#I just... word vomitted everywhere on this

[zorostitties]

Samsara; 2

⤕ She was plagued. Shadows loomed over her mind. She was alone in a world where no one dared to look into the occult. She missed the faceless man from her dreams, the one her soul longed for. She wanted to meet him again.

He was plagued. Alucard had loved countless times. There was one love he was never able able to forget, however; the one that was ripped away from him. He knew they could never meet again.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: reincarnation, angst, romance, smut, hurt/comfort

warnings: violence/blood, explicit sex, mental health issues, blasphemy (?), reader is a girl kisser, century xix misoginy, mentioned suicide and rape (very brief, non descriptive)

rating: 18+

word count: 12k

A/N: gosh this ch got so long. but i'm very proud of this one!! - when writing this fic, i like to imagine @/viccerys' version of alucard! their fanarts are absolutely gorgeous and i love their interpretation of him! - i'm really into 80s rock/love ballads so i listened to looking for love by whitesnake on repeat while writing this chapter. feedback as usual is much appreciated! enjoy <3

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

Sometimes, you wondered if everyone else was right about you.

Flourished imagination. Excessive daydreaming. Not wanting to face reality. Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe the things you saw and felt were really not real. Of course… you didn’t doubt your premonitory dreams and visions. Those were way too accurate to not be real. But...the shivers? The sudden overwhelming discomfort that made you want to rip your hair off your scalp, scream, lay on the floor in fetal position? What if it was just some sort of brain disease?

Maybe that was why your stomach was turning. Maybe that was why the tiny hairs in the back of your neck were raising. Maybe that was why you felt this sudden cold creep under your skin as you approached the ceremony hall.

It was either that… or there was something horribly wrong about that place.

You didn’t want to get inside.

The feeling got worse and worse and worse as you approached it. Clara spoke some encouraging words on the way (“You look stunning!” or “It’ll all be okay. No one will hurt you.”), but you barely listened as a strange buzzing sound muffled your ears. It was… it was as if fog covered the area around the ceremony hall and the garden. But Clara didn’t mention fog, so you assumed only you could see it.

You didn’t want to get inside.

Your body was begging you to turn around and run.

DANGER, something in your mind screamed — as if there was a wild animal there. Your heart raced. Your fingertips trembled. Turn around and run. Turn around and run. Turn around and run.

But maybe it was all in your head.

The hall was filled with people that laughed at you, made rumors about you for fun. You knew many more rumors would surface after that night simply because you attended. And you knew that man was there — Alfred Zardini… your future husband. The first time you’d see him in person. And you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want to be anywhere near him.

So… maybe that was why your brain was reacting that way. Scared of being in a situation that would cause so much discomfort. Maybe that is why it was heightening your senses as if you were about to face great danger.

But you didn’t want to embarrass yourself anymore. Not in front of the entire city. Not when it’d bring Clara more shame.

So you tried to take a deep breath.

This time it is all in your head. Relax. It’s just people. It’s just people.

You walked behind Clara into the hall.

And the moment you stepped inside—

You knew.

It was not all in your head.

There was something horribly, horribly wrong about that place.

It made you want to vomit. It made you want to run. The fog was inside the hall, too, and the smell— God, the stench. It was rancid and disgusting and you didn’t want to breathe anymore. And— and that black mud— it was everywhere, dripping from the curtains and soaking the floor and making everyone’s clothes dirty with it… what the fuck was that black mud?! Why wasn’t anyone else seeing it?! How could they not feel that stench?!

Turn around and run. Turn around and run.

It was loud. Loud loud loud loud. The music playing. The chatter. The voices. Not spoken voices — the voices that reached your mind, not your ears. Their thoughts. Their feelings and emotions. Everything reached you from all sides, bombarding you with more information than what you could bear. You were the center of attention— and you felt it, the mocking, the contempt, the curiosity. They were expecting you to yell all of sudden or embarrass yourself. But you actually wanted to run away this time — you wanted to run run run and hide, you wanted to take these clothes off because the gown was way too heavy and didn’t let you breathe and oh my God I am suffocating I am suffocating I will pass out I don’t want to be here no please please please—

Don’t embarrass yourself, the somewhat sane part of your brain tried. Don’t embarrass your sister in front of all of these people.

But I don’t want to be here. There’s something wrong here. Something evil.

Some of Clara’s and Julien’s friends came to greet you. You tried to smile, tried to not look so nauseous— but how could you when this disgusting black mud was everywhere, even on their teeth? How could they not feel that stench?

Don’t embarrass your sister. Don’t embarrass your sister.

Voices popped up in your mind. Miss Salles. That pretty thing is crazy. Clara is brave for bringing her along. Mr. Zardini might be insane too for wanting her as a wife.

Mr. Zardini.

No no no no no. You didn’t want to meet him. Not only because you didn’t want it from the start — but right now? As you felt about to spit your own guts out? As you could barely breathe? You simply had no conditions to hold a decent conversation with anyone. He’ll laugh at me. Everyone will laugh at me. Please, don’t approach me. Please, I just want to be alone.

The musical group started another song. Something a bit more agitated. Couples swiftly floated to the center of the hall to dance. The hem of their gowns — they were drenched in that black mud. I’m gonna vomit.

And then you spotted him across the hall, slowly making his way towards you.

No no no no no please no no no. He looked exactly like the painting in the locket — and it didn’t make it any better. He… he could very well be your father. No no no don’t approach me. Stay away from me. No no no I don’t want to marry you I don’t want to be your wife.

You could barely breathe.

Turn around and run. Turn around and run. Turn around and run. Turn around and run-

And then—

Then—

The world stopped.

It went silent.

Suddenly, the overwhelming cacophony halted. You couldn’t hear voices or thoughts or feelings anymore. Your vision blurred.

You couldn’t focus on anything else but the man standing in front of you.

He… Where did he come from? You had no idea. He blocked the sight of Mr. Zardini behind him… and everything else, too.

Your eyes widened slightly. A soft gasp that you couldn’t hold back escaped.

He was beautiful.

No… beautiful was an inappropriate adjective to describe him. He was something that couldn’t be properly conveyed in words.

The stranger was tall — perhaps the tallest person in the hall. His hair was a long, wavy waterfall of pure white strands that cascaded over his broad shoulders. His skin was porcelain white… had you ever seen someone so pale before? But surprisingly, his skin tone didn’t make him look sick. It contrasted greatly with his golden eyes — literally golden, you realized; not hazel. Golden. Like melted gold. Each facial feature seemed symmetrically measured to perfection; his nose, lips, eyebrows, jawline… he wore an elegant black attire with only a few golden details and buttons of his coat. It was simpler than what most men around him wore, but he didn’t need anything more luxurious to stand out.

He was the only person not drenched in this strange black mud. He was clean.

His eyes were serene. In his lips, a small — even charming — lip tightened smile.

Your eyes widened even more when, with the elegance of a swan, he bowed politely and offered you a gloved hand.

“Ms. Salles, may I have this dance?”

And then, you couldn’t breathe anymore.

Not because of the horrible feeling of danger hovering in the air. Not because of the anxiety. Not even because he was embarrassingly handsome.

But because of his voice.

It was deep. Quiet. Husky. Seemed to reverberate in your bones.

And you’d heard it before.

In your dreams.

The faceless man…

The voice of reason spoke again. Don’t embarrass your sister.

You couldn’t leave him waiting. But… but you were supposed to dance with Mr. Zardini, right? Wouldn’t… wouldn’t he be offended…?

But you didn’t care about Zardini. Not at all.

So, somehow, you remembered how to move. You remembered how to blink and open a demure smile. You remembered how to pick your skirt and bob a polite curtsy.

You remembered how to take his hand.

And for the first time, you wished you weren’t wearing gloves.

Physical touch was… most times, unbearable — because you could feel people through their skin. Their emotions and sometimes even their thoughts. Of course… being in this hall full of people made you feel them as well, but it was like standing near a furnace: you could feel its heat. Physical touch was like putting your hand inside the furnace. You couldn’t control that; it was uncalled for, it was maddening. You were used to wearing gloves even in the warmest weather.

But at that moment, you wished to touch his skin. You wished he wasn’t wearing black leather gloves as well. Maybe… maybe like that, you’d understand him a bit better.

He guided you to the center of the hall smoothly – and once more, you remembered that you were the center of attention. They are all shocked somehow. Is it because they knew Zardini was going to court you? Yes, it was that, but there was another reason. Their thoughts and intentions were like a flock of parrots hooting around you all at the same time.

Miss Salles Miss Salles Mr. Zardini so disrespectful what is happening what what what does he want with her the Duke Mr. Tepes the Duke of Wallachia–

Sudden cold ran down your spine.

A Duke?

He was a Duke?!

Finally, you faced him again. The stranger – a Duke! – bowed elegantly once more; you immediately bobbed another curtsy before taking his left hand. His right hand came to rest on your waist, which immediately made more shivers run down your spine. His hand was big like… like the rest of him. His grip was firm but gentle. The serenity in his eyes remained. God – it was hard to keep eye contact with him.

The Duke began to guide you in the dance.

For a moment, you had something else to focus on: dancing. You had trained with Clara at least two days prior… you weren’t a socialite like her. You hadn’t attended many balls in your life, as your parents were way too embarrassed of you to allow your participation. So, she had to step in and teach you over and over again. It didn’t feel that hard when you were dancing with her – but right now? With him?

You focused all of your might into not stepping on his foot or tripping over your own dress. You knew you probably looked stiff and funny to everyone else… as if you needed another reason to be laughed at.

Before, you wanted to run away because of the sense of danger; now, you wanted to run away due to the sheer awkwardness of it all…

Until he decided to speak for the first time.

“These people don’t have anything better to do, aye?”

It caught you off guard.

That deep voice that sounded so oddly familiar. He was surprisingly soft spoken… but what surprised you even more was his somewhat good humored tone. Slightly annoyed, even – but not at you.

Apparently, he didn’t like all that attention as well.

“Oh, I believe they don’t.” Your voice was as quiet as his to not let the couples around you eavesdrop. “If they did, they wouldn’t waste their precious time coming here.” You almost choked on your own words. That was inappropriate. He is here after all. What way to talk to someone you don’t even know! You cleared your throat and avoided his gaze for a second. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

He chuckled.

It caught you off guard again.

“No need for apologies. No need for your grace, either.” He frowned slightly. “Though… I don’t remember presenting myself.”

Oh.

He actually didn’t. No one did, at least with spoken words.

You tilted your head awkwardly. “Well. I heard. They’re loud and irritating. Like a flock of parrots.” That was also inappropriate. You weren’t that used to social interactions overall, and the sheer nervousness of it all made you speak before thinking.

He chuckled again.

“A flock of parrots sounds like an accurate description.”

The music elevated for a moment. He made you twirl around; your gown fluttered around your body like a whirlpool of emeralds before his hand was on your waist once again.

“But you haven’t presented yourself either, and I already knew your name… so we’re even.”

It was your turn to chuckle dryly. “It’d be a miracle if you hadn’t heard about me at this point, sir… as I am this circus’ main attraction.” You didn’t intend to sound so bitter, but it was quite impossible to hide it.

He narrowed his eyes. “I certainly see why you’re the main attraction. It has nothing to do with any circus, however.”

It caught you off guard again.

Harder this time.

You almost gasped.

A quiet giggle followed.

“You flatter me, sir.” He did actually flatter you a lot, but perhaps the nervousness stunted your nerves, preventing you from embarrassing yourself even further. “But there’s no need to pretend you didn’t hear what you heard. My reputation precedes me. I am used to it.”

He quirked his eyebrow slightly. “Is it true?”

His tone was still lighthearted. Not a drop of judgment, hesitation or awkwardness… and it made you feel less and less nervous. Made the annoying parrot voices quiet down. Suddenly, you caught yourself not caring about the black mud anymore. Or about the crowd of spectators… or even if what you said was appropriate or not.

You shrugged. “It depends. Would that make you afraid of me like everyone else?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is true. I am in fact insane.”

He chuckled again, closing his eyes for a moment. “What have you heard about me?”

“I heard you came all the way from Wallachia… to stand in my brother-in-law’s ceremony hall. Which makes me wonder if you are a bit insane as well.”

“I certainly was going insane some minutes ago.” He nodded. “You are right. They are loud and irritating. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for business…” His gaze became a bit more intense. “...but my evening became very interesting all of sudden.”

You smiled.

The first genuine, unapologetic smile you opened from the moment you got out of bed.

And he smiled back. A smaller smile… but genuine nevertheless. A smile that reached his beautiful golden eyes.

He twirled you around once more. You couldn’t hear or feel anyone else anymore… anyone but him.

The song ended. The couples stopped dancing, the crowd applauded. You faced each other at some steps distance.

“But let me do things the proper way. It’d be rude of me not to.” He, once more, bowed politely with his right hand over his chest and his left arm behind his back, a lighthearted smile never leaving his lips. “I am Adrian Tepes, the insane hermit of Wallachia… at your service.”

A quiet but unavoidable giggle erupted from your chest. Once more, you bobbed an elegant curtsy – a much less stiff one now that you felt more comfortable in your own skin.

“I am Miss Salles. The court jester… at your service.”

And it was strange, that small moment you shared. How comfortable and at ease you felt with this man you knew nothing about. How he made you forget about everything that plagued you, even if for just a few minutes.

Until that happened.

The black mud. In one second, it was still there.

The next second – it wasn’t.

It was so abrupt that your smile immediately vanished; your stomach dropped. All of that sticky, disgusting black liquid disappeared as if it had never been there in the first place. For the first time, you saw clearly what color the attendees’ gowns were, the impeccably clean marble floor, the shiny crystal chandelier…

All gone.

Maybe you should’ve felt relief, for the sense of danger vanished as well. But… there was something so eerie about it that you couldn’t help but feel even more apprehensive. What was that thing? Why did it disappear?

When you looked at Mr. Tepes again… he wasn’t smiling anymore. He had a frown over his features, his eyes hardened. He looked around to the oblivious crowd as if searching for someone specific.

His gaze dropped to you again.

And for a second, he seemed to hesitate. Just for a second.

“My apologies, Ms. Salles. I must make myself absent.” He bowed his head respectfully. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Truly.”

You gulped and bowed your head too. “O-Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you as well.”

Mr. Tepes walked away.

You weren’t brave enough to follow him with your eyes.

You stood there for some moments, feeling the awkwardness creep all over again. You were alone once more. The attention never left you. The parrot whispers were coming back… the perception of what happened was coming, too. Everyone expected you to dance with Mr. Zardini. But you danced with another man instead…

You didn’t want to face him. You didn’t want to face anyone.

Quietly, you walked to the back of the hall.

No one tried to approach you. You already knew they wouldn’t. At that point, you didn’t care if it’d be rude to simply vanish five minutes after arriving; they already had enough material to make up rumors for months. So, rapidly, you walked towards the back doors that led to a corridor connecting the hall to the manor.

You unceremoniously ran as soon as the doors closed, almost tripping on the hem of the dress – and just stopped running when you reached an office on the first floor.

No more inconvenient voices or looks – but that didn’t ease your raging heart and mind, not anymore.

It took Clara three minutes to find you.

She closed the doors and looked at you with widened eyes.

“What just happened back there?”

You shrugged helplessly.

“A dance?”

Clara walked from side to side, holding her own head. She looked absolutely distressed.

“Oh, God. They’re all talking. This is not how things were supposed to go. And- And Mr. Zardini, he looked so displeased–“

“Well, what was I supposed to do? Say no to a Duke?!”

She nodded. “Yes, yes, I know – you had no way out of that situation. It’s not your fault. It’s his fault.” Clara stopped and put both hands on each side of her waist. “Respectfully, is he not aware of good manners and etiquette?”

“He wasn’t disrespectful.”

You avoided her gaze.

And that was enough for Clara to understand.

God, how you hated the fact that you could feel her feelings slowly fill the room like smoke. Of course, she was a woman as well; she saw the stark difference between Mr. Tepes and Mr. Zardini. Who wouldn’t be flattered? And she felt bad for you, because that dance gave you a little bit of hope that maybe, maybe you wouldn’t have to be tied to that much older man…

Clara sat on the couch in front of you and looked down at her skirt.

“I didn’t know him before.” Her voice was quiet. “Julien had mentioned that he met a duke a few years ago… but I didn’t know he would attend. He appeared last minute.”

Slowly, you sat down by her side.

Silence.

Silence.

She looked over the sofa to check if someone was coming through the door before turning to you.

“...He’s Adonis incarnate, isn’t he?!”

Both of you started giggling like two little girls.

You covered your mouth, feeling your entire face and neck get hot. Clara looked at the door again before continuing in an excited half whisper.

“God, I got so shocked when he approached you!”

“I got shocked, too! I almost didn’t know what to do.”

She tightened her hands in fists and let a very unlady-like groan escape. “It was so satisfying to see their faces, sister! All of these vultures shocked that he chose you for a dance.”

“Why me, however? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, please.” She pushed your shoulder jokingly. “If he’s Adonis, then you are Helen of Troy. Why would any gentleman not want to pick you for a dance?”

“Stop.” You pushed her shoulder back. You knew Clara was just trying to lift your spirits… no man aware of your history would want to be seen with you, no matter how embellished you looked. There were some seconds of silence again. “Why do you think his hair is white like that?”

“Oh, I’ve seen someone like that before… Anne’s child. Her babe was born pale like that. Not a bit of color in him. Poor thing couldn’t even be out in the sun for too long without getting burned.”

You avoided her gaze again… for a different reason this time.

If you told her that you thought he looked like a vampire, she’d say you were hallucinating again.

Clara never seemed to notice the differences in people. Nor your parents… and most people around you. But you knew it. They looked like human beings, talked and moved like human beings… but the scent of blood that followed them made them stand out. The red aura that revolved them.

You hadn’t seen many in your life – at least, not many while awake; your dreams constantly involved these creatures. Maybe two or three, all aristocrats, always from a distance. But you never forgot them. The sheer sense of danger they exhaled. The fact that predators like them could blend in a crowd and no one would bat an eye at them.

Mr. Tepes looked like one. But he lacked the crimson aura and the smell of blood… which made you wonder if Clara was right this time.

But so many strange things happened in the span of ten minutes that his unusual hair color was the least of it. That black mud that covered everything and vanished in a second… the absolute sense of danger… what caused it? Was it even something relevant, or was it just your heightened anxiety making you see things?

Him…

His oddly familiar voice…

The sense of comfort you shared in that short dance.

Almost as if...

Another shiver ran down your spine.

Almost as if you already knew him.

One week later, you were set to meet your future husband… again.

And it was awful how everyone already treated him as your fiance, even though he hadn’t properly asked your hand in marriage… because they knew no other man would be brave enough to even begin any sort of courtship. That’d be the best and only chance you’d ever have at marriage.

No one ever asked your opinion on this, obviously. You were invalid. Incapable of making choices of your own.

Truth be told… after what happened at the ball, Clara even tried to slow down the process. Of course, a simple dance wasn’t the same as courtship; a few minutes of conversation didn’t mean the Duke was interested in you. But, well… Clara had some hope. Who wouldn’t?

But Mr. Tepes had vanished.

Julien didn’t know where he was hosted. According to his words, the Duke was a very private man. He didn’t care for lavish stays or grand introductions despite his position, preferring discretion and isolation instead. And… well, if he was interested, he would’ve already made some sort of move.

He didn’t have to.

He definitely wasn’t the prince on a white horse you had fantasized about when you were a kid. You had been through enough to understand that this sort of thing didn’t exist.

Mr. Zardini, on the other hand, was adamant in meeting you.

Again, according to Julien… he was able to “explain” the Duke’s behavior as, “the people of Wallachia have different manners. Don’t see it as an insult.” And surprisingly, Zardini believed it. More than that – it seems he didn’t even mind it at all. He really wanted to meet you officially.

Julien hopped around in happiness that the accord wasn’t broken – because yes, to him, this was nothing but a business accord. Zardini was the owner of a great shipping company, after all, and Julien wanted to link with powerful families to strengthen his own influence.

Clara just felt sorry.

Feeling sorry doesn’t change anything, unfortunately.

She stood behind you as you faced the mirror.

“You look like a spring flower, sister.”

A light gown for the warm weather, the color of cherry blossoms. Simpler jewelry. Delicate gloves, as usual.

You did look beautiful.

But the lack of a smile on your face ruined everything. There wasn’t any reason to be happy at all. And Clara knew it. You saw her struggling to find the right words. She didn’t want to encourage you to “behave” or indulge Zardini… but she knew you had no way out of this either.

Her hand touched your shoulder softly.

“I am sorry, sis–“

“Please, don’t.” You took her hand off your shoulder delicately, deciding to look anywhere else but her reflection in the mirror. “Let’s… let’s just get this over with.”

Clara looked down and nodded as if words got stuck in her throat. She turned around and left.

It’d be a long afternoon.

Turns out Mr. Zardini paid little to no attention to you during lunch – and you couldn’t be more thankful.

Him, Julien and a cousin of his that came along, Mr. Ricci, were too absorbed in keeping their conversation between each other. Clara barged in with clever commentary as usual. You stayed shut, focusing in trying not to vomit instead.

They already knew you were crazy, right? You wouldn’t try to act like you weren’t.

You couldn’t even look at him, in fact.

Zardini.

He was impeccably well dressed. His outfit, manners and ways of speech made it clear that this was a man of power, born and grown in wealth. Very intelligent. His gray beard was perfectly trimmed, hair perfectly styled. Everything about him was perfectly done.

That wasn’t a compliment.

In the moments you had the courage to lift your gaze to him, you could see that he… he wasn’t exactly ugly. Maybe you’d have found him very attractive twenty years ago. Zardini clearly took care of his appearance, more than most man would.

But that didn’t change the fact that he could very well be your father.

That didn’t change the fact that you were at his mercy with no visible way out.

That didn’t change the fact that you’d have to perform the duties of a wife with him.

You’d have to let him kiss you. You’d have to lay in bed and let him stick his flaccid penis inside of you. You’d have to let him do it for five minutes (which is what he probably could take) every night until he finally managed to make you pregnant. And then you’d have to give birth and raise his child.

And everyone expected you to be grateful for it.

You wanted to die.

You thought of throwing a tantrum. It’s what everyone in this table expected of you, isn’t it? You were great at those. Sometimes your fits were real. But you learned to fake them over the years, just to annoy the nuns and set havoc in the convent. Pushing the table towel, hollering like an animal, kicking the air, drooling… you seriously considered doing it.

But Clara was there.

And your nephews somewhere in the house.

You had a few night terrors ever since coming to live with them. They hadn’t witnessed any of them… but you didn’t want them to see what actually happened to you when you had one of these fits. These boys were the only people on Earth who didn’t see you as a dangerous creature. You didn’t want to change their perception.

So you behaved.

No smiles. Not participating in any conversation. Not acting as if you liked anything that was going on. And that’s the best they would get.

After lunch and tea were over, Zardini asked to have a private walk in the gardens with you.

You’d rather die. But there was no way out of there, was it?

The afternoon was awfully beautiful. A refreshing breeze, blue skies, the flowers were blooming. You walked slowly on a stone trail by the lake. You held a parasol the same color of your dress; it had no intention to protect you from the sun, however, but protect you from him, as if to create a visible barrier between you two.

Zardini was tall. He smelled of tobacco and a strong male cologne that made you even more nauseous. His voice was grave and quite authoritarian.

Worst of it all – he didn’t seem bothered by your apathy. Not at all.

“Beautiful property, this one. I heard your sister helped with most of the renovations and the new garden. Talented woman.”

“She is.” You nodded without bothering to look at him.

“A good mother. A well loved woman by high society. A diligent wife. You sister is perfect in every sense.”

You frowned slightly. Why exactly was he complimenting Clara that much all of sudden? Was it to make you feel bad? Was it because he secretly liked her but chose you instead since she was already taken?

Zardini stopped walking, which made you stop as well. You realized he did it now that you were at a considerable – but still safe and respectful – distance from the gazebo where you had lunch.

He fiddled with a golden pocket watch absently, eyes glued to it.

“We’re both grown adults. I believe we can speak clearly without the formalities required by societal norms.” For the first time, you were fully paying attention to what he had to say. “I figure you already understand what my interests are with you.”

You were taken aback.

This is usually not how things went. Not so straightforward.

You nodded.

“I also would like you to understand that I do not require perfection from you. I do not expect or hope for love either; respect and loyalty are more than enough.”

“And what should I expect from you with this marriage, sir?” The first time you actually spoke out loud that afternoon, matching his stone cold tone. “You’ll already get a good business partnership with the Saint-Clairs. Already very beneficial without my respect and loyalty.”

If he wants to be direct, then let’s be direct.

Zardini quirked one eyebrow. He didn’t seem upset by your harsh retort.

“Protection. And I know what you might think. You’re a woman of high status, what else could I provide that you already do not own? But unfortunately, the Salles estate is in possession of your brother-in-law, and he does not plan on taking care of you forever, no matter how hard your dear sister might insist. I believe there aren’t many more gentlemen willing to do so, either.”

That was like a punch in the gut.

You knew he was right, but you didn’t expect him to know all this. Perhaps it was obvious to everyone else… yet, the way he shoved it in your face made you deeply upset.

Made you despise him.

“You will have my properties. The comfort. The peace you need. I’ll just ask you one thing, other than giving me an heir.” He stepped closer. Dropped his voice.

There was something eerie in his green eyes.

“The use of your abilities.”

Soft wind made the grass rattle, the trees shuffle. A note of silence extended between you two.

You had a notion of what he meant. But you didn’t want to believe it.

“I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”

“You do.” Zardini chuckled dryly. “As I already said… we can speak freely without any formalities. People say… absurdities about you. But from the moment I first heard the rumors, I knew the truth.”

Your jaw dropped.

He… he couldn’t be talking about this, could he?

You gripped the stick of the parasol tighter, getting increasingly more uncomfortable. “I still don’t understand what you mean.”

Zardini looked down at you with a strange smirk.

“What was my mother’s name?”

You were, once again, taken aback.

“How would I know your mother’s name? You haven’t told me.”

He waited in silence.

The wind made noise again, played with your dress. Your discomfort grew more and more. Was this man in his right mind?

But you heard it.

With your mind. Not with your ears.

You heard the name.

You didn’t even need to concentrate to hear it; it slipped into your head with ease.

“...Victoria.”

Your voice was quiet. Hesitant.

Zardini’s green eyes gleamed.

“Extraordinary.” He said under his breath. “Truly extraordinary. I have never met a psychic with such raw talent.”

“A what?”

“A psychic. Someone who bears the power of feeling and seeing beyond the common human senses. Someone who can even predict the future with ease.” His gaze over you had a new type of interest; he analyzed your features as if you were an expensive Chinese vase. “...And to think your parents hid you for so long. Heavens, they had no idea.”

You watched him in shocked silence.

This old man… who you already despised. But, at that moment, you let that aside. Maybe because shock stunted your other emotions.

Your voice came as a fragile whisper.

“Do you… do you believe in me?”

No one ever did before. Ever.

No matter how much proof you had. No matter how hard you screamed. No one ever believed you. No one ever gave you the benefit of the doubt. Not even your beloved sister.

At that moment, Zardini did.

His eyes softened; so did his smirk.

“I’ll give you the most quiet, comfortable life… so you can flourish your abilities to its highest capacity. No more judgment. No more questions. All you have to do… is see the future for me in return.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Maybe you should’ve been happy at the fact that someone believed you for the first time. But that was still an inescapable situation; he was not asking for your collaboration. Neither was he asking your hand in marriage.

He was demanding it.

And he had the power to do so.

That same evening, you got engaged.

He knew she was coming.

It was impossible not to hear her quiet steps approaching the library. Inside the colossal empty castle, any small noise became a thunder in his ears, as if living in the pipes of an organ. He could hear the freezing winter wind out there, softly touching the windows. Tiny rodents hiding from the snow. The flame of the candlestick beside him crackling quietly.

When he lifted his gaze and saw her entering the library, he was not surprised.

She had a blanket wrapped around her figure. Her hair was loose, a gracious mess falling over her shoulders. Her face was slightly swollen. Barefoot.

She approached him in silence.

The castle had many libraries spread around its sections. Each library stored specific genres of books. The astronomy tower… the philosophy library… his mother’s study, where he didn’t have the courage to enter anymore. Some sections of the palace were… silently forbidden. He didn’t get near these places. She didn’t, either.

This library was one of these places.

His late father had a library of its own right in his chambers. But this one… the circular library equivalent to three floors of books with a glass skylight on the roof, was where he kept some of his most precious discoveries. There were probably over sixty thousand books inside that library alone. All written by the man himself.

He didn’t get there. Not even to clean it. After months, a thin layer of dust covered the entire place.

There was a reason for him to be there that night, however. Multiple books were scattered on the floor around him. He sat on a blanket and some cushions to protect himself from the cool marble floor, but didn’t bother to light up the fireplace.

And he didn’t mind her presence there.

Months ago, when she arrived, this would be unthinkable. He didn’t trust her enough to be near his father’s ancient knowledge.

Things were different now.

Quietly, she sat in front of him.

“Can’t sleep?” His voice was almost as silent as the single candle cackling beside him.

She shook her head. “It’s too cold.”

He dropped his eyes back to the small book at hand. “You could light up the fireplace.”

“You should light up this fireplace.” She caressed her arms under the blanket to ward off the cold. “It’s freezing here.”

“I don’t mind cold.” He flipped a page. “I’m more worried about you walking around barefoot at night during winter.”

She sighed and eyed the books around. “…Did you find a solution?”

“Not yet.”

The heating system was not working in some sections of the castle. The pipes were probably damaged during the battle months ago… and he was trying to find a solution in his father’s engineering books.

That was a great excuse.

There weren’t just engineering books around him. There were… other things, too. Random annotations. Even poetry. It could be unthinkable to anybody that the late king of the vampires would write anything of the sort.

Hesitantly, she reached for a thin book next to her, as if waiting to see if he would prevent her… but he didn’t. She opened the first page and read quietly.

A small smile adorned her features.

“He had a beautiful way with words.”

He nodded softly. “When he wanted.”

She looked down at the pages again. “He… truly loved her. Didn’t he?”

He didn’t answer.

Silence lingered between them. But… it wasn’t uncomfortable like it was in the beginning. When they still had their walls up. When most days were reigned by awkwardness and aggressiveness. When they were wary of each other, as if expecting to wake up in the middle of the night with a knife in their throats.

It had been months ever since she decided to say. He didn’t invite her; she just… stayed. And albeit he wasn’t fond of her in the beginning, it was still better than being alone. Anything was better than sitting alone in this cold, soulless castle.

At first, he tolerated her.

Then, he… got used to her presence.

She could be funny when she wanted to. No… she was funny. He realized that after she started to tolerate him. An acid sense of humor he could relate to. He caught himself giggling at her self deprecating jokes and even at the way she joked about him.

She was smart. Not an academic type of intelligence, but a type one can only learn through life. He could see that life was not easy on her – and it made him more and more curious to know about her past, even though she scarcely touched the subject. She was his opposite in this sense. He… had been trying to move on. But many times, he caught himself stuck in the same place, in the same feelings. Meanwhile, she was like an unstoppable avalanche; always facing forward. Never looking back.

It was thanks to her that they had been busying themselves with renovating the castle. It’d take years for two people alone to fix all the damage in a structure so big, but they had been doing a great job until that point.

It felt that they were silently healing each other in the process. Day after day. Meal after meal. Argument after argument. Laughter after laughter. They tolerated each other. Then, they got used to each other… and now, they appreciated each other.

This appreciation was growing into something… deeper. Unspoken. But it was there – and none of them were oblivious to it. The brief touches. The quick glances. The racing hearts.

It was escalating. The two knew it.

None of them planned on fighting it back.

Her eyes were still down when she spoke again.

“...I’m a bit thankful to him, in a grotesque way.”

It made him immediately look at her and forget about the book in his hand.

The quiet fragility of her voice. She… had never showed fragility in front of him.

He immediately understood this was important.

“How so?” His voice was as quiet; peaceful, welcoming, to encourage her to speak.

She hesitated before starting.

“...I’m from Targoviste.” His eyes widened slightly at her sudden confession. “Our house was a bit far from the city… into the woods. I was the only girl in the family. Only had brothers.”

She hesitated again. He did not rush her.

“One night, a man knocked on our door. A vampire.” Her grip on the thin book tightened as she spoke. “He was drunk. I didn’t even know vampires could get drunk. But that one… he could barely stand on his feet. He was still strong enough to destroy half of the house and injure two of my brothers. He threatened to kill all of us. Laughing. And then...” Another extended pause. Her throat audibly tightened more and more. So did his heart. “My father fell on his knees and begged him to leave his sons alone… in exchange of his daughter.”

He felt a cold hand grip around his heart.

“Young and pretty, he said. Will serve you well.” She chuckled dryly. “The drunk vampire accepted the deal. So merciful.”

He didn’t know what to say for long, agonizing moments.

“Did he not… feed off you?”

“He had other interests.” His stomach dropped. “But do not worry. I spent barely a day in his lair. As I said, he was a drunk… while he slept, I put a stake through his heart.” Another chuckle. She scratched her nose with the back of her hand. He saw the subtle gloss in her eyes, the way she blinked rapidly… “Took me five days of wandering in the woods to find our home. But when I got there…” She shrugged. “Targoviste was already destroyed. A sea of blood. Corpses out in the open. Few survivors. A horrible sight.” Another pause. “The night creatures wandered into the woods, too.”

She took a shaky deep breath.

For the first time, she lifted her gaze to him. A painful tightened smile crept up her lips.

“And I was glad when I found my old house and saw my father with his guts ripped off. Because I spent five days planning on how to kill him.” She covered her mouth for a moment, eyes wandering elsewhere… almost lost. “The night creatures took care of it for me. Lifted a burden from my shoulders.” She gulped and blinked rapidly again. “How cruel of me, aye?”

It was automatic. Even instinctive. Before realizing, his hand softly cupped her cheek – softly, softly; almost hesitant. His hand was freezing cold, but she didn’t flinch away. Their eyes met once again.

“You’re not.” His voice was but a whisper.

At that moment, it was as if none of them dared to breathe.

This… feeling surrounding them. Quiet. Fragile. Intimate in a way they had never been before. It was as if they were scared to move or speak and make it go away.

But she was implacable like an avalanche. She always moved first.

Her eyes dropped to his chest. Slowly, her fingers touched the neckline of his white blouse. She pushed it with her fingertips.

“...Does it still hurt?” Her voice, like his, was but a whisper.

The big scar crossed over his chest. Inflicted by his own father. The wound that almost killed him, took a year of hibernation to close again.

He unconsciously caressed it all the time, always with a slight frown over his features. She had noticed it.

“Sometimes,” he admitted quietly.

She locked eyes with him for a moment.

Then, carefully, she inched closer.

He watched, barely breathing, with his heart pounding in his chest, as she came closer and closer. She pushed the blouse to expose more of his chest. He watched, mesmerized and astonished and even a bit confused, when she pressed her soft lips over his scar.

The touch of her kiss was featherlight… chaste, in a way. But it immediately spread fire through his veins, pushed all the cold away. She pressed another kiss… and another, following the shape of the scar. And another. And one more.

Until he couldn’t take it anymore.

He captured her chin on his fingers and guided her lips towards his.

It was warm, too. It was easy. It was fulfilling.

A simple press of lips at first that extended for long seconds – and it was like the world stopped turning at that moment.

She leaned away. He looked down at her. She looked up at him.

And then, they were kissing again.

Their lips moved unhurriedly, matching a pace that set real fire in their hearts. The hand that once held her chin went to rest on the back of her neck; she, on the other hand, placed her hands on his broad shoulders. And it was slow, almost agonizingly so; it deepened and deepened and deepened, tongues meeting and entangling, until their breaths became faster and more difficult, until all the cold went away, until all they could hear were the wet noises their kisses produced, until she sat on his lap.

“Have you ever done it before?” She whispered, almost out of breath.

He shook his head. No, he hadn’t. But he wasn’t embarrassed of it, nor he put much thought into it.

She smiled – and that alone made his blood boil like lava. Her smile wasn’t mocking. It was… endeared, perhaps. Lustful.

The blanket she brought along was forgotten. She wore nothing but a long sleeved nightgown underneath.

She did not break eye contact while taking it off.

He stared, mesmerized, at her body; the way visible shivers ran over her skin due to the cold, her gloriously exposed chest, her hardened nipples. His large hands didn’t hesitate to touch her, bring her closer, caress her. His lips didn’t take too long to greet her – neck, shoulders, breasts… and when he heard her soft moan for the first time, he knew he would never get tired of it. Never.

She guided him. She showed him where to kiss, how to kiss. She was sweet. It was warm and sticky. He was, once again, mesmerized – how mesmerized! – at her reactions, her deep breaths and hisses and moans, the way she gripped his golden locks while he tasted her, ate her; he didn’t know pleasuring someone else would be so pleasurable. To know he was the cause of the sounds she made and the obscenities she whispered and the way she trembled and squirmed under his touch. The sweet power he had over her in these moments. It made his pants ache.

And finally, it was his turn to get undressed; she was also astonished – how astonished! – at his muscular physique, the way his body resembled the perfection of Greek statues. Her core ached for him the moment she heard his deep moan for the first time, how he closed his eyes and took a deep breath when she enveloped her hand around his member. He was large and heavy and pinkish, and his cheeks and neck and chest blushed, and he truly had the perfection not even an immortal could achieve.

And when he finally slipped into her – God! He claimed for God, even though he didn’t believe in one. He claimed for God, for she was so tight; no one told him it would be so tight and so incredibly hot, steaming hot. She was wet, wet, wet, and slippery, and for a moment he got scared to hurt her. But she knew what to do. She told him to move slowly at first. He waited until she got used to his size.

She couldn’t tell what was better: the feeling of his member deep inside of her, or the glorious sight of his pleasured expression when he first slipped in. How he tightened his eyes, mouth slightly open, the increasing blush, the thin layer of sweat, his golden locks cascading around her face. He had the beauty of a God, even though she didn’t believe in one.

He picked up a pace. The library, previously silent and cold, was now filled with obscenities – skin hitting skin, moans and grunts and hisses, panting, the wet sounds. The shivering winter replaced by trembling sweat. He filled her once, but realized she hadn’t reached her high with him, and he wasn’t satisfied. He could do better. So they did it again. With her on top this time. And on her back. And over the desk. Repeatedly, continuously, until she couldn’t take it anymore, until she was trembling and weak and out of her mind, until the blankets were drenched in sweat and juices, until the sun peeked in the horizon once more, until he was finally satisfied.

Only then, finally, they fell asleep on the floor of the library, over blankets and cushions. The fair skin of his neck and chest where peppered with hickeys, his back softly scratched. They should probably get up to bathe, but none of them minded. Not at that moment, when she fell asleep over his chest. He didn’t want to break that moment of intimacy by moving.

Before falling asleep, he noticed how it was all so… natural. It didn’t feel awkward or embarrassing. It was just a progression of what had been happening since they met. It was comfortable, and warm, and easy.

It was friendship. It was companionship.

It was love.

The same way she filled this empty cold castle with her presence, she filled his empty broken heart with love.

He could only hope that he, too, had filled her aching heart with love. For he would not be able to let her go after that night.

He would never be able to let her go.

You didn’t want an engagement dinner, but what you wanted didn’t matter.

Zardini paid for all the expenses. The food, the musicians, the servants, the decorations, your gown and your jewelry. The gown was ivory white with matching elbow length gloves, small pearls decorated your figure. The chastity of a bride, as if you had never been kissed or touched before. The manor was decorated in white, too: white roses, ribbons, the servant’s outfits… everything in white. Zardini’s family, friends and associates were present. Most of the town was there, too.

More than ever, you wanted to die.

A circus, that was. Zardini showed off his wealth. His friends patted him in the back, for he had achieved a beautiful bride (even though she was not right in the head) and had landed a new business accord. The townspeople, like before, came to inspect the freak. You were forced to stand there, greet his family – soon to be your family – barely three days after he proposed.

Why was he doing everything so quickly? Was he scared of you trying to run away? Well, maybe you should. Disappear, change your name, live without a penny – anything would be better than this.

It didn’t matter that Alfred Zardini believed in your abilities; that didn’t make you relieved. He wanted to use you with this thing you couldn’t control. He wanted to cage you the same way your parents did. The only difference is that now, it’d be in a manor by the sea, not an asylum.

Maybe you should be grateful. How many girls and women you met didn’t have half this luck? Completely forgotten by their families, locked forever in convents; their parents claimed that their girls had offered their lives to God, but in reality they were too embarrassed of them. Girls that were ostracized for melancholy, for “insanity fits”, because they got pregnant before marriage or because they were dishonored. Treated like criminals, worse than animals, doomed to live their lives in imprisonment and shame.

How many of these women would happily marry Zardini in your place?

It only made you feel more miserable.

You didn’t want to eat. You didn’t want to dance. As usual, Zardini barely paid attention to you, and once again you were grateful. You were the bride, the literal main attraction, but you chose to sit in a corner and stay there in silence.

This isn’t what marriage was supposed to be. A forceful transaction with no feelings involved.

And you hated, hated, hated how your brain made you dream of him again past night; the library dream was a recurring one. The dream were you gave yourself for the faceless man for the first time, and he accepted it. A dream filled with raw love.

You’d never experience it with that old man. Never.

You knew what real love felt like – both in your dreams and in reality, even if it was brief and painful and you couldn’t think too much about it without feeling the urge to cry. But you also knew you were doomed to never having it again. Your parents doomed you at nine years old, when they judged you were an embarrassment and sent you to a hospital for the first time.

Uncomfortable. Uncomfortable. Uncomfortable. You could barely breathe.

That was when you saw it.

Creeping in the carpet. Slowly filling the room.

The black mud.

Your heart raced. Your eyes widened. No no no no not this again.

Why was that happening in a social gathering again? Could this be a sign that it really was just your nervous mind playing tricks?

Instinctively, you covered your mouth and nose. The stench – awful. It smelled of decaying flesh, completely overwhelming the sweet scent of roses that filled the room previously. That thing was slowly drenching the carpet, making its way inside the hall and dripping from the ceiling and walls and–

I can’t take it this time.

You got up and walked out.

While you still could control yourself, you made your best to not run and draw unwanted attention. They were all too focused on Zardini anyway, and they didn’t know the labyrinth that house was. You walked out of the room, crossing corridors and doors until you were outside to breathe some fresh air, still walking at a fast pace.

Once you were outside, you ran. Unceremoniously.

You crossed the property. Past the gazebo and the lake into the gardens. The full moon high in the clear sky illuminated the way in silver hues – which was of great help, since your vision was blurry and you wouldn’t be able to run in the dark. Finally, you reached the orchard where the greenhouse stood.

You stormed in and finally, finally, finally cried.

It was the type of cry that hurts the chest, that tightens the throat, that doesn’t let you breathe. You crouched down, not caring if it’d dirty the hem of the dress, and held your head while crying. I can’t breathe, you thought, trying to make your lungs work the way they should, but they wouldn’t obey. You sobbed, almost choked, and simply cried.

How glad you were that you had time to run away from the manor before this started. This type of weeping… the ones that came when you were truly, inexplicably desperate, were involuntary. You couldn’t control them. Sometimes, they came without much of a reason. You could be having a perfectly normal day and had one of these “fits”.

You had a reason to that night.

Not only just because of the incomprehensible black mud or stench, but all of it. You were miserable.

So you just stayed there, letting it all out, not caring if the makeup was ruined by the end of it… until your breathing went back to normal and your heart calmed down.

After long minutes – you were sure Clara must’ve been looking for you at that point – you got up.

The circular greenhouse was packed with flowers. Clara really liked gardening, and you liked to be there because it was very distant from the manor. It was peaceful and beautiful, the perfect place to paint. Your easel was still there in the corner with unfinished charcoal sketches. You leaned the small of your back on the central table where dozens of pots with the most different flowers were and stared into nothing.

God. You probably looked like a mess.

The previously ivory gloves came out dirty when you wiped your cheeks… which made you look at the engagement ring. A single huge diamond around your finger.

That could very well be a shackle.

You thought of the many women you met in asylums and hospitals. Their hopelessness. The suicides. You thought of Lucy, even though you usually avoided to.

Maybe you really were being ungrateful.

You took a deep breath… it was time to face reality.

You were about to leave when a deep voice saying excuse me made you jump and yelp.

Someone had entered the greenhouse through the back door.

And you couldn’t believe your eyes.

“Mr. Tepes,” you gagged, one hand over your chest, feeling your heart race violently.

The man looked terribly sorry.

Moonlight touching him through the glass roof and walls made him look even more ethereal, if that was even possible; his long hair shone like silver threads. He, once more, wore all black, but in a less formal attire, with gray buttons and details. A black cloak fell over his shoulders. He had a brown leather belt around his waist and black gloves.

His hand was lifted in an appeasing gesture.

“My apologies, Miss Salles. I did not mean to startle you. I saw some movement in the greenhouse and thought someone might be needing help.”

You straightened your back and instinctively ran your fingers through your hair, trying to look a little more presentable. God, I must really be looking like a mess, by the expression he’s making…

“Mr. Tepes.” You repeated in a more controlled tone. “I… I didn’t know you would come.”

You didn’t bother checking the guest list. Of course Julien would find a way to add one of his prestigious associates in the list, even if the dinner wasn’t his.

The Duke approached slowly and hesitantly. There was a slight knot of worry between his eyebrows. “...Are you feeling unwell?”

Hell. I never thought I’d ever see him again, but now that he’s standing in front of me, I look like an absolute mess.

You sniffed and nodded, trying to open a smile.

“N-No. Thank you.”

He stood in place for some moments, still at a considerable distance. That was the most obvious, idiotic lie in the world, but he decided not to question it.

“Do you want to be left alone?”

“No!” And oh God, how embarrassing it was that you said that so quickly, how weirdly high pitched your voice went. But no, you didn’t want him to go away, even though you felt horrible; you didn’t know when and if you’d ever seen him again – and you didn’t care if it’d be inappropriate for a bride to be alone with another man. You cleared your throat and once again, tried to smile. “No, you may stay. T-The greenhouse is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

He wasn’t looking at the flowers.

Mr. Tepes approached slowly.

He barely made any sound as he walked… that’s why you didn’t notice him entering the greenhouse. He still seemed hesitant. Each step he took seemed to send waves directly to your heart.

At last, he settled by your side, leaning on the table as well.

Some seconds of silence lingered in the air.

“Congratulations on your engagement.” He bowed his head respectfully. Don’t congratulate me for this, you wanted to say, but just bowed your head back. “...Things evolved rather quickly, if you allow me to say. It hadn’t been two weeks since the ball.”

You chuckled dryly. “Mr. Zardini is in a hurry for reasons unknown.”

It seemed he wanted to say something more on the matter.

But refrained himself.

A few more seconds of silence.

“...Miss Salles.” He called quietly. His voice was so infuriatingly deep. It almost caused a physical reaction whenever he said your name. Mr. Tepes was, once again, hesitating. “I… would like to ask you something. But you can choose not to answer.”

For the first time, you looked at him.

His side profile was also infuriating. Mr. Tepes kept his eyes down in somewhat of a serious expression.

“Yes?”

It looked like he was choosing the right words.

“That night at the ball. Right before my departure. You seemed to… react to something no one else did.”

You frowned slowly.

Was he talking about the moment the black mud vanished?

It immediately made your stomach drop.

“What did you see?” He finally looked at you.

It was your turn to avoid his gaze.

Why was he talking about this of all the things you wished he’d say? Bring all the discomfort you left at the manor?

You shook your head softly.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” You fiddled your fingers uncomfortably. “Crowds make me uncomfortable. Especially judging ones.”

“Miss Salles.” More goosebumps. His tone became gentler and welcoming. “I know it might sound abrupt, since we don’t know each other well… but you don’t need to lie to me.”

Your eyes met him again.

That’s precisely what made you more nervous and agitated.

It… it felt that you knew him already. More than just dancing a song and exchanging a few words. His presence was comfortable. Why on Earth would you want to be in a closed space with another man if it wasn’t? And perhaps it was embarrassing, for you had no idea if he felt this much as ease around you, but that’s how you felt.

Was it because his voice was strangely similar to the one you already knew so well? Was it because, through your short first meeting, he did not treat you like an aberration? Or was it simply due to the obvious and intense attraction you felt for him?

You had no idea.

A tired sigh escaped past your lips.

“...You’ll think I’m insane, sir.”

He smiled softly. “I already know you’re insane. You told me so.”

You giggled, looking down for a moment. He chuckled, too.

You turned your body in his direction slowly. Your right hand tapped on the wooden table nervously. He turned to face you too.

And waited.

And waited.

“I…” Why was it so hard to speak? You’d been through that before: explaining to “doctors” how this thing worked, until you finally realized no one believed you and you began to blatantly lie in the hopes they’d think you were normal. You were afraid that he’d laugh. But you continued speaking anyway. “I… feel the people around me. Their emotions. Sometimes, their thoughts. I also see things… things no one else sees. In my sleep. Sometimes awake.”

He nodded slowly.

“And you can’t control it. That’s why crowds make you uncomfortable.” Your eyes darted up at his face. He… didn’t question anything. Just went to the obvious conclusion instead without any judgment.

You nodded.

Mr. Tepes hummed and held his chin in a thoughtful expression.

It was the second time a man actually believed you in the span of a few days. What the hell was happening?!

“How exactly does it work?”

“I don’t know. Things just… come to my mind. Like whispers… but they’re not exactly words, though I can decipher them as words.” Your eyes narrowed slowly and you went silent.

“What?” He asked quietly.

“...I can’t really feel you. It’s like I’m alone. How strange.” You analyzed his beautiful features with confusion.

“Is it a bad thing?”

“No. It’s peaceful... But still strange.” You avoided his gaze again.

If you told her that you thought he looked like a vampire, she’d say you were hallucinating again.

You froze.

Mr. Tepes didn’t exhale aggressiveness or violence. He’d been anything but respectful. But what if… what if he was not? What if he was the cause of the strange black mud you saw?

What if he was dangerous?

A vampire?

He didn’t smell of blood. No crimson aura. But perhaps, as a vampire, he could seal himself from you.

And for the briefest second, you felt scared.

He wouldn’t tell you right away if he was one… would he?

So you looked down for a moment. To your hand resting over the table.

Physical touch was like putting your hand inside the furnace.

You gulped.

“I could… try. To prove it to you.” Hesitation. The mere idea of doing it made your heart race. “Usually I… I can also feel people by touching them.”

Mr. Tepes could’ve said you didn’t need to prove anything. He could’ve said he already believed you.

But he didn’t.

He just closed his eyes for a moment and nodded, as if saying go ahead.

You took the glove from your right hand off. Awkwardly, as if suddenly you forgot how to make such a simple movement; your entire right arm went cold.

Again, hesitation.

You looked up at his face.

He had been watching you the entire time. His expression was… a bit unreadable. Inside that poorly lit space, you were under the impression that his eyes glowed faintly.

There was something strange in the air. Charged. It had nothing to do with the idea that he was, perhaps, a supernatural creature.

No, it had nothing to do with that.

“Excuse me…” you said under your breath, so quiet that he perhaps didn’t hear it.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reached for his face. The only spot you could touch his skin.

When you were a mere second away from touching him, you stopped. A mere second of fear of discovering something you didn’t want to. If he was a vampire, he’d murder you right there – too far away from the manor, no one would hear your screams. What was the point of even doing it?

But deep down, you already knew there was no point.

You touched his cheek.

Tenderly. Your touch was barely even there; you were scared of burning, after all.

And yet, the moment your skin brushed his–

You gasped.

Your heart raced. Your eyes widened softly.

Mr. Tepes’ eyes on you never wavered.

Golden. You found yourself unable to break eye contact, as if he had put you in a trance.

This touch, so soft, could perhaps be seen as inappropriate – you were an engaged woman, cupping the face of another man… but still, it was but a simple touch. Why, however, did the air inside the greenhouse become so charged? So intense? It was as if you lost the ability to move, to do anything else but look back at him.

He was the one to break the silence.

“What do you feel?” His voice was but a whisper. Sent goosebumps through your body. This voice that sounded inexplicably so familiar.

“I-I…”

He stepped closer.

There was barely any space between your bodies.

The air became more charged, charged, charged, when his large gloved hand touched the right side of your waist.

A soft touch at first, that rapidly became more firm; and with that, it was as if your legs lost their strength. His other gloved hand traveled up slowly; your arm, your shoulder, the ghost of his touch making your core tremble and your lungs fail.

His other hand stopped on your neck.

“Tell me.” He was even quieter. Even deeper.

How could you answer, if you could barely breathe? If the world was but a blur except for him? If your heart felt about to explode?

“Mr. Tepes–“ You managed to stutter.

“Adrian.” His breathy correction sent another wave of goosebumps through your skin. “Tell me. I want to know.”

You did not have the ability to answer. Not with how strong the emotion flowing from him hit you. Not with how incredibly raw it was, how surprisingly so, despite the serene mask on his face at all times. Breathtakingly strong. Incomprehensibly strong.

Desire.

He kissed you.

You didn’t fight back. You didn’t try to push him away. His soft lips touched yours, and suddenly the rest of the world disappeared. Nothing mattered anymore. Perhaps nothing had ever mattered as much as in that moment.

He kissed you, and it wasn’t soft and tender like he had been acting before. It was intense, it was charged, it was explosive. Your lips seemed to melt into each others’, merge into a single thing. He tilted his head to the side, immediately deepening the kiss, as his hand held the nape of your neck. It was as if he didn’t have time to be slow at first, as if he was desperate, as if he was hungry.

That intensity was dizzying.

You didn’t mind it.

You cupped both sides of his face, reciprocating with that same intensity, feeling his long hair tickling your own face and shoulders. He was tall, so much so that as the kiss deepened, you bent back slightly; he kept your bodies glued with his firm grip on your waist. He was like a massive wall of heat and desire engulfing you, drowning you, taking your breath away. He spread fire through your veins, to every corner of your body.

Your left hand traveled to the nape of his neck, gripped the hair on his scalp – and he groaned into the kiss, sending vibrations through you, making your legs even weaker. It was hot and hot and hot and you wouldn’t be surprised if all the glass from the greenhouse steamed up with condensation.

For the briefest moment, you were aware of what adorned your ring finger: the shackle, the diamond engagement ring. Your soon to be husband was somewhere inside that manor, receiving pats on the back for the marriage, while you kissed another man in the dark.

You didn’t care.

You broke the kiss for the first time, trying to breathe for a second; he chased your lips again. And once more, as if he was unable to control himself.

“Adrian–“ you tried to call, but that seemed to cause the opposite reaction in him. He let another deep groan and suddenly you were being pushed against the table; he lifted you swiftly and made you sit over it, placing himself between your legs, kissing you incessantly, and you heard the noise of a ceramic vase falling and breaking somewhere beside you but you didn’t care.

You gripped his coat, pushed him closer, bit his plump lower lip defiantly. You did not mind when he pushed your skirt up, felt shivers and more shivers as his gloved hand caressed your thigh. Both of you were panting. Both of you thought there was too much clothing between your bodies. Both of you thought that was not enough.

Until you heard Clara out there.

That was the only thing that made you stop.

You gasped, froze in place, looked behind his shoulder. Mr. Tepes looked back as well.

“Sister, where are you?!” Her worried voice came from an approaching distance.

“Oh my God,” You gasped.

He put you on your feet again as easily as he put you on the table. He was panting, lips slightly swollen, the otherwise fair skin around it stained by your rouge.

You didn’t want him to go. It was the least thing you wanted.

But the blurred vision was disappearing. The heat. Reality came back into focus following the steps of your sister.

“W-We can’t be seen like this.” You whispered.

Adrian looked down at you.

His usual serenity was gone. He hesitated. He almost looked in pain.

But he nodded.

He took your right hand – the one without the glove – and left a tender, long kiss on your knuckles, as if to make sure you’d feel him again for one last time.

And, like that, he left through the back door.

You leaned on the table, shaking and panting for a completely different reason than from when you arrived. You stared into nothing, feeling your heart pound in your chest, hearing Clara get closer and closer.

You didn’t find out who or what exactly Mr. Tepes was. But that notion, the initial excuse you had to touch his skin, was forgotten.

Another realization filled your mind.

That kiss. His touch. His presence, his heat. It was explosive, dizzying, hot, maddening.

But it was not unfamiliar.

Almost as if a part of you was used to that. Used to his kisses the same way it was used to his voice.

The man that lived in your dreams.

You spent a lifetime foolishly waiting for that man to finally appear, even though the context of your dreams barely made sense with your current reality. But what if… what if these dreams weren’t premonitory?

What if you had already lived all of that in a distant past?

The next question you made yourself was almost as maddening as the kisses you had just shared.

What if…

What if he was that man?

[lacedwithmsg]

what do u think yuma would be like as a boyfriend ? 👀👀👀👀

tags: afab reader, yuma is teasing fluffball but also loves to fuck your brains out warning tags: cursing, degradation, public sex? length: 1.1k words note from author: i think about this daily and i'm so happy i finally get to word vomit about this without being worried whether this reads well or not lmao. thank you for the ask!

i think he'd be a tease and would relish in the way you'd react. every time you respond to his teasing, he'd only be encouraged to do it more often.

would definitely nudge you away when you try to initiate skinship or hugs but eventually admits defeat and curls into you (that recent harua and yuma clip ahem). quietly screams 'yamero' when you crawl up on him for cuddles but secretly loves having you all over him.

as much as he says he doesn't like skinship, will often plant his face onto your shoulder and into your neck from behind, usually when he's just woken up or has just come home from a long, tiring day. if you happen to be sitting, will put his arms over your shoulders and dig his nose into your hair. will stay there for a while, softly swaying your body along with his.

smirks whenever your collarbone or shoulder is exposed from under your shirt (his shirts that you repossessed). would frequently dip his hand under the bottom of your shirt to rest his warm palms on your hips, waist, lower back, or ass (if he feelin' extra touchy). caresses your skin so softly it tickles sometimes.

he always smells good. he's not too into perfumes and fragrances but he has a regular go-to scent rotation. his soft, luscious locks also need active attention and care so he regularly uses hair serums and oils (that smell incredible).

his voice is pretty, no one would ever argue against that, but his voice when he's in bed, next to you, halfway between asleep and awake? actual heaven. you don't think you've ever heard anyone so pretty, husky, and sweet at the same time. you wouldn't be surprised if you woke up one day and his drool turned into real honey. oh and yeah, baby drools a little when he's really tired. poor kitten.

would share his accessories with you— be it earrings, necklaces, glasses, all of it's yours to try on and wear out. would feel so giddy whenever he sees you with one of his earrings and appear next to you in a blink of an eye to tease (and fawn over) you.

loves watching movies and shows with you on the couch or in bed cuddled together under a blanket and pillows. would prepare snacks for both of you to munch on but neither of you would bother for refills if they ran out midway through just because both of you are lazy couch potatoes.

bites you. that's it. he bites you just barely enough to leave an indentation but never enough to break skin. his favorite spot to do so is either your ear or right underneath it, behind your jaw. it kinda surprised you the first time he did it but you quickly fell in love with how soft his lips were and how warm his breath felt against your skin. licks all the spots he's bitten afterwards.

smut -

his one and only goal in bed is to make you as loud as possible. doesn't matter if he's topping or bottom. will do whatever's in his ability to make you moan, sob, scream, and whimper progressively louder the longer you two have at it.

he bites and nips you everywhere. your boobs, stomach, thighs, neck— anywhere his mouth can reach, it's probably already been bitten at least once.

rests his tongue flat on your clit without moving it just to tease you. he wants to devour you just as much as you want him to but he'd never give up the chance to rile you up a little first. would kiss down your body and purposely avoid your nipples, loving the sound of your whines and the way your body pushes itself against his in hopes of receiving more attention.

the baby likes choking. giving and receiving. he'd crawl his hand up slowly before wrapping his fingers around your throat, his hips already performing at a punishing pace into your cunt. his other hand probably gripped tightly onto your hip, pulling your body down to match his thrusts. when you're on top of him, he holds your hips with both hands, helping you bounce on his cock while you feel the soft but damp and sweaty skin of his neck before clawing at it softly with your fingers, your nails slightly digging into his skin. afterwards, both of your necks probably have red, finger-shaped marks to a certain degree.

his eyes are so pretty. and when he gives you that pointed look (yk which one I'm talking about. the one where he angles his head down a little and stares at you with his pretty kitty eyes.), you instantly fall apart under his gaze. you'd let him do whatever he wanted to you. this look usually made its appearance when you'd come home later than usual or if you hadn't responded to his messages. and this look is usually paired with him bending you over the counter and fucking you mindless on the cool, marble tile. would mark up your ass, too. squeezes your ass cheeks relentlessly as he's ramming into your from behind. spreads them open with his large hands sometimes to get a better view of his dick tearing into your pussy.

your pretty, little pussy. if he didn't have a dick, his mouth would be latched onto your cunt 24/7. from the back, the front, hell, from the side even, he'd eat you out like a man starved. once his tongue was in you, it'd stay in there for at least an entire hour. all whilst you progressively lose all strength and stability in your knees as he holds you up against a wall, sometimes in front of a mirror so you could watch yourself unravel from his touch. his lips are so plump and red after, tasting yourself on him when you inevitably give in to the urge and slam your lips on his.

loves, LOVES fucking you somewhere risky. gets off on your muffled moans when you hear someone walk by, during which he'd slow his thrusts down to stay quiet but would compensate by ramming into you so hard and deep you saw stars every time he pushed his dick back inside you. mutters the filthiest curses and words of degradation into your ear. "you like that, huh?" "you're so wet already." "fuck, you're so tight." "better be quiet, love. wouldn't want people finding out you're a slut for my dick." "did you just clench from that?" "my dirty little cum slut." would later walk out of the closet with you like nothing happened, his dick still wet from your slick.

on days when he was extra horny, he'd make you finger yourself while he watched, leaning back and stroking his own dick. right before he came, he'd push his dick into you and give you a couple thrusts before painting your insides white with his cum.

author's notes: I believe I've gone a little off the deep end with this one. just wanted to reply to the ask with a couple paragraphs but look at where we're at now... am still working on other pieces btw, so stay tuned!

[crystallizsch]

hi ian i come bearing angst fuel for the yuusha as twsted elsa (maybe an idea for her possible overblot idk she kinda reads to me as someone whod preemptively isolate in the case she feels...blotty)

(also seeing that art of her playing violin totally didnt fuck me up im still nursing my bruised heart 🥴🥴💕💕)

https://youtu.be/NDldNaEZTt8?si=Wm71pgTltuJLjFvk

^^this is from the frozen musical where they gave a song to elsa to explore her emotional turmoil and it just fleshed out her character so much more than the orig movie (ok i havent seen frozen 2 oops) but just this section here:

Is everyone in danger as long as I'm alive?

Was I a monster from the start?

How did I end up with this frozen heart?

Bringing destruction to the stage

Caught in a war that I was never meant to wage

anyways lmao i jus think the song is neat i think yuushas neat (i wanna see more of her ahehehe i love seeing infodumps abt ur yuus)

-diodellet

(throwback to this “what if yuu had magic” ask where i had a ✨realization✨ and this more recent yuusha lore drop that i gave zero elaboration on 🙃)

very rough ob yuu design??? idk i came up with it on the spot ;;; and it’s kinda based on disney’s concept art of elsa when she was supposed to be the villain.

evil ice queen vibes :3

also i know the ob monster is supposed to be based on the villain— which is elsa in this case— but lowkey. an ice monster is way cooler.

also also i just realized after i drew this i couldve done a grim/yuu tandem overblot ough 🤧🤧 (next time I'll do that instead if i ever go back to this concept)

(read more below because it got SO long)

AAH anyways hi hi dio!!! when i saw your ask i went —

— with this entire post

AAGH HOW MANY MORE UNINTENTIONAL CONNECTIONS ARE GOING TO BE BETWEEN FROZEN AND YUUSHA

i guess watching the movie everyday when it came out when you’re like 9 does something to your brain chemistry (and still haunts you at least a decade later) 💀

but anyways the angst ;;; overblot yuu ;;;;; my brain is rotting and the worms have taken over

also i didn’t even know that there was a frozen broadway musical so im gonna have to check it out later 🏃💨💨💨

(also dont worry frozen 2 is a nice watch for the most part but the way they concluded the characters did not feel 100% satisfying to me 😭 BUT i love some of the songs tho ;;; kristoff’s goofy 80s ballad song is one of them specifically, i need everyone to listen to it)

hfgnnfhfgv anyways thank you so much i’m chugging that angst fuel as i expand more on a possible ob yuusha with another infodump 💪💪💪

⚠️⚠️⚠️ ALSO IM SORRY BUT mentions of taking one’s own life so please proceed with caution ⚠️⚠️⚠️

i had to reread what my initial thoughts about it bc it was months ago??? and after rereading im just like, huh what was i on— (just that feeling when you just cringe at your old posts ;; but idk i think the insanity/cringe sometimes can loop back into being a genius and the cycle just continues)

anyways i’ve been on and off writing yuusha’s bio and overblot yuu was just at the back of my mind chilling but i didn’t really do anything with it.

but now that i have the opportunity,,,, im gonna go on the magicless route this time bc i feel like I've said all what i thought if it was an overblot due to her own magic.

so uh from what i gather overblots are a mix of overuse of magic + intense negative emotion.

since it’s magicless yuu, i guess the one of the general headcanons around the fandom is that they’ve been too exposed to overblots and then intense negative emotions suddenly just triggered their overblot.

uh anyways onto the elsa parts

Is everyone in danger as long as I'm alive? Was I a monster from the start? How did I end up with this frozen heart? Bringing destruction to the stage Caught in a war that I was never meant to wage

THE LYRICS ARE SO GOOD ;;; i really love how some broadway interpretations expand on the source material

and yeah you're right 🤧🤧🤧— yuusha would try to hide and escape, especially as she overblots bc she would try to avoid hurting people (and like elsa, it'd only hurt others more trying to escape bc of probably how she leaves destruction in her wake trying to make others stay away from her 😔)

(this is a small tangent but i remember thinking about an overblot kalim and i imagine him to be similar, like he would not hurt anyone intentionally in his overblot.)

anyways so the way it would go is that i imagine her friends got fatally injured either because a) she feels that she’s too “useless” without magic to help and wasn’t able to do anything OR b) her attempts at helping to try and prove that she can help without magic made everything worse.

and then she just goes into a guilty spiral then boom — overblot.

ALSO in the song, the way elsa briefly contemplated taking her own life but then realizing there’s no guarantee that would solve anything hnghgh (<- another unintentional parallel to my yuusha lore because that’s actually how she ended up in twst except she did NOT have the latter realization)

there’s this “yuu is dead” theory i’m just using and that the black carriage actually just caught yuusha’s soul after she took her own life from all the burden.

also some bonus angst context for that violin post :3

yuusha back in her homeworld is raised and known to be a gifted musician. people can feel the life and soul in her music but when people interact with her, they are usually met with an ice-cold (heh) personality.

the dead family member was the one who taught her music and the only one who was kind to her.

there’s always an expectation from her family to perform well and to keep up appearances as to not be a humiliation since anything she does can reflect on her entire family. (also hi, slight yuusha/jamil parallels maybe???)

the way she presents herself also stemmed from an incident as a child when she went apeshit on another kid bc she was defending a friend.

so from then on she was taught taught to conceal don’t feel those emotions — which just unfortunately extended to any positive ones, not just negative ones like rage.

so when she is brought to twst, there’s no memory of her being forced to hold back her emotions so she’s just unapologetically affectionate and open with everyone bc that’s how she really is.

but every now and then, memories of her breaking down haunt her in her dreams or as subtle reminders in the waking world.

then yuusha just goes on her day like she just wasn't reminded of her past.

(unnecessarily tragic lore my beloved, but anyway—)

another extremely brief tangent and bonus -> the two songs i had on loop while drawing pre-twst yuusha

lindsey stirling my beloved i love her music

the songs are such a vibe

her instrumentals in “lose you now” especially makes me feel some sort of way 😖

[evilsoygenius]

my therapist made a rule that i cant apologize in sessions anymore 🧍

[formula-red]

some pics of my fav places ive been in the states to celebrate independence day !!!!!!!!!!!! (i know the usa has its issues okay theres a reason i left but im a bit homesick PLZ just let me have this)

my yard at my childhood home (feat. my brother and my old dog&lt;/3)

the towns i grew up in

my city (boston)

baxter state park and acadia national park (maine)

the farm i worked on

rocky mountain national park & the surrounding area (colorado)

seattle and the pacific northwest (washington state)

n lastly the deep south (georgia & south carolina)

also obligatory usa themed playlist (NOT full of nationalist boot-licking music thx vry much)

i know there are a lot of problems but i love my home country very much. i wish so badly it could be better but the reality is there is a nearly insurmountable amount of work that needs to be done, and i don't see it changing any time soon. but today i will take the time to reflect on the parts of it that i do love and miss, and celebrate the wonderful people and places it has to offer. i love u, united states, and i will always always always miss u

[mini-zorayas]

Scholar

using my OC as a way to go back to lineless art.

[atlasheartd]

((I might repost some lil open rps I did on the old blog, but as a heads up they do have icons and I'm not longer using icons, heh, so I... may or may not copy the icons over? But if I do I won't be using any after that

[baekuras]

the hardest part about writing is just putting down any words first because i WANT everything to be planned out fully even though i know when i actually write it out first so i can go back to it, all that is way easier to do or revise later

no planning only write

[greyswarden]

chrysanthemum :   how does your muse express romantic love ?  how do they feel about love as a concept ?   :3

love as a concept is something that other people would take for granted, but it’s something he places high value on and wants for himself so deeply, even if he never admits it. he thought that would be denied to him because of his identity as a mage. he loves romance and the idea of it! the excitement and the mystery of it all is so appealing to him and he wants to have that! he wants what other people have! in the circle, having someone that important to you is dangerous and can be used against you, and he knew this, so it was better to deprive himself of it as he really had no choice. there was fleeting moments of connection, though, but nothing that ever meant more than that. he’s never fallen in love before, or actually really been in a real, meaningful relationship with another person or know what that’s like. i also think because of this it would take a while for him to properly identify or realize his feelings for another, so i think he’d be bad at approaching it initially. all this to say is that he has a positive viewpoint of love, and hates that people take for granted something he thought he could never have.

i think he expresses love in a lot of ways. doing things together and experiencing things together is another way he expresses love. like experiencing a sunrise or sunset, stargazing, etc, as he navigates his new life out of the circle and trying to experience everything he missed out on, but experiencing it with someone he loves just makes it more. something something they make everything more (i can’t find the tumblr post that said this 💔). he likes giving thoughtful gifts too! and i think he’s rather affectionate too - he doesn’t mind closeness with a partner, holding hands, kisses, holding and being held, all of that. he loves so deeply and fiercely and has so much of it to give. all of this is why he fights to find a cure for the calling and to live a full life with the person he loves.

botanical headcanons.

[ottolla]

nta / nah

Just make sure you tell them at some point, and don't lie and say you do love them if you don't. But I'd probably wait to tell them until you've been dating for a little while. I'd say three months, but I've been in literally one relationship in my entire life, and its still goin strong. Two weeks? I don't know how long is good. After a few dates, thats for sure.

When you do let them know, make sure you tell them how much would NOT change. tell them what it means, dont just be like 'ehh, im not in love with you i just think you're cool' or whatever that may be. Especially since, if you're going to be trying to obtain a life-partner, you're GOING to be fond of them. You might not think of flowers or whatever, or want to initiate kisses or what have you (tho id still suggest you do. like, if youre not opposed to it or anything.) Like, correct me if I'm wrong or whatever, but ""People who are aromantic can still have intense, loving feelings, they're just not romantic in nature. They can form emotional and personal connections, and they can provide and benefit from empathetic support. Aromantic people can still love their friends, family, children, pets, and their partners."" (WebMD). So, to my thinking you just don't like... I dunno, see hearts floating about when you're with them? But you could totally see like... sunshine rays, or rainbows, or whatever. sparkles, smily faces, etc. (you dont literally see them, but you know what i mean.) like just cause youre not romantic, (at least thats what im thinking) doesnt mean you wouldnt love them. you even said kissing is cool. cuddling is prolly cool too.

(what else is romantic...) holding hands? so you wouldn't be the one to innitiate it, or maybe youre someone who doesnt care for it (hands can be sweaty, i understand). just because you wouldnt think to / want to / ??? / etc to put your hand on them in a friendly / romantic gesture, thats okay. not everyone likes to be touched, or likes touching. (im hot constantly, hot hands on me? no thanks) and, even still, people can learn to like touches. my partner did. (everything use to be ticklish, and because they didnt have a lot of physical contact growing up, they were unuse to it. they love cuddles now, we snuggle every night, we hold hands, etc. all that crap.) Like, it really doesnt seem like a dealbreaker, unless the person you're with hardcore dreams of like, a perfect romance or whatever. -shrugs- i dont even know what all romance entails. chocolate? . ... i mean, get them chocolate, that s*ts delicious. but like, not everything has to be all lovey-dovey. not for everyone anyway.

WIBTA if I started dating (with the end goal being marriage) without telling them that I'm aromantic? I want a life partner, I want to have someone to raise kids with, and I want to have a monogamous sexual relationship (mainly just for risk reasons tbh). I also want to date within my religion, which doesn't have many around me. I just don't think anyone would be interested in a serious relationship with me if I came out. And I don't mind the romantic stuff-- kissing is actually pretty nice. I just don't experience that kind of attraction. They'll never know unless I tell them, so does it even matter?

What are these acronyms?

[maccreadysbaby]

Some of My Favorite Ways to Describe a Character Who’s Sick

pressing their forehead into something cool or comfortable (this could be an array of things. the table, the floor, someones leather jacket, their water bottle, the countertop)

warm to the touch, or heat radiating from them (could be noticed if someone’s gauging their temperature with their hands, hugging them, or just generally touching them)

leaning into people’s touch, or just spontaneously leaning on them (like pressing into their hand when someone’s checking their temp, or just, like, literally walking up and laying their head on them from fatigue. bonus points if the character is usually feral and the other is scared to engage™︎)

falling asleep all over the place (at the dinner table, on their homework, in the car, in the bathroom — just being so exhausted from doing literally nothing)

being overly emotional (crying over things that don’t usually bother them, like their siblings arguing, or their homework, or literally just nothing)

stumbling/careening/staggering into things (the wall, furniture, other people. there is no coordination in feverish brains. running into chairs, hitting the door, falling over the couch, anything and everything)

slurring their words (could be from fatigue or pain. connecting words that shouldn’t be connected, murdering all of their conversations with the excessive use of ‘mm’ and ‘nn’ in place of words) (this is my favorite thing ever)

being overly touchy (basically like a sick kid — just hold them, please. do that thing where you brush their hair back out of their face, or rub circles on their back, or snuggle them. they won’t care. bonus points if this is also the feral character and they refuse to believe it afterwards)

being extremely resistant to touch (flinching away when they usually don’t so someone can’t feel the fever, not letting themselves be touched because they’re so tired they just know they’ll be putty in their hands if they do)

growing aggressive or being extremely rude (it’s a defense mechanism — they feel vulnerable and are afraid of being manipulated or deceived while they’re ill)

whimpering/whining/groaning (this was in my “characters in pain” post but it’s so good that i’m putting it here too. this shite is gold, especially if it’s just an involuntary reaction to their symptoms)

having nightmares caused by a fever and/or delirium (crying and murmuring in their sleep, or being awake but completely out of it and convinced they’re somewhere else)

making themselves as small as possible (curling up into a ball everywhere they lay, hunching over slightly when standing, wrapping their arms around themselves)

TW for vomiting below cut !!

sleeping in the bathroom floor because they keep getting sick over and over (bonus if someone finds them all weak and pitiful. bonus bonus if they find them there in the morning only to learn they’ve been there all night)

using their hands/other body parts to clamp over their mouth so nothing can come out (like pulling their knees up to their chest and using that, or like, their arm, y’know) (~maccreadysbaby who has emetophobia suddenly gets very awkward about this post~) (~yes i have a phobia of puke and still write this happening to my characters, shut up~) (~it’s about the hurt/comfort okay~)

sympathy pukers (people who aren’t the sick ones but get nauseous/vomit when they see someone else throw up) (~aka me~) (~okay I’m done now~)

dry heaving (it’s gross, but good for making your characters absolutely freaking miserable)

rolling/churning/spinning/cramping/ lurching and all those awesome words that describe what stomachs do when sick (i hate these words with a deep, fiery passion. but they’re good for writing or whatever)

[whokilledsamara]

May I request a NSFW alphabet for our deranged, red ass, momo-eyed princess Mr Scarletta from Homicipher👉👈˃ᴗ˂

MR. SCARLETELLA NSFW ALPHABET

a Mr. Scarletella nsfw alphabet. {an : omg.. why ofc.. hes sooo hot i love him. also funny words >< we need more porn of this man in general, also im working on a hc fic for him~~~~ if nobody will write for him then i will!!! ^•^}

warnings! : stalking, non-conish..? more like dub-con, rough sex, cunnilingus, blowjobs, yandere, blood kink, knife play, hes a kinky mf, abuse play, asphyxiation, afab and amab genitalia described, sadism kink, red. everywhere. miss-use of an umbrella.... looks around nervously

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

it really depends on his mood. USUALLY he is somewhat decent at it. he doesnt really understand the human need for aftercare, so most he will do is probably clean you and cuddle you on certain occasions.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

for him, he likes his hands. and his height, but mainly his hands. {plus you complimented them once, so it made him like them more.}

on YOU, other than your face, definitely your waist and neck. he likes how fragile you are. also he likes YOUR height. small.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

due to his sheer size, he cums a lot. not TOO much, and not as much as the others, but enough to fill you to the brim.

he almost always cums inside, unless its a blowjob. if it is, he likes to pull out and cum on your face or chest. make sure to have your tongue out though.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he really wants to fuck you unconscious. though not really a secret, he makes it obvious.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

you would be his first time, being a ghost and all. but hes a very fast learner so expect him to be a beast in bed {or wherever} once he finds those spots and what turns you on.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

any position that he can choke you in. or shove his fingers in your mouth. he would take another position if you offered though. he just wants you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

even outside of sex, he isn't humorous. hes always serious with that stare that he does {soo sexy.. (´﹃｀)}

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

not a lot, but its there. nice red happy trail and hair where it would be normally.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

well he's always romantic. in his own... creepy way. but he does love you. too much. in an obsessive, stalker way. so yes, he is.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

he doesn't, nor does he feel the need to, but if he finds YOU touching yourself.. thats a special occasion, he WILL whip it out and start stroking himself then. and only then.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

oh dear.. blood kink, abuse kink, impact kink, vouyerism, asphyxiation, degradation, cnc, etc

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

either his "space" or somewhere random. {he secretly hopes someone will find you}

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

coprophilia, vomit. thats literally it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

prefers giving. you are his QUEEN. {king if you prefer.} he is a beast with his mouth. he would do anything you ask, much like Mr. Crawling.

he does enjoy receiving though, loves to see you go down on him.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

fast and rough. will only slow down if you BEG him to.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

anything to get you and him off. he does prefer to take his time with you, so usually he will just teleport you somewhere.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

obviously. i mean its Mr. Scarletella that we are talking about. {drools...} he would do anything risky.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

doesnt have stamina, could go for hours honestly. he can cum pretty fast if he wants to, but either way he just wants YOU.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

no he doesnt own any. {unless you count his umbrella... well get to that later..}

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

oh all the time. constantly teasing you and trying to get you horny. if you tease him back then its OVER for you.. good luck walking ><

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

not loud at all, his breath may hitch and he might groan softly every now and then, but he wants to listen to your noises more than anything.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he will use his umbrella handle as a "dildo" of sorts. wants to watch you attempt to put it in. the end is curved, so its fun to watch you struggle. he will force it if he has to.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

oo,, big boy. hes over 8 feet tall, so its a given. his shaft is around 8-9 inches maybe, a darker tip and maybe 3 inches wide.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

hes only horny if either you are, or if you do something that turns him on.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

doesnt need sleep, he is a ghost. does enjoy watching you sleep. hes weird, per se. will cuddle up to you and get you as close as possible.

[keravnous]

diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

dating john wick - the playlist

The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.

warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence

word count: 10,6 k

thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me

You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.

The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.

There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.

Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.

You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.

They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.

Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.

There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.

Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.

You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.

John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.

You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.

Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.

Could be you.

You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.

"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.

That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.

He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.

You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.

With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.

You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.

I will not die today

Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.

There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.

You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.

John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.

I will not die today

You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.

Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.

His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.

I will not die today

John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.

He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.

And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.

I will not die today

John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.

For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.

John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.

You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.

I will not die today

Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.

You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.

A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.

He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.

You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.

His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --

Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.

I will not fucking die today

In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.

Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.

Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.

But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.

And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.

Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.

And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.

He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.

And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.

It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.

Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.

"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.

John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.

You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.

"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.

If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.

"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.

The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.

I will not die today, motherfucker

Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.

The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.

John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.

He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.

Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.

It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.

One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.

He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.

Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.

You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.

The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.

It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.

And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.

The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.

All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.

But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.

It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.

It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.

It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.

It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.

It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.

"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.

"Don't", you breathe softly.

The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.

As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.

"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.

John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.

For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.

Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.

John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.

Your breath hitches.

He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.

As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.

Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.

John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.

And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.

The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.

It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.

Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.

It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.

"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.

John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.

"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.

"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.

You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.

John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.

Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.

You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.

"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."

And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.

Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.

"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.

The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.

Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.

You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.

John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.

You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.

You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --

There's the gun. And the knife.

You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.

That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.

"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.

But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.

Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."

Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.

Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --

"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."

And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.

Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.

"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.

And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.

You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.

Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.

"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.

"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.

And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.

You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.

The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.

John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.

"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.

Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.

John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.

"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."

You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.

The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.

But it's too little. It's just not enough.

"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"

You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"

And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.

You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.

"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"

Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.

"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"

Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.

His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--

"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.

"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."

John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.

His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.

The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."

His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.

The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.

And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.

"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.

John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.

You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.

Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.

A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"

"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.

"Heavy", you breathe.

"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.

John realizes he is fucked.

You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.

John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.

Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"

"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."

It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.

And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.

"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.

Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.

It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.

It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.

You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.

You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.

The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.

But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.

He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.

John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.

You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.

Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.

And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.

John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.

You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.

But it is also him.

It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.

There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.

"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"

"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."

You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.

Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.

Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."

John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.

"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.

John moans.

It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.

"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"

He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -

Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.

John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.

His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.

Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.

The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.

Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.

Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.

"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.

John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.

"Kill him instead, please."

He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.

Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.

You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.

Easier to kill.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 24

Edddie Brock/Venom + Symbiosis

Just got back from the Venom movie, and sadly I didn’t enjoy it very much. But it did rekindle my love for Eddie and Venom. Readers got a symbiote named Whistle.

This probably has what counts as mild body horror in it? Just symbiotes being weird and bonding.

no spoilers for Venom: The Last Dance.

2024 kinktober masterlist

Date nights were an experience nowadays. Back when you and Eddie had just been the two of you, things had been much easier. You would go out for dinner, back when Eddie was a reporter and you a renowned professor at Empire State university. Back then you two could easily afford pricey dinners and way too expensive bottles of wine. Afterwards was a leisurely walk or drive back home, where you two would chuckle and sneak kisses as you pawed at each other. It regularly ended with you two barely making it to the couch before the passion took over.

Now though, with two symbiotes involved, having some privacy was hard. In the beginning it completely put a stop to your intimate life, even as Venom and Whistle both asked about it, or made raunchy comments.

But then the two symbiotes became involved in whatever you would call your relationship, Venom called it a polycule, Whistle called it a collection of passion and fornication. It did mean you and Eddie never got to kiss in peace, Venoms tongue always sliding into your mouth, or threads of whistles white body slithering against Eddies face and neck.

The symbiotes were a species that reproduced asexually, Venom and Whistle had both told you and Eddie that. But for two being from an asexual species, they sure were horny. Whistle more than Venom it seemed. Venom liked the slow game, slowly teasing Eddie over a day, where Whistle liked to milk as much out of you as possible until you couldn’t feel your legs.

Nowadays Eddie wasn't a reporter, and you weren’t a professor. Hed been pretty much banned from New York, and the people who had chased him out came after you too, going as far as making it seem like you had tried to take potshots at Tony Stark of all people.

Then came the whole thing with the symbiotes, a black mass of writhing black sinking into Eddie, as the slurpy tentacled white pile that was Whistle sank into yours. It felt like how you imagined being devoured must feel, from the inside out. You could feel Whistle slithering throughout your body, sinking into your veins and filling your veins.

Their being was thick but thin, everywhere but nowhere, all at once. Some semblances of reality told you that you were on the floor, arching and gurgling like a drunk choking on their own vomit, but all you could focus on was how Whistle seemed to fill all the empty crevices of your being, before they settled.

Eddie wasn’t faring much better, but he and Venom got themselves together first. You and Whistle had only bonded perfectly when you four were outside the facility, you thrown over Eddies, Venoms? Shoulder as they fled. Whistles voice was scratchier and higher pitched than Venom, it reminded you of those screamo artists whose voices were so raspy that it was hard to understand.

Many things happened after that, from other symbiotes to serial killers, there really was no way to put it all into words. It felt like you two, four, never had a moment of rest until it all was over, and you could slump down in the ransacked apartment you shared.

It was Venom and Whistle that wanted to go on a date night first, deciding that going out as the lethal protectors counted as such, you and Eddie mostly being dragged along for the ride. They swam and devoured fish, drank stolen alcohol even if it didn’t affect them, and settled on the bed to swirl their long tongues together like a pair of snakes.

It felt like an out of body experience, almost. With Venoms inky black hands rubbing up and down Whistles shiny white torso, their beings melting together before reforming again somewhere else, their black and white swirling together in a hypnotizing pattern.

The two symbiotes curled their mass from your faces, letting Eddie and you sloppily roll your much smaller and less flexible tongues together, filling the room with the wet smacking and sucking noises your kissing made. You could feel Whistle and Venoms masses sliding between you, swapping places yet staying at the same time, they were everywhere and nowhere, just like the first time you bonded with Whistle.

You could hear whistle purring in the back of your mind, strands of symbiotic mass rubbing against the surface of your brain, whether it was Venom or Whistle wasn’t something you knew, but it made you arch and gasp. The move was copied by Eddie, who’s eyes fluttered and flashed white for a moment, Venom bleeding through to the front for a moment before receding.

You didn’t even know where your cocks were in all that writhing mass. You could only guess Eddies thighs were pressed against your own, your two alien lowers rocking you back and forth, frotting you two together and smearing your torsos in your combined fluids.

Maybe it was all the cannibalism you had committed with Whistle inside you, but part of you wanted to devour Eddie. Like you could open up your chest cavity and pull him inside and become one, in the same way you did with Whistle and he with Venom.

The thought made all four of the beings on the bed moan, two human, and two alien, Venom conjuring that image to the front of your minds. Together you could be the greatest being. Apart you were all losers, but if you became one, then not even Knull could stop you.

It was hard to tell if you had cum during all of this, all pleasure centers of your body continuously stimulated by alien touches but inside and outside your body, Eddies arms wrapped around you, and you Eddie, trapped you in a moving cocoon of symbiote.

There was something fucking in and out of you, something Eddie must have been experiencing too from the way he moaned against your neck, Venom and Whistle pulling you harder together, as if they could somehow make you merge the same way they did.

Was it Venom or Whistle fucking you? or was it both? Which one of them had slithered a thin tentacle of symbiote down your cock, pressing cruelly against your prostate from the front and the back. Which one was massaging and sucking at your pecs at the same time? Which of your symbiote lovers was curled around your lungs and heart, squeezing them just enough to make your weak human body panic enough for it to become arousal.

Did it even matter? Together you four were something beautiful, something so inhumane it would be called demonic. But so many things were. When people didn’t understand, they feared, and God were Venom and Whistle worth fearing.

Eddie was keening against your neck, his sweaty face glued against your skin, his noises breathless and panicked, but so hot and aroused too. What were they doing? A mental flash of Eddies spine and ribs, intertwined by black and white symbiotic mass flashed before your minds eye, making you twitch and moan.

He had always been so needy and sensitive, even when it was just you fucking him. It was never enough, and back then you two just had to settle with the fact that you could never fill him enough for him to feel full. But now? Now it wasn’t just dirty talk or fantasy, it was so very real and fulfilling.

You could feel Venom sliding against your tongue from Eddies, like some strange thread of wiggling living saliva, Whistle meeting them halfway and coiling together into a knot. They had supressed your gag reflex a while ago, so you didn’t cough or gag as you felt symbiotic mass tickling the back of your throat from both the inside and outside. It all felt like too much all at once.

It was perfect, in its own sick unimaginable way. Something you couldn’t even have theorized back when you were still a respected professor, back when your days were filled with studying animals and humans.

The rumbling you could hear both inside and outside had to be your symbiotes purring, their intense rubbing, tugging, filling and emptying slowly ceased, instead starting to feel more like a full body massage. Your dick was aching and sore, honestly everything was sore in a way you couldn’t explain. Even your pores and blood veins ached pleasantly, like a muscle after a workout.

Eddie was limp and panting on top of you, arms still wound around you even as the symbiotes pulled back, focusing on cleaning you two up and getting watered and fed. “ever thought you’d be fucking aliens Brock?” you chuckle shakily, voice raspy from all the abuse your throat had been put through.

Eddie just grunted in reply, nuzzling his face a little further under your chin. “He has had many fantasies” Venom purred with a toothy smile, their pill shaped head hovering as tentacles rubbed you two clean. “But has he” Whistle hissed like an explosive, but a very pleased one at that.

You just huff a bit at the two, letting your eyes slide shut, ignoring how you felt Whistles mass run across your eyeballs to rub them clean before settling back against your spine, protecting your vital organs.

Venom and Whistle were still loosely draped over Eddie and you, acting more like a weighted blanket instead of a confining mass. Exhaustion was pulling at the edges of your mind, the purring of your symbiotes, Eddies slow breathing as he had fallen asleep almost immediately, and the influx of pleased chemicals in your brain acting like a lethal combination. Maybe date night wasn’t too bad, you did want a bit more of a warning next time…

[pellucid-constellations]

Erstwhile

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand's Sister!Reader

Summary: You've fallen ill. No one knows what's wrong. No one knows what's to come.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: Angst & Illness ✌🏻

a/n: This is a prequel to this fic, but can be read alone if you don't want to get into that lol. Again, I've completely changed the timeline for Rhysand's family, but this takes place after the first war. Also this is my warm up and I haven't written in two months so sorry if it's weird or whatevs love youuu :p

another part of this universe

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Azriel tucked the errant strand of hair behind your ear that had been bothering him the entire afternoon, the heat of your cheek lingering on his fingers. You did your best to hide the fatigue that followed you in the simple turn of your head, but Azriel could spot it anywhere. Azriel could tell everything about you with one look. 

“Any better?” he softly asked. 

You smiled, and he heard the lie before it left your lips. “I’m feeling perfectly fine. I promise.” 

Azriel hummed. He slid next to you on the loveseat, wings hanging over the back to brush against yours. You fell against him instantly. He tried not to feel worried by the blatant affection you so readily offered directly in front of your brother. 

Rhysand didn’t even make the usual disgusted grimace he so favored in jest. Instead, the High Lord leaned his elbows forward to rest on his knees, the open balcony doors behind him a backdrop for yet another serious conversation. 

“Nothing is progressing.” 

Azriel took in your brother’s words, eyes not leaving your flushed face that rested in the crook of his shoulder. “I assumed.” 

“It’s been four days. Fever, vomiting—she sleeps the entire day. No one… Azriel, you’ve brought in every specialist in Night. No one knows what’s wrong,” Rhys rambled, his words getting caught in the stickiness of his throat. 

“I know,” Azriel choked out himself. He adjusted you against him and you didn’t wake. He knew as soon as he sat down that you were going to fall asleep once more. 

The room was then blanketed in silence. If he listened keenly enough, Azriel could hear Rhysand’s teeth grind together from the tenseness of his jaw. The High Lord brought a hand up to harshly scrub down the stubble he hadn’t had the mind to shave. 

“Cassian’s checking the camps for Illyrian flu,” Azriel offered. 

“It’s not that.” 

“I know.” 

You groaned softly and your expression pinched. Azriel relished in the sound—in the gentle motion of your breathing. 

“Dawn?” Rhysand asked. 

“Just waiting on a reply.” 

Rhysand blew out a long breath, leaning back in the armchair he refused to leave. He knocked back a short class of amber liquid and turned his chin to look out beyond the mountain. Azriel remained frozen. 

This sickness had come on suddenly, prefaced by several long trips across the continent. There was no way of knowing what had caused it because you had been everywhere, so dead set on rallying the courts to amicable relations following the outcome of the war. Azriel had told you to slow down—everyone had told you—but you were too headstrong for your own good. 

It had begun with sleepiness, more difficulty waking you up, and then Azriel’s true alarm came at your rising fever and lack of appetite. And it was all getting worse. Mor was still in Dawn attempting to work out a possible healer, but there was hesitation there. You had been in Dawn just last month; there was no telling if they could even trust those in Dawn. 

Azriel leaned down to press his lips along your hairline. He lingered there, closing his eyes and pretending that none of this was happening. 

“We’ll figure this out,” he whispered into your hair. To you, to Rhysand—to himself. 

When you woke, it was after several long minutes of silence, the beats of stagnant air accompanied by both men taking long glances in your direction. Your deep intake of breath was followed by Azriel turning you to get a better look at your beginning of consciousness. You brought a hand up to rub at your eyes and blink away yet another nap. Your sixth of the day, Azriel counted. 

“Good morning,” you mumbled, all blearily and completely unaware that it was well into the evening at this point. Azriel did not correct you. You clutched his shirt in between your fingers, and a small swell of panic met the relief you showed at seeing him. “Rhys—” 

“I’m right here,” your brother called from across the room. “Haven’t left.” 

“Oh.” You ran a hand over your hair, which Azriel quickly replicated to smooth down the strands you displaced. “Sorry, I thought—Is it lunch yet? Mor and I were going to get lunch.” 

Your attempt to play off the panic was graciously accepted by Rhys, who engaged you in a conversation about your cousin’s whereabouts. 

Since getting sick, each time you woke up, you sought out your brother. Azriel had taken some offense to it at first. He was your mate, had been for years, and he had an intrinsic need to be the one to take care of you. 

But you didn’t do it on purpose, he knew. He had to remind himself that you grew up with Rhys for decades before he had formally met you, and it was easier for fae children to get sick. You had been through several bouts of flu with your family before you had been mated, and this was you seeking out comfort in the ways you knew. 

Rhysand didn’t seem to want to part with you in this state either. 

You didn’t leave Azriel’s side, resting your head by his collarbone as you spoke with your brother.

Eventually, the High Lord heaved himself up from his chair and rested his hand on your forehead, a flicker of a grimace preceding the kiss he pressed to your hair. He left the room with a pointed stare towards Azriel. Take care of her, it said, but Azriel did not need the reminder. 

When your brother’s footfall became too distant to hear, you let out a sigh. “He is probably so behind.” 

Azriel craned his neck down slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“He is High Lord,” you explained, sinking further into your mate when his hand rested on the back of your head. “And his emissary is down. Not to mention the rest of his circle is too occupied with finding an answer to whatever is wrong with me to do anything of substance. And he’s here every time I wake. He is probably drowning in paperwork and missives.”

“He wants to make sure you’re alright.” 

“I am a burden right now.” 

“He doesn’t see it that way. No one does.” 

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,” you said next, exhaustion lining each word. 

“I know,” Azriel whispered, the reply like a mantra. He knows, he knows, he knows. And yet he can’t do a single thing. “I know, angel. But we will figure it out. I love you. I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

“I know,” you repeated. “I know, Az. I love you, too.”

part two

[akutasoda]

hold my hand, lean on me

synopsis - jiaoqiu adjusting to domestic life with you

includes - jiaoqiu

warnings - gn!reader, spoilers for 2.5, angst w/ some comfort, fluff, maybe ooc, wc - 1.3k

a/n: i actually cannot get this darn foxian out my mind :( shouts to @thelightofmylife for some vv helpful pointers and information ^^ tbh i feel like this is just 1.3k words of word vomit HAHA

the healers finished informing you of the situation, thanking them you then closed the door to the shared abode. a sigh you didn't know you were holding back escaped alongside a glance down to the papers the healer's handed over. you could read them later, the news followed by the details of it wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, if anything it might be a final push for the tears to start falling.

your thoughts were distracted by the sound of hesitant, shuffling footsteps. turning around, you were met with the sight of jiaoqiu standing idly not too far from you - almost as if he was taking in the surroundings, although now it was more him trying to piece together the memories of what it looked like.

jiaoqiu had arrived back at the yaoqing not too long ago, admittedly rather late, but the luofu's alchemy commission had kept him for a while. he'd been forced immediately to the yaoqing’s alchemy commission as they were now the ones responsible for his treatment plan for the future. a short talk with them had then led to him being escorted back home. to you.

upon arrival, some of the alchemy commission healers explained to you about the entire situation. they kept it short but soon handed you a full document containing everything from “patient’s injuries” to “doctor’s post-charge advice” - each and every sentence pained you more and more, you refused to acknowledge what would've happened if moze hadn't found him, you would have to thank him later.

the healers had asked you to take upon the responsibility of looking after him at home, and in most day to day life scenarios - at least until he adjusted properly. they asked you to keep strict to the “post-charge advice” as otherwise it probably would cause more harm to him, making his healing process longer and maybe even worsening it beyond healing.

“jiao-ge” you called out, to let him know that you were still near. it pained to see the somber look on his face. the last thing jiaoqiu saw wasn't anyone, anywhere or anything he loved. no. it was something he hated, someone he loathed in unfamiliar territory surrounded by no-one he knew.

now he stood in familiar territory, with the person he loved the most. but he couldn't bask in the sights or even see you. all he had was memories to cast images in his mind, to help pretend that nothing was wrong and that he could see what he remembered.

you knew that he wouldn't want you doting on him. jiaoqiu needed to adjust, to learn how to go about his life as usual and you overly fussing over him would only probably annoy him and prolong that.

it had been a long day, any proper conversations could be held tomorrow. to no surprise, jiaoqiu insisted he could get ready and do everything by himself. you granted him that independence. eventually, admittedly with some help, you two were ready for sleep. and even though you were right there beside him, jiaoqiu never felt further from you.

---✩

the process was slow. nobody would've said that it was going to be anything other than that. jiaoqiu very clearly wanted independence. he didn't want to seen as a burden, he chose to do this, and knowing that people were constantly doting on him instead of continuing with their lives made him feel awful.

one of the first things you did was help make your shared abode more compatible with his needs. an easy step was making sure that everywhere was clean and free of obstruction, normally moze always

showed up and helped with cleaning as well. another step was helping jiaoqiu become able to navigate the home on his own, mainly he acted on memory but you needed to make sure that where he frequented was always obstruction free.

occasionally you could hear a bump or hurried shuffling from the room over, each and every time you dropped what you were doing and checked up on him. it was never anything major and if anything it always resulted in jiaoqiu silently cursing at the piece of furniture he walked into.

you two always adopted a verbal calling system at home. should you need to leave the room he was in, you would tell him exactly where you were going and what you were doing - that way he knew where you were. jiaoqiu would also inform you of where he planned on going just in case something happened or he got lost.

although, admittedly, for the first couple of weeks jiaoqiu stuck to you like glue. to him, it was a way to quickly adjust and therefore he wouldn't have to be a burden for long. however jiaoqiu subsequently had developed a rather interesting habit, one neither of you addressed - you because you thought it was sweet and didn't want to embarrass him, him because he didn't want to admit it.

and that was him using his tail as a guidance. at home, it was either curled around your waist, wrist or leg. in public, it lingered around your wrist, so much so that it constantly tickled you. it was a way of him making sure you were there with him, you hadn't left him and he was okay.

although most admittedly it was worse at night. he would hold you close, an ironclad grip that usually you would ask for him to let up but you knew he needed this. tail curled around your waist, preventing you from escaping. in his opinion, you helped him sleep easier, much easier than any fragrances he was prescribed.

however, this always came with a risk. due to residual lupitoxin still in his body, jiaoqiu became frequently prone to nightmares which plagued him constantly. everytime his mind was tricked into believing that the borisin were waiting, patiently looking for an opening to get revenge.

he wakes up because of them, drenched in fear and swear, and because he's so fearful the lupitoxin can take hold easier. suddenly he's tricked into believing that the borisin have found him. unbeknownst to the fact that it's you. so you sometimes take the liberty of sleeping away from him, but then he wakes up to an empty bead but he can hear someone in the room over and when he finds out it was you, sleeping away from him, he becomes consumed with guilt.

a major change for him was his inability to cook anymore. jiaoqiu was determined to do so with his impairment but he needed to learn. nowadays you cook with him. instead of being hushed out of the kitchen, you stood closely beside him, handing him the tools he needed, telling him where you put them so he could find them again on his own.

gently reminding him to lay off the spices when he requested more, he was to avoid spicy foods at all costs for the time being. a hard change, one that he absolutely despised but he knew better than to go against a doctor's order. helping him go out and buy ingredients, listening to what he told you and carrying out the tasks diligently.

---✩

and that was a shortlist of changes. you were very happy to accommodate anything for him, so long as he felt comfortable and loved. it wasn't uncommon for jiaoqiu to experience major lows, it was only natural and you needed to be there for him.

to listen to him, to show him that the support he needed was always a simple ask away - you didn't want to push to dote on him for many reasons. but that was different to showing genuine care and love to him when he started seeing himself as a useless, dependent person.

life would be different. for a while or maybe even forever, perhaps feixiao would strike lucky in her search for a healer that knew how to help. but for now, you two would have to learn how to adjust. to be there for eachother.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn