#elusiveness of the fog

[jigencaps]

[rowanberrypop]

to me they’re two different guys, same bloodline

[ctrl-lupin]

why have i seen nobody talking about elusiveness of the fog

I think it's because it's one of those mid-tier TV specials that has a meh plot with some genuinely funny moments, so the funny moments get GIFed and the rest is forgotten. I for one enjoyed that movie ^^

[bestoflupiniiipoll]

Best of Lupin III Poll

[morporkian-cryptid]

Hey, y’all wanna see some more Very Inadvisable Gun Practices by Daisuke “Supposedly The Best Gunman In The World” Jigen,

the same absolute madman who brought us timeless classics like “shooting over your shoulder with the hammer right next to your ear”, “shoving a loaded gun into your waistband”, "twirling a loaded gun by the trigger guard", and of course “using the wrong ammo for so long that your gun just blows up into pieces and buries itself into some guy’s chest”?

-cracks knuckles-

Suppose you are stranded in the Middle Ages (thanks Mamou); Middle Ages People have stolen your gun and used up all the bullets, before kindly returning the now useless gun to you. Do you:

Use your gun to bash people on the head

Acquire a crossbow or perhaps a slingshot

Forge new bullets out of some random metal you melted over a campfire and poured into a hole in a block of wood, then shove them into your used bullet cases, presumably with some gunpowder that you just found somewhere

WHY, OPTION C OF FUCKING COURSE!

I sent these pictures to J (@whosayscrimedoesntpay), my Friend Who Knows Guns™, and he was kind enough to give me a detailed run-down of what exactly is wrong with Jigen. I will now hand the keyboard over to him, so he can explain why, in his own words, “there’s… so much wrong here… so much…”

What the fuck is that metal? Why are you able to melt it over a normal fire?? Why doesn’t the powder flash deform it if that’s the case?

How did you just… find a bullet-shaped hole?? Did you make it?? How did you do that so it was the right size and shape? The wood grain would affect the aerodynamics!

Pouring water on it is just a questionable idea in terms of physics. It could cool weird and possibly deform, if not have water trapped in it.

WHY DOES HE HAVE NO BULLETS, BUT SPARE BULLET CASINGS? [NB: the answer is that he had the spent cases from already fired bullets, which sent J into even more hysterics]

SAME FOR THE POWDER [NB from your local Japan History Nerd™: this movie takes place in the early 1500; firearms were introduced to Japan in 1300 so it’s not completely impossible that Jigen would have acquired some, but then again the villagers there were very clearly established to Not Have Firearms, so…]

Is he… hammering it?? Into the case?? With a rough object?? Risking deforming the bullet?? See point 2 for my point about aerodynamics.

If he doesn’t have spare cases and he’s just using old ones that he’s spent already, no he’s not. THAT’S NOT HOW THAT WORKS.

Expanding on point 7: the whole way a bullet works is the hammer hits the base of the case, either on the rim (the flared bit) or on the center (no flare on those so these are likely rimfire, unless the animators don’t know that either) [NB: .357 Magnum bullets have a flare on the base, so yes the animators did indeed get that wrong.]

That silver bit in the middle of the base houses the “primer”, which is the thing that initially causes the heat/spark that sets off the powder. Depending on if your gun/ammo is rimfire or centrefire, the pin will either strike the rim or the center. On the picture of the spent case (on the right) you can see a dent in the little silver bit.

If they’re spent, you can’t just reuse the exact same case. The primer in the rim/center is spent. You can’t replace that.

Well, technically you can reuse centrefire cases, but you have to replace the bullet (which Jigen did, very badly), the powder (did he?? We didn’t see him do it) and the primer (same here). In the end, the only problem Jigen had with these bullets in the movie is that the aim was very bad, even though the fact that his gun even fires at all goes against the laws of physics.

--------

TL;DR: Jigen is once again defying both science and gun logic. According to J, it basically boils down to “even if the metal is suitable (which it isn’t) and the bullet is made correctly (which it isn’t) and he just… has gunpowder up his ass, he STILL needs a new primer”.

Thank you for tuning in to this new installment of “Daisuke Jigen should not, in fact, be trusted with a gun”!

[nicomrade]

A genuine question here, but why do you dislike The First so much?

well its a weird thing to talk about cause really its the same reason why i dislike stolen lupin or any other low tier TV special. the real question is why other people liked it so much and i think its only because its such a pretty movie, its jaw dropingly gorgeous and the lupgang banter is great but just those 2 together isnt enough to make a good MOVIE. but it is enough that u can have a good TIME if u dont think about whats happening. thats the short version, its just a bad movie. sorry🐅

i purposefully havent been too frank when talking publicly about it (why i kept a mean tweet about it in drafts for literal years) but compared to the unlimited love it gets from the fandom it looks like thats enough for people to pick up that i dislike it so much lol. so lets talk about the first!

ill be brief on each point. that ancient technology thing it does w the eclipse? thats a bad trope. its a very very bad trope. its the atlantis conspiracy theory, its 1 throwaway line away from slipping into ancient aliens, they pull the same shit in a couple other TV specials and none of them are fondly remembered so hopefully we all know this plot point sucks and is racist. if not you can google it. lets move on

the nazis. after watchin harimao i said it was more anti-nazi than the first, idk if id stand by that cause i havent seen it again since but i mention it to put it in lupin context. generally if it isnt OK to have lupin scam an ex-nazi in part 2 ep 3 by disguising himself as hitler, whys it OK for lupin to steal from nazis by disguising himself as hitler? at no point is the movie actually anti-nazi (though i wouldnt call it pro-nazi either) and its fucking weird to see lupin disguised as hitler in modern lupin cause each time nazis show up in classic lupin everyone agrees its tasteless & overdone.

laetitia! TMS did a genius thing w her cause shes incredibly well written as a self-insert fic protag. it is very easy to watch the first & pretend u urself are best friends w the gang by projecting urself onto her. this doesnt balance out her lack of character it only helps the audience not care about it. compare her to mariya from tokyo crisis- one could be written out of her own movie and we only get info bout her to move the plot (the bad, boring plot) forward, one is essential to the core of her movie and shes realistically affected by the things that happened to her and makes believable connections with some of the gang. yay! a character!!

the movie is also very segmented between "plot scenes" and "lupgang banter scenes" you will notice everything fun about lupin STOPS when we are being explained Plot Elements. lupin talks to laetitia and its a boring nazi ancient treasure movie. then we get a scene thats not about the eclipse or laetitias grandpa or the nazis and all of a sudden its super fun !!!!!!! this is bad writing. lol. watch fuma & see how lupin at its best can blend comedy and plot and exploration and fun banter.

my personal experience w the movie! the first time i watched it i had to pause it cause i was bored out of my mind. iirc it was more or less when lupin gets on the eclipse ship thing n all banter stops cause its just him n the nazi dude n i realized hey this movie kinda sucks actually! i texted a friend about it n he was like. yeah having to force urself to finish it sounds like ure not enjoyin this movie. i did watch the first 3 or 4 times? i did gif it a lot. theres scenes i like (the banter) but it doesnt make it a good movie. like i said when i first wrote my personal review of it: "I think looking at gifsets of this would be more enjoyable than actually watching it". laetitia really embodies her movie in that sense, shes a really good character if you only look at her. she shares her name with all of her ancestors! just who is she? why is she wearing short shorts? why was she a cop? how old is she? then you realize theres nothing there

and ultimately this IS a reaction to it being an unpopular opinion. there are so many lupin entries a lot more worthwhile than the first (2019) that dont even get half of the hype. in my personal ranking its in the bottom 10 (tho ive skipped 2 specials so u can consider that the bottom 12). i genuinely dont like it but im not as vocal about lets say, angels tactics, because we usually agree thats a bad one- or at least we dont recommend it to newcomers. the first has a good reputation so i feel more strongly about it despite liking it more. i would be just as vocal about dragon of doom & voyage to danger if people talked to me about them more often. (and i have a much more coherent critique of dragon of doom lol)

so i dont really know how to explain why i dislike the first cause i just do; the same way u just dislike a bad part 2 episode, the same way most of the fandom just finds napoleons dictionary kind of boring. how do u explain why u dislike the nazi ancient tech self-insert npc girl movie- except by calling it just that? i guess i wasnt blinded by how pretty it is which makes me sound full of myself LOL. but its true a lot of animation can get away w god awful writing if its well animated enough- and if its too ugly no one will watch the best written animated movie. i love animation too and it has so much to offer and i want to see more done in the style of the first with the story of [insert your personal favorite TV special]. im glad it opened the door for vs cats eye to look that way (though lets not forget the 2012 3DCG lupin short!). but the WRITING the STORY the MEAT of the first just isnt any better than any other mid to low tier lupin TV special. is it really worth recommending the first as someones entry into lupin just because it looks pretty? is it really better than the anime that made the author reboot his own manga? why are we even still talking about the first?

[superlupinscreenies2002]

Sorce: Lupin The Third- Elusiveness of The Fog

Been a long while since I've seen this one but from what I remember, it was alright. The story was a bit bland but it wasn't too boring to the point I would give up and just switch it off. The animation and the Lupgang character designs mostly carried it for me lol

I was so thrown off about how they designed Kyosuke Mamou tho by giving him an emo fringe lmao

The idea of time traveling was pretty neat but the way they executed it could've been better, pff-

[the-rogue-mockingjay]

💗 slow kiss / gentle kiss / inevitable / soft

Hiya Middy! Long time no see!! I hope life has been kind to you 💜💜💜

lol we're thinking on the same wavelength today @coldshrugs 😂 :>

anyway. This was supposed to be a snippet. It...did not end up being a snippet omg, it really got away from me kdlfhgjkfdhgk. It's 3:40 in the morning and this is the first piece I've (more or less) finished in like 3 or 4 months. It's just under 1,300 words. Set a few weeks after the big Endwalker finale, so vague mentions of what happened there.

[prompt meme]

nascent hope & new beginnings

The uneven rhythm of O’ravi’s cane tapping on the cobblestone announces her presence before she emerges from the early morning fog that blankets Sharlayan, and Aymeric sets aside the report he was reading, its contents immediately forgotten.

She’s starting to look like herself again, a clarity in her eyes now that’s been absent since her return from Ultima Thule. The silver and teal shawl she’s wrapped around her shoulders clashes somewhat oddly with the dark red tunic dress she wears, which in turn contrasts with the royal blue ribbon that holds her hair in a loose ponytail. It’s a far cry from the well-coordinated outfits she wears for business and battle, but it suits her.

O’ravi smiles, a little lopsidedly, a little shyly, and waves. “Hey.”

“Good morning, Ravi.” He can’t help it—he runs to meet her, and offers his arm. “You’re up early.”

“The pain was too great to stay in bed. So I thought I might as well seek you out, enjoy the fresh air.” She moves to link her arm through his but pauses, a strange look on her face. Instead, she reaches up to grasp his collar and tugs.

Wordlessly, and with no small amount of confusion, he acquiesces to her wish and leans down.

And softly, sweetly, feather-lightly, she presses a kiss to his lips.

She withdraws before he realizes what happened, content. His heart lurches like a wounded animal within his chest, his breath suddenly shaky, and she winds her arm through his as if she didn’t just send him reeling.

He can’t bear to look at her, he can’t bear to look away. The kiss in Ala Mhigo, before she set out for Garlemald—when she’d kissed him like her survival depended on it only to flee for the airship. That was moons ago, and they’d not spoken of it yet. It was never the right time.

Now, this. Against all the odds she defeated Meteion and Zenos and made it home alive, and she could’ve gone to anyone—could’ve sought out anyone she wished—but she chose to be here. With him.

Halone have mercy.

They walk together down the garden path back to the pavilion. Her gait is unsteady and torpid, but between him and the cane she’s at no risk of falling. It frustrates and distresses her to be so robbed of strength, but he’s just glad to see her up and about and alive. Safe, and free.

There’s a chill on the breeze, carrying the promise of snow and the memory of home. The long walks they took through the Pillars on the eve of battles she didn’t believe she’d return from. He lays a hand over hers, letting her clammy hands soak up his warmth. Soon, they’d go home together, and never again would she need to leave fearing what fate awaited her in far-off lands. Not if he had anything to say about it.

They make their way to the bench where Aymeric left the report, and O’ravi attempts to fold her legs beneath her only to cringe and hiss when the motion aggravates some half-dozen different wounds.

“Careful,” Aymeric says, settling down beside her.

“It never gets easier.” She leans the handle of her cane into the corner of the pavilion wall, careful not to knock it over lest its clattering disrupt the morning quiet. Her tail swishes placidly as she shifts to close the distance between them, ensuring that her arm rests against his and her leg likewise touches his.

He raises his hand slightly in silent offering; without hesitation, she twines her fingers through his.

“Aymeric,” she says, so softly it’s almost a whisper, “what do you think happens now that the Final Days are over? No more Ascians, no more Garlean expansionism, no more Hydaelyn and Zodiark…”

“Years of rebuilding, to start with. No nation was spared the destruction the blasphemies and towers wrought—in every corner of the world, entire communities were wiped out, the population slaughtered or turned, to say nothing of the state of Garlemald. We must needs—”

O’ravi laughs. “No, no, no, I meant: duty and the wider world be damned, what do you want for your future?”

Ah.

He blinks stupidly, trying to cobble together an answer. “I’ve not put much thought into it, to tell you the truth.”

In truth, that is a flat-out lie. Of course he’s thought about it. But what he wants, what he longs for above all else—he cannot ask that of her. What if the request hurts her? And, perhaps it’s selfish, but what if her answer hurts him? Their friendship is too important to take the risk. No, he will hold his tongue.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” she says, and while her smile is tender there’s a knowing look in her eye that he can’t withstand. “Just think about it for a while.”

He never has been good at lying to her. His one consolation is that she’s just as bad at lying to him.

“What of you? The world is yours now, your life is your own again. What will you do with it?”

“Well.” She straightens her spine, ears twitching excitedly, and her smile takes on a mischievous edge. “After all I’ve done, I have more than earned the right to live as I see fit. I’ve earned the right to put duty and responsibility and reputation aside—and I know someone else who has earned the same.”

“We do owe much to your fellow Scions and Warriors of Light.”

“No, Aymeric, I mean you.” She takes his other hand in her own and squeezes. “The future is ours now. Ours to shape, ours to live. After all we’ve bled and suffered and sacrificed, we need to do something for ourselves. Just this much at least.” She leans towards him, and he has no choice but to meet her gaze. “You give and you give and you give of yourself until you have nothing left. The world takes and it never gives back, and before you know it you’ve lost yourself. I know this is happening to you because it happened to me, too. You have to draw a line in the sand somewhere and say, this is mine, this belongs to me, and the world can’t touch it. Aymeric, may I tell you what I want for the future?”

The light is glinting off the gold veins that mar her eyes. Her sincerity is painful to behold.

“Of course.”

“I want you to find yourself again. I want to find me again…and I want us to do it together. I want us to walk into the future together, hand in hand, side by side. Whatever paths we walk going forward, I want us to walk them together until the end of our days.”

“I…”

By the Fury, how is he supposed to answer that? How is he meant to—?

His heart is racing, and she’s watching him with such an innocence, a kindness that’s driving him mad.

Her wish answers the question he couldn’t voice. Yet it still leaves some things up in the air, namely: will they continue to keep a distance between them? Pretend Ala Mhigo never happened and remain friends and naught more?

A deeply foolish thought—he knows what the answer to that is, even if he won’t admit it—but nonetheless…

O’ravi raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “What say you, my brilliant blue knight?” His thoughts are spinning too rapidly to be trusted now, so despite the fact he’ll likely regret it later, he follows the impulse of his heart and kisses the scar that cuts across the bridge of her nose. Let that be answer enough.

[myscreencapalbums]

Lupin III: Kiri no Elusive

[faline-cat444]

Can confirm this isn’t everything I expected from today and I’m somewhat relieved on that fact.They’re assuming the remining portions are on their way tomorrow.

[raeofgayshine]

Can’t tell if I’m experiencing symptoms of my new medicine or if I’m just dealing with symptoms of my existence

[jigencaps]

[inkykeiji]

you make a mess of me

character: alastor

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, blood + blood eating, periods, dry humping, biting (hard enough to break the skin), toxic relationship, noncon, possessiveness + entitled behaviour, pet/master dynamic, unintentional overstimulation + multiple orgasms, unrealistic amount of period blood, slashing/cutting the skin, alastor is getting off on the pain he’s inflicting on you

notes: this fic is extremely dead dove and involves alastor eating your period blood among other things. it gets gross; please read the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: lose control by teddy swims

words: 3.8k

The first day of your period is always, by far, the worst. 

Because the first day of your period is the heaviest, the bloodiest, and, according to Alastor, the tastiest. 

Which translates to: Alastor spending the entirety of the first day with his head buried between your legs, hungrily slurping blood from the most intimate part of your body, large claws curled around your hips and pinning you to the mattress, rendering you completely helpless beneath his grasp—defenceless against his vicious tongue, trapped at the mercy of his insatiable addiction.

You’ve lost track of time at this point, lost count of how many times he’s unintentionally made you cum, lost consciousness more than once, elusive and slipping from between your fingers, an intangible mist that you can’t seem to keep a solid grip on—something that melts in the heat of your palms as you squeeze too hard, too desperately. 

But that promise of pleasure always seems to draw you back into the light of wakefulness, presses gasps of air into your lungs and shocks your mind from it’s muddled fog.

It’s building once more, a dense heat roiling low and slow in the pit of your stomach as it furls in on itself in an almost lazy manner—a ball of fire that grows hotter and heavier, pulses larger and larger as it expands, flares with every swipe of his nose against your swollen clit, singeing surrounding organs, consuming bordering tissues, boiling the blood in nearby tangles of vessels—until it stops, dims, dies once more, withering away to simmering little embers, yearning to catch flame all over again. 

His unintentional edging eats away at your tattered sanity, renders you delirious for release, little fingers tangling in his bangs and yanking, a pitiful attempt to grind his face into your cunt, to catch your slick little nub on the tip of his nose.

The laps of his tongue, once soft as velvet, have turned rough against your licked-raw cunt, every drag of the wet muscle along your slit more painful than the last, sending tiny spikes searing through your gut.

It hurts, but it doesn’t stop you from being a greedy little thing, craving another orgasm, for that sweet, sweet relief that rushes through your exhausted body, that releases the tension building in your muscles, each graze against your clit coiling fibres tighter and tighter until your entire body has gone rigid, aching for reprieve. 

For what it’s worth, Alastor doesn’t really seem to care—if anything, he encourages it, the hands on your hips aiding in your movements as your pelvis rolls up, the motion pushing another rush of warm blood from your hole. His tongue wiggles further inside of you, curls into a hook in response, siphoning the substance from your core into his throat with keen little growls exhaled out his nose.

It turns him into something primal—past animalistic, past inhuman, something ineffably sinister, all of his senses sharply honed on his singular task, antlers sprouting branches the longer he eats from you, the worse the pain grows.

He eats your blood like a starving man, with such vigour you’d think he’s never tasted something so delicious, obscenely drinking from the center your body—a delirious attempt to drain you of your essence, dangerous teeth just barely sealed behind puckering lips and an avid, twisting tongue. 

It sounds disgusting, the crude smacks of his lips and working of his tongue echoing throughout his bedroom in thick squelches, his chin and his cheeks and his mouth drenched in your combined fluids—blood and spit, hurt and hunger.

It’s ritualistic in a sense, the way his tongue sprawls, swirls into your body, cups, and then darts back, scooping blood and tissue down his throat before forming a point, the tip circling the dips and contours of your cunt, sure to clean any remnants his messy eating might’ve left, before repeating the cycle over again.

Anguish turns stifling as he smothers himself with your core, time gone syrupy as it drips by dense glops, unhurried and unavailing. His tongue feels coarse against your once silky skin, now abraded by his incessant feeding, his methodical motions having caused tiny fissures to sprout along your hole.

Any faint flickers of pleasure have been completely eradicated now, morphed into torrid cinders that scorch your skin, pitchy wails scratching at your chest.

Something suspiciously similar to stop! shatters in your throat, your fingers burrowing further into his hair, knuckles rooted against his scalp right next to the base of his antlers and pulling. 

He growls against you, the sound vibrating deep within your cunt, little tremors that snuggle into your flesh like worming maggots, a moan prying past your lips. A large palm flattens between your hip bones and presses down firmly, eliciting a squeak from your chest as it tries to milk your uterus from the inside out, desperate for more blood.

Another sound of frustration echoes behind his sternum, the fingers curled around your hip flexing, his talons further puncturing your flesh.

It isn’t enough for him.

Because, really, when has it ever been? When will it ever be? Your Owner has always been selfish when it comes to his precious pet. 

There are already tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, streaming down over your temples in shimmering little trails. Droplets of salt glitter, suspended in spiky lashes, as your eyes flutter, blinking rapidly to clear your bleary vision and dislodging more water in the process. 

Wordlessly, his head lifts from the apex of your thighs, elbows dimpling the mattress as he uses them to hoist his torso up, nosing along the junction of your hip with one deep inhale and letting the scent of fresh blood, trickling from the tiny piercings his claws have left, lead him. 

His tongue, pigmented a dark crimson, unfurls from his mouth to flatten against your flesh, bathing over the little wounds in slow, deliberate laves. But that isn’t enough, either, a starving snarl ripping from his chest as he repeats the action, this time dragging his lips along, too, using them to encourage another bout of blood from the cuts as he sucks, hard. 

It’s so strong, so forceful it has tiny tangles of vessels snapping beneath the skin, spilling enticingly into the surrounding tissues. A cry rips from your throat, back bowing off the bed as a bruise rapidly develops under his mouth, yet another mark he stains into you. 

But staking such weak, insufficient claims isn’t what he’s here for today.

Something dark rumbles in his chest, the type of greed that’s borne in his core and nurtured by obsession, that rattles his ribs as it aches to escape, to consume more and more and more. 

It’s tormented by the blood trapped below the barrier, ichor that teases him, taunts him, tests him—and, well, that’s just not fair, is it? How dare your body do such a cruel thing to its keeper; how dare your body withhold something that belongs to him.

Sharp teeth sink into supple flesh with zero resistance and scrape, effortlessly removing the first layer of skin and freeing the blood pooling beneath it. His avid tongue instantly sops up the substance, smoothing over the wound and pressing down powerfully, procuring another torrent of crimson. 

But his rapacity still remains unfulfilled—if anything, it only grows in its appetency, that splash of blood serving as nothing more than a canapé.

He needs something deeper. 

With another slow, vast sniff, he trails the tip of his nose along the expanse of your body, hunting for something thick and pulsing and allowing instinct to guide him, ears pricked and tuned into the frequency of a steady, strong pounding—and he finds it just above your belly button. 

Stopping, he licks the area once—a long, broad stroke of his tongue, gliding across your skin and leaving a viscid smear of saliva in its wake. 

Then a claw is puncturing your skin, slicing across your stomach in a controlled line, scarlet immediately seeping from the laceration, the tip of his talon missing your aorta by a hair.

It burns, a yelp sticking in your throat, tangling on a sob as you cough around it, spine arching instinctively. Cooling tingles skitter across the new incision as he breathes out a single puff of air, admiring his handiwork, before his mouth latches over it. 

“Alastor!” you sob out, fingers curling against his shoulders and tugging, his name a garbled mess on your tongue. “What are you doing!”

“Hold fucking still,” he growls into the fresh injury. “Or I will rip your aorta out with my teeth.”

You know he won’t, know he values you far too much to kill you—his precious pet, his perfect little plaything, his prized possession—but that doesn’t mean that he won’t bring you alarmingly close to death—again. 

Even still, and as fun as that is, he’ll never fully go through with it.

Because you’re so fucking obedient—he’s never found someone so dedicated, so devoted, so fucking desperate to please him, to go above and beyond and make him proud, all without a contract. 

And he’s never giving that up. 

Besides, he’s grown quite fond of you. 

Predictably, you obey his order the instant it leaves his lips—never a single wisp of defiance drifting through your murky brain—squirming calmed, even as pangs quiver through your body. 

He’s still for another moment or two, letting that delicious anticipation build, before he dives back into feeding, digs his tongue into the wound and tears it wider, another gush of warm blood rushing to fill the new gaping. 

Another sound of pain cracks through his bedroom, jagged and crisp, and he nearly whines into your stomach, the wriggling of his tongue turned vicious. 

It burrows into the wound, tip hooked as it plunges through the sticky substance, writhes under slippery tissues and broken capillaries in it’s quest for more, the rough voraciousness of it all sending blistering spears shooting through your stomach. 

You’re well past the point of sobbing now, unintelligible pleads spilling past your lips soaked with spit, garbled and howled, but your nails scrape at his scalp, fingers tugging a little on his antlers, a moan vibrating against your flesh as his hands wrap around your hips again, holding you still. 

He feeds on the stomach wound until the blood ceases to flow freely, until it requires too much effort on his part, blood working hard to begin congealing the gash only to be split open by his siphoning, over and over and over again.

Only then does he continue his exploration, scouring your body, nose curving over your ribs and outlining your breasts as claws slit superficial little slashes in your flesh, tongue swiping over them in experimentation, until finally he finds another heavy throbbing, right above your collarbone. 

His breath, pushed from his lips in harsh, fast little pants of hunger, is infused with your blood, the stench of bitter copper stinging your nostrils as it wafts across your skin. It collects in damp little droplets against your neck, his tongue once again unfolding from its cavern to press, hard and flat and wide, against your jugular. 

There’s no licking this time, no slow haul of the slick muscle to glaze the canvas before the inevitable incision, just his tongue held smooth and still pinned over the vein, feeling the steady rush of blood. Saliva drools steadily from the corners of his mouth, drizzling onto your chest in thick glass cords, tinted pale pink.

A shiver scampers up your spine as his irregular huffs ghost over your wet skin, chills erupting across your flesh. For a singular instant, everything is still, stagnant—your breath and his teeth and those wandering claws, the only constant being the pulsating thrum of your blood beneath his tongue—before his fingers are moving again, one palm curling around your neck to hold you still as a keen talon slices into your flesh once more. 

A scream curdles in your throat, stifled by the hand still collaring your neck, his mouth latching over the wound to lap at the blood. Searing pain radiates from the site, shooting along your jaw and shoulder, and your spine arches off the mattress, struggling beneath his body. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” you’re sobbing out, the plead spilling from your lips in a continuous sticky stream, letters tangled in threads of spit. “Please, Al—Master, please!” 

Thunder rumbles up his throat and spills into the wound his tongue is prying open—a warning, or a denial, you can’t be sure—as his hips keep you pinned to the bed, his thighs spreading yours wide, his knees sinking into the mattress. 

You’re trapped under him, helpless and vulnerable to his vicious attack as his lips pucker and his tongue wiggles and his teeth scrape, collecting you beneath their edges. The agony is excruciating as he devours you, as you thrash and cry and tremble pathetically, your efforts entirely in vain and failing to deter him at all, your ceaseless struggling barely a hitch in his routine. 

“Please, please, please,” your chanting, bloated tears weighting your lashes, lids fighting to stay open. “Please, Sir, it—it—Stop!”

A roar ruptures in his throat, rough and loud, and he yanks himself away from his meal, raising his head to glare at you.

“Have you forgotten your purpose, pet?” he spits, flecks of your blood splattering across your cheeks, a smatter of crimson freckles. “Hmm?”

A large hand twines around your jaw and squeezes, hard enough that your cheeks hollow and your mouth puckers. His claws dig into your face as he forces you to look at him, his nose brushing your own. 

“Does Master need to make you write it out a hundred times, again?” 

“No,” you weep, head trembling in a poor imitation of a shake, still locked in place by his bruising grip.

“Then what is it? Why do you exist?” 

“To serve you.” 

“How?” 

“In—In any way you want me to, Master.”

“Exactly,” he purrs, but the word is razored, teetering on the edge of vitriolic. “So be a useful little pet, like you’re supposed to, and let Master take what he owns, what he’s owed.” 

And so, you do. 

Because you’re nothing if not faithfully, blindingly obedient to your owner. 

His grip relaxes, and your jaw raises, neck bowing off the sheets, offering itself to him unabashedly—your body, your blood.

Something nefarious spreads across his face, stretched smile curling at the edges as it reaches his eyes, a malicious little melody playing on the back of his tongue.

He takes a moment to admire your sheer obedience, your willing and unwavering faith him him, a claw tracing the newest injury, leaving behind a shallow outline in your flesh. 

A whimper falls from your lips, but you don’t dare to look away from him, even as the tears lacquering your eyes finally overflow again, streaming down the sides of your head to collect in your hairline. 

“Good girl,” he says, and although his voice is soft, the compliment is sharp—mean, mocking, hardened by a layer of patronization. 

“Th-Thank you, Sir.” 

And then he’s plunging his tongue back in, mouth sealing over the wound tightly, another shrill squeal clawing at your throat. Yet despite the white-hot pain it inspires, his saliva stinging the new contour, you do your best to hold still, to be good, body quivering with the immense effort. 

“Christ,” he mutters, the word muddled with blood as he rubs his mouth into the cut. “Your suffering is so fucking delicious.”

His statement is so sick, tinged with a vile sort of pleasure that churns your stomach, acidic bile collecting on the back of your tongue, the revolt so overwhelming that you almost don’t feel it, twitching against your hip as it fills with blood, hot and hard and straining as his pelvis beings to shift, rutting in irregular little motions.

For a moment, you can barely believe what’s happening, mind numb with terror and shock. For a moment, your mind refuses to believe what’s happening, scrambling to scrape together some sort of patchwork excuse for this behaviour—maybe he was just moving to get more comfortable; maybe it meant nothing at all—but the rutting fails to cease, uneven and unskilled, a moan shuddering his breathing, and your body freezes beneath him.

If he notices, he doesn’t seem to care, the rocking of his hips never slowing, another muffled sound of pleasure soaking into your skin. 

They’re sweltering against your neck, those little noises of ecstasy, every soft moan and cracked whine and hoarse grunt huffed out damp and humid, beading in little dewdrops on your marred skin.

“M-Master,” you gasp before you can stop yourself, wiggling a little beneath him to confirm your suspicions and whimpering when his cock throbs in response. “You—You’re—It’s—”

“What?” he pulls back slightly, chest rising and falling against your own with ragged little breaths. Something smug plays with the corners of his smile, twinkles of sadism shining bright in his eyes.

He’s going to make you say it.

Your gaze flees his own—it’s too intense, eyes watering with a fresh bout of tears, pins of embarrassment pricking your cheeks. “It’s—”

“Look at me when you’re talking to me.”

Immediately, your stare snaps back to his, wide and submissive. 

“It’s hard,” you force words from your tongue, the admission fading to a shameful whisper, face twisting in a wince as if the letters slashed your tongue.  

“What is?” 

“Master—” you flounder, head shaking a little. 

“Go on,” he urges, grinding his hips into yours, slow and purposeful. “Tell me. You’re a big girl.” 

“Your cock,” you nearly whine, eyes squeezing shut, fat tears leaking from the seams. “Your cock is hard.”

“It’s your fault, you know,” he murmurs, tongue rolling over your cheek thoughtfully, leaving watery streaks of blood smeared in its wake, mopping up the salt and swallowing it down, growling a little. “Crying out in pain like that.” 

“Alastor,” you sob out, head shaking in messy little motions. “I don’t—I’m not—”

“It’s quite cute, the way you’re trying to act as if you don’t love this,” he muses airily, another gust of tangy metal nipping your nose as it wafts across your face, his forehead resting against your own. 

Inhaling deep and measured, his ribs expand against yours, sharp bones digging into soft flesh, a gentle tremor coursing through his form as he nestles his face into your own, noses bumping together. 

“You can’t fool me, pet. I know you too well.” 

His thigh hitches higher, wedged tightly between your legs, shoved up against your cunt, the abrupt action eliciting a gasp, your eyes snapping open to search his own. 

“I can smell your arousal, silly,” he says, voice low and smooth, nose tracing along your soiled cheek until his lips are at your ear. “In fact, it’s so strong that it’s overwhelming your blood.” A chuckle reverberates along the cartilage. “I know my pet is a nasty little girl.” 

Barbs of humiliation flush through your body, fiery and stabbing through your veins, and he laughs again, a dark and wicked strain that vibrates from his chest into yours.

“Now,” he begins, the word slimy against your ear. “You’re going to be a good little girl for me and let your Master finish his meal.” 

It isn’t a question, nor is it a request—it’s an order, and it’s an order he knows you’re desperate to obey. 

Because, really, you live for him now, don’t you? Live to please him, to serve him, to make him proud. Because you’re nothing without him now, aren’t you? All of your self-worth wrapped up in your Owner, all of your purpose derived from him, all of your validation sitting heavy on his tongue, desperate to suck those vague compliments and shallow praises from his lips, to swallow them whole, always ravenous for more. 

Because you’re just as greedy as he is, in a way. And he knows it. 

And he loves it. 

His hand wraps around your throat again, pressing his claws into the delicate flesh slow and forceful and procuring new trickles of blood, cascading down your neck in ribbons of crimson.

A groan spills past his lips as he nuzzles his cheek into the tiny wounds, daubing his face with you while his hips begin to increase in speed and force.

Starched cotton chafes the wound on your stomach as he humps away at you, the thin, firm muscles sculpting his thigh flexing against your cunt with each of his movements.

“Ow, ow, ow,” you’re weeping, stuttered by the hiccups catching in your chest. 

“Aw, does it hurt? Huh?” he lifts his head slightly, glowing eyes scouring your face with voracity. “Am I—f-fuck—hurting you?”

The rolling of his hips judders a little as you bawl out a confirmation, gnarled and weighted with spit on your sloppy tongue, a whiny hiss sucked through the gaps of his clenched teeth. 

It all hurts so much, the grinding of his shirt against the slits he’s carved into you and the rubbing of his thigh against your sensitive cunt and the digging of his tongue into his newest infliction. 

It all hurts so much, but you don’t shove him off, don’t push at his shoulders or kick at his hips, arms winding around his shoulders and clutching, a leg entwining with his own, knee hooked over the back of his.

Sharp teeth bury themselves in the fresh slash, persistently oozing on your neck right above your jugular, and gnaw at the borders, raw skin splitting further beneath their razored edges. Another scream gurgles wetly in your throat, mangled by a sob, his responding gruff sound of pleasure seeping into the wound he’s feeding on, white-hot and buzzing. 

The hair framing your temples is saturated with dense salt, the strands beginning to crust and dry in flat little knots against your skin, casualties of the beading sweat and ceaseless tears. 

The flesh of your cheeks feels heated and sore, gone tight from the thick streams of dried tears that stain them, tiny remnants of salt streaking your face.

He must be getting close already, snarls panted out against your shoulder, uncoordinated movements accelerating with each noise you make, faster and faster and faster until finally his teeth sink into your unmarred shoulder, a shriek piercing the atmosphere as his hips stammer, grinding hard, and then still. 

A vicious shudder courses through his entire form as his cock throbs, body rippling beneath the force of it. Hot cum fills his trousers, sticky and thick and so, so much, viscous dollops leaking through the fabric. It’s tacky and blazing against your hip, the little jolts of his pelvis rubbing it in crude bands across your skin. 

Your fingers tighten, clinging to him, desperate for the comfort only he can bring, even as his strong jaw flexes and his teeth burrow deeper into soft flesh, embedded at least an inch or more, his tongue laving in messy strokes over the blood-slicked skin bunched between his lips.

“Master, Master, Master,” you’re sobbing into him, his breath harsh and stinging against the bite. 

Everything aches, muscles pulled taut from agony and anticipation, heavy with tension. Tiny pricks of pain erupt across your body in waves, conjured with each brush of his clothing. Sobs and screeches have left your throat ripped open, every rush of air feeling like an inhalation of razor blades. 

You’re still speaking, still chanting out his honoured title, but your ears have gone numb, your own voice unrecognizable, nothing more than a distinct vibration in your chest. 

It’s only when his cock is beginning to soften that he finally dislodges his teeth from your body, licking over the carvings of his mouth once, twice, three times for good measure before his head raises to look at you. 

The sight is stunning, kicks the breath from your lungs and the fog from your brain, attention suddenly honed on him, tuned into his frequency. 

Strokes of crimson paint his jaw in messy smears, his tongue licking lazily at the blood coating his chin, streaking it further. It’s almost artful in a sickeningly intimate way, how he’s been glazed in you, your blood staining the lines of his teeth and the curves of his gums, his skin shimmering with his own diluted drool. 

His breathing is still frayed, cedar dyed with pungent copper breezing over your face in gentle huffs. A knuckle skims along your cheek, gaping gaze following it’s trajectory, his claws varnished a glittering scarlet, only a shade or two brighter than their natural colour. 

“See?” he pants out, question airy on his tongue but infused with malice, eyes refocusing on your own. Something sinister tugs at the corners of his lips, broad smile stretching impossibly wider, peaked edges of his mouth nearly nudging his lower lashes. “Was that so difficult?”

[alyrasturnz]

I need a angsty fan fic of matt with his gf that are in an argument and he raises his hand to maybe move hair out of his face but she fliches and he imedeately becomes worried that she though he would hit her but she just had trauma from her childhood and when she tries to explain she just breaks down or has a panick attack(maybe even flashback) and then a fluffy ending.

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

❐ summary » in the midst of a heated argument, a seemingly insignificant gesture from matt triggers a dramatic and heart-wrenching resurgence of y/n’s deeply buried childhood trauma, unraveling layers of pain and vulnerability that had long been hidden beneath her stoic exterior.

❐ pairings » bf!matt x reader

❐ warnings » arguing, abuse, daddy issues

❐ a/n && w/c » this is not for the weak. (weak = people with daddy issues) •  3.86k

in the dimly lit living room, shadows weave intricate patterns on the walls, casting an almost ethereal glow. you and matt stand facing each other, suspended in a moment thick with unspoken words and a tapestry of lingering emotions. the air itself seems to pulse with the weight of past memories and the silent exchange of unresolved feelings, creating an atmosphere that is both tense and poignant.

the flickering light from a lone candle dances across your faces, illuminating the raw vulnerability etched in your expressions. every breath, every slight movement, seems to carry the echoes of a thousand unsaid things, each one more profound than the last.

the room, once a sanctuary of shared laughter and dreams, now feels like a stage set for a poignant confrontation, where the ghosts of your past linger, watching and waiting for the resolution that may never come.

your voice quivers with a blend of frustration and sorrow as you speak, “you never listen to me, matt! it’s like you’re always somewhere else, lost in your own world.” your hands clench and unclench at your sides, a physical manifestation of the emotional storm brewing within you. your eyes search his face desperately, seeking a glimmer of understanding, but finding only the familiar, distant gaze.

matt’s eyes flash with frustration, his brows knitting together as he retorts, “that’s not fair, y/n! i’m trying my best, but you act like i’m not even here.” his hands gesture wildly, as if trying to grasp the elusive understanding that seems to slip through his fingers. his voice, tinged with a mix of anger and desperation, echoes in the room, amplifying the emotional chasm growing between you.

you cross your arms, a mix of hurt and anger flickering in your eyes. “trying your best? you barely even talk to me anymore. it’s like we’re strangers living under the same roof.” your voice trembles with the weight of unspoken pain, each word a sharp reminder of the emotional distance that has grown between you.

your shoulders tense, as if bracing against an invisible storm, while your gaze pierces through the thick fog of misunderstanding and neglect. the room around you seems to shrink, the walls closing in with the oppressive silence that follows your words, amplifying the chasm that has formed between your hearts.

matt takes a deep breath, his voice softer but filled with a quiet intensity. "do you think it's easy for me? i've been dealing with so much, and sometimes... sometimes i just need space." his words, though gentle, carry the weight of countless sleepless nights and unspoken fears.

his eyes, clouded with a mix of vulnerability and frustration, search for a glimmer of understanding. the room seems to hold its breath, the silence between you thickening as his confession hangs in the air, a fragile thread connecting the raw edges of your shared pain.

the room falls silent, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. matt steps closer, his expression softening. "i don't want to lose you, y/n. but we need to find a way to understand each other, to bridge this gap." his voice trembles slightly, a testament to the depth of his emotions.

the silence that envelops you both is thick, almost tangible, as if the very air is holding its breath. his eyes, filled with a mix of desperation and hope, search yours for a sign of reconciliation. the room, once a mere backdrop to your lives, now feels like a sacred space where every word, every gesture, carries the potential to heal or deepen the rift between you.

you look down, your voice barely above a whisper. "i just want to feel like i matter to you, like we're in this together." your words, fragile and laced with longing, hang in the air like a delicate thread, vulnerable to the slightest breeze. your gaze, fixed on the floor, reflects the weight of unspoken fears and desires.

the room around you seems to fade, leaving just the two of you suspended in a moment of raw honesty. each syllable you utter is a plea, a quiet cry for connection, echoing through the silence that has settled between your hearts.

matt's frustration boils over, his voice rising. "it's not always about you, y/n! i have my own battles, my own demons. why can't you see that?" his words erupt like a storm, each one charged with the pent-up anguish of his inner struggles.

his eyes flash with a mix of anger and desperation, as if pleading for recognition of the silent wars he fights daily. the intensity of his outburst reverberates through the room, shaking the fragile equilibrium of your relationship. his voice, though loud, carries an undertone of vulnerability, revealing the deep scars etched into his soul by unseen adversaries.

your face hardens, hurt turning into anger. "i do see that, matt. but you shut me out. how am i supposed to help you if you won't let me in?" your voice, though laced with frustration, trembles with the weight of unspoken pain. each word is a carefully controlled explosion, a testament to the emotional battleground within you.

your eyes, once filled with empathy, now blaze with a mixture of sorrow and defiance, reflecting the depth of your yearning to be a part of his world. the air between you crackles with unresolved tension, each breath a struggle to bridge the chasm that his silence has carved into your shared existence.

matt lets out a heavy sigh, "you're so... insufferable!" he yells in anger, causing you to slightly flinch. his voice, raw and edged with exasperation, slices through the air like a blade. the intensity of his outburst reverberates within the confines of the room, each syllable a testament to the turbulent storm brewing within him.

your slight flinch, almost imperceptible, betrays the inner turmoil his words have ignited. the space between you seems to shrink and expand simultaneously, charged with the electric tension of unresolved emotions and unspoken grievances.

but then he angrily brings his hand up to his hair, running his fingers through it with full force. his movements are sharp and deliberate, each strand of hair caught in the fervent grip of his frustration.

the act, though seemingly mundane, is laden with the weight of his inner turmoil, a physical manifestation of the chaos that rages within him. the tension in his muscles is palpable, the rigidity of his posture a stark contrast to the vulnerability that lies beneath his anger. the room seems to hold its breath, the atmosphere thick with the unspoken complexities of his emotions.

your mind morphs his face into your dad's face. every shape and every little contour morphing into his features. his eyes, once familiar, now carry the weight of past memories, each line and shadow a haunting echo of your father's visage.

the transformation is both surreal and unsettling, as if the ghosts of your past have come to life in the present moment. the contours of his face blur and shift, melding into the well-worn patterns of your father's expressions, each one a reminder of old wounds and unresolved emotions.

the room around you fades, leaving only the stark reality of this uncanny resemblance, a poignant reminder of the intricate tapestry of your emotional landscape.

the crease of his eyebrows, the wrinkles on his forehead, and the fury in his eyes, everything. each detail, from the furrowed brows to the deep lines etched into his skin, speaks volumes of the anger that simmers beneath the surface.

the intensity in his eyes burns with a ferocity that seems almost palpable, a tempest of emotions barely contained within their depths. the wrinkles on his forehead, like the rings of an ancient tree, tell stories of past struggles and unresolved conflicts, each one adding to the complexity of his expression. the entirety of his visage becomes a canvas painted with the raw, unfiltered fury that now defines this moment.

and most importantly, the way he raised his hand. the gesture, though seemingly simple, is laden with an almost unbearable weight. it is a movement filled with unspoken words and suppressed emotions, a silent testament to the turmoil that rages within him. the lift of his hand, deliberate and fraught with tension, carries the echoes of past grievances and unhealed wounds.

it is as if time slows, allowing the gravity of the moment to fully sink in, each second stretching into an eternity. the significance of this action is not lost on you, as it encapsulates the depth of his inner conflict and the intensity of his unvoiced anguish.

you immediately flinch, bringing your arms up to your head to shield you from what you thought he was about to do. the reaction is instinctive, a primal response born from past experiences and deep-seated fears.

your body moves on its own accord, muscles tensing and heart pounding as you brace for an impact that never comes. the air around you thickens, charged with the electricity of your sudden terror.

each second stretches into an agonizing eternity, your mind racing through memories of similar moments, each one leaving an indelible mark on your psyche. the vulnerability of your posture, arms raised in a futile attempt at protection, speaks volumes of the trauma that lingers, shaping your every reflex and reaction.

your body knew that it was just matt, but your mind played tricks on you. the familiarity of his presence should have been a comfort, yet your mind conjured specters from the past, blurring the lines between reality and memory.

the rational part of you recognized matt's touch, his voice, the essence of his being, yet the shadows of your past wove an intricate tapestry of fear and confusion. it was as if your mind, a master of deception, replayed old scenes with cruel precision, morphing matt's every gesture into a haunting echo of what once was. the dichotomy between your physical awareness and the mental labyrinth you navigated created a dissonance that left you teetering on the edge of sanity.

"please don't," you whispered, tears starting to stream down your face as your heart pounded in your chest. your voice, barely more than a breath, trembled with the weight of unshed sorrow and unspoken fears.

each tear that traced a path down your cheeks seemed to carry a fragment of your shattered soul, glistening in the dim light like shards of broken glass. the plea hung in the air, fragile and desperate, a testament to the storm raging within you.

your heart, a wild drumbeat in your chest, echoed the tumultuous emotions that threatened to overwhelm you, each thud a reminder of the vulnerability and pain that had become your constant companions.

"what? oh my god, no—" matt said softly, though you couldn't hear it with your ringing ears. "no, no, no, baby, no." his voice, laden with a mixture of shock and desperation, barely pierced through the cacophony that filled your mind. the words, though gentle, carried the weight of his anguish, each syllable a plea for understanding and reassurance.

the softness of his tone, juxtaposed with the intensity of the moment, created a poignant contrast, underscoring the depth of his concern and the helplessness he felt in that instant. his repeated denials, like a mantra, sought to bridge the chasm of fear and pain that had suddenly yawned between you, a futile attempt to anchor you both in a reality that seemed to be slipping away.

his heart pounded against his chest, nibbling on his bottom lip as he pulled you closer, your trembling body against his. the rhythm of his heart, an insistent drumbeat, echoed within the confines of his chest, each pulse a testament to the turmoil within.

his teeth grazed his bottom lip, a subconscious attempt to quell the rising tide of emotion. as he drew you closer, your trembling form pressed against him, he sought to forge a connection amidst the swirling tempest.

the warmth of your quivering body, fragile and delicate, became his anchor, a fleeting sanctuary in the midst of chaos, offering a momentary respite from the storm that raged within and around you both.

"no—don't," you whisper, your voice trembling as matt kissed the top of your head, resting his chin atop it. your voice, barely more than a fragile breath, quivered with the weight of unshed tears.

matt's lips brushed the crown of your head, a tender gesture laden with unspoken emotions. as his chin settled gently atop your head, it was as if he sought to shield you from the encroaching darkness, to offer solace in the simplest of touches. the trembling in your voice mirrored the tremors in your heart, each word a plea, a desperate attempt to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm you both.

"i’m not. i won’t. i would never hit you," he whispered assuringly. though it was useless since you couldn’t hear anything with your labored breaths and ringing ears. his voice, a soft murmur of reassurance, carried a profound sincerity, each word a vow etched in the air.

despite his earnest whispers, they were swallowed by the cacophony of your labored breaths and the relentless ringing in your ears. his assurances, though spoken with the gentleness of a summer breeze, seemed to dissipate into the void, unable to pierce through the storm of your inner turmoil.

the disconnect between his soothing promises and your inability to perceive them underscored the chasm that had opened between your shared reality and the isolating grip of your distress.

your breaths, once steady, now came in rapid, uneven gasps, each inhale and exhale a testament to the mounting panic within you. your shoulders heaved with the force of your distress, rising and falling in a dramatic rhythm that mirrored the tempest in your heart.

tears, unrelenting and bitter, carved glistening paths down your cheeks, each droplet a silent witness to the depth of your sorrow. the physical manifestations of your anguish painted a poignant picture of a soul in turmoil, each breath and tear a cry for solace amidst the chaos.

matt, ever perceptive, noticed the shift in your demeanor. with a gentle yet firm resolve, he withdrew from the embrace, his hands finding their place on your shoulders. his eyes, deep pools of concern and determination, locked onto yours, seeking to bridge the chasm of despair that threatened to engulf you. the intensity of his gaze, laden with unspoken promises and a fervent desire to understand, became a lifeline in the swirling maelstrom of your emotions.

as your gaze met his, the storm within your eyes began to calm, the hardness melting away like frost under the morning sun. the realization dawned upon you, a gentle epiphany that the figure before you was not your father, but matt, steadfast and compassionate.

your eyes softened, the tension in your face easing as the shadows of past fears receded. in that moment of clarity, the lines between past and present blurred, and the warmth of matt's presence began to soothe the echoes of old wounds.

"hey, hey, it’s okay. i’m here. i would never hurt you," he whispered, each word a delicate thread woven with care. his tone, imbued with a profound gentleness, was a balm to your frayed nerves, a soft assurance that sought to anchor you amidst the tempest. the sincerity in his voice, tender and unwavering, was a promise, a vow that resonated deeply, striving to reach the core of your being and dispel the shadows of doubt and fear.

your lips quivered, a silent testament to the turmoil within, as your mind swam in a haze of confusion and distress. each breath you took became a laborious endeavor, the weight of your emotions pressing down upon your chest.

the clarity of thought that once guided you now seemed distant, replaced by a fog that clouded your senses and left you adrift in a sea of uncertainty. the physical manifestations of your inner chaos painted a poignant picture of a soul grappling with the depths of its own despair.

»--•--«

“you’re so useless!” your dad bellows, his voice a thunderous roar that reverberates through the room. with a furious swipe, he sends a flower pot crashing to the floor, shards scattering like the remnants of shattered dreams.

his eyes blaze with an intensity that speaks of deep-seated rage, each flicker of anger a dagger aimed at your already fragile heart. the raw, unfiltered fury in his gaze is a storm unto itself, leaving you to weather the tempest of his wrath.

ou flinch, your body instinctively recoiling as you take tentative steps backward, each movement a desperate bid for escape. the air grows thick with tension, your retreat a silent plea for safety.

yet, your dad's keen eyes catch the subtle shift, his gaze locking onto you with an intensity that halts your retreat. the awareness of his scrutiny freezes you in place, the hope of slipping away unnoticed dissolving under the weight of his penetrating stare.

with each furious stomp, he closes the distance between you, his presence a looming shadow of anger. his hand darts out, seizing the back of your shirt with a vice-like grip. in a swift, forceful motion, he lifts you off the ground, your feet dangling helplessly in the air. the sensation of being suspended, caught in his unyielding grasp, sends a jolt of fear through your body, amplifying the already overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

“you’re so incompetent! you’re a disgrace to this family!” he bellows, his voice a tempest of fury that crashes over you. with a violent shove, he hurls you to the ground, your small frame colliding harshly with the cold, unforgiving marble floor.

the impact reverberates through your body, pain mingling with the flood of emotions that surge within you. tears stream down your face, each drop a testament to the deep-seated sorrow and helplessness that grips your heart.

“oh shut it, you’ll get over it!” he scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain. his dismissive words cut through the air like a blade, but they do nothing to stem the tide of your tears. you continue to cry, each sob a raw, unfiltered expression of the pain that his callousness only deepens. the tears flow freely, a silent rebellion against the indifference etched in his voice.

“did i say that you could cry more?” he demands, his voice a sharp edge that slices through the silence. he turns to you, his gaze piercing as you slowly shake your head, the movement almost imperceptible. “exactly! so stop crying, brat,” he snaps, his words laced with an unyielding authority that leaves no room for defiance.

you sniff, the sound barely audible as you quickly scramble to your feet. with a surge of adrenaline, you start running, each step fueled by a desperate need to escape. your feet falter occasionally, causing you to stumble, but you push onward, driven by the urgency of the moment.

“hey! where are you going!?” he yells, his voice echoing with a mix of anger and confusion. he begins to walk after you, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, each one a reminder of the distance you’re trying to put between yourself and the source of your pain.

you try to open the front door, but it's locked, the handle refusing to give. panic surges within you, and your eyes widen as you slowly turn to face your father. his unforgiving gaze meets yours, a silent testament to the authority and control he wields.

“oh, so you want to escape now?” he asks, his voice dripping with a mix of incredulity and mockery. a soft, derisive scoff escapes his lips, echoing in the tense silence between you. his eyes narrow, filled with a cold, unyielding intensity, as he slowly draws his fist back. the motion is deliberate, almost methodical, as if he’s savoring the moment, before he aims it directly towards your face, the threat hanging heavily in the air.

»--•--«

the sudden jolt of his words snapped you back to reality, pulling you from the depths of your swirling thoughts. matt’s eyes, unwavering and intense, continued to bore into yours, as if searching for something hidden deep within your soul.

“hey, it’s okay. I’m here with you. let’s take some slow, deep breaths together. breathe in... and out. focus on my voice and just keep breathing. you’re safe right now,” he whispers, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos in your mind. you nod softly, trying to follow his instructions and take slow, deep breaths, but the anxiety grips you tightly, making it difficult to find the calm he’s trying to guide you towards.

matt nods thoughtfully, his gaze shifting as he surveys the surroundings. “alright, let’s try something together,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet determination.

“first, look around and tell me three things you can see,” he says, his voice steady and grounding, as he encourages you to anchor yourself in the present.

“y-you, the couch, a-and the tv,” you stammer, each word a struggle, your voice a mere whisper, trembling with the weight of your emotions. the effort to speak seems monumental, as if the simple act of naming these objects is a lifeline to the present moment amidst the chaos of your mind.

“now, listen carefully and tell me three sounds you can hear,” matt said, his voice calm and steady, guiding you to focus on the auditory tapestry of your surroundings.

“i hear- you, th-the clock, and the rain outside,” your voice barely audible, you whisper, each word a delicate thread of sound in the stillness.

you feel the panic slowly ebbing away, like the receding tide, leaving a sense of calm gradually washing over your body.

“you’re doing amazing baby. now, move three parts of your body, like wiggling your fingers or toes. you're doing great, just keep focusing on these steps." matt murmurs softly, his voice a gentle caress against the storm of emotions swirling within you.

you nod, eyelids fluttering shut as your fingers dance with a nervous energy, guiding your trembling hand to your locks, gently tucking them behind your ear in a gesture of fragile composure. you incline your head, eyelids descending as your digits quiver with an anxious fervor, maneuvering your tremulous hand to your tresses, meticulously securing them behind your ear in a gesture of delicate poise.

you exhale a gentle sigh, the tempest within you gradually subsiding as your eyelids flutter open, revealing eyes tinged with a bloodshot hue, remnants of your emotional tempest.

“oh baby,” he murmured soothingly, extending his arms in a welcoming embrace. “c’mere, sweet gir.l”

you offered a gentle smile, advancing towards him with measured steps, encircling him with your arms and surrendering to the warmth of his embrace.

you allowed the silence to envelop you, feeling the tender press of his lips upon your head, as he gently rested his chin atop, creating a sanctuary of tranquility.

“m’sorry about earlier,” he whispers, his voice a soft murmur. “i’ll be around more, i promise, baby.”

“thank you,” you mumble, your words muffled against the warmth of his chest.

[bestoflupiniiipoll]

Best of Lupin III Poll

[ohcolinbridgerton]

red | colin bridgerton

summary: a childhood crush, a jealous colin & a red dress

warnings: none

word count: 3.1k

requests: open

masterlist

a/n: based off of a request i got, thanks so much for the anon!!! i loved your idea and hope you enjoy my interpretation of it. if anyone has any requests, send them my way i love writing these!! <3

-

From before Colin Bridgerton could even remember, Y/N had been a part of his life. 

He remembers the day they met as if it were only yesterday. It was a sunny afternoon, untypical from the usual London fog, and whilst Colin explored the village square, he was drawn in by the sound of laughter that he could only describe as the sweetest melody he had ever heard. Following the sound, he arrived at a small, flower-filled meadow just beyond the square. And there, amid the vibrant blooms and tall grass, he saw her—a girl in a scarlet red dress, her hair gleaming in the sunlight. She was chasing a blue butterfly, her laughter ringing out each time it flitted just beyond her reach. With sparkling eyes of delight and determination, her movement remained graceful yet free-spirited. Colin recalls watching, completely mesmerised as she twirled and leapt, the hem of her dress catching the breeze and fanning out like petals in full bloom, a perfect mirror of the daisies that surrounded her. 

His heart skipped a beat, a feeling he couldn't yet name blooming within him. He was only young when they met, and while he was certain he had experienced infatuation before, this felt completely different. It was as if one of the German fairytale books that his mother kept in the library had been opened and out had stepped this very girl, a princess engulfed in a sea of blossoms. 

Summoning his courage, Colin stepped forward, his small voice calling out, “Hello!”

The girl stopped and turned, her eyes meeting his with a warmth that made his cheeks flush. She smiled—a bright and infectious grin that made Colin’s heart flutter. “Hello!” she replied, her voice as cheerful as her laughter. “I’m Y/N. Would you like to help me catch this butterfly?”

Colin nodded eagerly, his shyness melting away in the face of her open friendliness. He remembers it being so easy to make a friend at his young age, and he often wondered if they had met years later, if they would still have warmed to each other as they did that day. He likes to think they would. 

Together, they darted through the meadow, their laughter mingling as they chased the elusive butterfly. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the meadow, they finally managed to catch the butterfly gently in Y/N’s cupped hands. They marvelled at its delicate wings, a symbol of their newfound friendship. 

That day was a very special day for Colin.

By the time they reached their late teens, Colin knew his feelings for Y/N had only continued to grow into something much deeper than mere friendship. He loved everything about her: the way her eyes sparkled with joy, her radiant smile, her sharp wit, and their shared love for literature and exploration. Yet he kept his feelings hidden, fearing that revealing them might disrupt the delicate balance of their bond. A bond he feared could never be replaced if broken.

The very feelings he tried to hide so desperately occupied his every thought, however. Every little thing he did reminded him of her somehow, and every sight of her was enough to cause him to lose his ability to breathe. He was like a dramatic debutante swooning over a Lord; he was sure that he was near swooning every time she was in his presence. With such feelings weighing on his mind, Colin thought it would be best if he had a distraction, and so he decided to act on his desire to travel the world. And so, at the age of two and twenty, he planned to leave the Ton in search of a diversion from the feelings in his heart. 

It was a cold evening when Colin decided to tell her of his plans to travel. They were sitting on the wooden swing that hung off of a tree on the Bridgerton grounds—a swing set that they had often found themselves on in all their years of friendship. The sunset had painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over Y/N’s face. She was talking animatedly about a new novel she’d started reading, her eyes shining with excitement. 

Colin watched her, his heart swelling with affection. He loved how passionate she got about things she cared about. He loved the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. He loved her.

“Colin, are you listening to me?” Y/N’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Yes, apologies,” he said, tearing his gaze away from her. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

She smiled, nudging him playfully. “You do that a lot.”

“Yes,” he admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose I do.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the rustling leaves and distant birdsong. In that very moment, Colin wanted nothing more than to tell her, to pour out his heart and confess his feelings, but the words stuck in his throat, and his train of thought was paused by her exclamation. 

“Colin, you must read this book! The heroine is so bold and spirited, much like Elizabeth Bennett,” she said, her smile infectious.

Colin smiled back, his heart aching with unspoken words. “I shall, Y/N. Your recommendations never disappoint.”

Colin opened his own book of poetry, reading aloud one of his favourite verses. His voice was steady, but inside, emotions churned like a tempest.

When he finished, she looked at him, her gaze soft. “You have a way with words, Colin. You always make everything sound so beautiful.”

He felt a blush creep up his neck. “It is the words themselves that are beautiful. I am merely the voice.”

Y/N laughed, a sound that filled Colin with warmth. “Ever so modest.”

As the afternoon waned, they lay side by side on the soft grass, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. Colin turned his head to look at Y/N’s, her face serene and thoughtful. She had always been so beautiful to him.

“Y/N,” he began hesitantly, “I must tell you something.”

“What is it?” she asked, her voice soft.

Colin took a deep breath. “I am leaving soon. I wish to travel around the world.’’

She gave him a wide smile, and his heart felt like it had deflated. He wasn’t sure why he expected her to be sad that he was leaving, especially when she had always been his biggest supporter in anything he ever wanted to do, yet it bruised him slightly, and he wondered if she’d even miss him. 

She leaned her head on his shoulder, a gesture that always made his heart race. ‘’I will miss you, but I am so proud of you.’’

“I will miss you too,” he replied, wrapping his arm around her. And he meant it. No matter what happened, he would always be there for her, even if it meant keeping his feelings to himself. ‘’Always.’’

As the stars began to appear and the sun began to set, Colin made a silent promise. He would cherish every last day they spent together before he left and take with him all the happiness she brought him, but once he returned, he would make these feelings go away, as for now, being her best friend was all he could be, and that was enough. 

-

Months had passed before Colin decided to return to the Ton. Over the time he spent away, he sent letters to nearly everyone that he thought might want to hear of his travels, but the only reply that seemed to matter to him was Y/N’s. His plan to distract himself had failed miserably, and his heart continued to race at the mere sight of her name written in ink: ‘Yours, Y/N’ as she’d always sign her letters. 

He decided after a few months that enough time had been spent away from his family and friends, so he made his way back to London just in time for the new season. Upon his return, he found himself in a predicament. Through whispers from his younger sisters, Eloise and Francessca, and the writings of Lady Whistledown, he had discovered that Y/N had been named the diamond of the season by Queen Charlotte herself, and it seemed that every eligible lord was vying for her attention. It was her second season out, and it was a rarity that the Queen would decide to choose someone who had already been accustomed to the dealings that came with being out in society; however, to Colin, it was no surprise that she had been named the diamond. She always sparkled, and she had always been like a rare jewel in his eyes.

He stood at the edge of the ballroom. He was yet to see her - with his late arrival in the day, he had missed the promenading that his family had done that morning so he hadn't had the chance to see her just yet. But he knew where to go looking, he knew the one place he’d definitely find her was on the dance floor—she was the diamond after all. 

His gaze stayed fixed on the entrance of the room, awaiting her arrival, and it wasn’t long before she arrived. Everyone’s eyes were on her as she stood at the top of the stairs. She was completely radiant in a red dress, the very same shade as the one Colin thought about every day. The colour of the dress she was wearing the day they met as she chased a butterfly around the meadows. 

The sight of her brought back a flood of memories, each one only amplifying the ache in his heart. He thought he might faint on the spot. His breath had hitched, and he knew that if he were drinking lemonade, he would have been sure to spit it out in complete and utter infatuation. He had travelled far and wide, seeking to distract himself from his feelings, but the sight of her in front of him was enough to make him fall to his knees. 

Colin watched, seething with jealousy, as Lord Fife and Lord Cho each flocked towards her in hopes of dancing. Y/N, ever the picture of grace and beauty, seemed to enjoy the attention, but Colin knew her well enough to see the subtle signs of uninterest that she felt for the Lord’s. She was never one to crave the attention of male suitors. Colin wasn’t even sure if she wanted to marry, but if she did, it was not something Colin was prepared to hear; it would break him after all. 

He could see her eyes studying the room, and in his heart, he hoped that she might have been looking for him, perhaps having heard of his return from his sisters or Whistledown. But it must have all been in his head as he watched her take the hand of Lord Fife and make their way to the dance floor, a chorus of violins following them. 

His heart ached as he watched her, the only woman who had effortlessly captured his affections, was dancing with Lord Fife. Her laughter was like a delicate melody that mingled with the strains of the waltz, her eyes glistening with a joy that seemed to light up the entire room. Colin's breath caught in his throat as he saw the way she smiled up at Lord Fife, her face alight with an expression he had hoped to see directed at himself.

Colin's grip tightened around the glass of lemonade he held, the stem of the glass pressing into his palm. He had always been confident and knew how to charm and engage those around him. But when it came to her, he felt a sense of vulnerability that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Lord Fife, with his impeccable manners and easy charm, seemed to be everything Colin was not. He was suave, sophisticated, and clearly taken with Y/N. Watching them together, Colin felt a pang of jealousy twist in his chest. He wanted to be the one to make her laugh and see her eyes light up with happiness because of him. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought that Fife had been the one making her laugh all the months he was away; he knew he should have never left. 

The music swelled to a crescendo, and the dancers moved with a fluid grace that seemed almost otherworldly. Y/N's gown, his favourite shade of red, swirled around her like a cloud, her movements light and graceful. Colin couldn't tear his eyes away from her; he couldn't stop the thoughts racing through his mind. What if he never got the chance to tell her how he felt? What if she chose Lord Fife over him? What if her happy ever after was with Fife and not him?

He watched as she bid Lord Fife goodbye and made her way through the crowd. As she did so, she attracted the attention of more suitors, each eager to win her favour. She flashed them a smile but continued to the table that held refreshments, parched from all the laughing and talking she’d done with someone who wasn't him. He couldn’t take it anymore.

The final straw came when he saw his own brother, Benedict, saunter up to Y/N with his usual charm and grace. His jealousy reached an all-time high as he watched Benedict lean in close to whisper something in Y/N’s ear, making her laugh. The sound, usually so delightful, the first harmonious tune he had ever heard from her, now felt like a dagger to his heart. 

Unable to bear it any longer, Colin pushed through the crowd, his eyes locked on Y/N and Benedict. “May I cut in?” he asked, his voice strained but firm.

Benedict, sensing the tension, smiled knowingly and stepped back, offering Y/N’s hand to Colin with a slight bow. All of the Bridgerton’s knew of Colin’s feelings for his best friend, and Benedict possessed no ill-intention when it came to Y/N, simply wanting to catch up with a family friend as they both sipped away at their lemonade. As he walked away from the pair, a smile formed on his lips. ‘Finally,’ he thought in his mind, perhaps it was the nudge Colin needed all this time. Unknowing to Colin, Benedict had been watching him watch Y/N the whole night and was certain he needed to intervene before Colin smashed his lemonade glass in his hand from how hard he gripped it in his hands. Brothers, what would you do without them.

Y/N looked up at Colin, her eyes wide with surprise and a hint of confusion.

“Colin, what are you-?” she began, but he interrupted by taking her hand and leading her onto the dance floor.

‘’Hello,’’ he said, his voice low and intense. ‘’I apologise for interrupting, but I had to speak to you.’’

‘’I’ve been here all night.’’ She sighed, her eyes furrowed as she watched Colin, his eyes falling to meet hers. ‘’Look at me. I’ve missed you, Colin.’’

He finally met her gaze, his blue eyes locking with hers. The sour taste that he’d had in his mouth from watching her dance with other men had gone at the sight of her face looking up at his. 

‘’I’ve missed you too.’’ He spoke as they moved slowly across the dance floor. 

‘’What’s wrong?’’ She said as she squeezed his hand, and he felt his heart leap. ‘’You’ve got that look on your face, the one you always get when you are lost with your thoughts.’’

He knew it was now or never. He could simply reply and tell her ‘it was nothing’ or he could be the proud man that his mother had raised him to be and finally confess the one thing to the only person that mattered most in his world. 

“I could not stand by and watch any longer,” Colin said, in shock that his words had even made it out of his mouth, his throat dry. “Seeing you with all those suitors, and then with Benedict, it drove me mad.”

Y/N gazed up at him, her expression softening. “Colin, I’ve wanted your attention the whole night. I’ve looked for you all night, but you have not seemed to notice me.’”

He pulled her closer ''I did notice you,'' his eyes searching for hers. “I notice you all the time. In every room we are ever in, you are the only one I ever notice. Your eyes, your smile, the way you make me laugh, our shared love for books and adventures, the red dress you're wearing tonight that reminds me of the very first time we met... I notice everything about you.’’ 

Tears glistened in Y/N’s eyes as she smiled up at him. ‘’You remember the dress I wore the very first day we met?’’

‘’That shade of red has been my favourite colour since the day we met. I promise you, when I say this Y/N, I notice everything about you. I remember everything about you. You occupy my every thought.’’

‘’Colin-.’’

‘’I have wanted to say these words to you for the last sixteen years, and I realise it might be too late. I do not know how you feel about Lord Fife or Benedict for that matter, but I can only hope you are not serious about him because I would like it if it were me you were serious about, for I am serious about you, and another day without you-’’

‘’Colin. Stop talking and breathe for a moment,’’ she said softly, her voice steady. ‘’I am not serious about Lord Fife and I am most definitely not serious about Benedict, he's like a brother to me. I never have been. The only person I have spent every day longing for is you, and I have missed you dearly every day that you have been away. You say you notice everything about me, but I, too, notice everything about you. Your kindness, wit, caring nature—it is everything I have missed since you have been gone. You are the only person I have ever been serious about in my life. The only one.’’

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. 

Colin was sure his heart was about to collapse, and he was surprised his feet were still carrying him through their dance. 

"Y/N..."

She smiled—a beautiful, radiant smile that made his heart skip a beat. "I'm glad you told me, Colin. I have been waiting for this very moment for the last sixteen years.’’

"I should have told you sooner," he whispered, leaning into her further. Had it not been for the fact that they were dancing in the Queen’s very ballroom, he was certain he would have kissed her there and then. 

"Better late than never," she replied with a laugh, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

Colin knew that he would never again let any more time come between them. They had wasted enough of it, and now they had a lifetime ahead of them to make up for it.

‘’Colin…’’ Y/N spoke softly, her eyes still fixed on his.

‘’Yes?’’ 

‘’I want you to know I wore this dress just for you. Your favourite shade of red.’’

-

a/n: hope you all enjoyed. the anon i received was such a lovely request and i hope that i've done it justice. thanks for reading!!!