Prompt: Storm cellar with stalker. WC: 4.7k Oneshot (Soweey. Again.)
Pairing: Douma x F!Reader. (bonus MAN another from another fandom 😏)
Summary: In a dead SCP facility filled with escaped monsters, you & the thing in the next cell become each other’s only constant—until you discover who has really been watching you all along.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dry humping, temperature & breath play, nipple play, intercourse, fingering, freezing nipples, bondage with ice, graphic violence, gore, body horror, cannibalism, dub-con, psychological manipulation, possession themes, power imbalance, horror elements, mention of self-harm through regeneration.
A/N: Yeah, I know I missed the posting date—life’s been a little meh lately, & my motivation decided to crawl into an SCP containment cell. My birthday’s coming up (boo), so energy levels are low. Also, quick clarification: this isn’t a bunker fic, it’s an SCP facility because I kept losing the plot, so. First time writing Douma & dipping into the SCP AU, so bear with me. Haven’t seen the new movie yet, so please, no spoilers. And yes, the Tsukasa fic is coming next—it’s just longer than expected, so it might drop a day late. Anyway, enough rambling. Enjoy. Dividers by: @saradika-graphics
The containment alarms hadn’t stopped for hours.
Beyond the reinforced glass of SCP-Site 47, the world was red sirens and gunfire. Through the smoke, you could see the outlines of monsters—the kind that once had names, now only numbers.
Someone had opened the cells. Everyone was killing everyone else.
You heard the roar first—low, volcanic, echoing from the eastern wing where the six-eyed specimen was housed. They said it laughed like thunder and wrote scripture in blood on the walls. Down the next corridor, something older shrieked—an ice-veined priest who froze his keepers mid-prayer.
Somewhere deeper, a slick, inhuman chuckle rose from the flooded levels where the chimera project had been sealed in salt water. The overhead lights stuttered with each pulse of violence, brief windows into every nightmare they’d locked away here.
One cell burned; another sang. You thought you saw a tall figure with a stitched mouth step through the smoke, grinning at the chaos as though it were theatre. Another shadow—horned, broad, haloed in gold static—dragged a man’s corpse like a trophy before vanishing into the red haze.
Someone had opened all the cells.
Everyone was killing everyone else.
Except you, and Douma.
His cell was next to yours, divided by a single pane of transparent alloy. He was smiling as the guards screamed in the hall, his hands folded neatly, eyes reflecting the emergency lights like gems. When the last body hit the floor, he looked over at you.
“Looks like we’re free.”
You could have stepped through the breach—your door hung open, same as his—but something held you still. The smell of burning antiseptic. The faint pulse under the floor. You wanted to see what would happen if you waited.
So you waited. And Douma, curious, stayed too.
When dawn came—if you could call that colorless light dawn—the halls were silent except for the hiss of leaking gas. All the others were gone, escaped into the wilderness beyond the facility’s electric fences.
Only two monsters left behind.
One by choice.
One for reasons neither of them yet understood.
He talked first. Always did.
Douma leaned against the wall separating your cells, voice lilting through the broken glass. “You’re very quiet, little neighbor. Everyone else screams when they see me.”
You didn’t answer.
“That’s unusual,” he mused. “I’m told I’m quite the sight.”
“I don’t care,” you said simply.
And it was true.
He didn’t frighten you, didn’t fascinate you.
He was just… noise in a room already filled with ghosts.
For the first time, his smile twitched, like a reflection catching dust. “Not caring—what a dreadful thing to do to a man like me.”
The next days—hours?—blurred.
Time inside a dead facility had no rhythm.
Douma tried everything: jokes, compliments, and recitations of the prayers his cult used to chant before he devoured them.
You gave him nothing but a glance now and then.
Yet the more indifferent you were, the more animated he became.
“You feel like something,” he said once, crouching by the barrier, eyes half-lidded. “But not human. I can’t see what’s inside you. That’s… new.”
He reached out through the shattered frame, fingertips hovering close enough that you could feel the cold radiating from them.
Whatever lived inside you stirred—ancient, watchful, territorial. You stepped back, pulse heavy, the air thick with static.
He didn’t stop smiling, but behind the glitter in his eyes was calculation.
The predator had met something he couldn’t classify.
He started leaving food—cold rations, bottled water, anything scavenged from the ruined cafeteria. “A peace offering,” he’d say.
You accepted once, too hungry to refuse, and that was enough.
Something changed after that.
The air between you softened.
He still couldn’t feel empathy, but he imitated it flawlessly—checking the temperature of the room, asking if you’d slept.
You began to answer him, against your own judgment.
It wasn’t friendship.
More like two predators circling the same silence and finding it comfortable.
Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.
His expression was unreadable: curiosity bordering on reverence.
When he smiled now, it was slower and less performative.
You wondered if that was what passed for sincerity in him.
And, despite yourself, you started waiting for his voice.
Then, it happened after the generators failed completely.
The facility went black, except for the faint red pulse of the emergency beacons.
You were cold, shivering in the dark, when you heard him open the connecting door.
He crossed the threshold without sound. You could sense him more than see him, the air dropping a degree with every step.
“I thought you might be lonely,” he said, voice soft, like he wasn’t sure if he’d startle you.
You didn’t tell him to leave.
The prison bed, a slab of steel bolted to the floor, groaned under Douma’s weight as he settled beside you, his presence a cold void that sucked the warmth from the room.
You shifted instinctively, making space on the narrow cot, your threadbare prison-issue tank and leggings clinging to your skin like damp paper. The SCP facility’s guards had stripped you both of anything substantial—too paranoid about concealed weapons or contraband. What remained was flimsy, barely enough to shield you from the chill radiating from him.
Douma lay unnervingly still, his rainbow-hued eyes glinting in the half-light, pupils slitted like a predator’s. His platinum hair spilled over the stiff pillow, catching the dim glow like frost on dirt. Similar to his nature, he was beautiful, unearthly, and utterly devoid of human warmth—a demon who thrived on control, on consumption, yet here he was, a prisoner like you, abandoned in this forsaken containment block.
His breath ghosted your cheek, cool and saccharine, like snow melting on polished steel.
“Come here.” His voice was a velvet purr, low and deliberate, each word curling through the air like a tendril of mist. It wasn’t a question—it was a lure, baited with the promise.
You nodded, turning toward him, your pulse hammering in your throat.
His fingers grazed your wrist, hesitant at first, testing the reality of your warmth against his eternal cold.
The contact was a jolt—electric, addictive, a spark that seared through your nerves and left them raw.
“Still no fear,” he murmured, lips curving into a smile that was both serene and predatory. “Good. Fear ruins the taste of everything.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with implication, as his gaze flicked over you, mapping every inch like a cartographer charting new territory.
You should have stepped away.
Should’ve remembered the stories whispered in the facility’s corridors—how Douma devoured emotions, fed on desire as much as blood. But the cell’s oppressive cold, the weight of isolation, and the magnetic pull of just one person stuck with you drowned out reason.
So instead, you found yourself leaning forward, meeting him halfway into the dark.
His lips met yours like frost on fevered skin—cool at first, then searing where your heat met his chill, a slow drag that tasted of winter mint and something sharper, like ozone before a storm.
Slow. Precise. Mapping you like new terrain, thumb on your pulse at your jaw, feeling it jump.
His other hand, though, slid lower, fingers curling over the curve of your hip, then dipping beneath the waistband of your leggings, grabbing a handful of your ass. The fabric was thin, fraying, no match for his strength as he squeezed hard enough to leave the ghost of bruises.
One finger teased closer to your heating core, not touching yet, but hovering—a promise, a threat.
Your breath hitched, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening.
Without breaking the kiss or removing his other hand, he hooked your leg over his hip, pulling you flush against him. The hard line of his cock pressed through his flimsy prison trousers, grinding against your dampening cunt.
The friction was maddening, your thin leggings and his worn pants doing little to dull the sensation.
Your moan vibrated against his mouth, and he drank it down, a low hum of satisfaction rumbling in his chest. The sound was primal, a glimpse of the demon beneath the serene facade, unraveling under your touch.
Your hands fumbled with his shirt, tugging it free to reveal the sculpted planes of his torso—abs carved like ice, flawless and cold to the touch. You froze, caught by the sight, your breath catching as you traced the lines with your eyes.
His smile widened, sharp and knowing, as your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the pressure of his bulge.
With a flick of his wrist, he tore your leggings and panties away in one fluid motion, the fabric shredding like tissue paper. The cold air hit your bare skin, raising goosebumps, but his abs were colder still as you straddled them, your slick heat grinding softly against the unyielding ridges of muscle. The contrast of temperature was dizzying—your warmth against his frost, each movement sending sparks of pleasure-pain through your core.
His hand tangled in your hair, pulling you down for another kiss, this one hungrier, teeth grazing your lower lip.
“Shh,” he breathed, voice a silken thread woven through the cell’s oppressive hum. “Let’s see how long you can hold that breath.”
His fingers trailed down, feather-light over your collarbone, hooking the strap of your bra and snapping it with a flick that echoed like a gunshot in the unlit void.
The fabric slid down, exposing your chest to the biting cold, your skin pebbling under the weight of his gaze.
The air shimmered faintly around him, crystalline, like breath fogging glass, chilling the cell further.
His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, then gripping your hip to guide your movements. Each grind against his abs was a study in control—his control, your surrender—your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as the cold and heat blurred into something overwhelming. His rainbow eyes never left yours, drinking in every reaction, every shiver, as if he could taste your desire in the air.
He guided your head back, mouth finding the corner of your throat, the edge of your collarbone, breath ghosting over each inch like he was studying cause and effect. The fabric of your tank top rasped against his skin; one careful pull, and it slipped from your shoulder. The sound—soft cotton tearing free—seemed too loud in the dark.
You arched without thinking, nipples tightening to aching points as the cool draft kissed them, but he only hummed, low and amused, pressing his palm flat to your sternum to pin you down under him as he switched positions.
"Not yet. Breathe for me first."
You didn’t realize you’d stopped until the word hit.
His hand slid lower, deliberate, cupping the weight of your breast, thumb circling the peak but never quite touching—teasing the edge, watching your chest heave, your lungs burning for air you forgot to take.
The denial hit like vertigo, your body clenching on nothing, thighs pressing together against the sudden slick throb building low.
Those rainbow eyes gleamed in the emergency glow, pupils dilating not with lust but fascination, like you were a specimen writhing under his lens.
"There it is," he murmured, voice dipping to a purr that vibrated through your ribs. "That little hitch. Do you feel it? The way your heart stutters?"
His free hand ghosted over your hip, bunching the sheet away, fingers—cold as river stones—skimming the inside of your thigh, parting them just enough to let the facility's chill lick at your folds. You whimpered, hips bucking for friction, but he pressed back, unyielding, the frost from his skin blooming faint patterns on your inner knee, crystalline and biting.
"Stay still, darling. Or I'll make it colder."
A promise, not a threat—delivered with that empty smile you could feel curving against your neck as he nipped there, teeth grazing without breaking skin.
His fingers—long, pale, and impossibly cold—traced the curve of your slit with agonizing deliberation, parting the slick heat like a blade through silk.
He withdrew, leaving a chill blooming inside you, the air around your thighs frosting like breath on glass. The absence hurt more than his touch.
He raised those fingers, catching the dim light of the flickering beacons, and pressed one to your lower lip, the cool tip smearing your essence across it.
“Taste yourself,” he murmured, voice low and liquid, like frost creeping over glass. “Tell me how it feels to burn for me.”
You sucked it in, tongue licking around the chill, the salt tang mixing with his unnatural coolness, and god, it burned sweet, your core clenching empty as he watched, unblinking.
He descended again, two fingers scissoring deep, finding the spot that made your vision fracture into stars. Every slow drag wound the coil tighter, until your thighs trembled and your breath came in broken, hungry bursts.
Your hips chased him, but he vanished, fingers sliding free with surgical cruelty, leaving you empty and twitching on the edge.
He stilled suddenly, eyes on yours, his expression calm, clinical, as if measuring the shape of your need. “You almost begged,” he said, amused, “Almost.”
His tone then turned chiding, voice a velvet blade. “Not yet, my spark. I want you to feel every shard of this ache before I let you break.”
The air shifted, thickened with his power.
A thin sheet of ice bloomed at your wrists, delicate as lace but biting like frostbite, pinning your arms above your head against the mattress.
You tugged instinctively, and the cold sharpened, tiny needles of ice pricking your skin, grounding you in their sting. The sensation was a paradox—painful yet anchoring, making your pulse race and your core pulse with need.
Then three cold fingers pressed in, deliberate, merciless, curling until your body seized with light—each movement small, exact, a scientist testing limits.
But he stopped, withdrew slick and slow, a surgeon satisfied with the incision. “Told you. Not yet.”
You pulled against the ice; it bit back, tiny teeth finding skin.
His laugh was soft, a winter wind moved against your ear as he settled between your thighs. The hard length of him, freed from its flimsy confines, was cool velvet over unyielding steel, nudging your entrance but not breaching.
“Look at you,” he purred, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath a shiver-inducing chill. “All flushed and writhing, like a flame caught in my frost. Tell me, does denial taste sweeter than fear? Or do you crave both?”
You nodded, words lost in the ragged hitch of your lungs, and he rewarded you with a shallow thrust—just the tip, stretching you with a chill that melted into liquid fire inside.
Your eyes rolled back, and your back arched, pushing your spilling boobs higher in his face.
Then he pulled back, leaving you clenching around absence. Again.
In a fraction deeper this time, his hips rolling with lazy control, thumb grazing your clit with featherlight pressure, frost-kissed and tingling with numbness that made every nerve scream.
The build was relentless now, waves of heat breaking his calm façade; his breath hitched, just once, before he reclaimed control.
He watched every reaction—your mouth falling open, your back bowing, the way your walls fluttered greedily when he denied you again, retreating to trail his cold breath over your nipples instead.
They hardened instantly, diamond points under the icy gust, and he flicked one with a fingertip, the chill so sharp it drew a whimper from your throat.
“Please,” you gasped, the word cracking like thin ice, and his eyes lit—not with triumph, but with a dark, delighted curiosity, as if you’d just handed him the key to a locked puzzle.
“Again,” he cooed, his hand wrapping your throat now, light as a collar but firm enough to make your pulse thud against his palm.
“Beg while you turn blue for me. Let me see how pretty you shatter when I finally let you fall.”
His cock pressed back in—deeper, filling you to the hilt with a glide that was all smooth ice and unyielding heat.
His hips snapped once, twice, in an experimental rhythm, chasing the way your body shuddered beneath him.
The cold bloomed everywhere he touched—fingers trailing down your sides, leaving frost patterns that melted into goosebumps; lips brushing your collarbone, icing your skin before his tongue warmed it back to life.
He pinched your nipples again, rolling them between fingers that felt like frozen glass, the sharp contrast of cold and your own heat making you keen, a sound that echoed in the hollow room.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice a low growl as he leaned closer, his lips hovering over yours, not kissing, just stealing your breath.
“The way your body begs for my cold? It’s trembling to be claimed, to be consumed.”
His thumb returned to your clit, circling with brutal precision, each touch a spark of ice that melted into fire, pushing you closer to the edge.
He didn’t stop this time as his hips found a rhythm—deep and relentless, each thrust a calculated invasion that filled you with his glacial length.
The ice at your wrists tightened, then softened, melting into still-cold rivulets that trickled down your arms, pooling in the hollows of your collarbones.
His hand on your throat squeezed just enough to blur the world at the edges, oxygen a teasing drip as your vision spotted with red and white.
“You’re so warm,” he said, voice an observation dropped like hunger, his thumb flicking your clit in a rhythm that matched his thrusts.
The edge came like a tidal wave, your body convulsing around him in silent screams, walls clenching as the blackout spun through you—red, white, electric.
His low chuckle was your only anchor as he followed, spilling inside you, cool and endless, like winter claiming spring in a flood of frost and fire.
Your body shuddered through the aftershocks, each pulse drawing him deeper, your breaths mingling in the charged air.
He didn’t pull away.
His fingers lingered, tracing the melted ice along your wrists, soothing the faint red marks with a touch that was almost tender.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, his voice softer now, like snow falling in the dark.
“You taste like lightning, all raw and alive.”
His lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth that contradicted the chill of his skin.
“Do you know how rare it is, to see a spark like you burn so bright in my cold?”
You shivered, sated but still humming with the remnants of his touch, the beacons pulsing forgotten in the corner.
He shifted, propping himself on one elbow, his gaze still piercing but softer now, like moonlight diffused through clouds.
“Tell me,” he said, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from your face, “does the heat still linger, or have I frozen it all away?”
You managed a breathless laugh, voice hoarse. “It’s both. You’ve ruined me for anything else.”
His smile was slow, wicked, and just a little proud.
“Good,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your throat, right where his hand had been.
“I’d hate for you to forget the taste of my frost.”
The dark swallowed you both, the air still thick with the scent of ice and heat, your bodies tangled in the afterglow, alive in the quiet hum of his empty, endless gaze.
---
When you woke, the red lights were still pulsing—steady, patient, like a dying heart refusing to quit.
Douma sat across the room, humming under his breath, a content sound.
In one hand, a knife; in the other, a steak seared to a perfect brown. The scent was sweet, iron-rich.
You rubbed your eyes, groggy. “I’m starving.”
Then, blinking at the meat, “Where did you even find steak? The freezer’s—”
He looked up. The smile didn’t move his eyes.
“Fresh,” he said, gesturing lazily toward you with the knife he was eating with.
At first, you didn’t understand.
You followed his hand.
The blanket slid down your thigh.
Your heart sank.
Your left leg ended in a neat white bandage, just below the knee. The sheet beneath was pinked with diluted blood.
There was no pain—only the nauseating absence of it, and the faint copper tang rising from the air.
It took you a moment to realize you were already screaming.
Douma sighed, patient as a cult leader on genocide.
He dabbed his lips with a rag torn from someone’s uniform. “You looked so peaceful. I only wanted a taste.”
You fell off the cot, dragging yourself toward the wall, trying to get away, voice shattering. “You—what did you—”
He caught your face in one cold hand, tilting it with fond curiosity. “Why panic? You can grow it back… can’t you?”
The words hit like a stone dropped in a well.
“What do you mean—”
Then the pain hit.
Fire. Living fire, racing up your thigh.
Flesh twisted, knitting, muscle and sinew blooming from nothing.
The bandages burst apart as bone reformed—each nerve flaring awake one by one, like lights in a torture chamber.
You shrieked, louder.
Fear was no longer a word strong enough to encompass what was happening to you.
Your body moved without permission, seizing against the floor, your throat raw with the sound. The pain was too clean, too designed.
And something inside you laughed.
Not in your head.
Not through your mouth.
Under your skin.
The sound was ancient—older than the foundation beneath you, older than the gods your ancestors had named and forgotten.
Marks spread across your body, black first, then burning crimson, crawling like ink spilled in reverse—branching, blooming, forming symmetrical sigils across your chest and face.
Douma froze.
For once, his smile faltered.
Awe crept in where amusement had been.
“Ah,” he breathed. “So that’s what’s been humming under your skin.”
Your gaze lifted.
It wasn’t your gaze anymore.
Four eyes opened, scarlet-ringed and unblinking. A grin spread slow and deliberate, like a blade pulled from flesh.
When the voice came, it wasn’t human—it rumbled through the concrete, ancient and contemptuous. “You touched my vessel.”
Douma’s rainbow pupils widened, then steadied. He smiled again, but thinner now, brittle at the edges. “I didn’t see a name on her.”
The laugh that answered wasn’t mirth—it was the collapse of something divine. The sound made the metal groan. “You think I share.”
The air went wrong. Dense, electric, the kind of heavy that made breathing feel like swallowing glass. Every molecule vibrated out of tune. The reinforced walls began to groan—low, animal sounds of metal in pain.
The cell itself started to hum. The floor shuddered beneath them, every rivet trembling under an invisible pressure. Red emergency lights stuttered overhead, their pulse turning frantic, washing the room in violent rhythm.
The temperature dropped.
Then rose.
Then ceased to matter at all.
You—no, he—rose, dragging the shadows with him. The sigils on your body flared, pulsing with a rhythm older than the language of curses. “My vessel let me in. Her body, her will, her soul. That makes her my wife, little ghost. You will never matter.”
Douma almost made a joke about ‘that’s not what she said,’ but he stopped himself in time.
The word ‘wife’ burned through the air, not tender but sovereign—an oath branded in blood and ownership.
Douma’s grin faltered, curiosity bleeding into calculation. “So that’s what you call it. Possession by consent—how quaint.”
The next breath he took came out ragged. The oxygen itself had turned to knives.
The thing man tilted your head, four eyes gleaming with quiet, vicious humor. “You think yourself clever. You cut my wife and fed on her flesh.”
He smiled wider, a king indulging the condemned. “For that, I will not kill you fast.”
The floor cracked.
A handprint, black and flaming, burned into the wall beside Douma’s head, the alloy hissing as it liquefied.
The heat wasn’t fire—it was presence itself.
Douma laughed, the sound desperate to be charming. “Finally,” he murmured, arms opening like a penitent priest. “A god who bites back.”
The thing’s grin didn’t waver. “No. A god who feeds.”
He moved—or rather, the world bent toward him. The red lights exploded into white, then darkness.
The alarms wailed as the foundation screamed, walls bowing under invisible pressure.
Somewhere in the upper levels, containment seals ruptured one after another like snapping bones.
Two predators met:
one carved from winter,
one from divine fire.
One who devoured everything.
And one who had never learned to stop.
---
When you woke again, the sirens were gone.
Only the heartbeat-hum of ruined generators filled the air.
The cell smelled of iron and smoke. Frost had crept up the walls and then melted, leaving trails that shimmered like veins of mercury.
Something had happened—something that had rewritten the rules of the room.
You pushed yourself up on shaking arms. The bedframe’s legs had half-melted into the floor. And across from you—was a man.
Or rather, what was left of Douma.
The skin looked borrowed: paler, marked by faint black sigils that pulsed under the surface like veins filled with ink.
His eyes weren’t the same either—no longer rainbow glass but twin crescents of red heat, alive with something ancient.
When he smiled, it wasn’t Douma’s smile; it was older, sharper, infinitely more certain.
“You’re awake.”
The voice was deeper, rough silk dragged over stone. Familiar. It crawled straight through your spine because it was the voice that had lived in your head for years, whispering from the dark.
You froze. “You—”
“Not him,” he interrupted gently. “He’s gone.”
He glanced down at his hands, flexing them as though adjusting to a new shape. “The body was… weak but convenient. Nothing of him left but dust.”
The world tilted. You swallowed against the nausea.
He tilted his head, studying you the way a god studies a prayer, then softened. “I told you I’d find a way out.”
Memory flooded back—the endless months of that voice murmuring behind your thoughts, coiled around your heartbeat.
The reason you couldn’t step beyond Site 47’s walls without your chest seizing and your vision going black.
“I’m sorry you were sealed inside me,” you whispered. “When the breach happened.”
He nodded once, almost sheepishly. “Don’t waste your words with apologies. It wasn’t your fault, but an old trick of containment. They couldn’t cage me directly, so they buried me in you. Every step away from this place tore at your soul. You’d have died if you left with me still inside you. Killing us both.”
A pause, then quieter, “That’s why you stayed.”
All the waiting, the paralysis, the haunting calm—it hadn’t been fear.
It had been him.
He rose, with movements like the world had already decided to make space for him.
Douma’s stolen body carried itself differently now—less predator, more monarch.
“I fixed it,” he said simply. “The seal. The tether. You won’t die if you walk out of here anymore. Neither will I.”
You tried to speak, but your throat tightened instead.
He crossed the distance between you in two slow steps and stopped close enough for the heat of him to cut through the chill.
“You look terrified,” he said, almost apologetic. “I must seem like him. I’ll change the face if you want. Possess someone else. Might even let you pick.”
A poor attempt at a joke, but you smiled anyway.
The offer was absurdly gentle for a creature who could end worlds.
His fingers hovered, hesitant, near your cheek. “But I’d rather you see me like this, just once. In flesh. After so long.”
You didn’t answer. Your breath came uneven, not from fear exactly, but from the sheer reality of him.
He smiled then—small, almost human. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” you whispered, soft tears welling up.
He laughed, low and genuine, whipping stray tears away. “Of course. I’ve been waiting in the dark inside your head, listening to your heart, counting your breaths. Now I get to watch you breathe for real.”
The words shouldn’t have been comforting.
They were.
But you still frowned. “It’s weird that none of the guards have been deployed yet.”
He hummed but didn’t answer your question directly.
Instead, his hand brushed your hair back, careful and reverent. “Let’s go; this place is finished. The monsters are loose; the walls have forgotten their names. We’re free.”
“Free,” you echoed, the word strange on your tongue.
He nodded, and for the first time since you’d entered Site 47, the silence felt alive instead of dead.
Somehow, you felt safer with this cannibal than the ones whose body he was possessing.
A/N: This is basically a SCP-style crossover fic. Long-time shōnen readers may notice certain silhouettes & habits hidden between the lines.
But who exactly is “your husband”?
That’s left for you to guess.
All I can say is if you know him, you'd understand before he even spoke the first words.
Pairing: Giyuu Tomioka x fem!Hashira!reader
Genre: Fluff & Angst
Prompt/Day: 6. Blood On Snow from Darktober by @monthlywritingchallenges
WC: 519
Fanfiction Masterlist
The familiar sight of blood on the snow in front of you as you slowly blink your eyes causes your heart to race.
You can't help but jolt up from the ground, only for you to hiss out in pain and grab your side.
"Shit!" you hiss before you pull your hand away from your side to see your hand covered in blood.
That's when you remember what had happened.
You remember the demon that you were fighting, getting injured and the demon lunging at you as you laid there in the snow before Tomioka stopped the demon from getting to you before passing out.
At the thought of Tomioka, you look around frantically for a moment before you spot him still fighting the demon that had injured you.
Wanting to help him, even if you end up making your injury worse, you try to get to your feet, only for you to tumble back down.
"Fuck!" you hiss again as the pain from your wound courses through your body.
That's when you hear loud, quick footsteps coming right at you, causing you to look up and see the demon rushing right at you, its teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
"(L/N), look out!" You hear Tomioka shout as he chases after the demon, his sword above his head, ready to strike it down before it gets to you.
You quickly roll out of the way, wincing in pain from feeling the cold snow on your wound before looking up again, seeing Tomioka slice the demon's head off.
You can't help but let out a relieved sigh as you see the Demon dissolve into the air.
'Thank goodness...' you can't help but think as you slowly sit up so that you can get a better look at your wound.
The sound of Tomioka's footsteps coming closer a moment later causes you to look up.
"You alright?" he questions as he kneels down in front of you, his blue eyes landing on the blood on the snow next to you for a second before landing on your side where your haori is torn and bloodied.
"Yeah," you nod. "That bastard got a hit on me though." you wince.
"Is it deep?" he questions.
"Luckily no." you reply, your (e/c) eyes meeting his. "I should get back to Shinobu just in case though."
He nods in agreement before standing to his feet, all the while extending your hand to you for you to take.
You feel your cheeks burn for a moment as you take his hand and have him help you to your feet.
"Can't you walk by yourself?" He asks gently.
"I'll think so." You reply with a nod.
With that being said, you take a step forward only to stumble which causes Tomioka to catch you by the elbow, stopping you from falling to the ground.
"Here," Tomioka says to you, pulling your arm around his shoulders. "Let me help you."
"Thank you Tomioka." You smile as the two of you start walking.
"You're welcome." He nods, and you see a faint pink blush on his cheeks.
Tags - Established relationship, Depictions of Blood/Gore, Murder, Mentions of CNC
“You’re actually serious?”
Satoru couldn’t help but grin at your excitement, leaning against the doorframe in nothing but his shirt.
He’d been ignoring the hints you’d placed about like confetti, the way you’d hover about him while he worked.
So determined.
You knew he’d fold eventually.
“Yes. Of course I am, baby. Why wouldn’t I?”
He didn’t look at you directly, meticulously cutting away parts of material that posed no further purpose to him. “It just seems like a real odd request, princess. That’s all.”
“Well…”
Satoru froze and turned to you the first time during the exchange, holding up his protected hands as to not touch anything. “You saw someone online do it, didn’t you?”
You fiddled with the folded cuff and tugged at the neck line which revealed your cleavage enough that Satoru could see the outline of your nipple. “No-well, yes- okay you got me! But please, I never ask for anything.”
So innocent with puppy eyes, Satoru saw them way too much. By now, he should have been immune to your charm and doe-eyed advances. Yet he wasn’t. How could he ever say no to you when you asked so nicely?
“You don’t, do you?”
“Nope.” There was that beautiful smile he admired and fawned over.
“Fine. I’ll do it just this once.”
Just once. This time, he'd be firm on this choice. He wouldn't bend to it again. Not at all.
Certainly not.
Despite the rules while Satoru worked, you kissed him and he allowed it. “Put the mask on- oh, and make sure you’re shirtless too.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Who was he kidding? You could ask him to kill any random person on the street and he'd do it. Of course he'd do it again just to see you smile.
“Perfect. I’ll be somewhere in the woods waiting for you. Don’t be too long.”
You shot out through the hallway leaving Satoru with his own thoughts and tender smile at your little quirks no other man could handle.
“And I thought the whole idea was you getting away from me…” Satoru scratched his nose along side his forearm to avoid getting blood on his face. “Now, where were we?”
The body was already dead, he was just carving it up to set the organs aside on ice for Shoko to pick up with her spare key.
“Oh yeah, eyeballs.” They popped out like pinballs, firm on his palm that would pop under his grasp if he squeezed too hard.
There was plenty blood to go around. He smeared some over his chest for good measure. You were into the oddest things, and in the woods of all places.
Maybe your screams for help would attract someone new? Satoru wondered just how far your voice would carry, screaming in the most feral way while he tore away at your clothes. Perhaps Satoru would have more fun slicing them of with the knife from the kitchen, and a fist full of your hair between his knuckles.
Of course you’d struggle, Satoru knew that your full strength was something he easily overwhelmed. It was what turned you on. What got you off quickly.
Satoru being forceful.
After putting the eyes in a bag on ice, he slipped out of his heavy duty gloves and left his office door locked for when Shoko came over.
The mask was just some Halloween thing he wore to last year’s party, Satoru was surprised you even found it.
He was covered in blood splatters.
He was shirtless.
He was getting increasingly horny.
A little blood went a long way on this mask sprayed for dramatic effect. His casual stroll from the kitchen knife block to the back door set him on one dark path when he noticed the quick flash of your cellphone light.
So easy.
Well, you did want to get caught.
Pulling the mask over his face, Satoru set off into the night, ready to get a taste of all this fuss over public sex in the woods while you begged him not to. Though deep down you wanted it more than ever.
"Ready or not, princess. Here I come."
<- Back to the prompts!
DISCLAIMER - I do not own any of the characters. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).
A/N: A dark, paranormal, romance set in an urban fantasy!
Tags: Achillean Romance, Age Gap, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Creature Feature, Dark Fiction, Fae AU, Underage Character(s)
Summary
Bucky is determined to make a good impression.
Bingos and Events:
@anyfandomdarkbingo - Boarding School AU
@ao3tagbingo - Blood Kink
AU Challenge - Vampire
@augustwritingchallenge: Trick AU Treat 2025 - Day 1: Glow
@badthingshappenbingo - Trail of Blood
@bloodyheartsbingo: A Vesper Bleeding on Your Lips' Card (Bloody Hearts Mini Bingo I) - U R Great: General - Throwing a party in someone's honor to show how they're appreciated
@darkacademiabingo:
Dark Academia Bingo - Boarding School
Dark Academia Scenarios Flash Event - Amongst the elite, treacherous murmurs rise, the potential of exposure cracking honor and valor
@darkspicyevanstan: Paranormal Fantasy
@deadbingoclub: October - Bloodplay
@deaddovedec: 2024 - Week 1: Day 2 - Bloodloss
@deaddovekink:
Ageplay April 2024 - Day 1: Jailbait
Kinktober: Dead Dove Chapter 2025 - Day 29: Claimed
@eclipsingbingo:
Forbidden Love
The Rising Moon Flash - Broken Glass
@fairytalebingo: Mad Monster Bingo - Vampire
@thefairytalebingo - Vampire
@fandomsandstuff: Never Have I Ever - Creative Edition: Urban Fantasy
@fandombingo:
Crime & Mystery Trope Flash - Secret Messages
Dark Deception Bingo - School
Neverwhere Bingo - Something Hunting You from the Shadows
Valentine Trope Flash - Card 1: Chocolate Lava Cake, Card 2: Strawberry Mousse, Card 4: Turkish Delight
Wonderland Bingo - Arson
@fictober-event: 2025 - “This is annoying.”
@halloweenhorrorbingo: 2024 - Drinking Blood
@hurtcomfort-bingo: Pick Your Poison Bingo - Dizziness
@julybreakbingo: 2025 - Vampire AU
@kinktober-2025 - Day 7: Bloodplay
Macrocest: Winter Bingo - Free Space
@monsterfucktoberbingo - Free Space
@monthlywritingchallenges: Darktober - Alt Prompt: A smile you shouldn't trust
@multifandom-flash: Here There Be Monsters Bingo - Seelie
Thanks to everyone who read and supported, it was a lot of fun! Here's the full list of prompts (by @monthlywritingchallenges) with links to the fills.
Let me know what your favourite ended up being and if there are any you'd like to see expanded on — I might write a longer one shot for one of them!
1. Long shadows
2. Locked door
3. The call in the night
4. Whispers you’re not supposed to hear
5. The thing left behind
6. Blood on snow
7. False smile
8. Broken mirror
9. The silence after
10. Forgotten oath
11. Eyes in the dark
12. Keys that fit every door but yours (alternate)
Fall of the Crow 8 - The End
“Overwhelming wonders and power. Desperate hunger for progress. Distortion of life, devouring body."
Fan art for Hyper Light Drifter by @heartmachinez
