Hi! My name is Fick, and I write reader insert stories specifically with a male reader in mind. There seems to be quite the shortage of that on this site. | He/Him | Terfs, Trumeds, MAPS, do not fucking interact!!
Wanted to ask a male reader with Mr. Beauregard Bo Sinclair
Basically its been a rough day for Bo and he comes home all grumbly and whiny. Hes sweaty, tired, and feels like punching the first person he sees. But then he sees his s/o just humming by themselves in the kitchen and immediately just kinda melts yknow. He ends up hugging them from behind and burying his face into their neck while mummering soft words. His s/o just sighs and comforts him, runs their hands through his hair, hold him close-
Just ekehdjejehrf soft moments with Bo <3
Inspired by this gif-
THE PUPPY EYES <3333
《Vexelier》
wow just woke up lol (also i took some angsty liberties if you dont mind)
You Turn It Around
Your pretty little Bo was fucking pissed, more than usual. It was normal for him to rant and vent to you, and seek comfort in you holding him, but this was different. This time, he was holding himself back from getting blood on his hands.
He really didn’t want to talk about it, especially since you would get so worried about him and start to fret, and then you might accidentally watch him “working,” and then what? Then he would leave you, his mind said. He was too furious to even fight that thought.
He remembered how you taught him how to control himself, but he still struggled with your breathing techniques. Each time he tried he was hyperventilating, and didn’t even notice you in the kitchen. He could’ve sworn the others were out toda—
You turned to him, beaming in that handsome apron of yours. You told him all about how proud you were of him for how we was treating his clients recently, how kind and polite he was being to them, and how could he argue? How could he beat himself or others up when you have so much light in you?
He checked there was nobody else around except you two, and collapsed into your arms, sobbing.
Ahhh ill ask now about a few characters then so I dont make a fool out of myself in the proper request-
Bubba Sawyer (Or Thomas Hewitt, whichever Leatherface you might be familiar with), Sinclair brothers (mostly Vincent and Lester), and RZ Michael Myers are the ones I was mostly wondering about!
《Vexelier》
Slashers X Male Reader
Leatherface (Bubba Sawyer)
You weren’t planning on staying in Texas for long, just a quick stop to fuel up for the road ahead, but against all odds, you met the love of your life.
You were lying in bed together now, his mother permitted it when she saw how happy he was when you were with him. He was always giggling and flapping his hands. He had his big, soft arms around you, you nuzzling into his broad chest and belly. The healthy layer of fat that covered his body always made you incredibly comfy. Holding your cheek in his meaty, yet gentle palm, he kissed you slowly, breathlessly.
You could sleep in for a bit longer.
Leatherface (Thomas Hewitt)
He was gentle, shockingly so. After meeting you he was incredibly protective of you, and the family didn’t even know of your existence until a few weeks, when he slipped up and brought you past his mother. She was shocked at first, but let you stay with him when he begged her to.
You were preparing dinner when he came in from behind you, his heavy footfalls making sure you weren’t startled when he wrapped his arms around your waist, leaning into the back of your head. You greeted him hello and he kissed your hair, his stubble scratching the back of your neck.
If he was going to be here, he might as well help.
Vincent Sinclair
It was a simple pose, one you could hold for quite a while. It made it easier for him to truly capture your likeness. He was stroking wax-you’s cheek, and you crossed your arms.
He looked up at you sharply and put away his tools. He looked scared, scared that you were jealous of the sculpture. You simply laughed and walked over to him, taking his hand and guiding it to your real, living, warm cheek. He stroked it even softer than before, and you pressed a quick kiss into his palm.
Lester Sinclair
You sat in his lap as you were watching a movie, his head resting on your shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you and squeezed whenever something scary would pop up. You would just giggle.
Then, a big jumpscare happened and you shrieked, hiding in the crook of his neck. He stroked your hair, and turned off the TV for now.
RZ! Michael Myers
You woke up in the middle of the night, thinking he had broken in again. He didn’t actually need to, you gave him a key, but the late-night rustling was unmistakable and honestly, getting kinda old. Also, wasn’t he supposed to be done with the dirty work after Halloween? What was he doing still up? You walked over to the kitchen, flicking on the light.
He quickly turned around to face you, his long blonde hair covering his eyes but the expression still unmistakable. He was digging through last night’s trick-or-treater candy, throwing out all the peanut ones. He quickly swallowed, and you smirked, getting closer to him. You leaned in quickly and licked a spot of chocolate off his lips.
I'd love to request but I'd like to ask if theres any rules for it? I'd hate to request a character you dont write for or something you dont do! So please let me know if possible!
《Vexelier》
oh sure! i nearly forgot about this blog but yeah if you have a character feel free to request, i’ll just let you know if ive never heard of them (though i EXPLICITLY will not write for real people or mcyt characters, it’s just kinda weird to me)
You Look Quite Divine Tonight (Cthulhu x Lighthouse Keeper!Male Reader)
The years have not been kind to you.
You are grizzled, old, scarred from your face to your heart, and tired. Your hair has gone white from age, along with your beard, and wrinkles break up the symmetry of your sandpaper skin. Your voice constantly aches and itches from yelling and overuse, though you appreciate the light Scottish accent you allegedly have. It makes you seem tougher than you actually are. There are callouses and blisters on your fingers, palms, feet from work. For work on the sea is anything but easy.
The sea has not been kind to you.
On occasion you find yourself with a strange, salty taste in your mouth. You used to know whether it was the ocean or your own tears. Your eyelashes freeze, yet you feel the most comfortable in the cold, or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself. You are very tired. Ever since hitting your ripe age of “too old to go to sea, but too young to retire properly” you took the toll of a lighthouse keeper. When you got here, it was supposed to be six weeks, with a young, scrappy helper that reminded you of yourself. Instead, he hung himself from the rope while he was supposed to be repainting the blistering white tower. Maybe he hated you. It wouldn’t surprise you, although it’s the first time anybody has taken their own life just to get away from you. You didn’t know him, yet you feel immense sorrow. Perhaps you were being too parental. You do tend to get attached.
The world has not been kind to you.
You never really knew your mother, she left before you were ten, and your father was colder than the ocean himself. Yes, you tend to refer to inanimate objects as “him,” but those rich men call their boats “her,” so who are they to judge? Though, perhaps it is because they see you as a predator, an animal itching to get its hands on any man it can find. But that’s not what you want. What you do want, you’re not sure, but it wouldn’t be just any man, and it wouldn’t be just for sex, throwing yourself around dark alleyways like a London whore. Though, you are just as tired as they are. It was supposed to be six weeks.
You have resided here, alone and without rescue, for a year. You think.
Thankfully, you have enough food to last you another six months. There’s been no ship to come rescue you from this rock, perhaps they no longer have a need for lighthouses. Maybe those children with their inventions figured out how to navigate the sea blindfolded, backwards, and in the dark. but they wouldn’t just leave you here, right?
You decide not to think about it. Thankfully, you have a very worthwhile distraction.
Whilst searching through the house, you notice one of the floorboards sounds off when you step on it. It takes you about five minutes to crouch down to the floor, but in the end, it’s worth it. You knock on the floor. Sounds like normal. You move your scarred fist to the left, three raps following. Also normal. Left once more.
There it is. The knock is echoed slightly, the wood hollow underneath.
It takes you ten minutes to get up off the floor, but thankfully you have a newfound adrenaline. You hobble over to the toolshed outside.
You make a point of not looking to your right, knowing you will find some of the grisly remains of your crew-mate, your excitement giving you tunnel vision to the crowbar. You rush back and bend over, your back loudly protesting as you attempt to pry back the floorboard. One push. Then two. Then three.
With a loud crack, the board splinters away, revealing a small hole with a book inside. It appears to be a journal.
————————————————————————————
Though you eat dinner that night, your health is the furthest thing on your mind as you theorize what the book could be. A book of spells? A tale as old as time itself? Maybe just pretty pictures? Whatever it is, the fact that new information is occupying your head is enough.
When you finally get a chance to sit down and begin to read, you notice an important sentence on the front page:
“This journal belongs to: Gustaf Johansen.”
Well, whoever this Gustaf character is, you are sure to be fascinated by him!
————————————————————————————
January 12, 1792.
Today marks my first day on the sea. While I do admit that I may come down with a minor sickness, I still have faith in my comrades to help me, as I shall help them.
———————————————————————————
You scan the pages, word by word. It details six months of a life at sea, similar to yours. Gustaf is (allegedly) described by his friends as “a man with strength and beauty to rival Thor himself.” Though you doubt that description, you can’t help but entertain the handsome image.
He’s holding your hand, rubbing his thumb on the back of it. Smiling, he nestles his head between your head and shoulder.
You shake your head. It’s ridiculous, no one is coming to save you.
_________________
April 20, 1792.
I have been having frequent dreams of a place I have yet never seen. I find myself under the ocean surface, far from dry land. And yet, in the murky waters, I see a glowing, beautiful city.
——————-
That night, you have the same dream.
You don’t think anything of it.
You continue to read.
_____________________
May 2, 1792.
The dream has come again, but now I hear a chorus of people. Or perhaps, not people, but simply voices. They speak in a language I do not recognize, yet still understand. They speak of the coming of a god, a Great Old One.
They call this being Cthulhu.
—————
Underneath the entry, a sentence, phrase, or paragraph in an unknown language, presumably the one from the dreams, is written. It is a terrible mess of consonants and apostrophes. Though, it is still somewhat readable. Your pronunciation is messy, but you get through it.
Mggoka'ai ya, throdog gn'th
nog, uh'eog ot shugg
Y' nogephaii
nogephaii l' ya, gn'bthnknyth
nogephaii l' ya, orr'e
nogephaii l' ya, cthulhu
You finish the final syllable. Nothing happens.
In a burst of anger, you grab a flare from the supplies closet and walk out into the night.
Standing on the beach, you light the flare, waving it around. The sky is black, not a star in sight. “Please, help me!” you cry. “Please, anybody! I’m right here!” Tears burn your eyes and run down your cheeks. You muster all the strength in your lungs.
“I’M RIGHT HEREEE!!!”
With the final syllable, the ground shakes. Did somebody finally hear you? Are they coming to help you, after a lifetime of isolation?
It shakes again, your take a few steps to regain you balance.
Again. Your knees wobble.
Again. You fall, and a great deal of pain does not fill your body. In fact, you feel a great sense of rejuvenation in your bones.
Again. You manage to get up, seeing bubbles on the ocean surface.
Slowly, a mixture of flesh and scales emerges from the sea. Two sets of burning red eyes lie below. A strange beard of tentacles. A hugely muscled body with miles-wide wings. And when he speaks, you feel it in your chest.
“I do not recognize you, my beloved.”
You stare in fear, the flare still belching smoke.
“Lovely mortal, fear not. My beloved, Gustaf, had the most beautiful soul.”
The tentacles on his face gently wrap around you and lift you up. You find yourself between his eyes.
“You have that same soul deep within you.”
You begin to cry once more. The tentacles are surprisingly not as freezing as you thought they would. Instead, they fill your body with loving warmth.
“I-I apologize.” You say. “I have not been held like this since…”
You look back on your life, quickly.
“No one has ever held me like this,” you admit. Your voice is small, lost, broken.
“Then I am honored to be the first.”
His centuries-deep voice is filled with love. He speaks your name softly.
“Wouldst thou like to experience the pleasure of a god?”
“Yes,” you whisper desperately. You quickly unbutton your shirt, but the tentacles take care of your clothes for you. He laughs like rolling thunder.
Cottage In The Woods Part II (Jason Voorhees x Male Cottagecore!Reader)
Married life with Jason was so much more peaceful than you could’ve ever imagined. After he swore never to kill again, and thus retired the mask, his beautiful face was in full view 24/7. In further keeping his promise, he made your wedding bands from the infamous machete. For now, Jason Voorhees and his beautiful husband were the only people in the entirety of Camp Crystal Lake.
Jason walked to you while you were knitting by the fireplace. It was August, a few months after the initial proposal, and you needed some warm clothes for the coming months. He looked nervous, rubbing a piece of his shirt hem between his fingers. He always seemed to do that. Whether it was his clothes, the furniture, the grass and trees, he was always looking for something to touch, to ground himself. Often times that thing would be you, though occasionally he felt something that he didn’t like, and needed to find a better texture.
He sat down next to you and began signing, you putting your sweater down to give him your full attention.
“My love, I want to ask you something.”
“You can ask me anything, honey.” Whatever it was, you would be ready, and no matter what you thought, you would support him fully.
He took another deep breath.
“Would you want to have children with me?”
Oh. That was big. You took a pause, but Jason seemed to take it as a “no.”
“Nevermind. It was a bad idea anyway—”
You held his hands, stopping him.
“I didn’t say no. I was just surprised. That’s all.”
You put his hands down gently and let go, taking a deep breath.
“I love you, Jason,” You began. “And these rings prove that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You are the love of my life, you are my soulmate, you are my other half. And if you truly want children, if you truly want to settle down, start a family...”
You held his face.
“...I would want nothing more.”
You kissed him, and you felt his smile on your lips.
His face turned to horror as you both heard the bell. It was the tripwire.
Somebody was trespassing.
Jason shot up, mumbling with his hands about how “it’s the end of summer” and “nobody would be here, I made sure of it.” You calmed him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Honey, let’s go up together, how about that? No violence.”
He nodded.
You opened the doors and went outside, not having to worry about your steps since Jason dismantled all the bear traps.
There was a young woman, shaking and crying, holding something in her arms. She saw you two, and rushed to meet you.
“I’m sorry... I couldn’t... please... take her...”
She thrust a baby into your arms, and ran away. You both stood there, dumbfounded. The baby was asleep, thank god, but what would you two do now? You both looked at each other, and laughed. It was a miracle!
——————————————————————————
You named her Crystal.
Crystal was just an absolute bundle of joy from the minute you met her. You homeschooled her for the first few years of her life, teaching her both English and ASL. Then, when you finally convinced her Papa to take her to public school, she was both overjoyed and overwhelmed. But you both gave her the bravery to get through the first day, and she loved it!
From high school onward, you helped her through boyfriend after girlfriend, and every messy breakup. The years seemed to pass by so quickly, and before you knew it, there was a nervous young man at your front door asking for your blessing to marry her.
We Put Down In Writing What Is Happening In Our Minds (Beast/Hank McCoy [X-Men] x Male Professor!OC)
“Professor Hale!”
I turn from the blackboard and look down to see a young girl with a few feathers growing in her hair. She has a strange look on her face, like she knows something I don’t.
“Yes, Jules, what is it?”
“Somebody wrote you a letter. Who does that?” She says, likely knowing exactly who.
“Alright, give it here.”
He hands me an envelope and scurries off. I turn it over. It’s addressed to “Professor Wesley Hale” with no return address. Well, it can’t be Jules, the handwriting is too neat.
I unfold the envelope and read it in one hand, erasing the messy drawings from today’s lesson with the other.
“Dear Wesley Hale,
You seem to be unaware that you are the best-looking person in this whole academy. Though now that I’ve told you, your are likely denying it. You shouldn’t. It’s not a matter of opinion, it’s a simple fact. It’s only made more beautiful by how you use your powers. Not only do you use your hexagonal screens as shields, but also as platforms to lift yourself and other objects with ease. Besides that beautiful strength, the screens themselves, that magenta outlined by yellow, is fascinating to me. Unfortunately I am not very confident in my affections, but it’s better that I told you anyway. It puts a weight off my shoulders, even if it’s a small one.
-Your secret admirer.”
Ok, my first thought: is this a ploy from one of the kids to round up their grade? But it can’t be, they didn’t put their name. Is it one of those creepy teacher-student things, because I don’t wanna deal with any of that. But no, it’s too formal. And who says “secret admirer” anymore? I step out into the hallway and immediately put up a shield.
There’s about eight kids hanging outside the door, badly pretending not to have just been watching me. “Go to your rooms,” I say, exasperated.
——————————————————————————
The next day, it happens again.
This time it’s Edgar who delivers the note, a smirk rising on his normally expressionless face, looking slighly down at me with heavy black eyeliner and even darker black scleras. He walks away, platform boots clicking on the floor. “Gotta say, he’s obsessed with you, man.”
He’s obsessed with you.
He.
I’m fairly certain that I’m out to my class if not the whole school, so that narrows it down some. I open it.
“Dear Wesley Hale,
I have summed up the courage to write to you again. I know that though I am likely never going to have enough bravery to fully reveal myself to you (innuendo not intended), I know without a doubt that I love you. It is not just an attraction. I love how you talk to the kids, the dynamics are just so natural. You get them excited about so many things, which gives them the drive to pursue anything they can think of. If we were... together, I feel like you could influence me, and I would let you.
-Your secret admirer.”
Jesus. Edgar wasn’t kidding. Though it’s nice to be complimented on something I never really took notice of. Wait. The kids. He called my students “the kids.”
Which means it’s a faculty member.
Alright, this is totally gonna call for an emergency meeting at the end of the week. I walk out, and holy shit it’s like fifteen of them this time. Half are snickering while the others just look, knowingly. I know they won’t cough up the identity that easily, so I send them off and retire to my room.
God, how age ruined me. And my dark purple sweater vest and tie matched with a brown trenchcoat make me look like a character straight out of Dead Poets Society.
I remove my round spectacles and rap my fingers on my desk.
Who could it be? Who could it be? Who could it be?
——————————————————————————
Another day, another note. This time it’s Sheila, holding it out less with her fingers and more with her inch-long nails. I take it.
When she starts to leave, I say, “Hey Sheila, can I ask you something?”
She stops and turns, blushing slightly.
“Don’t worry, I know it’s not you. Can I just ask, who is your teacher before this class?”
“Mr. McCoy.”
Hank? Seriously? No, that can’t be. He can’t be gay.
I step out, tapping Jules on the shoulder. She squawks in surprise.
“What’s your class before mine?” I say. “Which teacher?”
“Hank McCoy.”
No. Gotta be a coincidence. Just have to make sure...
I turn and see Edgar chilling on the wall, as if he was expecting me.
“Before my class—”
He interrupts. “Mr. McCoy.”
Holy shit. It’s Hank. They all gave me the notes, they were all in Hank’s class right before mine. It’s him. The one guy in this whole place that I made the mistake of falling for, is gay and into me. Not just that, he loves me! How the hell did that happen? I tear open the letter, Hank’s voice reading it in my mind.
“My Dearest, Wesley,
I’m sure by now you have some idea of who I am. While I will not tell you exactly, I will say this: I am sorry if I have ever made you uncomfortable with these letters. That was never my intention. I simply had these feelings for so long that I could not bear to hold them in any longer. I long to touch your face, know your taste, to tell you how beautiful your eyes look through your spectacles. I know that I likely will never have neither these thoughts nor these feelings returned, so this is the last thing I write to you.
Love, Secret Admirer.”
He put “love” in the signature. He told me he never meant to make me uncomfortable. He put a goddamn comma after “dearest,” changing the meaning. I hear a door lock behind me. I turn.
It’s Hank. He looks at me with some sadness in his eyes, but looks away, not knowing if I know. I walk towards him.
I’m getting closer, and he’s looking back.
I’m getting closer, and he’s looking confused.
I’m getting closer, and he opens his mouth.
I’m walking, and he’s taller than me, but for some reason I make small steps unconsciously to be at eye level.
“Mr. Hale, is there—”
I shut him up with my lips. He’s said enough.
He tastes like a forest, like copper, like smoke. I hold his cheeks in my hands. I pull away. His yellow eyes look so fucking pretty through his glasses. I tell him so. He smiles. Laughs. Kisses me again.
A loud cheer from behind me lands me back on the floor. I look and there’s my entire class and then some, likely from Hank’s. They start applauding, and Hank has a deep shade of purple across his blue skin. Is that what he looks like when he blushes? I’d love to see it again, and again, and again.
I stand on my tiptoes, he leans down a bit, and now I taste a bit of myself mixed in there, too.
You two were just lazing around between missions, and without much to do, you busied yourself with giving the big demon all the affection. You traced his muscles and scars, kissed his jaw, ears, the nubs of his horns, any exposed skin, really. You spoke to him softly about how beautiful he was, how every imperfection made him even more perfect. You gave him a hug and wrapped your big, white wings around his frame, just barely meeting on his back.
“He’s too perfect for me. He’s gonna realize how awful I am and leave me.”
When you first kissed him on the lips, he cried.
You held his face in your radiant, glowing hands, the fingernails paper white. You asked him what was wrong.
“Why do you love me?” was his response.
You didn’t know what to say. It was one of those questions you never think you’d have to answer. Did he feel insecure in your embrace? Did he hate himself for loving an angel? Did he feel he was not worthy of your love?
“You have something inside you,” you began. “That is rarely ever found in any living, conscious being.”
“What is it?”
“Kindness. You don’t just help people, you actively try to make their lives better. Sometimes at the cost of yours.”
He cried even harder. The doors were locked, the curtains drawn, so he allowed himself to.
Just wanted to say I really enjoyed your invisible man fic. I don't know why but the line I admire your face had me actually laughing outloud.
lol thanks!!! i kinda wanna do a series of universal monsters, but i need some kind of attribute to get the juices flowing. let me know if you have any ideas! again, thank you so much!
Cottage In The Woods (Jason Voorhees x Male Cottagecore!Reader)
You were up early in the morning, earlier than usual, but you had to be.
It was Jason’s birthday today, and you were to give him the best gift ever.
You were picking some small but colorful flowers from the garden that stood just outside the house he made. The house you two lived in, together. You were saving them in the front pocket of your yellow overalls, a perfect peice matched with a white short-sleeved buttonup, a pair of your favorite rose-embroidered Doc Martens, and your big, circular glasses. With the last flower picked, you returned back to the house to make the morning tea.
——————————————————————————
“Wake up, Jason! Do you know what day it is?” you said, loud enough to wake him but quiet enough not to startle him. You always hated it when he got scared. He may be a fearsome killer, but he truly still had the soul of that young boy who drowned all those years ago.
“No... I don’t... know... what day.... it is...” he sleepily signed.
“It’s your birthday, silly!”
His eyes went wide, his left a beautiful lapis, the right a perfect pearl. He made to get out of bed but you stopped him. “Uh-uh-uh! It’s your birthday, so that means you are not getting out of bed.”
“But trespassers!”
“But cake!”
He sighed. You had a good point.
“Now, here’s your morning tea with your two sugar cubes, as always requested...”
Jason let out a few breaths that resembled a chuckle.
“...drink up while I make breakfast.”
You wached him drink from the tea set, the entire set being frog-themed.
——————————————————————————
While baking the cake, you looked around at the knick-knacks you two have collected over the years. It was where you first introduced Jason to polaroids, and became obsessed with capturing everything you did, as if he was afraid to lose you. But you weren’t going anywhere. There were records on the wall, too. Mostly Hozier and Fleetwood Mac, but there was some by The Oh Hellos and The Lumineers, along with Jason’s favorite, Dodie.
During your reminiscing you nearly whisked the eggs right out of the bowl. You fumbled with it for a bit, but managed to keep it together.
——————————————————————————
At the end of the day, the cake was done. It was a simple honey cake, with a bit of sugar on top and a garnish of basil, for decoration. You put in thirteen candles and wrote “Happy B-Day Jason” in pale blue frosting. Jason loved it. He blew out the candles a lot easier than he would have if he still had the mask. But nowadays he was wearing it less and less, he felt so much more comfortable with you around. You hoped that one day, you two would finally settle down, and he would put the mask away forever. He was just so handsome.
Blinking back to reality, he had already cut two slices—one for you, one for him—and it was time to give him your gifts.
“Ok Jason, close your eyes.”
He did, and you gingerly placed the pair woven flowers on both your heads. You gave him the okay to open his eyes. Your crown was adorned with a white ring of dandelions, while his was colorful carnations. He picked it up and examined it, smiled, and placed it back on his head. Now was the time for the real gift.
“Now for this one, you’re going to have to stand up.”
You both slowly got to your feet and you took a deep breath. You had asked him about it before, and he said he would, but you never had the courage to fully ask, until now. Last week, you went to Pamela for her blessing, and she accepted.
Getting down on one knee, you took out the small box from your pocket. Jason’s eyes widened.
“Jason Voorhees, you are the greatest person I’ve ever met. I love you with all I am.”
You opened it. It was a resin-topped wooden ring, with a recreation of how beautiful the camp was at night.
“Will you marry me?”
His eyes swelled with tears as he nodded. He picked you up in a hug and swung you around in the way you always loved. You put the ring on his finger.
Brahms watched you through the walls, and he couldn’t stop watching.
Of course, he had to, since he needed to make sure you were a good nanny (or would it be manny?) for the boy. But other than that, he’d been watching your actions, movements, and habits while the boy was sleeping. The way your strong, athletic muscles moved along your tall frame. It wasn’t the fake, dehydrated bodybuilder type— no, your body was built from work, and carried real strength. It made Brahms feel things he didn’t understand.
Why was he feeling this way? It wasn’t hatred, hatred was hot, unpleasant, brimming. Not fear (though he would refuse to admit he was afraid of anything) because fear would make him look away, not stare in fascination. No, it was something else.
It was desire.
He wanted you, and he didn’t understand why. Why was he feeling this way for a man? He knew it didn’t make sense, he knew he only looked at girls, but you? You were perfect.
Perfect not just in body, oh no. You followed the rules, obviously, but Brahms saw that you did things for the boy that weren’t even listed. You told him funny and awkward stories from your life, you played his favorite songs on the piano, you cradled and comforted him when a storm struck the house. Brahms wanted you because he loved how you could provide kindness and tenderness with such great strength in your body. It resulted in quite a few close calls when he involuntarily began panting during your midday workouts.
After the week was done, and the Hillshire couple did not return, you strangely didn’t notice. Maybe you had grown attached to the boy? Brahms didn’t know. All he knew was that tonight, he would come out. From the walls, I mean.
He had snuck out before to prank you and make you think you were losing it, but you always brushed it off with a laugh. God, he loved your laugh. It was distinct, it didn’t sound forced or fake. It didn’t sound like you were making yourself do a “normal” laugh, it was your genuine reaction. It sounded beautiful, but none could compare to your voice. That sweet, smooth, comforting timbre that sent chills down Brahms’s spine whenever you made it lower on purpose.
He stepped out into the hallway slowly. You had your back to him, talking on the phone. You hung up, turned around, and saw him. You saw him, and...
...you didn’t run away.
Why weren’t you running? Did he scare you so much that you froze like a deer in headlights? Did you find him so repulsive that you couldn’t look away? Did you want to kill him. Did you think he wanted to kill you?
But then you smiled, sweet and soft, and Brahms realized:
You knew the whole time.
You could feel the eyes on you, knew that someone must be moving the boy behind your back, heard Brahms sigh when you put on slightly more revealing clothes.
You walked to the man in the porcelain mask, and smiled even wider. Brahms wasn’t used to looking up at people, and you gave him a crick in the neck. You reached out to touch his messy hair, and he closed his eyes like he was a sweet little puppy being pet. You took your other hand and held his chin up, sratching at his beard. You moved your hands again to the edges of the cracked mask. His breath caught, and you stilled. You continued when he gave you a small nod. You put the mask down.
“Look how handsome you are, Brahmsy,” you said.
He couldn’t take it. He grabbed your cheeks and kissed you, hard. You kneeled down and picked him up bridal style. Brahms had forgotten how good it felt to be carried, and now with a big strong man holding him tight? He never wanted you to let go. He could appreciate your chin scruff even better now, along with the rest of your powerful, beautiful form.
That night, he took to your body like you were a god.
The Way He Saw Me: Jack Griffin (The Invisible Man, 1933) x Male Blind!Reader
Tap. Tap. Tap-Tap.
The cane is familiar in your hand, it is essentially your eyes.
Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
You hold it out in front of you as a precaution. You need it more outside, but just in case anyone or anything shows up in your home unexpectedly, it’s just safer for everybody.
Tap. Tap-thunk.
And there’s the wall. Now for the turn, ninety degrees... there we go. You hear other taps on the ground that are definitely not made by your stick. Must be Lucille.
“Sir! You know what I said about getting out of bed on your own!”
Yep. Definitely Lucille.
“Ms. Gardner,” you say. “It may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not completely helpless. Though I do thank you for your concern.”
“But sir, what if you misplace your stick before bed and can’t find it in the morning, hmm? What do you do then?”
Damn. She has a point. Best not to argue with her before breakfast. Besides, you’re planning a visit in a few weeks.
“Ms. Gardner, would you draft a letter for me?”
“Yes sir. To whom?”
“To a Doctor Jack Griffin, if you don’t mind.”
“Alright.”
Her heels click on the floor. They stop, and a chair is pulled back then pushed in. You make your way over to the dining table, cautiously examining it with your fingers. Either pancakes or waffles this time. The peice of paper is put in.
“Ready, sir.”
“Dear Doctor Griffin,” you start, accompanied by the clacking of the typewriter keys. Ah, out of all the sounds that is in this great world, that one is the most satisfying.
“In your research of the drug monocane you detailed to the public it’s mysterious and maddening properties. It has come to my attention...”
You go on about previous experiments and lab partners, and Lucille has to stop you before the letter becomes a scathing rant about nothing in particular. She finishes with your name and lets the ink dry. This will be quite the visit.
——————————————————————————
You arrive at Dr. Griffin’s house after he accepts your visit. It’s cold, and a bit musty, but is otherwise normal. Your cane reveals the floor plan is quite open. You tap until you hit something. Running your fingers on it reveals it to be the fabric of a couch or loveseat. You sit and wait.
When the doctor finally arrives, he introduces himself with grandeur. His voice is hoarse, and has a touch of a German accent.
“It is wonderful to finally meet you, sir.”
“Likewise,” you say.
After a few seconds of silence, he says “Ah, I guess you’re not one for touching, huh?”
Oh, shit. Did he offer you his hand to shake?
“Oh no, no,” you say quickly. “I just couldn’t see it.”
“Couldn’t see it? It was right in front of your face!”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I forgot to explain myself in my letter, how forgetful of me.”
Supporting yourself, you slowly stand up and remove your dark glasses. That should send the message. Jack snorts. Then bursts into full laughter.
Seriously? You’ve heard gasps of shock or recoils of disgust when revealing your condition, but laughter?
“Forgive me, Doctor,” you say bitterly. “But I fail to see what is so humorous.”
After his laughter dies out, he grabs your shoulder. “It seems my greatest personal asset has no effect on you, then.”
“Asset? What asset?”
“Take my hand.”
You reach out. A covered hand takes your palm. It can’t be a glove, there are too many edges of the fabric. It feels more like bandages.
“Oh,” you say. “Your hand got burned, huh?”
“Uh, no.”
He takes your wrists, and guides them to his face. It’s also completely covered in bandages, and a pair of sunglasses with front and side lenses.
“Oh, you poor thing. You got completely fried.”
“Also no.”
“Well then what’s with the bandages?”
“My body is completely invisible to the naked eye.”
What?
“What?” you say. “How do you know?”
“Because I know what people see when they see me. Nothing. To you, I may be no different than any other man, but to others, I am a force to be reckoned with.”
“I have to say, sir, I admire your ambition.”
“Thank you, sir. I admire your face.”
Oh. That’s new.
“Um, I-I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, really. You have a face that anybody would swoon over. You’re quite dashing.”
“Th-Thank... you...?” Oh god. You face is heating up. If you’re blushing, you’re gonna kill yourself.
“Sir, it appears you are blushing. Have you never heard such words before?”
“Well, no one really, uh, ever thinks of me... like that.”
“I wasn’t thinking it, just stating a fact. You are incredibly handsome.”
“You know...” Oh god you’re gonna try flirting back. “Maybe if you took off the stuff around your face, I could see if the same applies to you?”
“Heh. Very well.”
You hear him taking off his glasses and setting them down. There’s silence for a moment.
“Actually,” he says, the smirk in his voice. “would you remove them for me?”
You sigh softly. “Alright.”
You reach back to his face and find the end of the wrapping. You coil it around and around his head until it’s completely gone. You feel his breath against your lips.
“It’s strange. I’m so used to hearing screams of terror at my appearance, or, lack therof. This... is a nice change.”
You then start to work on his arm on your right. Slowly, the wrapping spirals around each finger. You drop it on the floor and repeat for the same side.
“Your eyes,” he says.
“I have them,” you retort.
“But their color... in science, there is a field known as gemology, the study of gems. There is a gem known as opal, it is milky white with peices of the rainbow caught in its luster. You, dear sir, have opals in your eyes.”
“That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.” And it’s true. Nobody in your life ever romanticized your blindness. It’s strange.
He’s holding your face in his big hands. They feel so warm and comforting against the cold room. Dropping your stick, you step closer, careful not to walk on his toes. His body heat envelops you, makes you feel safe.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
And then you can feel him on your lips, and god it feels good. He’s so soft, so careful in his movements. He runs his fingers through your hair. All you seem to feel, for a moment, is him.
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