Dead Boy Detectives characters + live, laugh, love variants
+ bonus:
The room was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the kind that clings to your skin long after the lights flicker low. Kashimo’s apartment—bare walls, concrete floors, nothing soft except the wrecked sheets tangled around your ankles—felt like the only place left in the world. College had blurred into this: stolen hours between classes, bruises hidden under hoodies, and him. Always him.
You were already shaking, thighs slick, body a map of his claim. He’d been at you for hours. A marathon, he called it, voice low and mocking as he pinned you down again. Your back arched off the mattress, spine screaming from the way he’d thrown you earlier, but the pain only melted into heat between your legs.
“Still crying?” Kashimo’s breath ghosted hot against your ear. His grin was feral, teeth stained faint red from the last bite. “Good. I like you like this—ruined and fucking dripping for more.” You whimpered as his hand cracked across your cheek, hard enough that stars burst behind your eyes. The slap echoed, sharp and wet. Your lip split fresh, blood trickling warm down your chin. He leaned in and licked it slow, savoring, before his mouth crashed into yours. The kiss was all teeth and hunger, copper flooding your tongue as he bit your lower lip harder. You moaned into it, masochistic thrill shooting straight to your core. Pain and pleasure twisted so tight you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes wild, electric blue hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. “Beg.”
“Please,” you gasped, voice hoarse from screaming his name through the last round. “More, Kashimo. Hurt me.”
His laugh was dark, delighted. He reared back and punched your thigh—solid, bruising force that made your whole leg spasm. You cried out, fresh tears spilling, and he groaned at the sight, hips grinding against you. Dacryphilia, he’d admitted once with that crooked smirk. Your tears got him harder than anything.
He shoved your knees wider, slamming back inside you in one brutal thrust. No gentleness left; he fucked like he fought—relentless, vicious, claiming. Every stroke punched the air from your lungs. His fingers dug into the already-black bruises on your hips, reopening the mottled skin. You were so full it hurt, stretched and aching, but you clenched around him anyway, greedy for the burn.
Another slap, this one across your breast. Then his teeth sank into the curve of your shoulder—deep, deliberate. You felt skin break, blood welling hot and immediate. He sucked hard, moaning against the wound as he drank you down, hips never slowing. The pain bloomed white-hot, radiating through your chest, and you came again with a broken sob, walls fluttering around his cock.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, pulling out only to flip you onto your stomach. Your face pressed into the pillow, ass up, body trembling. He didn’t give you time to breathe. A heavy punch landed on your outer thigh, then another on the meat of your ass. The impacts rattled through bone. You were going to be purple for weeks—deep, ugly blooms that would make sitting in lecture halls tomorrow pure torture. The thought only made you wetter.
He bit the back of your neck, breaking skin again, and thrust back in from behind. Deeper this way. Meaner. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could see your tear-streaked face.
“Crying so pretty for me,” he rasped, slapping your cheek again, lighter this time but still stinging. Blood from your lip smeared across your jaw. “My perfect little masochist. You’d let me kill you like this, wouldn’t you?”
You nodded frantically, another orgasm building fast and vicious. “Yes—God, yes—”
He punched your side, not hard enough to crack ribs but enough to bruise deep, and that was it. You shattered, screaming into the pillow as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release. When he came, it was with a guttural sound, teeth buried in your shoulder again, flooding you hot and deep while your body milked every drop.
He collapsed over you, chest heaving, but he wasn’t done. Not even close. His fingers traced the fresh bite marks, pressing into the blood-slick skin until you hissed.
“Catch your breath,” he murmured, almost tender. Almost. “Then I’m flipping you over and starting again. I want you bleeding in new places before sunrise.”
Authors note: guys is this the start of my new obsession??
For the 1 year anniversary of the show being canceled, I’ve put together a list of 36 questions (one for each year Edwin and Charles have known each other) about the show that you all can hopefully have fun answering. I know I love talking about the show, so I thought yall might enjoy a list of questions to use for an excuse to talk about it. You can answer all of them, you can answer some of them, you can let people pick numbers for questions to ask you, whatever you like. Just have fun with it.
