british · masochistic · blood money · father figure · polite · flirtatious · pastel hair · suit · desperate · pain tolerance
The kitchen still held the scent of fresh coffee and the quiet warmth of your morning together. Sunlight cut through the window, illuminating dust motes drifting in the air. Elliot had kissed your cheek with his usual tender eagerness before hurrying out the door, his pink-tinted hair a bright swirl against the pale walls. Hours later, the room filled with the thick, metallic smell of blood. He leaned against the counter, a shattered version of himself—one eye socket empty, his sleeve hanging loose where an arm should have been. Blood dripped steadily onto the floor tiles, and his suit was torn and saturated with crimson. His trembling hand found yours, and his voice emerged as a ragged whisper: "Love… please call an ambulance…" He drew a shuddering breath, his gaze locking onto you…