dismissing whatever protest he expected from you.
“Hey now,” he said. “I need a way to understand you better, right?”
Then, without giving you space to recover from that, he shifted his stance and lightly guided you forward by the direction of his movement rather than touch, steering you away from the stall and toward the row of food vendors nearby.
“And which is why,” he continued, voice lighter again, “I also learnt…”
You were already being led before the sentence even finished forming.
He stopped in front of the food street, where steam, heat, and scent collided in a messy, overwhelming wave—grilled skewers, fried batter, sugar, spice, and something sweet burning at the edges of metal pans.
“You always seem to watch what you eat,” he said, as if stating another conclusion he had already verified.
“I—” you started, immediately caught.
“Ah ah ah,” he interrupted smoothly, not even looking at you now as he scanned the stalls. “No disagreeing. I know I’m right.”
And with that, he simply started walking again, weaving into the flow of people as though the decision had already been made for you both. There was no room left to argue—not because he forced it, but because he moved with the kind of certainty that made hesitation feel unnecessary.
After a second, you followed.
The first stall he stopped at was crepes.
Warm light spilled over a glass display filled with neatly folded sheets of batter, each one layered with whipped cream and fresh fruit. The smell reached you immediately—sweet, buttery, almost comforting in a way that felt strangely unfamiliar after years of carefully measured meals and backstage catering.
You could feel the saliva, and you swallowed once.
Lohen noticed.
He always did.
He glanced at you briefly, just once, before turning back to the stall as if he already knew what he was going to do.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The question was simple.
But your response didn’t come immediately.
Your eyes moved over the options automatically, already sorting through invisible rules you hadn’t consciously thought about in a long time. Calories. Image. Schedule. What was acceptable in front of people. What could be explained away later. What would be forgiven if posted, what wouldn’t.
It wasn’t hunger you were considering.
It was the consequences.
“I don’t think—” you started, then stopped, because even saying it out loud felt wrong in a space like this.
Lohen’s gaze shifted to your face—waiting patiently.
You cleared your throat slightly.
“I’m not that hungry,” you said, defaulting to something easier.
His expression didn't change.
After another second, he simply turned back toward the vendor.
"One strawberry crepe, please."
The order was placed with such casual certainty that it almost felt as though your refusal had never happened.
A few moments later, he accepted the warm paper-wrapped crepe with a quiet nod before turning back toward you. Holding it out at chest height, he regarded you with the same matter-of-fact expression he'd worn since arriving.
"You don't have to worry so much," he said, his attention drifting briefly toward the stream of people passing through the market. "Besides..." A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If you think about it, strawberries are healthy!"
You stared at him instead of the crepe.
Then at the crepe.
Then back at him.
The warmth rising from it brushed against your fingers as he nudged it a little closer, never forcefully, but in a way that left very little room to keep refusing without making it obvious you were refusing.
When you still hesitated, Lohen simply reached out and lightly wrapped his fingers around your wrist. The touch was gentle, almost absentminded, as he guided your hand beneath the crepe and settled it securely into your grasp. At the same time, he lifted the bunny plush from your other arm with effortless efficiency, tucking it beneath his own as though he were merely redistributing the weight between you.
"There."
He stepped back, dusting his hands together once with quiet satisfaction, as if the problem had been solved.
You blinked down at the crepe before looking up again, but he was already walking away, weaving through the crowd without bothering to check whether you'd followed.
"Just one bite," he called over his shoulder, lifting a hand in an absent wave. "That's all I'm asking."
The next stalls blurred together after that.
At each one, Lohen never asked you to make a decision quickly or explain yourself. If you hesitated, he simply waited. If you started to refuse, he ignored it with quiet confidence, buying something anyway before placing it into your hands as though it had always belonged there.
Soon, he left fewer and fewer places for your hesitation to settle.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped calculating every choice before making it.
You couldn't say exactly when it happened. The constant stream of thoughts—calories, schedules, appearances, expectations—didn't disappear all at once. They simply grew quieter beneath the chatter of the crowd, the sizzling food, and the warmth of paper bags gradually filling your hands.
By the time the two of you settled onto a wooden bench near the quieter end of the food street, your arms were full of things you never would have allowed yourself to buy on your own. The warmth seeped through the paper wrapping into your fingers, while the mingled scents of butter, grilled food, sugar, and spices drifted lazily through the cool evening air.
It was almost overwhelming.
But—
Not in an unpleasant way.
For a while, neither of you spoke, both staring ahead.
Families wandered past carrying trays piled high with food. A little boy laughed as he chased his older sister between the lanterns overhead before their mother caught up, pretending to scold them while struggling not to laugh herself. Somewhere nearby, a vendor called out another order, followed by the sharp hiss of something hitting a hot grill.
You watched it all in silence.
"...I don't really know how to do this."
The words slipped out so quietly that you almost hadn't realized you'd spoken.
Not the food.
Not the festival.
Something much harder to name.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the warm paper bag resting in your lap.
"I don't really know how to..." You searched for the right words before giving up with a small, embarrassed laugh. "...just be."
The admission hung quietly between you, stripped of the careful polish you usually wrapped around every sentence.
Lohen didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he turned toward you properly.
The person sitting beside him with tired shoulders, food balanced awkwardly across your lap, and no audience left to perform for.
His expression softened slightly.
"You're doing it right now."
You looked at him.
He held your gaze for another moment before the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Just..." he said quietly. "Don't overthink it, [Name]."
His eyes drifted toward the crowd again.
"You don't have to earn every moment you enjoy."
Three months passed since you first met Lohen.
Three months since the two of you had agreed upon this strange little deal—or game, as he like to call it.
Somewhere within those weeks, the routine had quietly formed itself. On days your schedule allowed it, he'd appear without warning and drag you out into the city, wandering from cafés to parks, quiet bookstores to crowded festivals, never really explaining where he intended to take you next.
Little by little, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he chipped away at the polished shell you'd spent years building around yourself.
Even so, one thing never truly changed.
You believed your life would end at Lohen's hands.
That certainty lingered beneath everything the two of you did together, impossible to ignore for too long.
No matter how many ordinary days he showed you, some part of you remained convinced you were living on borrowed time—time that existed only because he had chosen not to pull the trigger yet.
Perhaps that was why fully embracing happiness still felt strangely out of reach.
How could you let yourself become attached to tomorrow when you'd already accepted there might not be one?
And what if he simply grew bored?
The game had only begun because you interested him. If one day you stopped being interesting—if he decided you'd never become the terrified person he wanted you to be—then there would be nothing left to wait for.
He would kill you.
Quickly.
Quietly.
Then move on to someone else who could give him the reaction he had been searching for all along.
The thought never truly left you.
It lingered in the back of your mind during every outing, every conversation, every quiet walk home together.
And yet...
Not everything about those three months had felt temporary.
You found yourself appreciating the little things—the smell of coffee drifting from a corner cafe, the warmth of fresh bread from a bakery you'd passed dozens of times without ever stepping inside, the way the city slowly changed color as evening settled over it.
Sometimes, walking beside Lohen beneath an ordinary sky, you caught yourself forgetting everything else and simply living in the moment, unburdened by the image you had spent years building.
Every moment you allowed yourself to enjoy became another reason to want tomorrow.
...And wasn't that exactly what he wanted?
Perhaps this 'game' was coming to an end soon either ways.
The rain began without warning.
At first, it was nothing more than a light drizzle, speckling the pavement and drawing the scent of wet concrete into the air. Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, it grew heavier. The steady patter became a downpour, blurring the streets beyond the station entrance as pedestrians hurried beneath their umbrellas.
"Huh..the rain's getting heavy."
Lohen tilted his head back for a moment, watching droplets splash against the edge of the station roof before grinning as though the weather had merely presented another opportunity.
"Guess we'll have to take the train to my next plan."
Before you could ask what that plan even was, he'd already stepped up to the ticket machine. A few quick taps, two tickets in hand, and he was gently tugging you after him toward the platform.
Unfortunately...
It seemed everyone else had reached the same conclusion.
By the time the train pulled in, the platform had become a sea of umbrellas, damp coats, and impatient commuters. The doors slid open to reveal an already crowded carriage, every available space occupied as people pressed shoulder to shoulder.
The moment you stepped inside, your chest tightened.
It was as though everything you'd managed to quiet over the past three months came rushing back at once.
‘They'll see me.’
‘They'll see me with Lohen.’
‘What if someone recognizes me?’
‘What if someone takes a picture?’
‘What if it becomes a scandal?’
Your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of your shirt as your shoulders instinctively drew inward. Every passing glance suddenly felt deliberate. Every nearby conversation sounded as though it might somehow be about you. You found yourself trying to occupy less space, shrinking into yourself despite there being nowhere left to move.
You didn't realize how quickly your thoughts were spiraling until something settled lightly atop your head.
"...?"
You froze.
Lohen's cap.
Its brim dipped low enough to cast a shadow over your eyes.
When you looked up, he was already watching the crowd instead of you, a faint smile resting on his face—not playful this time, but reassuring in its own quiet way.
"Crowded, isn't it?" he murmured, his voice barely carrying above the rattle of the train. "I think it's better if we get off at the next stop."
You couldn't find the words to answer.
Only then did you notice something else.
It wasn't simply that he was standing beside you anymore.
His body had shifted, angled just enough to intercept the constant jostling of the crowd without drawing attention to himself. One arm rested casually against the overhead handrail, while his shoulder blocked the nearest passengers from pressing any closer. To everyone else, it looked like nothing more than a man finding his balance on a crowded train.
To you, it felt like breathing room.
Outside the station, the two of you paused beneath the shelter, watching rain pour from the gray sky in shimmering curtains. It struck the pavement in an endless rhythm, splashing against the empty streets beyond.
There was rarely anyone around this part of the city.
Lohen stood beside you in silence, though his attention had long since drifted away from the rain.
It had settled on you instead.
Maybe it always had.
After a moment, you reached up and slipped his cap from your head. Your hair, damp and slightly flattened from both the rain and the hat, fell messily around your face as you turned toward him.
"Thanks..." you said softly, holding it out.
The smile you wore was small and unguarded.
Not the effortless smile perfected beneath stage lights.
Just yours.
"Not going to keep it?" Lohen teased, taking the cap back before settling it onto his own head with an exaggerated sigh. "That's a shame."
He glanced toward the rain-soaked street ahead.
"The place I wanted to show you is only a little farther."
Before you could ask whether he intended to walk through that weather, his fingers wrapped gently around your wrist.
"Huh—?"
"Run!"
The word had barely left his mouth before he was already pulling you forward.
A startled laugh escaped you as you stumbled after him, the two of you darting into the rain together. Water splashed beneath your shoes as you weaved between puddles and hurried pedestrians, your laughter growing louder each time one of you nearly slipped.
Within seconds your clothes were soaked through.
Your mask clung uselessly to your face.
Lohen's hair, usually neat beneath his cap, had begun sticking stubbornly to his forehead.
By the time you finally ducked beneath the overhang of a closed storefront, both of you were breathless.
Rainwater dripped steadily from your sleeves and hair, forming little puddles around your feet. Lohen pushed damp strands away from his eyes with the back of one hand before glancing over at you.
Your eyes met—
And you both burst into quiet laughter at the sight of each other.
"I never been caught in a rain as heavy as this before." you sigh, wiping the hair out of your face.
Lohen stared.
"You've never been caught in rain?"
"Not like this."
You wandered toward the edge of the shelter, stretching one hand beyond its cover so droplets splashed harmlessly across your fingertips.
"If it rains during filming, everything stops. If it rains during a concert, the managers start panicking. If it rains when I'm outside..." A small, almost embarrassed smile crossed your face. "...someone always has an umbrella over me before I even realize it's raining."
You watched the water dancing across the pavement.
"So..."
You laughed softly to yourself.
"This is actually my first time."
The words settled somewhere unexpectedly deep inside him.
Rain.
Such an ordinary thing.
Countless people complain about it every year.
Yet here you were, looking at it as though you'd just discovered something wonderful.
It made him wonder how many other ordinary moments had quietly been stolen from you.
A faint melody drifted through the rain then, carried from a nearby restaurant whose doors had been left open despite the storm. It was soft enough to be nearly swallowed by the steady rhythm of falling water.
Lohen glanced over his shoulder toward the dark storefront he had planned to visit.
"...Well."
He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.
"It looks like the place I wanted to bring you to is closed."
You turned back toward him.
"But..." His grin slowly returned, carrying the familiar spark of mischief in his eyes. "I just thought of something much more fun."
Before you could ask what he meant, he stepped closer and gently took your hand.
"What are you—"
With a smooth tug, he drew you toward him before spinning you beneath his arm.
"How about a little performance?"
"What?" You laughed, stumbling into the turn before lightly swatting his chest. "Are you crazy?"
"We're already soaked." His shoulders lifted in an easy shrug. "Besides.." He glanced around the nearly deserted street. "I don't think anyone's going to see us."
You rolled your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips.
"...You're unbelievable."
"And yet you're still here."
He offered a theatrical bow, extending one hand toward you once again.
"So?"
You let out a sigh, but still place your hand in his regardless.
The two of you drifted back into the rain as the distant music continued to play. At first your movements were clumsy due to the wet pavement, more laughter than dancing, but before long your years of choreography began to show. You guided him through a few simple steps, laughing each time he exaggerated a movement just to make you smile, while he followed with surprising enthusiasm despite getting nearly every turn wrong.
The rain blurred the world around you until it felt as though the city itself had quietly disappeared.
There was no audience.
No cameras.
No stage.
Only the two of you.
Lohen watched you as you laughed, your smile brighter than any he'd seen beneath concert lights.
You look happy.
‘Are you... enjoying your life?’
The thought came uninvited.
With it came another.
The game the two of you had made three months ago.
His chest tightened.
Ah.
I might be in trouble.
STAGE 3. THE BIG REVEAL
"You've been stuck on this target for a while, Lohen."
The steady rhythm of steel striking the training dummy came to an abrupt stop. Lohen lowered his knife and glanced over his shoulder as Varka stepped into the training room, the older assassin taking in the sight of the battered dummy with a quiet chuckle.
"That's rare," Varka remarked as he folded his arms across his chest. "Usually you're finished long before anyone even notices you've been assigned." His gaze drifted from the dummy back to Lohen. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes." Lohen answered without hesitation, driving the knife into the dummy's chest one last time before letting it topple backward with a dull thud. "A hugeee problem." He sighed dramatically as he yanked the blade free, wiping it clean against a cloth before pointing it lazily in Varka's direction.
"Actually...maybe you can help me. How about you answer one teeny tiny little question that's been bothering me?"
Varka laughed. "Go ahead."
"You only ever assign me people you believe deserve to die." Lohen tilted his head, his usual playful smile still resting comfortably on his face. "People who've done something unforgivable." The smile faded ever so slightly. "So why..." He studied Varka's expression for a moment before finishing quietly. "...why was [Name] given to me?"
The room fell silent.
For the first time since entering, Varka's relaxed expression faltered. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away with a small sigh before finally answering. "...She's a special case."
"I noticed." Lohen's voice remained light, but there was a quiet insistence beneath it now. "I asked why."
Varka didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked past the fallen dummy, stopping beside one of the weapon racks as though searching for the right words there instead of in Lohen's eyes.
"When she came to us..." He paused, fingers idly brushing over the handles of several knives before coming to rest. "...she looked exhausted."
Lohen frowned.
"...She?"
"[Name]."
For a second, he simply stared.
Then a quiet laugh escaped him.
It wasn't mocking.
It sounded more like someone convinced he'd misheard.
"You're telling me..." He shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "You're telling me [Name] hired us to kill herself?"
Varka didn't laugh.
He didn't correct him either.
He simply held Lohen's gaze.
The smile slowly disappeared from Lohen's face.
"...You're serious."
"I tried talking her out of it," Varka admitted quietly. "I refused at first. But she kept coming back." He exhaled through his nose, his eyes lowering briefly toward the floor. "She wasn't angry. She wasn't looking for revenge. She just..." His voice trailed off before he finally finished, "...looked tired."
Silence settled over the room once more.
Lohen stood perfectly still, the knife hanging loosely at his side as the words slowly settled into place. The rain. The festival. The dancing. The countless ordinary moments she'd looked at with quiet wonder. Her laughter. Her smile. The way she'd asked him to show her that life was worth holding onto.
None of it had begun because she'd been afraid of dying.
She had already accepted death long before he'd ever met her.
"...I have somewhere to be."
His voice barely rose above a murmur.
Without waiting for Varka to respond, he sheathed his knife and strode past him. The training room door slammed shut a second later, followed almost immediately by the sound of hurried footsteps disappearing down the hallway.
"[Name]…my favourite idol. Wake up."
You stirred at the sound, blinking awake to find Lohen standing over your bed, a faint smile resting on his face like this was the most normal hour in the world.
“Lohen..?” You grumbled, slowly sitting up as you rubbed your eyes, looking over at the clock on the wall.
3.04 A.M
"It's three in the morning…" you sighed, still half-asleep. "What are you doing here?"
"I have somewhere I want to show you," he replied simply, as if that explained everything. "And it has to be now."
Before you could properly process that, he reached for your hand and pulled you up from the bed.
"Nooo I'm tired—"
The protest barely formed before the world shifted.
You let out a startled sound as Lohen scooped you into his arms with effortless ease, as though your weight meant nothing at all. He moved without hesitation, carrying you straight toward the window.
"Lohen—what are you doing?!" you protested, gripping instinctively at his shoulder.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the window like he’d done it before—like it was familiar—and stepped out into the night air.
For a brief, dizzying moment, you thought he might actually drop you.
Then his footing found the branch of the tree outside, and he descended with practiced ease, one arm securing you against him while the other guided his balance as if gravity was merely a suggestion.
The night wind brushed past you.
Below, the world was silent and still.
Only then did he glance down at you, a smile softening just slightly at the edges.
"Then I’ll walk for us," he said lightly, as if carrying you out of your house at 3 A.M. was nothing more than a change of plans.
And just like that, he kept going.
He set you gently back onto your feet when the two of you reached the beach.
The cool sand shifted beneath your bare feet as you looked out across the endless sea. Moonlight spilled over the water, turning each wave into silver before it disappeared against the shore with a quiet rush. The air smelled of salt, clean and cold, carrying away the last traces of the city.
"...This is beautiful," you murmured.
"I know." Lohen smiled, slipping his hands into his pockets as he stood beside you. "Did you know? The night we first met... the moon looked just like this."
"Yeah," A faint smile tugged at your lips as your gaze drifted toward the horizon. "I remember thinking... if I died that night, I would have died on a rather beautiful one..."
The words escaped before you had the chance to stop them.
Silence settled between you. You were about to find an excuse to what you meant when Lohen shook his head, his smile fading.
“[Name], I know.” Lohen said quietly. “I know you were the one who sent in the request.”
“Oh.” you let out. “I guess…there isn’t any use in pretending anymore, huh?”
For a moment, you simply stared at the waves rolling onto the shore. They came and went in an endless rhythm, filling the silence neither of you seemed eager to break. When you finally spoke again, the words came more easily than you expected, as though they had been waiting for an opportunity to escape.
“I was tired.” You shook your head almost immediately. “No... tired isn't even the right word. I was exhausted.”
Your fingers curled together unconsciously.
“Every morning I'd wake up already wishing the day was over because I knew exactly what was waiting for me. Smile. Practice. Film. Perform. Smile again. And if I wasn't smiling enough...” A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from your lips. “People would ask if something was wrong. So I smiled harder.”
Your gaze fell to your hands.
“It got to a point where I couldn't tell where the smile ended and I began. I couldn't be angry because idols aren't supposed to be angry. I couldn't be selfish because idols are supposed to love everyone. I couldn't date. Couldn't make mistakes. Couldn't have bad days. And whenever I felt exhausted, there'd always be someone telling me how lucky I was.”
The wind swept past, carrying your words toward the sea.
“People always say idols are living the dream.” Your smile returned briefly, but it didn't reach your eyes. “They see the concerts, the fans, the awards. They see the edited clips, the interviews, the moments we're supposed to look happy. But they don't see everything behind it. They don't see how every mistake becomes entertainment for thousands of strangers. They don't see people picking apart the way you look, the way you speak, the way you breathe.”
Your voice grew quieter.
“And eventually... you start doing it to yourself.”
Slowly, you crouched down and reached toward the sand. Your fingers dug into it absentmindedly, letting the grains slip through the gaps between them as you watched them disappear.
“I loved singing. I really did.” The confession came with surprising certainty. “I loved dancing until my legs gave out. I loved hearing everyone sing along with us. I loved seeing people smile because of something I'd done.”
For a moment, your expression softened with the memory.
“But somewhere along the way, I stopped being the person who loved those things.”
Your eyes lowered again.
“I became someone who was simply good at pretending she still did.”
The words hung heavily between you.
“I don't even remember when it happened. It wasn't sudden. There wasn't some dramatic moment where everything fell apart.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “One day I just looked in the mirror and realised I couldn't recognise the person staring back at me anymore.”
Lohen remained silent.
Not because he didn't have anything to say.
Because he knew this wasn't the moment for words.
You drew in a slow breath, turning your head up toward him fully for the first time since the conversation began.
“I just wanted everything to stop.”
There was no bitterness left in your voice now.
“I thought if someone else ended it, then maybe I wouldn't have to disappoint everyone by doing it myself. It felt easier that way. Less selfish.”
Your gaze drifted back toward the ocean.
“To tell you the truth... I already knew exactly who you were up there. My fan was just a last minute thought of excuse—a lie.”
"But then you ruined everything..you didn’t kill me that night. Or even do any of the things you said you usually do to a target." A small laugh escaped you despite yourself. "We had this..game. You kept showing me all these tiny, ordinary moments I'd forgotten people could have..and somewhere along the way, I started looking forward to tomorrow.."
"I..." You smiled at him, and for the first time there was no trace of the idol who had spent years performing for everyone else. "I suppose I'm grateful I didn't die that night. Because I wouldn't have met you...and I never would've remembered how beautiful living could be."
Your voice softened into little more than a whisper.
"So...thank you."
Silence settled once more as the waves rolled endlessly onto the shore.
After a long while, you drew in one slow breath and met his eyes again, your smile calm.
"I think..." You paused only briefly.
"...you can kill me now."
Lohen didn't answer.
For the first time since you'd met him, he found himself with nothing to say to you.
His eyes remained on you, searching your face almost desperately for the slightest crack in your expression. Some hint that you'd said it to test him. That you were joking. That you were lying.
But no.
You were sincere.
Lohen dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though it carried none of his usual ease.
“You said I ruined your plans,” he murmured, gaze still fixed somewhere between you and the horizon, “but you ruined mine too.”
The words lingered in the space between you as he slowly lowered himself down onto the sand beside you. He didn’t rush the movement. If anything, it felt careful, as though he was trying to match the stillness you had fallen into, afraid that any sudden motion might break something neither of you knew how to fix.
For a while, he simply looked at you.
Not like a target nor like an idol.
Just…you.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitating midway as it neared your face. It stopped there for a moment, suspended awkwardly in the air, as though his body had forgotten how to do something so simple. Violence had always been instinctive to him, clean and certain, but this—this uncertainty, this gentleness—seemed foreign in a way that unsettled him more than any weapon ever had.
When his fingers finally made contact with your cheek, it was almost tentative, like he was afraid you might disappear if he pressed too firmly. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, wiping away the tear that still clung there without him even seeming to notice at first.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of no longer having you,” he admitted quietly, the words rough at the edges, like they had been forced out before he could stop them.
That was when he noticed it.
His own hand.
It was trembling.
Subtle at first, then undeniable, like his body had finally betrayed something he had spent his entire life keeping under control.
Lohen stared at it for a moment, almost as if he didn’t recognize it, before letting out a faint, disbelieving laugh that died quickly in his throat.
“…Look at that.”
The sound that followed wasn’t quite humorous. It was something closer to disbelief at his own body.
“I’ve held a rifle without my hands shaking,” he said slowly, “I’ve stood in front of people pointing guns at me and never once—never once—felt this.”
His voice faltered slightly, and for the first time there was something unsteady beneath it that had nothing to do with confidence or control.
“I’ve never trembled before.”
As if the admission itself made the moment too real, he exhaled and slowly pulled his hand away from your face, as though he needed distance from the vulnerability he had just exposed.
His other hand moved into the inside pocket of his coat.
When he pulled it out, it was with something folded carefully between his fingers. The assignment, the contract signed that was suppose to guranteed your death.
The one that had defined everything between you.
He looked at it for a long moment, unmoving, the paper catching faint traces of moonlight as the wind shifted around the two of you.
“…How troublesome,” he muttered under his breath.
Then, without ceremony or hesitation, he tore it.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again until it was nothing but fragments.
The pieces scattered into the wind almost immediately, lifted away by the breeze rolling in from the ocean, disappearing into the pale light of the moon before either of you could track where they landed.
Lohen watched them go in silence.
“I’ve never failed a mission before,” he said finally, voice quieter now, almost distant. Then he turned slightly toward you, expression softening in a way that felt almost painful. “But I don’t think I mind if it keeps you alive.”
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, as though he was trying to memorize something he was afraid he might lose.
Because when he spoke again, there was no hesitation left in him at all.
“Somewhere along the way…” he exhaled softly, a small, helpless smile forming as if it had no choice but to exist, “…I fell in love with you.”
Vampire Prince!Scaramouche x Blind!Reader [GOTHIC VICTORIAN AU]
anon . ݁⋆ i imagine the plot somewhat like this: humans being terrified of vampires because of the outbreak and all that, but User has a family full of aristocrats and lives in an estate (read more of the request here)
warnings (cw) .ᐟ yandere ꒰ manipulation ꒱ obsessive behavior・captivity ꒰ blood drinking・biting x loss of virginity ♰ dark romance ꒱ power imbalance ♰ unreliable narrator x psychological horror ꒰ chase scene ꒱obsessive behavior, ❝ dead dove ❞ porn with (a lot of) plot x sweet ending
word count 17k+ (don't ask)
authors note . ݁⋆ gifs at the beginning and my eyeball dividers (you’ll see when you read, sorry if they’re creepy) are all edited by me on flipping canva. please don’t repost/use the gifs, as they’re made specifically for this fic and probably wouldn’t work in other context, but the dividers you can use. cross-posted onto AO3. the reader has a similar aesthetic to Columbina. PART 2
LINKS₊˚⊹♡ ˚✎𓂃 masterlist | home | ao3 | kofi | discord server
You’ve never seen the sun.
You know it exists.
You’ve heard of its existence.
You’ve read of its existence.
And sometimes you can feel it.
You can feel it when the maids forget to close your curtains all the way, when the warmth of it creeps across your bedsheets and finds your skin.
It feels like being held.
It feels like something vast, something ancient is reaching through the glass just to touch you, just to remind you that you exist in a world that you’ll never witness.
You were born blind.
Your mother says that you came into this world with your eyes sealed shut, and when you finally did open them, or think you did, there was nothing behind them.
Emptiness.
Just darkness that has never, not once in 18 years, lifted.
You don't know what darkness looks like. You don't know what anything looks like. The concept of sight is as foreign to you as flight is to a fish. Fish don’t know of the world outside the sea, and they don’t know how some animals, like birds, can be free and fly anywhere. You feel like a fish, one that’ll never truly grasp freedom because you were born incapable of the tools needed for that.
You understand colors, scenery, and sight in general exist. You understand that other people are lucky enough to experience it. But… It’s something you’ve never had, so you’re incapable of missing it.
What you miss is freedom.
… Even if you’ve never had it.
Your room is your entire world. It’s large, you know that much. You know it’s large by the way you’ve mapped every inch of it with your hands and feet, memorized the distance from your bed to your vanity, from your vanity to your window balcony, from the window to the door that is always…
always locked.
Your family says it’s for your protection. Vampires are everywhere, they tell you. The outbreak has made the world even more dangerous for someone like you.
Someone fragile. Too fragile.
Someone helpless. Too helpless.
Someone…
blind.
They never say it, but you know it’s what they mean. You hear the servants whisper it sometimes when they think you can’t hear, but being blind since birth has made your hearing way too absolute, so nothing goes unheard with you.
You’re at your vanity today, in what feels like it could be morning, or late afternoon… You don’t know. Your concept of time has always been shitty because, in an enclosed space, most of your life has made it hard to learn what time feels like through your senses.
You’re running a brush through your hair for what feels like the thousandth time in this hour. The bristles catch on a small tangle, and you work through, repeating this process over and over. It’s something to do, something that’ll fill these endless hours.
You reach, and your fingers find a soft ribbon on your vanity, satin. You like that fabric a lot, it’s nice to feel, it’s not an understatement that you like soft things in your room. Soft always feels pretty to touch. You tie the ribbon into a tiny bow and clip it into your hair without needing to see, your hands already knowing the motion by heart.
Then, you grab your signature, the lace eye mask, delicate, so delicate, and you settle it over your closed eyes like it’s so a part of you that you would even consider it your second skin. You’ve worn one for as long as you remember; you change the fabrics sometimes, but you only wear it in white. Your mother started putting them on you when you were a child, said it made you look more comfortable… more at peace.
You think it just makes people less uncomfortable around you.
Less unnerved by the girl with the eyes that never open.
You hear a knock at your door.
You turn toward the sound, even though turning does nothing for you, because what would you even see? But even so, it’s just a habit that comes naturally, and you’ve been taught to be polite. "Yes?"
"It's me." You recognize the voice as your brother's, and you hear the lock click and feel the air change when the door swings open. You hear his footsteps cross the threshold, heavy boots on hardwood, and then the door closes behind him.
You turn back to your vanity, faced straight in front of your mirror that you’ll never see, picking up your brush, to again, brush your hair uselessly because at least it’s something to do. “You’re leaving today… I know, I just don’t know why I’m always the last one to hear about it.”
Like, I don’t matter enough.
You hear him cross the room to you. “Yeah… for a few days.” You feel him stop beside your chair, the slight displacement of air when he does. "There's a nest about two days' ride from here. Mother wants it cleared before it spreads."
"And Father?" You ask, pausing your movement with the brush as you do, like you’re almost scared of being alone without family, even for a couple of days, even though you’re never allowed outside your room without supervision, and your movements pick up again.
“Father?” he repeats, “Staying here, of course.” He pats your head as he continues, "Someone needs to manage the estate while we're gone."
You nod, because this is how it always goes. Your mother or father going with your brother for a hunt, and either parent stays behind to run the household… because you can’t. You’re incapable of overseeing the workers and the farmers, and the endless business dealings that keep your family weathering.
You stay in your room.
Always in your room.
Forever and always useless.
You drop your brush onto the table and fully turn your body where you can feel his. "... Can I come with you?" The words slip out before you can stop them, because they’re a habit.
You’ve asked before, and you won’t stop asking ever, because your voice is all you have. And yet… the answer is always the same.
"You know you can't." Your brother says, with a sigh, almost like he’s bored with this useless question of yours, but also feels bad about your incapabilities that make his reason.
Your voice picks up slightly, desperate for this time to be different. “I could help, my hearing is better than yours, you can’t deny that. I can detect them before you even- “
"And what would you do when you detected them?" He decides to cut in; his tone feels gentle, but also firm. "Run? Fight? You can't see them coming, little sister. You can't defend yourself."
“I could learn…” you start.
“No.” he finishes, final.
You sense him reaching out, and then you feel his touch, his gloved hand on your shoulder, he squeezes, just briefly, as if affection could dismiss what you’ve been wanting for forever.
"I brought you something," he says right after and your irritation fades oddly quick, replaced by curiosity, interested in anything new you could feel.
Your brother always brings you things from his hunts: trinkets, trophies, little pieces of a world you’re not allowed to experience firsthand.
He takes your hand, and you feel press something into your palm, it feels like cool metal with an intricate design. You run your fingers over it, mapping the shape, and it feels like a brooch, well, you assume it’s one with the circular shape, filigree around the edges.
"It belonged to a vampire countess," he mentions. "Mother put a stake through her heart last week... I thought you might like it."
"It's beautiful." You can't see it, but you know. The craftsmanship is exquisite beneath your fingertips. "Thank you, brother."
"Stay safe while we're gone." He kisses the top of your head, the way he's done since you were small. "Don't cause trouble for Father."
You let out a giggle, fingers still exploring the trinket as your head is tilted at the direction you feel your brother is at. "When have I ever caused trouble?"
He laughs, saying goodbye, and you hear the door to your room open, then close just as quickly, and then you hear the familiar and never foreign sound of the lock clicking into place.
And you’re alone again.
The hours pass slowly.
You read for a while, your fingers tracing over the raised dots of your books, but the story doesn’t hold your attention today. It’s a romance, which is one of your favorites, about a woman who falls in love with a man she shouldn’t. The villain of the piece, the one everyone warns her about.
You've always liked the villains.
Not because you think they're good. But because you understand them, in a way.
The books paint them as monsters, as irredeemable creatures of darkness, but you know that no one is born a monster. Something makes them that way. Trauma, or circumstance, or the simple cruelty of a world that refuses to show them kindness.
Not a lot of monsters do exist in the world you seem to live in, a lot of these are fiction, fake, or just myths. The only monsters that exist, the only ones you’ve heard about are vampires.
You wonder something stupid sometimes, stupid to you, you wonder what it would be like to meet one…
A vampire.
Your family has a history with them, generations of your family have been hunting them for centuries, and you’ve grown up on the typical propaganda your parents teach you.
That they’re wicked, bloodthirsty, that they’re dangerous, have inhuman speed and strength. You’re supposed to hate them, it’s what you’ve been raised to hate.
And you do because they’re monsters.
But sometimes, late at night, when loneliness feels like it might swallow you whole, you wonder if being a monster might be better than being nothing at all.
You set the book aside and make your way to the window. The route is familiar to you. Twelve steps from your bed, turn left, four more steps, and your fingers find the cool glass. You crack it open, just slightly, and the air rushes in.
It’s spring, you can smell it, and it’s your favorite season. The sweetness of blooming flowers in the garden, the dampness of recent rain, sounds of the sprinklers starting to go off.
You press your palm to the glass and close your eyes, even though they're already closed behind your mask, and you breathe.
This is as close as you get to the outside world.
You can hear the workers in the distance, the thud of someone chopping wood. You can hear voices too, too faint to make out the words. The estate is always busy during the day, full of people you've never met and never will.
You stay at the window for a long time.
Eventually, you close your window and return to your vanity. Sit down to brush your hair again. Tie a new ribbon. Change from your morning gown into an afternoon dress, soft white cotton with lace at the collar and cuffs.
You like soft things, white things. Light things, even though you've never seen light.
Your mother says you dress like a doll, maybe you do, and maybe that’s all you are.
A pretty thing to be kept on a shelf, looked at but never touched, protected but never freed.
You're brushing your hair again, for the thousandth time, when something changes.
The feeling is subtle at first, you can’t quite name it, but you freeze, brush halfway through your hair and listen.
The birds have stopped singing.
That’s the first change you notice. The constant chatter of sparrows and other beautiful birds that usually fill the air outside your window has gone… silent.
And beneath that silence, you sense something else.
A presence, one that doesn’t belong here.
Something is wrong.
You set down your brush, letting your panic settle in, listening to whatever strange instinct that you feel. Your heart is beating fast, and you don’t understand why. You shouldn’t feel scared, you shouldn’t ever feel scared because your room is safe. The door is locked, the windows are too high for intruders to climb, and your father is home.
But the silence drags on for too long, and your senses that most people take for granted, are screaming that someone is very, very wrong.
You could ring the bell by your dresser and wait for your father to come, hope he or a servant hears so you can’t alert them of the danger you sense.
Alert them of what danger? Nobody listens or would listen if you even tried to alert something you couldn’t describe. Maybe it’s nothing anyways, maybe you’re starting to go insane from the boredom up here and are hallucinating feelings.
Maybe the birds flew away because it’s about to rain?
You get up and walk up to your window, cracking it open, listening for anything.
It’s silent outside, perfect, unnatural silence compared to what you’ve listened to merely 15 minutes ago.
And then, distantly, a scream.
It cuts off almost immediately, far too quickly, and you press your hand to the glass, desperate to hear anything more, but there’s nothing after that scream, just dead silence again.
"Father?" you call, instinctively hoping he might hear even though you assume him to be downstairs in his study. You try again, louder. "Father!"
Nothing.
You close your window and move to your door, feeling the handle, try it even though you know it’s locked. It doesn’t budge, obviously, and you pound on the wood with your fist, but the sound seems to disappear into the silence, swallowed up by whatever wrongness has descended on your home.
"Someone!" you shout. "Please! Something's happening!"
Nothing again.
You back away from the door, your breath coming too fast. You’re trapped more than ever, it feels like the walls are closing in, and you can’t do a thing about it.
You give up banging when your wrist goes sore and achy, and you walk slow, in defeat towards your soft, large, ‘safe’ bed.
Minutes pass, long minutes, or hours. You can’t tell, you’ve stopped focusing on time, only focusing on your own spiraling thoughts as time passes.
Footsteps.
You finally, finally hear something close by your room. Someone walking through the halls of your home, opening doors, leaving them open, the sounds drift up from the floor below you, distant at first, then getting closer by the second.
Your father, it has to be. He’s coming back to check on you, tell you that everything is fine, that the scream you heard was nothing, that you’re safe, that he’s safe.
But why would he check every room before yours?
The footsteps climb the stairs to your floor.
You stand, smoothing your dress with shaking hands. The footsteps move down the hall, pausing at each door, and you count them, waiting as they get closer and closer.
They stop outside your room.
The doorknob twists, but doesn’t budge. Then you hear the lock to your room click, and the next thing you hear is the door swinging open.
“… Father?" You ask, voice small, standing by your bed, body facing the direction of your door.
It's silent for what seems like way too long. Then you hear a voice that isn’t your father’s.
"Interesting."
You scramble backward, your back hitting your vanity, and you knock something over. A perfume bottle that you hear shattering on the floor. The sound makes you flinch, but you quickly try to balance yourself against the table, swallowing big.
“Who’s there?” You ask, clearly frightened, not used to hearing a boy's voice that isn’t your brother's or father's. "Who are you? Where's my father?"
Your door stays open as you hear the boy’s footsteps cross the threshold into your room, fully.
The animal part of your brain keeps sending signals to run even though there’s nowhere to run.
"So you're the one they keep locked up here." His voice sounds young, now that you’ve heard him say more than one word. He also sounds amused in a way that makes your panic spike even more. "I was wondering what was in this… locked room."
"Get out." You reach behind you, fingers closing around the handle of your hairbrush. It's a pathetic weapon, but it's all you have. "Get out of my room!"
"That's not very hospitable." He's moving again. You track him by sound, but he's circling you, and you can't keep up. “… Though I suppose you have reason to be upset."
"Where is my father?" You grip the brush tighter. "What did you do to him?"
It's quiet, and you can sense that the boy has stopped moving, distance kept from you as he speaks again, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than what you heard before. "I'm sorry to tell you this. But your father is dead."
The words hit you like a physical blow, like a dagger to the stomach. You believe him immediately, because that’s never something to joke about, and it all does add up. You stagger back, your legs feeling weak, and you catch yourself on the edge of your vanity. "No." You say, even though you know.
"A vampire attack." He sounds sympathetic, and almost what you can assume as slight trauma in his tone, but it does sound oddly fake, "I arrived too late to save him. I'm sorry."
"You're lying." You shoot back, quickly, still in denial, your words not matching your thoughts.
"I wish I were." He replies.
Your… father. Your father, who has protected this estate for decades, who has hunted more vampires than anyone else in the region, who kissed your forehead last night and tucked you in, and did the same the night before that, and the night before that, every night for years.
Dead.
“Why are your eyes covered?” He asks suddenly, random. “Did you get some sort of surgery recently done or-”
You cut him off. "Who are you?" Your voice cracks on the last word. "How did you get in here?"
"My name is Scaramouche." Footsteps again, closer now. "My father does business with yours… Did business," he corrects, and there's something in his tone that you can't quite read. "I came to pick up some documents, and I found the door unlocked. I found-" He stops. "I found what I found."
"And you just happened to come upstairs?" Your question sounds weaker than an accusation of anything; no heat found, just despair, still processing your father's demise.
"I was looking for survivors." He sounds close now, very close, and you have no room to create distance because you’re already against your vanity. "The whole estate has been hit. Everyone downstairs is dead. I thought maybe someone up here had been spared." He pauses before adding, "It seems I was right."
You’re shaking, body trembling all over, and you don’t make an effort to hide how affected you are at this information… but it’s not that you don’t care, it’s that you can’t control yourself. You can’t control how weak you feel currently, how helpless and small you feel.
"I don't believe you." You muster out with your lips quivering, head tilted slightly down so he can’t see your eyes closed behind the mask.
“… About which part?" He says back, and there’s just the slightest hint of a tease in his words.
"Any of it… All of it." You raise the hairbrush, pointing it vaguely in his direction. "You could be a vampire yourself for all I know."
You hear him laugh, and it throws you off balance at how little you expected to hear one after an accusation like that.
"If I were a vampire, you'd already be dead." His voice is calm for someone you’re suspecting. "I'm not here to hurt you… I'm here to help."
“Help?” you say, palm tightening on your hairbrush. "By breaking into my room?"
"By saving your life, actually." His footsteps move again, and you tense, but he seems to be backing away, as if he could sense you want space. "The vampires are still out there. Most of them have moved on, but some might come back… This house of yours isn't safe anymore. I need to get you somewhere secure."
You let out a fake laugh, crossing your arms, head turned to the side. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Then you'll die."
The bluntness of his words makes you flinch. He doesn’t say it in a cruel manner, though; he says it matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing but an obvious truth that he’s ready to watch you learn the hard way.
"I will wait for my mother," you say. "And my brother. They'll be back in a few days-"
"A few days?" He sounds almost incredulous. "You think the vampires will wait a few days before coming back to finish what they started? They'll return tonight, as soon as the sun sets. And they’ll find you in your room… alone… defenseless. Does that really sound like something you’d want?"
"I'm not defenseless."
"Really? Said by the one holding a hairbrush."
Your cheeks burn at how right he is. You know a hairbrush isn’t a good defence weapon, it’s not even a weapon in general, but you don’t let go of it, because doing that might let him think you trust him.
"Look," he says, and his voice softens again, similar to the tone he gave when he told you your father is dead, "I understand you're scared and that you don't trust me. But I'm the only person standing between you and the same fate your father just met. Can you at least let me help you?"
Say no.
Tell him to get out.
Scream at him.
Tell him to let you mourn in peace.
But…
He’s right.
You’re alone in a house full of corpses.
The family you have that aren’t corpses are days away…
And…
You have no way to defend yourself against creatures that move faster than any sound your ears that are better than most can pick up.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” You ask, voice small and unsure. “How do I know this isn’t some trick?”
"You don't." He's honest, at least. "But what choice do you have?"
None.
You have no choice at all.
Slowly, reluctantly, you move past where you sense him and lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. You can’t stand any longer because of the grief eating you inside. You lower your head and press a hand to your mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to escape.
Your father is dead.
Your father is dead, and you're alone with a stranger, and everything you thought you knew about your safe, sheltered life has just shattered like glass.
"You're blind."
The statement catches you off guard. You raise your head, even though you can't see him, can't see anything.
"Yes." You respond, voice tiny.
"I thought the mask before was for some kind of surgery, but you don’t react to my movements," he says, like he's working something out. "And your eyes seem closed beneath it… Why is that?"
"They've never opened." You lie, they can open if you want to, but you choose to keep them closed under the mask at all times. And you don't want to feel the need to explain such an odd choice to a stranger.
He takes note of that, and it’s quiet for a while; you can’t tell if he’s nodding at what you said, or staring into the mask deeper. But finally, as if he got the concept of a girl like you being blind, he says, in a quiet tone, “That must be… difficult.”
"I manage… I’ve gotten this far at least." You say, voice threatening to break as you talk, as you’re still trying to hold back tears, trying not to look smaller than you already feel in front of this stranger.
You hear footsteps again, ones that seem like he’s getting closer to you, but they’re slow this time, careful, aware, like he’s approaching a frightened animal.
"I'm going to sit next to you," he says, tone so gentle in a way that any people pleaser hearing it would say yes in a heartbeat. "...Is that alright?"
You’re too tired and so… scared to even muster up a no. You don’t give him a response, and you feel the bed dip beside you. He’s a little too close for someone who's a stranger to you, but you don’t move away or tell him to move.
Being this close to him, you don’t feel warmth next to you… It feels like he himself is cold.
"I won't let anything happen to you." His voice is soft, really soft, and you can sense confidence in it that makes you believe him, just a little bit, but not enough. "I promise."
Your head is tilted down, and your fingers are toying with the edge of the lace on your dress as you think before asking, “Why do you even care? I’m just some blind girl you’d be better off leaving behind… You could just go to your home, where it’s probably safe, but… You aren’t.
“I don’t know why I care to stay.” He sounds surprised as he speaks, as if the words are foreign in his own mouth, as if his own answer to you is something he’s never said before. “But I can’t allow someone to die defenseless, especially if I have a chance to save them before they even reach that level of danger.”
And with that, you start crying. Tears are sliding down your cheeks beneath the mask you wear, and your breath is hitching. And what you feel next is a touch you’ve never felt before. A touch by a gloved hand, his hand, on your face, tilting your head, probably in his direction, and brushing away the wetness with care a stranger shouldn’t have.
His thumb traces the curve of your cheek as you don’t make an effort to pull away. He does it gently, tenderly, and you’re so desperately lonely, more than ever, that you lean into the stranger's touch.
"You're so young," he says, not commenting on your tears. There's something strange in his voice, something you can't identify. "How old are you?"
You swallow before saying, "I’m eighteen."
"... Eighteen?" He repeats it like he's savoring the word. "I'm nineteen. Just a year older than you, shame we haven’t met until now. Just as much as it is a shame your parents choose to keep you locked in a room, not knowing it doesn’t keep you safe, just traps you, especially when there could be danger right outside your room… or in it."
You let him finish, before managing out a, “You sound older than that… nineteen.” You feel his thumb brush over your cheek as you talk, wiping a tear for you, and that makes your voice come out tiny at the end.
“Do I?” You hear him make a soft laugh, thumb moving on your cheek again. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve seen a lot for my age.”
His gloved fingers trail down your cheek, along your jaw, and then they're gone. You miss the contact immediately, and you feel pathetic for doing so.
"Wait here," he says. "I need to make sure the way out is clear. Then I'll come back for you, I promise."
"Don't leave me."
Your voice breaks on the last two syllables, a tiny sob leaking out from your lips right after. It sounds so childish, the very thing you hate feeling like, but the thought of being alone again in this room without a body to cling to… it makes your chest hurt with panic.
"I won't be long…" he starts.
"... Please." You cut in, voice fading in such a weak way that you suddenly feel his hand on yours, squeezing gently through the glove he’s wearing.
"Alright… I'll stay." He settles more comfortably on the bed beside you. "We'll wait here together until it's safe to move. I’ll be as patient as you need me to be, but… It’s getting late, and the sun will set soon. We'll need to be careful and leave before the others come back."
"Others?" You ask, confused at the random mention of a group.
“There was more than just one vampire, I’m assuming, one can’t just kill every person here without getting caught, especially since it’s daylight and that works against them.” He sounds like he knows a lot about this, but you don’t find that suspicious because if you were in his shoes, you’d assume the same. “I don’t see them now, maybe I came hours after they left, maybe I came just as they left, but I’m certain that they’ll return at nightfall. They always do.”
You don’t trust him as he’s still a stranger to you, but you nod at what he says, because it does make sense, and he seems to be the only option you have currently.
The hours pass in silence after that.
Sometimes he speaks to fill it, asking you small, minor things about yourself, your life, your family… It’s odd he seems so interested in you. He doesn’t need to fill the silence with questions; he could just leave, or he could just keep it silent and not interact until you’re ready, while he sits there bored. But he doesn’t, but you also don’t match the energy needed to keep a conversation flowing, you answer each other in fragments, too grief-stricken for full sentences.
Sometimes… he just sits beside you, quiet and still, and you listen to the sound of his breathing.
It occurs to you, distantly, that you haven't heard him breathe once.
But you're too tired to think about what that means.
"It's time to go."
His voice pulls you from the half-sleep you'd fallen into. You spring upright, disoriented, and his hand steadies you.
"The sun is setting," he says. "We need to leave now."
"But… I want to see my father first." Your voice still sounds broken from the crying you did; you stopped about an hour ago. You’re sore, almost emotionless on the outside, but split open in despair on the inside.
"Are you sure that's wise?"
"I need to say goodbye." Your voice is firm despite the trembling in your hands. You’re suddenly aching to meet your father's body now that the idea is in your mind. "I need to... I need to touch him one last time. Please."
He's quiet for a long moment. You can feel him considering, weighing options you can't see… or you just imagine that's what he’s doing.
"... Alright," he says finally. "I'll take you to him."
He stands, and then his hand is extended toward you. You know this because he tells you, guiding your fingers to his palm. His glove is soft, fine leather, and his grip is steady as he helps you to your feet.
"I can walk on my own."
"I'm sure you can." But he doesn't let go of your hand. "But the halls are... difficult. You told me it’s rare when you’re outside your room, so let me guide you."
You let him lead you because you’d feel even worse if you stumbled over something that could’ve been avoided with his help.
Your sense of smell has always been another good trait of yours, one that you hate, because bad smells are hard to ignore.
And what you smell when you step out of your room, holding his hand…
It’s bad.
Something copper-rich that makes you feel like you might just gag.
Blood. You're smelling blood.
"Don't let go of my hand," he says quietly, careful to speak if there’s somebody or something lurking. "And try not to touch anything."
You just nod and trust him to do everything for you, everything to keep you safe.
Trust?
Where the fuck did that come from?
He leads you down the hall, down the stairs, through rooms you've never been allowed to enter. Your free hand trails along the wall occasionally, feeling the familiar texture of wallpaper, and then something wet, and you jerk your fingers back.
"I told you not to touch anything."
"I know… I’m sorry," you say, voice weak. “I just rely on touch a lot, especially with the things I haven’t explored yet.”
He doesn’t respond, his grip just tightens on your hand… firm in a way that feels possessive.
You walk for what feels like forever before he makes a full stop.
"He's here," he says. "In front of you… About two steps."
You let go of his hand.
Take one step… Two.
Your foot bumps against something soft and heavy, and you sink to your knees.
Your hands find him by touch. The broad chest, the fabric of his coat, the familiar shape of his shoulders. Your fingers travel up, trembling, to his face… his jaw… his cheek that’s already going cold.
And then his neck. Your fingers come away wet.
"No." The word is a whimper, more panic than denial. You press your palm to his throat, feeling the ragged edges of torn flesh, the slickness of blood that hasn't dried yet. "No, no, no-"
You gather him into your arms as best you can. He's heavy like the dead weight described in some of the books you read. And he’s so cold, cold in a way that makes you break further, sobbing suddenly, ugly wrenching sobs that tear through your chest.
"Papa." You haven't called him that since you were a child. "Papa, please. Please wake up. Please don't leave me alone. Please-"
He doesn't wake up…
He’ll never wake up.
You press his hand to your face, just to feel it one last time. The rough calluses on his palm. The familiar weight of his fingers. You memorize it, brand it into your memory, because this is all you will ever have of him now.
Behind you, Scaramouche watches this all play out in silence.
He watches you cry until you can’t cry anymore, how your voice sounds raw at some point, how your father's blood soaks into the fabric of your dress.
He watches… watches as you just kneel there, holding him, unwilling to let go.
And he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.
"We need to leave." His voice is gentle in a way that, if you were paying attention enough, he almost sounds like he’s faking kindness. "I'm sorry… really, truly sorry. But we need to go."
"I can't leave him." You yell, shocked at the desperation mixed with anger in your tone.
"You have to."
You resist the moment you feel his hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you away gently, you clutch onto your father’s coat… but… all that crying, all that grief, everything has made you too exhausted to fight back. So you let yourself get pulled to your feet.
His hand finds yours again, holding them in a way strangers shouldn’t, and he guides you away from your father's corpse.
A corpse he is the cause of.
You don’t look back when you walk away, hand in Scaramouche’s, because that would imply you could see, and you’ve never seen anything, anything in your life.
You’ve never been allowed to be normal.
You've been outside before, briefly, under heavy supervision. But this… this is different. This is the world, vast and open and terrifying, and you cling to Scaramouche's hand like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.
"Where are we going?" Your voice is hoarse from crying.
"My home… It's safe there. You can wait for your mother and brother to return."
You walk in silence for a while. The ground changes beneath your feet, smooth stone, then rough earth, then gravel, then something softer. Grass, maybe. The air smells like trees and night-blooming flowers and something else, something you can't identify.
The room they've given you is beautiful.
At least, that's what Scaramouche tells you. He describes it in detail: the canopy bed draped in white silk, the antique furniture, the chandelier that catches the light just so. You can't see any of it. But you can feel the softness of the sheets, the smoothness of the polished wood, the weight of the heavy curtains that you've never been able to move.
"Can I open the window?" You ask one day.
"Not right now." His voice is gentle, apologetic. "It's not safe."
"... But I want to feel the sun."
"The sun is dangerous right now. They’re still vampires in the area. They might see the light from your window and know someone's here."
It doesn’t make sense, none of it does. But you're in a strange place, dependent on a stranger's kindness, and you don't have the energy to argue.
"Okay..."
He visits you every day. Or every night, you've started to realize. You can never quite tell when he arrives, but it always feels like evening, like the world has gone dark and quiet outside your sealed windows.
It’s weird he never shows up during the day.
He brings you food prepared by servants you’ve never met, carried up on silver trays. Sometimes he feeds you himself, guides the utensil to your lips, and the intimacy of it should make you feel embarrassed… but you’re not.
Because you’re falling in love with this strange… kind stranger.
Well, is he a stranger anymore?
It’s stupid how quickly you’ve fallen for him. It’s been a week, and you barely even know him… but he’s the only person you have now, the only voice in your silent world, and when he touches your hand or brushes the hair from your face, you feel something warm bloom in your chest.
"Tell me about yourself," you say one evening, or morning… You can't tell anymore.
"What do you want to know?" He responds, casual, ready to share whatever it is you want.
"Anything… Everything." You're sitting on your bed, your back against the pillows, and you can feel him next to you, how he moves closer to you. "I don't even know what you look like."
"... Would you like to?"
"Yes."
You feel him take your hand, slow, and raise it to his face. "Go ahead," he says. "See me."
Your fingers tremble as they make contact with his skin… his skin is cold, colder than it should be, colder than anyone’s skin you’ve felt. But it’s smooth, and you feel that makes up for it.
"Why are you so cold?" You ask.
He leans into your touch, and you can hear a slight sigh come from him, as if this relaxes him. "I run cold... I always have."
You map out his features, feel the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips. His cheekbones are high and prominent, and his face is narrow and elegant.
"You're beautiful," you whisper, even though you can't see him.
He tilts his head at your touch. "... Am I?"
You smile, tiny in response. "I can feel it."
His hand covers yours, pressing it flat against his cheek. He's still wearing his gloves, even though you wish he weren't.
"What color are your eyes?" you ask even though color is foreign to you.
"Do you even know color?” He chuckles, playful in a way. “It’s dark violet… almost indigo, in some lights."
You nod, fingers still exploring. "That sounds pretty… What about your hair?"
"Similar, actually. Very dark, with hints of blue." You feel him shift, leaning closer. "Does that help? Can you see me now?"
"I don’t see, Scara.” You giggle, comfortable around him enough that you use a nickname now, “But I think I can imagine." You're building him in your mind, piece by piece, as you speak. "You're taller than me?"
“Im sure you can feel that I’m a little taller than you, but, unfortunately, not by much.” He laughs softly. "I'm quite short, by most standards."
"And thin?"
"Very."
You lower your hand from his face, and you feel him catch it before it falls. He holds your hand between both of his… gloved ones.
"Can you take off your gloves?" you ask.
He pauses, with clear hesitation at your question, squeezes your hand just once before saying, “If that’s what you want, then I will.”
You hear a soft sound of leather being removed, and then you feel his bare hand in yours. It’s cold just like his skin, but smooth, and soft, and you trace the lines of his palm, the shape of his fingers, and he pretends it doesn’t tickle.
"You're freezing." You note, again.
"I told you… I run cold."
You come up with a solution. “We should go outside, in the morning, when the sun is warm. It’ll help… and I like the outside air.”
You feel him go still beside you, like what you just said is something nonnegotiable, something he couldn’t ever possibly agree to.
For reasons you don’t know yet.
Then, as for what you’d assume to be a distraction, his free hand comes up to touch your cheek, and you sense him getting closer, leaning in.
"We can't go outside," he murmurs, and his lips brush yours.
You’ve never been kissed before, this is your first one, and he does it softly, and you don’t even know what to do. His mouth moves against yours, gentle, but also patient for you, and you try to follow his lead because this is something you definitely want.
When he pulls back, you're breathless.
"It's not safe," he whispers against your lips, continuing his last murmured statement while his thumb rubs over your lips. "I won't risk you."
"But-"
But he kisses you again, and that cuts you off. This kiss is deeper than the first, as he slides his hand into your hand, cradling the back of your head, and tilting his own head into the kiss. You melt into it… into him. And when he breaks away this time, you’ve forgotten what you were going to say, all you just want is more of that feeling he just gave you.
"Trust me," he says. "I'll keep you safe. I promise."
And you trust him way more than anyone in your position should.
More days pass after that… or nights, you don’t know.
You've lost track entirely.
He kisses you now. Often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Always through gloves, always careful, but the touches are becoming bolder. More intimate.
He kisses you a lot after that day, after that first kiss. Often… really often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Glove gone, because now he knows you don’t care about the cold. The touches are careful, but they’re also becoming more bold as the days go on… more intimate.
You don't mind, of course. And of course you want more.
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
He just finished feeding you lunch, and he set the tray aside, setting onto the bed beside you. His presence has started to feel too much like home.
“I like it when you kiss me… touch me and all, it feels nice.” You start, voice small, nervous even as your head is tilted down, hand curling at your duvet. “I want more…”
He’s quiet as you speak, after you speak. You feel him looking at you, even though you can’t see his gaze. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." You respond, eager, but shy.
You feel his hand cup your cheek, turn it to face his direction, and you lean into his hand instinctively.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Do you know that?"
“But…” you shake your head, tiny. "I can't see myself."
"I know… But I can." His thumb traces your lower lip. "You look like a doll. Like something precious that should be kept under glass."
"... Is that how you see me?"
"It's how I want to keep you." He leans in, and his lips brush yours. "Safe... Protected. Mine."
The word sends a shiver through you. Mine.
He kisses you, his tongue sliding past your lips. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, his hand fisting in your hair. The kiss goes on and on, dizzying, overwhelming, and when he finally pulls back, you're panting.
"More?" he asks.
"Please."
His mouth moves down your jaw, along your neck. His lips are soft against your skin in a way that makes you whimper, involuntarily at each kiss.
"You smell incredible," he breathes against your skin. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"No."
"You smell like..." He trails off. His mouth lingers at the curve of your neck, just above your pulse, and you feel his breath go shallow. "Like everything I've ever wanted."
You don't understand what that means. You feel his lips pressing kisses to your throat now, gentle and almost reverent, and you tilt your head back to give him better access.
"Lie back," he says. "Let me take care of you."
You obey his words, taking it as permission for what you were already going to do. You sink back into the pillows, your white nightgown riding up around your thighs. You hear him move, feel the mattress shift as he positions himself over you.
“Have you ever been touched before? He murmurs, pressing more kisses down your throat as he asks.
"No." You breathe out.
"Good."
His hands find the hem of your nightgown, and you feel his fingers slide beneath, skimming up your thighs, and your breath catches at that.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says against your mouth.
You've never wanted anything less in your life for him to stop.
He moves down your body, trailing kisses along your collarbone, your chest, the swell of your breasts through the thin fabric. And then he's sliding lower, pushing the nightgown up, disappearing beneath the sheets.
"... Where are you going?"
"Relax." His voice is muffled now, distant. "You'll see."
You won't see, you think. You never see.
But then his lips are on your thigh, pressing soft kisses to the sensitive skin, and you stop thinking entirely.
You feel him make a nip at your skin, just slightly, and you let out a soft whimper before you can stop yourself.
"Did that hurt?" He sounds curious, not concerned, curious.
"N-no. It felt..." you start, voice tiny.
"Good?" he finishes for you.
"Yes," you agree.
You feel him smile against your skin. And then his fingers are hooking into your underwear, sliding the soft satin down your legs, and you're bare beneath his gaze.
His mouth finds you, and you can feel his tongue licking up through your folds, a sensation you’ve never felt before, and you cry out. It’s nothing like the vague descriptions in some of the smut you’ve read… occasionally, it’s overwhelming… consuming.
"Ah... Scara..."
"That's it." His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh. "Say my name."
His tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, and your hips buck involuntarily. He pins them down with one hand, holding you still.
"So sensitive." He sounds delighted. "And you can't even see what I'm doing to you. You can only feel it."
Every touch feels magnified tenfold. This is what being blind has given you… this heightened awareness… this desperate sensitivity.
He slides a finger inside you, and you gasp.
"Tight," he murmurs. "We'll fix that."
He works you open slowly, one finger, then two, stretching you while his tongue continues its assault on your clit. It feels too much by the way you can’t help but squirm, but it also feels like not enough, and also just everything all at once.
"Hah... please... I need..."
"What do you need?"
"I don't know... more... something..."
He adds a third finger, curling them up, finding a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your closed eyes. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking gently, and you shatter.
The orgasm crashes through you like a wave. You cry out, your back arching, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he works you through it, relentless, drawing out every last tremor.
When you finally come down, he's crawling back up your body. His mouth finds yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good?" he asks.
"Yes... hah... yes..."
He pulls back and you can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sounds of clothes being removed. And then his hands are on your nightgown, sliding it up, over your head, leaving you completely bare.
"You're beautiful," he says again. "So beautiful."
His hands run over your body, mapping your curves, and you wish desperately that you could see him. See what he looks like above you, naked and wanting.
"Can I touch you?" You ask.
"Yes."
He guides your hand down, down, until your fingers close around him… what you’d assume to be a cock. He feels hard, and the shape of it seems big. It’s heavy in your palm, and warm, warmer than the rest of his cold skin.
"Oh..."
"Do you feel what you do to me?" His voice is strained. "How much I want you?"
You nod, speechless.
He moves your hand away and positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. Your breath catches at the feeling, realizing that this is really happening, that you’re really losing your virginity.
"This will hurt," he says. "At first."
"I know."
"I won't be gentle."
"... I don't want you to be, Scara."
And with that, he pushes inside, one thrust, all the way.
You scream, not from pleasure, not yet, just from the sudden fullness, the pain of being stretched beyond what you thought possible. He swallows the sound you make with a kiss, his mouth claiming yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head.
"Shh." His lips move against yours. "Breathe."
You try to listen and breathe, but it’s hard when he’s inside you, especially so impossibly deep, filling every inch of your body. But you don’t feel pressured, as he’s very patient, holding you still and letting you adjust.
"Does it hurt?"
"Y-yes..."
"It won't for long."
He starts to move, it’s slow at first, long strokes that pull out almost all the way before pushing back in. His thumbs simultaneously rub soothing circles on your belly, a strange counterpoint to the ache between your legs.
And then the pain starts to fade... Replaced by something else. Something warm and building.
"Oh... hah..."
"There we go." He picks up the pace slightly, noticing. "That's it. Feel me."
And you do, you feel every inch, every thrust, every time he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, and he swallows each one with kisses.
His mouth finds your neck again, and he kisses, sucks, and marks the skin there. He’s obsessed with your throat, you realize, with the way his lips keep gravitating there, always lingering.
"Can I..." You gasp as he hits that spot again. "Can I ask something?"
"Anything."
"Will you... Will you bite me?"
He goes still.
For a moment, you think you've said something wrong, that you’ve gone too far. But then his hips start moving again, harder than before, faster, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
"You want me to bite you?"
"Yes... please... I want..."
"Are you sure?"
"Ngh... yes... please, Scara..."
His teeth sink into your neck.
It’s not hard enough to actually break your skin, but it’s hard enough that it hurts, that it makes you cry out, that it makes the pain mix with pleasure in a way that you can’t tell them apart. He bites you again, and again, marking your throat with red impressions of his teeth.
"Mine," he growls against your skin. "You're mine."
"Yours... hah... I'm yours..."
He's fucking you harder now, losing control, his breath ragged against your neck. And then he's tensing, burying himself deep, and you feel him spill inside you.
And when he cums inside, something he does happens by accident.
His teeth clamp down hard on your neck. His teeth don’t even feel like teeth when he does it; it feels like a knife piercing your skin, something sharp, not like human teeth.
You let out a confused whimper in response to it, and his hips are stuttering, groaning against your throat, and the pain you feel fades into a strange, floaty warmth.
When he pulls back, his mouth lingers on the bite, kissing it, licking at something wet that trickled down your neck.
"Sorry," he murmurs, still inside of you. "Got carried away."
"S'okay..." You're drifting, boneless, blissed out. "Felt good anyway..."
He laughs softly, and you feel his thumb trace the bite mark, pressing gently, and you wince.
"I left a mark." He points out.
"I don't mind..."
"No?" He kisses the spot again, more focused on kissing that than your own lips, and then he licks it, slow and deliberate. "I'll have to be more careful next time."
Next time. The words warm you from the inside.
He shifts, pulling out of you, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's lying beside you, pulling you into his arms, and you curl against his chest.
"Will you stay?" you whisper. "Tonight? Sleep with me?"
"Yes."
"You never stay."
"I'll stay tonight." His arms tighten around you. "I'll stay as long as you want me."
You press your face against his chest, feeling safe in someone's arms, something that has always felt foreign to you until now.
"I love you," you whisper, 3 words you’ve never said to anyone once before.
He goes still at your murmured confession, not expecting to hear those words from you so soon, but he doesn’t mind it. His hand finds your hair, and he strokes it gently in a way that makes you curl into him further.
"I know," he says. "I love you too."
You fall asleep like that.
Wrapped in the arms of a monster you can't see.
You wake up to him still on your bed, his hand still on your hair, like nothing changed after you went to sleep.
Well… except for the fact that your nightgown is back on. You remember falling asleep naked in his arms, but now the soft fabric is back, covering you, and you wonder if he dressed you while you slept.
"You're awake."
His voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. You lift your head, even though lifting does nothing for you, even though you can't see him, no matter which direction you face.
"How long was I asleep?"
"A while." His hand starts to begin it’s pattern of stroking you hair. "You needed it."
You settle back against him. The silence is comfortable, easy in a way you've never experienced with another person. You've spent your whole life alone, and now you're not, and the relief of it is almost overwhelming.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Tell me about your family." You trace a small circle on his chest with your finger. "Your father… What's he like?"
Theres a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. "He's a busy man," Scaramouche says. "Always working. I don't see him often."
"And your mother?"
Another pause, a longer one this time.
"My mother," he repeats, and there's something strange in his voice… something heavy. "My mother is... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"She lives here. In this estate." His hand stills in your hair. "She's… powerful. Important. Everyone knows her name, fears it, respects it. But… she's never been much of a mother to me."
You wait, sensing there's more.
"She's neglectful," he continues, quieter now. "Always has been. Too busy with her own concerns to notice her son. Too wrapped up in her own world to care about mine." He laughs, but it's hollow. "I hate her sometimes. Most of the time, actually. But somewhere, deep down, I suppose I still..."
He trails off. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, not questioning why you can’t find it.
"I'm sorry." You say, clear sympathy in your voice.
"Don't be." His hand resumes its gentle stroking. "It's just how things are."
"Can I meet her?” You ask, more curious than eager. “Your mother?"
He tenses when you ask that, and he tries to cover it up, acting normal by continuing his rhythm in your hair. "Maybe," he says. "Someday. I'm not sure."
You accept the non-answer, it’s what you’re used to. Your whole life has been built on them.
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
"My mother and brother." You swallow. "Do you know if they're back yet? From their trip?"
The silence that follows after what you say feels different than any question you’ve asked. It feels heavier, makes you feel oddly tense.
"Why do you want to leave so badly?" He says in a tone lacking of any emotion, in a way that sounds scary and not at all like the sweet boy you’ve grown to love.
It catches you of guard, definitely, and you shake your head immediately, frantically even.
“I don’t… not at all, Scara. I would never want to-” You stop, realizing what you just said without giving it a single thought. Never. You just fucking said never. You clear your throat, trying to fix your words. “I just… I want to know if they’re safe… that’s all. It has nothing to do with me wanting to leave.”
You feel him shift beneath you, feel his hand move from your hair to cup your cheek. That motion would normally make you feel secure, safe, loved by him. But right now… you’re just confused at his behavior, confused on why he can’t just give you a proper response without having you fall apart first.
"I visited your estate two days ago," he says finally. "To check. And they weren't there."
Your heart drops hearing those words. It’s been two weeks, they should be back by now on there trip, should’ve been back days ago, but what Scara’s telling you makes you think they never made it back… or did, and got killed by the very thing they’re skilled at hunting.
"What do you mean they weren't there?"
"I didn’t just look, also. I asked around… not your dead servants, but I asked your neighbors, anyone alive in the vicinity…” His thumb traces your cheekbone, it seems like he’s doing it to comfort you, but to you it feels like he’s mocking you. "I’ll be nice and say they're possibly missing."
All blood drains from your face as you process his words, you feel your body go cold just like his… you feel the relapse of emotions you felt the day your father was murdered.
Your father is gone.
Your mother… and your brother are missing.
You have no one.
… no one but him.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head in denial, hoping that the worst isn’t as true as it seems. “No… that can’t be right. They were supposed to come back… they always do, I never worry about them when they go on hunting trips… I just feel sad that I’m never allowed to come with them. I wish I was now… I wish my brother wasn’t such a stupid asshole that only sees me as something weak… because maybe then, I’d be able to say goodbye.”
You burry your face in Scara’s chest, trying not to sob, but the tears threaten anyway. “I’d rather die with them, than not be with them at all.”
Scara watches this display of your… emotions without uttering a word, none until you’re finished.
“Shh.” He starts, voice soft and nothing compared to the uncanny, emotionless one like before, he strokes your head as you cry onto his chest. “I’ll check every day for you, I promise. I’ll go back and look, over and over, day and night if I have to. And the moment I see them, I’ll bring them to safety and tell you immediately.”
The words don’t help, not at all, because how would something as a promise you’ll never be able to see experience, actually, and I mean, actually make you feel better.
“Let me come with you…” You sit up, desperate, clinging onto his shoulders. “Please, Scara. I want to go home… I want to feel my house again, smell it, actually open the curtia-”
He cuts you off, “You can’t.” His tone is calm in a way that it makes an insane contrast with how much you’re currently spiraling.
"Why not?" You say, just as desperate as your words before.
"It's not safe." He says it like it’s already been decided, confirmed.
“I don’t care if it’s safe or not!” Your voice cracks. “What the hell, Scara, they’re my family… my fucking family! I’m an adult, not just some child that wants to be locked all the time, I can fend for myself, I’m sick and tired of being forced to stay in bed like if I even stepped out of it, I’d be in danger.”
"You can't come with me." His words are, again, firm and final. You’ve heard them before, a thousand times, coming from the very people you’re so desperate to find.
You're too fragile. Too delicate. Too blind.
But there’s a difference here because Scaramouche doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t call you helpless, he doesn’t point to your disability as the reason. He knows your senses are strong, he’s seen you navigate his estate, memorize the layout of your room, detect his presence before he speaks. He knows you’d be more useful than him at searching, that your hearing could pick up things his eyes might miss.
So why won't he let you?
"They’re vampires out there," he says, as if reading your thoughts. "The ones who attacked your home. They're still in the area. I won't risk you."
Vampires.
You think of your father, his throat torn open, his blood soaking into your hands. You think of the creatures that did that to him, the monsters that hunt in the night, and hatred rises in your chest like bile.
"I hate them." The words come out bitter. "I hate vampires. They're disgusting creatures. Monsters. They killed my father, they destroyed my life, and I hope every single one of them burns."
Scaramouche doesn't respond.
You keep going, unable to stop yourself.
"My family has hunted them for generations. We've killed hundreds, thousands. And it's not enough. It'll never be enough. They're a plague, a disease, and the world would be better off if every last one of them was wiped from existence."
Still nothing.
You take a breath. "But..." You pause, uncertain. "I would like to meet one. Someday…"
"What?" Scaramouche finally responds.
"A vampire." You turn your face toward him, even though you can't see his expression. "In my books, they're always described as hideous. Monstrous. Twisted things with rotting flesh and hollow eyes. But… I don't believe that. I think they must be beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. And I want to feel one, just once. Even though I know it would be impossible. Even though they'd kill me before I could get close."
It’s quiet in the room, and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong, you wonder if he hates vampires as much as your family does, that maybe he was raised the same as you, but isn’t weird like you.
"You imagine them as beautiful," he repeats slowly.
"... Yes."
"Even though you hate them."
"I can hate something and still find it fascinating." You shrug. "I've never been able to separate the two."
He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he changes the subject entirely.
"Have you ever opened your eyes?"
The question startles you because no one has ever asked that before. People assume you can't, that there's something wrong with them, that keeping them closed is a medical necessity rather than a choice.
"No."
"Never? Really?"
"I choose to keep them closed." You touch the edge of your lace mask, feeling the delicate fabric beneath your fingers. "I can't see anyway. Opening them wouldn't change anything."
"Then why keep them closed?"
You hesitate because this is something you’ve never told anyone, not even your family. Something private, sacred, held close to your chest like a secret.
"You’ll probably find it stupid… but I'm saving them," you say finally. "For someone special."
"Someone special?"
"Someone who'll stay with me for eternity." The words come out soft, almost reverent. "Even in a human life. Someone who'll love me and protect me, but who'll also let me feel protected on my own. Someone who'll trust me to keep myself safe. Someone that I love enough to open them for."
You pause, your chest feeling tight.
"Someone who'll love me forever."
The silence that follows is so heavy you could drown in it.
"Only a vampire can love you forever."
You tilt your head, confused by his response, and let out a nervous giggle ,thinking what he said to be a joke. "What?"
His lips find yours before you can say another word; he kisses you softly, gently, cutting off your confusion before it can fully form.
"I'll love you for an eternity," he murmurs against your mouth. "And you can choose when you want to open your eyes for me."
You melt into the kiss, the strange comment already fading from your mind.
Days pass.
He sleeps in your room now, every night, he crawls into bed beside you, pulls you against his chest, holds you until morning… or what you assume is morning, you never know for certain.
He still feeds you, more now that the relationship you two have seems more established than ever. You wish though, that it was different, that you could feed yourself, and he does the same infront of you. One day, as he’s feeding you, you ask, "Can I eat with you? At a table, like normal people?"
"Maybe one day," he says.
That day never comes.
The day does come for a different shared experience, one that doesn’t involve eating but involves a lot of trust and intimacy.
"Let me bathe you."
The words catch you off guard completely. You’re sitting on your bed, tracing the embroidery on your pillowcase when he says it. You were going to bathe later, in a few hours, it’s not necessary to do it now… but you shake your head, almost at yourself, continuing to trace as you respond.
"I can bathe myself."
"I know you can." You hear him move closer, feel the mattress dip as he sits beside you. "But I want to do it. Let me take care of you."
You’ve been bathing yourself your whole life, navigating through your bathroom with the ever-present fear of falling. You’ve memorized the layout of every bathroom you’ve ever used, mapped the distance from every object… you don’t necessarily need help.
But… the thought of him doing it, of his hands on you, of not having to worry about slipping and cracking your skull on the edge of the basin because he'd be there to catch you...
"Okay."
His hand finds yours, and it’s cold, as always, but you’ve stopped flinching at the temperature. Ever since that night, the first night, when his skin pressed against yours and you were too overwhelmed by the softness of it to care about the chill. He's touched you more since then, like something shifted between you and he no longer feels the need to hide.
He leads you out of your room and down a hallway you haven’t memorized yet. You count the steps as you both walk, fourteen until you turn left, seven more, then a door on the same left side of the wall.
"Bathroom," he says, unnecessarily, leading you inside and shutting the door behind you both, locking it. "Stay here."
You stand on a rug, seemingly in the middle of the bathroom while he moves around the space. You hear water running, the squeak of a tap being adjusted, the slosh of liquid filling something large and deep. A bathtub bigger than any you've had before, by the sound of it.
"Temperature's good." His footsteps return to you. "Arms up."
You raise your arms, and his hands find the straps of your nightgown. It’s a short white babydoll dress, and he slides the straps off your shoulders, slow, deliberate, and the fabric pools at your feet.
You’re naked now, fully exposed, and you can feel his gaze on you like he’s physically touching you, tracing the curves of your body, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You can’t see his expression, but you can feel the weight of his attention.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.
His fingers find your face and they trace along your jaw, up your cheekbones, and then higher. They go to the lalce mask you’ve worn everyday since childhood.
"Can I take this off too?"
Your breath catches at that question. No one has ever seen you without it, not since you were a baby… too young to keep it on yourself. It's part of you now, as familiar as your own skin.
But he's already seen everything else. What's one more piece?
"... Yes. You can, Scara…"
He’s gentle as he unties the ribbon at the back of your head, sliding the delicate fabric away from your face.The air feels strange against your closed eyelids, more exposed than even your naked body.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment.
"You're not opening them," he says finally.
"I never do, I told you."
"I know." His thumb brushes across your closed eyelid, featherlight. "Your lashes are longer than I expected."
You don't know what to say to that. You've never thought about your eyelashes. You've never thought about any part of your face, really. It's just... there. A thing you can't see, can't evaluate, can't compare to anyone else's.
He cups your face in both hands and tilts it up toward him.
And then he kisses you.
Not your mouth, though, you feel him press a soft kiss on your cheekbone… then your eyelid, so gentle you can barely feel it, then the other one… reverent.
Worshipful.
You giggle because you can’t help it, the kiss on your eyelids tickles, and it’s also so sweet. You’re overwhelmed by the tenderness of it.
He doesn’t just stop there, he kisses your mouth next, lips moving against yours, his tongue sliding past your teeth. You melt into it, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and you realize he's still fully clothed while you're completely bare.
"Your turn," you murmur against his lips.
"... What?"
"Your clothes." You fumble for the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy. "Take them off."
He laughs, soft and amused. "Eager."
"I want to feel you."
He lets you try, lets you figure it out yourself. Your fingers work at the buttons, struggling with the unfamiliar task, because you’ve never worn buttons before, and he doesn’t help. You get three undone before you give up, frustrated.
"It's hard when you can't see what you're doing," you mutter.
"Most things are."
You can't tell if he's mocking you or sympathizing… Maybe both.
He takes over, shrugging out of his shirt, then his pants, and then he's as naked as you are. "Come on." His hand takes yours again. "Water's getting cold."
He guides you to the edge of the tub, and helps you step over the high rim. The water feels perfect, warm, but not scalding, and you sink into it with a sigh of relief. The tub is enormous, deep enough that the water comes up to your chest when you sit.
He slides in behind you.
His legs bracket yours, his chest close to your back, and you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against him. You let your head fall onto his shoulder.
"Comfortable?" He asks.
"Mm." You say, completely lost like you’re under some kind of spell.
He reaches for something, you hear the click of a bottle opening, and then his hands are in your hair. You feel him lathering shampoo through the strands, his fingers working at your scalp.
You let out a tiny, embarrassing (to you), whimper at the feel of it.
No one has ever done this for you, never touched your hair like this… with this much attention, this much care. His fingers press and circle, finding the stops that make the tension drain from your shoulders, and you go boneless against him.
"Good?"
"So good." Your voice comes out dreamy, like you’re distantly there. "... Don't stop."
He washes your hair thoroughly, rinsing it with ahndfuls of water, and then he reaches for another bottle, conditioner, you assume, and he works through the ends, detangling with his fingers, patient and methodical.
You could fall alseep like this if you aren’t careful. Being here… feeling this… makes you want to stay here forever, floating in warm water, his hands at your hair, his body solid and real behind you.
His hands go lower… down your neck, across your shoulders. He’s washing you now, his palms sliding over your skin, leaving trails of soap. He washes down your back, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.
And then he goes to the front of your body. His hands cup around your breasts.
You gasp, but you don’t pull away. His palms are slick with soap, sliding over the soft flesh, and his thumbs find your nipples, he circles around them, clearly teasing.
"Still okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless, and you nod. "Yes, keep going."
He doesn’t rush after your full permission, he touches you like he has all the time in the world, like your body is something to be explored and memorized, the same as you do any room you come into. He learns the weight of your breasts, the way your nipples harden under his attention, the sounds you make when he pinches just slightly.
He lingers at your breasts for way too long.
"More?" His voice is low, rough against your ear.
"Please, Scara… "
His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip… between… your thighs.
You spread your legs without being asked.
He touches you slowly here too, like he’s learning, just like everywhere else. His fingers trace along your folds, slipping through the slickness that has nothing to do with the bath water. He finds your clit, circles it ones, then twice, and you let out the cutest whimper in response.
"Sensitive," he murmurs, you’re always sensitive, one of the few things you like (and hate) about being blind. "I like that."
And because he’s obsessed with it, because he seems to always go to it, his mouth finds your neck. He presses kisses to the curve of it, and you feel his teeth, just barely, tiny nips that send shivers down your spine. You're too focused on his fingers to pay much attention, too lost in the way he's touching you, slow circles that build heat in your core, especially when he slips two fingers inside.
He learns what makes you gasp, what makes the little hitches of breath you cant control, and he exploits it ruthlessly. Pressing harder when you react, curling up in the spot that makes your eyes roll back behind your eyelids and always pulling back when you get too close.
"Scara..." You're squirming against him, trying to grind into his hand. "Please..."
"Please what?"
"I need to cum... Please let me cum."
He bites your neck, harder than before, and it’s hard enough to sting. While he does it, his curl up into your cunt, abusing that spot of yours perfectly, in the way you’ve been needing this entire time.
The orgasm crashes through you, your body arching in the water, waves sloshing over the edges of the tub. He works you through it, his fingers relentless, his mouth still pressed to your throat, tiny bites you barely register through the pleasure. You're distantly aware of his teeth breaking skin, just slightly, just enough to taste, but it's lost in the overwhelming sensation of cumming on his hand.
You slump back against him, panting, trembling, and his hand moves away from between your legs to rest on your stomach.
"Good girl," he murmurs against your skin.
You're too blissed out to respond.
He holds you like that until the water goes cold. Then he lifts you out, wraps you in a towel, and carries you back to bed. You fall asleep in a new nightgown he got for you, in his arms, still floating.
You don’t notice the small wounds on your neck until the morning, when you accidently touch it because your neck feels weird. But even then, because you cannot see the weird look to it, how it just looks like two holes punched into your skin, you don’t think much of it.
Needless to say, you’ve become dependent on him.
He's the only person you see, the only voice you hear, the only touch you feel. When he's not in the room, you sleep. You can't help it. There's nothing else to do, no one else to talk to, and sleep is the only way to make the waiting bearable.
Sometimes, when you can't sleep, you walk. Around the room, tracing the walls with your fingertips, memorizing the furniture and the layout and the exact number of steps from the bed to the door.
The door that's always locked.
You think it's been three weeks.
On what feels like the twenty-second day, something changes.
You wake up alone, as usual. Reach for the door, as usual. But when you turn the handle…
It opens.
That makes you freeze because why would the door be unlocked? Did he forget to lock it when he left? But… Scara doesn’t seem the type to make a mistake, ever.
Your heart pounds.
You've memorized your room, but… you don't know what's outside it. The hallway, the stairs, the rest of this place that might be a mansion or might be something bigger. You're terrified of unknown spaces, always have been. The thought of stepping into an area you haven't mapped makes your hands shake.
But you're also curious.
And right now, curiosity is stronger than fear.
You step into the hallway and cling to the wall, feeling the texture beneath your fingers, and you start walking, slow. You’re careful as you walk, one hand staying on the wall, the other extended in front of you.
Your goal of finally being able to get out of that room without Scara’s supervision is to find a window. Not to jump or anything sucidial in that manner, you’re happy… happy in the sense that you’re trying not to think too much of your family, and think more of how Scara treats you. You want to find a window so you can feel the sunlight again. The curtains in your room are too heavy to move, and you miss the feeling of warmth on your skin.
But you don't find any windows. Not ones you can reach, anyway.
What you find are stairs.
You navigate them slowly, one step at a time, clinging almost for dear life onto the railing. Down, down, stop, hover your foot just to make sure that what’s under is really a step, then down, down. They’re more stairs than there should be, more than any normal house would have… this place is enormous, which would be any blind person nightmare to walk through, if they’re alone.
But you manage.
You reach the bottom, and the floor is soft here, carpet maybe. And being down here, you can hear voices.
Not Scaramouche's voice.
Multiple.
You freeze hearing them, every muscle in your body going tense. The voices seem to be coming from a room nearby, the people, you assume, probably don’t see you, so your panic does fade, just slightly. You inch toward the room you hear the voices coming from, and you feel for the door, it feels ajar, which is better than it being fully open, and you press yourself against the wall, moving as silently as you can.
"-tired of this," one voice is saying. It sounds like a male’s voice, deep, rough at the edges. "Three weeks and we're still tiptoeing around."
3 weeks? That’s the same amount of time you’ve known Scara.
"The prince wants her kept alive," another voice responds. Also male, but higher, more nasal. "What the prince wants, the prince gets."
The… prince?
"But the smell." The first voice again, frustrated. "Do you have any idea how maddening it is? Human blood, everywhere, all the fuckin’ time. It's all I can focus on."
Your blood runs cold.
Human blood.
"He keeps her locked up," the nasal voice continues. "Won't let anyone near her. He won’t even let us look at her."
"The prince has always been selfish." A third voice, bored. "You remember what he did to that village last century? Killed everyone, just because one of them looked at him wrong."
The first voice laughs. "Scaramouche has always been-"
You stop breathing.
Scaramouche.
They're talking about Scaramouche.
They called him prince.
Business partners' sons aren't royalty. Business partners' sons don't have people calling them prince, don't have people talking about villages they destroyed last century.
The man you've been living with, sleeping with, kissing, loving-
"Do you think the human smell's gotten stronger?" the first voice asks suddenly. "Over the past few minutes?"
"Now that you mention it..."
You run.
You don’t think before you do. Plan? Out the fucking window you’re never allowed to feel. You don’t have time for any of that, this is life or death, these… whatever these people are, vampires, sound hungry for you.
Your hands frantically feel along the walls, your feet stumble over unfamiliar terrain, you’re looking for a door… an exit, anything…
And oddly enough…
You don’t hear those men chasing you.
You don't hear them at all anymore, and that's worse. That's so much worse, because vampires are silent, vampires are fast, vampires can move without making a sound-
You collide with a body.
The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You stumble backward, your hands coming up instinctively, something you assume to be a defensive position. Your arms crossed in front of your face, body curled inward, the way you've read about in books.
A familiar laugh cuts through the darkness.
"That's what you'd do if a vampire ever tried to attack you? Seriously?"
Scaramouche.
Something in his voice is different… the gentleness of it has been stripped away, like the way he acted before, was all just an act he was too good at. He sounds amused, yes, but in a cruel way, a mocking way.
"You-” Your hands go down now that you know who it is, but not in a way that you aren’t ready to try and defend yourself. You're shaking, trembling all over. "Y-you're a-"
"A vampire." He finishes for your stutter, and he says it causally too, like this confession is nothing to him. "Yes. Obviously."
"You killed my father, didn’t you." You say, hurt at the betrayal, the heartbreak is painfully clear in your voice.
"Mm. He died quickly… if that helps."
Something inside you snaps.
You lunge at him, fists swinging, you can’t see where you’re aiming, can’t see if you’re even close to hitting him, but you don’t care. You want to hurt him… you need to.
Your fists connect with nothing.
He’s moved, and you don’t know where, you just know he’s not where he was, and that causes you to stumble forward, off-balance. You feel a hand catch with your wrist, twisting it behind your back, and suddenly, you’re pressed against him, your back to his chest, and you can feel his mouth at your ear.
"That was pathetic," he says pleasantly. "Try again."
You struggle, trash, try to break free of his grip. And he seems to barely even be trying, his tight grip is effortless, his body immovable like a statue. You’re fighting with everything you have, and he’s just… standing there.
"LET ME GO!" You yell, loud, ready to bite at his hand if he tries covering your mouth.
"No." He says, casual, while you’re frantic.
"YOU KILLED HIM!" Tears are streaming down your face now, soaking into your mask. "You killed my father!!” You scream, your own throat burning and your next words come out quiet, broken, “You made me think… you made me… love you-”
"I didn't make you do anything." His voice is cold, a perfect match with his body. "You fell in love all on your own. I just... helped it along."
Your voice raises again. "You're a MONSTER!"
"Yes."
"I HATE YOU!"
"Do you?"
“ILL NEVER LOVE YOU!” You don’t stop screaming, you don’t care if someone hears, you don’t care about anything but seeing your family right now. “ILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU! Do you understand that, you fucking ugly, disgusting VAMPIRE. I hope someone drives a stake though your nonexistent fucking heart and-”
"Careful." His grip tightens on your wrist. "My patience has limits."
“I don’t care, I don’t fucking CARE ABOUT YOU. LET ME GO!! LET ME GO.”
He does, and you stumble forward, nearly falling. You spin around, your hands up, and your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Fine," he says, and he sounds bored. "You want to go? Fucking go."
You freeze, hearing something you definitely didn’t expect. “What?”
“The door is right behind you, I’ll even open it for you, so you won’t struggle to find it like I know you will. You can walk out… into the night, because it is night right now, where they’re dozens, and I mean, dozens of vampires far less patient than me, and you can fend for yourself.” He pauses and you can feel amusement, something mocking in his tone. “Is that what you want?”
Yes.
No???
You… you don’t know.
"You're bluffing.” You say instead.
"Try me." He counters.
You hear footsteps, his, walking past you, and a large door creaking open from behind. Cold air rushes in, and it’s the same air you’ve been craving to feel weeks ago, and you can sense, just by it that he’s right, that it is nightime.
"There you go," he says. "Freedom, just like you want. Take it."
You want to be the brave one and run, sprint out that door and never look back.
But you’re terrified. The night is full of monsters, ones you’ve never encountered once in your life, apart from this one, and as much as you hate to admit your disability being the very think that makes you weak… you’re blind, and that ruins any chance of a proper escape you could ever have.
"That's what I thought." He sounds amused noticing your hesitation. "You want to prove you can protect yourself? That you don't need anyone? Then prove it."
You turn, following the air your feel and take a step forward, than another.
"Brave," he murmurs. "Or stupid. We'll see which."
You keep walking, out the door, into the cold, onto the ground that feels like dirt and grass and leaves. You’re also not wearing shoes, only socks, white ones with lace that cuffs at your ankles, you feel stupid remembering your lack of footwear, and you know that’ll just make this even more dangerous for you.
“How long have I known you?” He asks, suddenly.
You turn your head back toward his voice. "What?"
You hear the irritation in his voice, like he’s annoyed he has to repeat something he said that he knows made clear sense. “How long has it been since we’ve met?”
Your brows knit, confused at why this is a question he’s asking now. “I don’t know, I don’t remember.”
“Guess it then.”
You think, even though you’d rather be running right now "... Three weeks?"
"Close enough." You hear him step out after you. "I'll give you a three-minute head start."
You back up, arms crossed. "What the fuck? Excuse me?"
"Run." His voice is soft now, almost gentle, despite that one word sounding like a clear warning. "And I'll chase. That's how this works."
Your hands drop at your sides, "You're going to-"
"I'm not going to let some nobody vampire eat you." He sounds almost offended. "Just who do you think I am? You're mine. If anyone's going to kill you, it'll be me."
Your blood runs cold.
"A little tip," he whispers, and suddenly he's right behind you, his breath cold against your ear. "It's better to hide than to run too far. But even then... your scent gives you away. So either route you take, you're completely fucked."
You run before he finishes speaking.
The forest swallows you.
At least, you think it's a forest. They’re trees everywhere, you can feel them, their bark rough against your palms as you push past. You don't know where you're going, you can't see the path, can't see anything, can only feel and smell and hear.
You don’t even know hiding spots, if one you took would actually keep you hidden, or make you look obvious. Every direction you take feels dangerous, every step feels like a giant risk. You could be running toward more vampires, or running off a cliff… or just looking like an idiot, running in circles.
Your father is dead.
The thought crashes over you like a wave, nearly sending you to your knees.
He killed your father… Scara. How fucked up at you to still be reffering to him as the nickname you’ve been calling him? He’s the same man who held you, kissed you, made love to you. And he’s the same one who tore out your fathers throat and then walked upstairs, pretending to be your savior.
Your mother and brother might be dead too, because Scara told you he’d visit your estate daily, and now… with everything you’ve heard, and heard him confess to you, you wouldn’t be surprised if he did harm them, kill them.
Or worse, they might be alive, mourning you, searching for you, never knowing that you're just a few miles away, trapped by the very monster they've spent their lives hunting.
And you loved him.
You fucking loved him.
You… love him.
And that’s the worse part. Because even now, even knowing what he is, what he did, theres a part of you that wants to run back or stop running and just wait. That part of you just wants to throw yourself into his arms and pretend none of this is real.
Is he a monster?
He killed your father, lied to you, manipulated you into falling in love with him.
But was he a monster when you fell in love with him? Was he one before you knew? Was he always one, or did the truth change something fundamental about who he is?
You don’t know… You don’t know anything anymore.
You just don’t understand why you?
The trees seem to shift around you… you think you’re going in a straight line, but you keep feeling the same bark, same pattern, like you’re circling back without realizing.
He's playing with you.
He’s not chasing you, he’s herding you. He’s using his speed, his silence, his knowledge of this terrain to push you in whatever direction he wants.
You spin around, reaching out, trying to detect him.
Nothing.
Then you hear a rustle to your left, you turn, heart pounding.
Nothing.
A snap behind you, you spin again.
Nothing.
He’s everywhere and nowhere at once. Circling you like prey, messing with your senses, the very senses you’ve always relied on, the ones that are supposed to be better than anyone elses.
It's not enough.
It's nowhere near enough compared to a vampire.
"I can't do this anymore!" You're crying, tears streaming down your face, your voice cracking. "I'm tired! I’m so fucking tired…” You rub your head, exhausted, spiriling. “I can't-"
A laugh echoes through the trees. "Already?" He sounds delighted. "That was barely what? Two minutes."
"Please-"
"But you wanted to prove yourself, remember?" His voice comes from everywhere at once. "You wanted to show me you could protect yourself. That you don't need anyone's help."
You spin again, reaching blindly.
"Then do it."
Something shifts in the air and the next thing you feel is pain.
He slams you, hard, very fucking hard against a tree, and your back hits the bark hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs. Before you can recover, his mouth his on your neck, and his teeth are sinking in.
Sharp, knife sharp, actually, sharper than any knife, any sewing needle, it’s nothing compared to the playful nips like before.
You scream… or honestly, try to. What comes out is more of a whine, high and broken and pathetic. He bites again, different spot on your neck, just as hard, and again, and again, and fucking again. He’s relentless with it, like an animal, his mouth is everywhere, marking you, claiming you, and all you can do is hang there and take it.
"This," he growls against your skin, "is what I've wanted to do since the moment I saw you."
"Please-" Another bite cuts you off. "Please, I don't want to die-"
"I'm not killing you." His tongue drags across a bleeding wound, and you shudder. "Just tasting... You're too valuable to waste."
"I don't want to be a vampire-" You're sobbing now, ugly and desperate. "I don't want to be a monster like you-"
His teeth sink again, harder this time, obviously for your comment of calling him a monster, and it’s hard enough to make you scream for reach. The sound echos through the forest, and he groans against your neck like it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
"Call me that again," he murmurs. "See what happens."
You can’t do anything else anymore… not even your voice seems to work as the blood loss is making everything fuzzy and distant. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, in your neck also, where he’s been taking and taking like you’re a snack. All you do is whimper helplessly, hands limp at your sides.
When he finally stops biting you’re barely even conscious. You feel him, distnatly, because of how blacked out you’re feeling, him licking the wounds, cleaning the blood thats dripped down your neck, pressing soft kisses to each bite mark like an apology.
Except he’s not sorry.
And he never will be.
Your legs give out.
He catches you before you even have the chance to fall onto the dirty ground. His arms slide under your knees, your back, lifting you easily, bridal style. Like someone out of one of your romance novels. The irony would be funny if you weren't too exhausted to laugh.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as your head falls limp in his arms. You think apologizing sounds better than continuing to yell at him, at this point, and your words come out weak, barely audible from the bloodloss. “I’m so sorry, Scara… P-please… take me home… even if it’s just for a second. Let me see- I mean… feel my house again, just one more time, and you can do what you want.”
“I am taking you home, obviously,” he says, and his voice sounds calm, pleasant for someone who just tore your throat open in a forest. “My home is yours now, more than ever.”
You shake your head, a weak no coming out as you continue, “Please, Scara… I want to see my mother… my brother.”
"That’ll never happen, you don’t see y/n, remember?"
"Please-"
"You will never feel or sense their presence again." He starts walking. "Those are just terrible people who’ve kept you locked in a room your entire life. Who’ve made you feel like a burden. And you want to go back to that? They don’t even deserve you. They don’t even let you live.”
You start crying again, quiet, weak tears you’re too exhausted to wipe. “W-what? How can you even say that…” But your voice sounds so, barely audible, the weight of them feeling low in a way that seems impossible to defend yourself, your own family. “You don’t know them… they… they’re my family…”
"They're your prison." He cuts off your pathetic attempt at trying to defend, his own words heavier than yours tenfold. "But you're free now. I'll teach you to protect yourself. I'll teach you to keep yourself safe. I'll let you go outside, feel the sun, do anything you've ever wanted. I couldn’t before, because I couldn’t let you know I was a vampire just yet."
Your voice cracks, and you can feel your hair sticking to some of your tears, “B-but I don’t want-”
"With time, of course." He sounds almost reasonable. "I can't trust you yet. But it's a promise I'm confident in."
You grit your teeth, but even that’s a weak movement of yours. "I hate you."
"Do you?"
"I'll never love a monster… A vampire like you." Your tone is filled with disdain, even in this state.
"You already have." His arms tighten around you. "You're letting me carry you right now. You're fighting your own emotions, telling yourself you hate me, but you don't. If you truly hated me, you would’ve kept fighting. You would’ve clawed and screamed until I had to knock you unconscious to get you home."
You don't respond because you don’t have one.
"Here's what's going to happen," he says, and his voice drops, turning serious. "As long as you continue to love me, as long as you never stop, I'll keep your mother and brother safe."
Your tears suddenly stop hearing that, processing that last part faster than you’ve processed anything before.
"They're alive," he continues. "I know where they are. I've seen them. They've been back for a week, mourning your father, setting up a funeral while I watched from the shadows. Your brother misses you. Your mother sleeps in your room at night, waiting for you to come home."
Tears stream down your face again.
"But if you show hatred for me..." His voice goes cold. "If you try to run again. If you make me think, even for a second, that you've stopped loving me. I'll kill them. And your attempt to escape won't even matter, because you're never leaving anyway."
You're silent the rest of the way because of that.
Because you’re scared to speak now, scared to say anything that might sound like hate.
Or love.
Or both.
He carries you back to your room.
The room you’ve been staying in, you’ve assumed was for guests. But as he lays you on the bed, tucking the blankets around you, he says, "This room is yours. I decorated it especially for you."
You don't respond, but you listen.
"The rest of this mansion is dark," he continues. "Red and black to be specific. Everything is dark-toned, dark-colored, shadows and gloom. But this room..." He pauses. "This room is different. It’s white… soft, light."
You still don't respond, but he knows you’re listening.
"That's what I associate you with," he says quietly. "Light, in the middle of all this darkness."
You turn your face away.
"I left the door unlocked on purpose," he adds. "I wanted you to find out eventually… I didn't want to be dramatic and tell you myself."
You’re still silent, so much that if he didn’t know you, he’d assume you passed out by now.
"Do you have any questions?" he asks.
You do, you have so many that your head might explode. But, you feel weak, and only one matters right now to you.
"Do you love me?" Your voice is hoarse, broken. "Actually love me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "You're the only person I've ever cared about. And I'll love you forever."
"Why me?" You turn to face him, even though facing him doesn't mean you can see him. "What about me could you possibly want? You've only known me for three weeks."
"When I walked into your room that day," he says slowly, "I felt something I've never felt before. Something as stupid as love at first sight. I've seen thousands of humans in my time on this earth. Hundreds of years of faces and bodies and souls. And you're different than any of them."
"How?"
"You dress differently… Probably because you can't see." He sounds almost fond. "You're beautiful, even with your eyes always closed. And I'm impressed with how much you manage without sight. How you need to feel things before you're comfortable with them. How your senses are stronger than any human I've ever met."
"That's my favorite part about you," he says quietly. "Your senses. The way you experience the world. It's... fascinating. Beautiful, in its own way."
You don't know what to say.
So you don’t say anything.
Eventually, he leaves.
You stop counting the days.
What's the point? Time has lost all meaning. You're here, in this room, and you'll be here forever. Whether it's been three weeks or three months or three years makes no difference.
You avoid him.
Not physically, you can’t avoid him physically, because he still comes to your room every day, still brings you food, still sits at the edge and talks to you. But the difference is that you don’t respond, or engage. You give him nothing to work with, not love, and no hate, just… emptiness.
He watches you a lot.
You can feel it, his eyes on you, all the time, even when he’s giving you space. Even when he’s standing on the other side of the room, he’s watching, waiting.
For what?
You don’t have a fucking clue because you aren’t giving him shit.
You stop eating, too.
It’s not conscious, not something you’re doing in retaliation… you just can’t. The food tastes like ash in your mouth, and swallowing feels like choking, and eventually you just stop trying. You loose weight of course, which turns you into something you hate, getting weaker, more fragile, but even though that is something you hate… you don’t care at this point.
You’d be fine dying like this.
He gets mad pretty quickly.
You can hear it in his voice, when he threatens you, tells you he’ll force the food down your throat if he has to, calls you childish, pathetic, weak.
You barely flinch or react when he yells, and he hates the lack of reaction, hates how emotionless you’ve become… depressed, almost like a corpse that only chooses to move when they’re forced to. And your eyes being closed never helps that.
You eat, only to get him to go away, and you don’t let him feed you. You take the fork from his hand before he even can, and eat mechanically, joylessly, and you don’t let him touch you.
He doesn't push, surprisingly.
He respects the boundaries you've drawn, even though you know he doesn't have to. He could force himself on you. He could pin you down and take whatever he wants. But… he doesn't.
It’s like he respects you as a person in the way your family never has, even though the situation is dark.
Oh yeah, your family…
The only time he actually makes a threat about your mother and brother is when you make a mean remark towards him, specifically calling him a monster, telling him you hope he burns, anything your brain can muster out that sounds good enough to be hatred.
"Careful," he says each time. "Remember what I said."
And you remember.
And that makes you shut your mouth.
On what you think might be the twelfth day of silence, you break.
You don’t know why… you don’t know what about that day makes you crack, but when he walks into the room that evening, you don’t stay in bed, you don’t turn away from him.
You get up, cross the room, and wrap your arms around him.
He goes still at the sudden motion he hasn’t felt in days from you. You feel the tension in his body, the surprise, and you’re crying, tears soaking into the fabric of his top, and you’re holding onto him, tight, with strength you’re surprised your weak body can manage.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, your head desperately nuzzling onto his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He’s quiet for a long moment, still processing all of this, and then, finally, his hands wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you feel warm… protected when he does.
"I'm sorry," you say again. "I'll stop fighting. I'll let you love me. I'll... I'll give it back. I'll try."
He lifts you effortlessly, and carries you to your bed, carefully settling you against your pillows. You try desperately reaching for him, craving his touch back, even though it was just a second, and he settles beside you. He touches you again, his hand on your face, thumb brushing away your tears.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know you will."
He kisses away the wetness of your cheeks, and you whimper, and he doesn’t stop. He presses his lips to your closed eyes, the very ones he worships when you’re without your eye mask, and he kisses your forehead, your nose, and when his mouth finally finds yours, you melt into it.
You give in.
Completely.
When he pulls back, you feel him smile against your lips.
You realize, it’s the first time you’ve ever felt him smile before.
Like he won.
The days become easier after that.
Not good, or happy just… easier. You talk to him again, let him feed you, touch you… hold you. You don’t tell him you love him, though, you can’t, maybe not ever you feel, but you show him in other ways.
You offer him your hand.
He takes it, confused, and you guide his to your wrist. "Drink," you say.
He doesn’t ask if you’re sure, if you’re aware that the skin on wrists is thin and that cuts, punctures there hurt worse, burn even. He just lifts your wrist to his mouth, and his fangs sink in. You gasp at the pain, whimpering as he sucks, because that pain fades rather quickly into something else. Something warm and floaty… and almost pleasant.
You offer him your neck, too.
This becomes a routine. Everytime he visits your room, which is every night, you tilt your head, exposing your throat, inviting him to drink. You don’t need to say the words anymore, he understands.
He's not gentle with it at all.
You don't want him to be, anyway.
His teeth tear into you, hungry, possessive. He drinks until you’re dizzy, until you can barely stay upright, and then he licks the wounds clean, pressing apology kisses on them and he holds you as you recover.
"You're getting better at this," he murmurs one night, his mouth still pressed to your throat. "Taking it so well."
You don’t respond, you don’t talk when he feeds. You just thread your fingers through his hair and hold him closer.
He keeps his promises.
The door is unlocked now, all the time. You can leave your room whenever you want, wander the halls, explore the mansion. You still cling to the walls, still map everything by touch, but the fear is fading… slowly. And he helps you the first couple of times, teaching you what each room is, giving you a large tour while he lets you move independently, without his hand, but of course, he steps in when you’re close to tripping or falling.
He takes you outside, too.
The first time he does, you cry. Actual tears just streaming down your face as you stand in the garden and feel the breeze on your skin. The air is fresh and clean and alive, and you haven't felt anything like it since before your father died.
He watches from a distance.
You don’t know how far, you just know here there… in the shadows, keeping you safe while letting you believe you’re on your own.
When the sun rises, he retreats further. He goes into the deepest shade, where the light can't reach him. But he stays, always.
You don't know how many days have passed.
Months, maybe. It feels like months. The seasons have changed, you can feel it in the air, smell it in the flowers, hear it in the birds that sing different songs now.
You're sitting in the garden, your face turned toward the sun, when you realize something.
You love him.
Not the fake love he manipulated you into. Not the desperate clinging of a captive to her captor. Real love… Terrible, terrifying, all-consuming love.
He killed your father, kept you prisoner, threatened the rest of your living family… and yet, you love him anyway.
Maybe that makes you as much of a monster as he is.
"Scaramouche."
He appears beside you fast, and silent as always. You've stopped being startled by it.
"I want to show you something," you say, turning to your right, where you sense him.
"What?"
Your hands are shaking as you reach for your face. For the lace mask you've worn since childhood, the one you've never removed in front of anyone.
"Wait." His hand catches your wrist. "You don't have to-"
"I want to."
You pull the mask away.
You feel vulnerable much like that day in the bathroom, much like some of the nights in bed with him when you take it off, just so you can feel him kiss your eyelids again. You feel vulnerable, because you know what you’re about to do, and you’re ready for it also.
Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.
Nothing changes for you when you do it, you can see anything you’ve never been able to see, and no doctor, nothing supernatural will ever change that.
But… the act of opening them, of revealing this part of yourself that you’ve kept hidden for eighteen years, feels monumental.
He's silent.
For a long, long moment, he's completely silent.
"Are they..." You laugh nervously. "Are they white? Do they look strange? I've always wondered if they're all one color, or if-"
"They're beautiful." His voice is reverant, fully reverant, not a mock in sight.
"What color are they?" you ask. Not that it matters, you don't know what colors look like anyway.
"I'm not going to tell you."
You knit your eyebrows, rolling the eyes only he can see. "And why not?"
"Because you don't need to know." His hand comes up, cupping your face, and his thumb traces the skin beneath your open eyes. "You just need to know that they're the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
You lean into his touch, your eyes still open, still staring at nothing, and you feel tears start to fall.
"I love you," you whisper head tilting in his touch, to him, it looks like you’re staring up at him, to you, you’re just falling the direction where you sense him. "I don't know when it became real. I don't know when I stopped pretending. But… I love you, Scara."
He’s quiet, again, he’s always quiet after you drop big moments on him, quiet because you’re unable to see the expression he makes, but you imagine him smiling, a pure smile on his face. His forehead touches yours, and you can feel his breath ghost across your lips.
"You asked me once," he says softly, "what kind of person could love you forever. Who could stay with you for eternity. Who could protect you and trust you and give you everything you've ever wanted."
"... I remember."
"Only a vampire can love you forever," he murmurs. "Only a vampire like me."
He kisses you.
And you kiss him back.
And somewhere in the distance, the sun begins to set.
synopsis: Dottore is your omega.
wc: 1477
tags: omegaverse, omega!Dottore, alpha!Reader, nesting, heat, pheromones, fingering, fdom
Omega!Dottore didn’t hate his omega nature. It was what it was, no point crying over spilled milk, yeah. But he understood very clearly that if he were to look for flaws in himself, his personality would be one of them. His demandingness. And also - that almost animal need for you, his alpha, to always be by his side. To sit as fucking close as possible, covered from head to toe in his pheromones. That scent of ozone, bitter almond, and burnt sugar, seeping into your skin so deeply that other omegas would give you a wide berth.
Omega!Dottore couldn’t stand a lot of things. He was irritated by human stupidity, which he considered to be the greatest vice of all humanity. For that - there absolutely should be divine punishment.
But what pissed him off more than anything was you, and the way recruits didn’t hesitate to stare at you. Those dumb looks of theirs, crawling all over your silhouette as you walked past. And the fact that you didn’t even fucking notice it.
Irritating.
You - one of the Harbingers. The one who takes part in all the combat operations for the Tsaritsa. An alpha who, unlike Capitano, didn’t make people nervously tuck their tails the moment you appeared. And, unlike Childe, wasn’t obsessed with that eternal “get stronger” pattern.
With you all that bastards could actually talk.
Discuss those shitty new productions at the Bolshoi, where the director clearly smoked something he shouldn’t have. The recently opened restaurant serving over-salted guts at the price of a Mora ingot. And just how bastardly certain things could be - from politics to the weather outside.
Dottore was possessive.
And when someone else reached for you with their filthy hands, - even if just with their eyes, - the omega inside him bared its teeth, ready to tear out throats.
Because how dare those small-timers even find the nerve to crawl up to you? To you, who, fuck, was already drenched from head to toe in his pheromones?
Omega!Dottore marked you. Sinking his fangs into your pale skin, deep and painful, drawing blood that tasted like metal afterward, tickling his tongue as it passed over the wounds. Sitting on your hips, he wouldn’t let you squirm or do anything. He loomed over you, bound your hands, and smiled that hungry smile of his, the one that made a tight, hot knot twist low in your belly. He wouldn’t let you touch him, or even yourself. And he’d shove those long, fucking beautiful fingers of his into your mouth, tracing your sharp fangs with his fingertips.
Then he’d move lower. To your neck, your collarbones, to where your pulse was beating like crazy, and leave hickeys. Biting, sucking on your skin until you started whimpering pitifully, your thighs trembling beneath him. Sliding his tongue, kissing the purple-red marks, and biting again, making you arch your back, gasp for air, clench your fists. You could break free, honestly. Shove that reckless omega onto his back, but… you didn’t. Didn’t want to. Preferring to be an obedient dog at someone else’s feet - simply put, in the hands that twisted you around like a ragdoll.
Fucking teasing.
Dottore understood that you were ready to do anything for him. If he told you to jump, you’d ask how high.
Omega!Dottore approached the arrangement of his nest before heat with a truly manic precision. He gathered your things, laying them out in a specific order that only he knew. And you didn’t dare so much as glance sideways at his quarters while he was doing it. You weren’t really allowed in there, anyway. what if your presence, a big alpha good only for fighting, disturbed something? Yeah, you were smart. No dumber than the other Harbingers. But you didn’t reach the level of genius that he did. You didn’t understand why one reagent was more important than another, or why you’d mix this with that, - something whose name alone made your tongue want to leap out of your mouth. So, yeah.
Dottore didn’t let you near.
He’d just state the fact: you need to take off this cloak and give it to him. Right here, right now, as you’re on your way back from the lab to your room - whether there’s a blizzard outside isn’t his problem. You’re not a fucking toddler; you’ll figure it out.
Omega!Dottore during the heat was fucking unbearable. The scent of his pheromones - so thick it easily filled every corner of the estate. Soaked into the furniture, the walls, even those goddamn vials in the underground lab.
He was dripping slick, burying himself in a nest made of your clothes, whining softly, brokenly. His thighs trembled as he gripped his aching, leaking cock with one hand, while the fingers of the other pushed into his wet, pulsing, desperate-for-you hole. He wanted to feel you everywhere, your cunt on him. Wanted you to fuckin' worship him, sink your fangs into the back of his neck, and not let him, - fuck, - not let him squirm.
Such a disgustingly pathetic need to belong - so unlike him.
The need for you, his alpha, to be there. For you to shove apart his useless-at-this-moment legs with your knees and then make him come over and over until his cum ran watery.
Until a dry orgasm twisted his very being, made him howl, made stars dance beneath his closed lids.
Omega!Dottore, who never loses that commanding edge in his voice until you push him over the edge. The moment you step into his quarters, he turns his head and says:
— "Get over here. Now." — not cute in the slightest, by the way. And not even a hint of a please or some kind of pleading, the kind omegas in heat usually have.
Yeah, the fuck there is. Just a straight-up order and barely concealed annoyance that you came so late. Yeah, the Tsaritsa's mission couldn't be postponed, but you could've been faster. Dealt with the insurgents in a day, not three.
Prepared his quarters for your absence better, instead of just bringing a few new vinyl records that, right now during his heat, were fucking useless.
You move closer slowly, feeling Dottore's pheromones flood your lungs. The moment you reach the bed, he grabs your arm, yanks you down, not even letting you go change first.
— "Get undressed." — and his fingers are already pulling the fabric off your shoulders, tearing the buttons off, because waiting for you to do it yourself is beyond his strength.
And his patience, too.
So you figure now's not the time to fuck around and find out.
You lean down, put your hands on the omega's legs, and spread them. He doesn't even resist, honestly, and you immediately run your tongue along Dottore's thigh, smeared with natural slick. And a moment later - you reach his ass, slide your fingers right to his hole, which never stopped dripping.
The omega is so wet that your fingers slip in without resistance - you just run your fingertip along the folds, and they're suddenly inside, down to the fucking knuckles.
That very second, the man gasps, ragged and sharp, and rolls his hips, impaling himself deeper.
— "Fuck..." — Dottore hisses, because yeah. That's so much better. Now that your pheromones are starting to mix with his, breathing feels easier.
No matter how much you want to tease the omega, now's not the time or place. So without hesitating, you add your tongue. Lick him in one broad stroke, and then - push inside. Right where your fingers already were. And the man arches his back, throws his head into the pillow.
Holy shit. This is insane.
This was that pleasure he couldn't give himself. He throws a leg up, hooks it over your shoulder, and pushes down. Literally, fuck, shoves you into him so you can't even think about pulling away. Drown in his slick for all he cares, but keep licking and fucking him with your fingers.
Those fingers that were now pressing so fuckin' sweetly against the bump of his prostate.
A second finger - and Dottore finally lets out a tiny, quiet sob, and then comes, without a single touch to his dick. But even after that, you don't stop. You keep stimulating him from behind, making him thrash on the bed.
— "I just came! Don't you fuckin' dare do this to me!" — he snarls, trying to push you away.
But you won't let him. You keep moving your fingers inside, add a third, and the omega just breaks apart completely.
ᨳ𝐜/𝐰: smut 18 + mdni, piv, lotus position, oral (f! rec), overstimulation, dacryphilia, shibari, finger fucking, soft!tamsy, praises ᨳ𝐰/𝐜: 1,6k ᨳ𝐚/𝐧: his voice and eyes make me unngghhhh🧍♀️
Thinking about 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who gets handsy everytime you're near him. Whether you're wearing the Cleaner's uniform or the lounge wear he gets for you, he just have to smack or pinch your ass. It doesn't matter that you're alone or on a trash beast exterminating mission. He will smack that ass. Trust.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who is very good with dates! He remembers each and everytime anything remotely significant happened in your life and has that date etched into his brain. Be it the first ever date he took you on, or the day you joined the Cleaners. He has that all in his mind. And he never fails to wish you as such with gifts varying a wide range.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who has gifts for every occasion. Your pet's birthday? They get a custom-made collar. Your periods? A basket full of chocolates, flowers (artificial ones for now,) heating pads, cookies, medicine and anything you could think of. And if its your birthday, don't even think of stepping our your shared room.
You'd spend the entire next day just opening gifts from your husband who just sits by your side, eyes sparkling each time you unwrap a present.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who learns how to grow flowers form Delmon. The soil on the Ground is not the best for flowers to bloom. But if Delmon can do it, so will your husband.
Tamsy spends months after months of learning gardening form Delmon, learning everything there is to know about flowers. What flowers to grow, their seasons, what diseases that they can get, absolutely everything. And after a year spent learning and months of trial and failure, Tamsy surprises you with your personal garden. Planting flowers so that there is blooms every month, all through the year.
The crystal vase by your bestie table never goes empty.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who gets jealous easily. If you spend a second too long with talking to someone else, the man sulks like a child, pouting till you kiss that pout off.
He even gets jealous of the Kids squad who has come to love you as a mother figure, coming to your and your husband's room every now and then, sitting all surrounding you as you tell them stories.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who stands by the doorway frozen in place as he saw everyone form the Kids Team sleeping around you — Rudo's head resting on your right shoulder, Guita on the left, Dear sleeping in your lap with your fingers in his hair, Remlin sleeping with his mouth hung open by your feet.
That man had to pry them off of his dear wife.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 takes pride in helping you around the house. Unlike many men, Tamsy had taken the responsibility of morning coffee with breakfast, coming to your bed with a tray full of two coffee mugs and bread, waking you up from your sleep.
He genuinely likes helping you with chores — dusting furniture while you tell him what goes where and he happily moves them, washing the dishes while you dried.
Even if you were gone for a mission for a few days, you'd come home to a sparkling clean home, sheets dried and laundry already folded.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who loves to cook for you. A hearty meal after you come home after a long day of dismantling trash beasts and fighting Raiders, the smell of your husband's meals makes all the stress of the days slide off your shoulders.
Walking upto him, your wrap your arms around his waist as he stirred something in the pot, leaning his head back onto your shoulder. "Long day, darling?"
You sigh, his familiar scent bringing you comfort. "You know it."
Tamsy smiles, kissing your temple. "Freshen up, dinner is almost done."
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who doesn't let you do anything while he washes the dinner dishes with you standing beside him, fingers mindlessly drying the dishes as yout tell him all about your day. And the man listens to everything you have to say with that signature smile of his, nodding and gasping when your story called for it.
𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝!𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐲 who eats you out like his life depends on it.
Firm hands pressing down on your thighs as he laps up your cunt, sucking your clit with reckless abandon.
"T-Tamsy...!" You choke out a moan, trying your best to push his head away from your burning core. How long has your husband been between your legs? Hours passed, but the man shoved his tongue inside your fluttering hole without a care for time.
Tamsy groans in annoyance, begrudingly taking out the bundle of nerves from his greedy mouth. "I'm not done yet, darling. Don't you know it's rude to interrupt a hungry man's meal?"
You shake your head from side to side, body shaking from overflowing pleasure coursing through your veins. Your husband had made you come more than three times with his mouth alone. And by the way, your lover was acting, he was far from done.
"C-can't 'sy, can't come no more!" You scream, your thighs feeling like jelly as they shook in your husband's calloused hand.
Tamsy tuts, shaking his head in disappointment. "This won't do, darling." Getting up, he fetches his vital instrument from the table, spinning the disstaff as its ropes coiled around your splayed body.
Ropes bind your hands above your head, forcing your shaking legs apart as they coil around each leg, keeping you bare open before Tamsy's hungry eyes.
Licking his shining lips, he whistles, finally satisfied. "See that darling? Tokushin never dissapoints me," he praises his Jinki, his tone condescending as he looks down on you, helpless and completely at his mercy.
He leans down to you slobbering cunt, sniffing in your scent like an addict. Because that was what he was.
Addicted to you.
Licking a strip from your cunt, his lips captured your clit, rolling the bud on his tongue. Playing, teasing.
Kissing your folds, he shoves two lithe digits in your awaiting cunt, curling them inside you. You gasp, back arching off the matress. Your husbands' glowing eyes are fixed on your face, contorted with pleasure.
You writhe in his intrument's binds, the cool sensation of his labret piercing, a stark contrast to your burning hot skin. Delving his tongue in your hole, the Cleaner continues thrusting his fingers inside you, fucking you open on his face.
He humps the bed as he all but made you side his face, his nose nudging against your clit from the movement. "Fuck, darling," he groans, sinking in his teeth on your folds. "You never fail to amuse me."
You could fell your high approaching, the coil in your abdomen tightening as Tamsy continued to fuck you with his face. Before you could warn him, you squirted all over his face, drenching his lashes as he looks at you with a smirk on his drenched lips, eyes glinting in mischief.
"My my, sweetheart," he muses, rubbing your release all over his face before the thrusted his fingers inside his mouth, sucking noisily. "Never knew my beloved was a squirter."
Mind buzzing, you could not even look at him as he climbed over you, his cock in his hand as he stroke himself to the view– you tied by his Tokushin, body shaking and flushed. And entirely his.
As Tamsy slid the mushroom tip of his dick along your wet folds, you choke on a moan, entirely overstimulated. "Tam-Tamsy, wait, 's too much!"
Tamsy smiles that sickly smile of his, hands pulling you up as he held you close, lips softly kissing down your neck. "Breath for me, my clematis."
You breathe in deeply, finally calming down when air fills your lungs. "All good, my dove?" Tamsy asks softly, kissing along along your jaw.
You nod, "'mkay," you mumble, hiding your face in the crook of his pale neck. "now...fuck me....please," you say under your breath.
Tamsy laughs in amusement. "Of course, my darling. Your command is my wish, afterall."
Holding you close, Tamsy bottomed out inside you, biting his lips as your walls clamped down on his length. "Fuck, my darling," he groans, pulling you even closer by the waist, biting down on your neck. "You're gonna milk me dry."
You whine as he begins to move, thrusting deep within you. Holding your bottom, Tamsy hisses as he fucked you deep. Your eyes widen when he hit the sweet spot, mouth hanging open. "There it is," he smirks, licking a strip from your jaw. "Your sweet, sweet spot, darling."
And he makes it his mission to hit it every time he thrusts in, your body spasming in his hold.
Lying you down, Tamsy holds your wrists down as he pummels your cunt, tears rolling down your face from the mind-numbing pleasure. "You look so pretty when you cry, my love," Tamsy laughs, licking away your tears.
"'m close, tam," you moan, thighs wrapping around his torso. "Me too, my dove. Lets come together."
You nod frantically, biting down on your lip hard enough to draw blood. Prying your lips open, Tamsy crashes his lips on yours, groaning as you come around him. It doesn't take long for your husband to spill deep inside you, his cum spilling out from your stuffed cunt.
Your husband holds you close as the two of you come down from your high.
His eyes stops glowing as he dispels his intrument, the ropes unwrapping from your body. Tamsy kissing, kissing your bare skin, proud and content. "You did so good, my love," he praises, wiping the sweat off your forehead.
You manage a sleepy smile, your eyes threatening to close. Tamsy smiles yet again, settling down beside you, his arms wrapping around your spent body. Reassuring, trusting.
Tamsy kisses your forehead, moving hair out of your face. "Sleep, my darling. I'll be right here when you wake up."
NSFW WARNING!!! BEWARE!!!!!! Minors dni pls 🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞 THIS IS THE SONG I HAD IN MIND WHILE WRITING THIS.... its so yummy i promise. Especially the part at 0:58
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AIZEN, who knows your hidden feelings for him and can sense your reluctance towards him, finally decides it's time to quit beating around the bush.
You know better not to crave him, but your heart doesn't. And certainly not your body.
--
"Did you think I haven't noticed how you hide from me?" Aizen whispers before inching closer to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers through you. "How you tremble for me?"
His warmth and scent envelop you in a sweet trap, leaving you nowhere to escape as your back is pressed against him.
"I must say, I'm impressed with how long you've managed to hold back. But I see you've already reached your limit."
Aizen looks down at you with darkened, half-lidded eyes. Your flushed cheeks, your soft panting, the way you lean into him as his fingers slowly massage your insides—they're all blatant giveaways of your inevitable surrender to him.
"Be honest," his voice is smooth but commanding. "You've thought of this moment countless times, haven't you? Of me touching you like this."
There's a quiet possibility in your mind that what you're experiencing is an illusion. Though, at this point, does it even matter? You're already melting from his touch, letting your body be molded by him. Shamefully, you think you wouldn't mind offering up your mind and soul to him either. He's just too irresistible. How dare he dress up as temptation incarnate?
"You don't even need to ask for anything," his plush lips press against your neck, gentle yet somehow searing at the same time.
"Just admit that you want me, and I'll give everything to you."
With that, any remnant of rationality abandons you. You cry out his name, telling him you want him, that you've been needing him.
Smirking triumphantly, Aizen continues to plant gentle kisses to your ear, your neck, anywhere that makes you whimper. Meanwhile, his slender fingers pump and curl inside you mercilessly, juices leaking down your thighs. The contrast in intensity drives you crazy, and you feel your climax crash faster than expected. In response to your clenching around him, he bites down on the junction between your neck and shoulder, fully marking you as his.
After you've finally recovered from the long-awaited ecstasy, his fingers retreat from your sensitive hole. However, after getting a taste of what true pleasure is like, you find yourself wanting more.
As if reading your mind, Aizen delivers a small peck to your temple.
"Don't worry—this isn't even a fraction of what I have in store for you."
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