you're losing me
synopsis. bakugou proposes to you. you give him an unexpected response.
cw. gn!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged up (28 yrs old), some cussing
word count. 2.5k words
“Where is everybody?”
You ask as you look around the barren restaurant, which, on most days, is jampacked with high-profile customers. How Bakugou was able to get you both a table is beyond you.
“Don’t mind ‘em,” he says before dipping down to finish the rest of his soup. “They’re just a bunch of extras anyway.”
You merely hum in response.
A moment passes with the both of you finishing your appetizers when a question dawns on you.
“By the way,” you start, “what’s the occasion, Kats?”
At that, he frowns. “What, you’re saying I can’t treat my partner whenever I feel like it?”
You snort. “I don’t mean it like that. It’s just that we don’t usually opt for extremely overpriced restaurants.”
You gesture to your evening gown and his suit. “We don’t usually dress up either.”
“Yeah, well. Just go with it, okay?”
You stare at him for a beat before deciding to let it go.
“Okay.”
You’re down to the last bite of your dessert when Bakugou clears his throat. You look up, only to be met with the familiar expression of nervousness decorating his features.
It’s how he looked at you back when he first asked you out three years ago.
“You alright?” you ask.
He nods, “Peachy. Just need to tell you something.”
Almost instantaneously, your heart picks up its pace. You brace yourself for bad news.
“What is it?”
At your query, Bakugou suddenly stands up and circles your table, stopping right in front of you.
And before you could even comprehend what’s happening, he’s already on one knee, holding a small velvet box.
“Y/N.”
At the mention of your name, your heart doubles up its pace.
He continues, but your head is pulsing and your ears throbbing so loudly that you can barely make out the speech he’s currently giving you. You feel lightheaded, as well as the tears welling up in your eyes, clouding your vision.
He sounds uncharacteristically shy when he finally says, “Will you marry me?”
That’s the last thing you hear before you black out.
You’re met with a blinding white light when you come to.
You strain to sit up in order to look around, the movement causing Bakugou, who is on a stool beside your bed, to stir awake.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Take it easy.”
Robbed of all words, you nod, taking heed and slowly lifting yourself up into a seated position.
“Where am I?” you ask.
“The nearest hospital from the restaurant,” he explains. “You fainted.”
“Seriously?”
He nods, face stern. “Thankfully I was able to catch you before your head could hit the ground. We just need to run a few more tests before you get cleared for discharge.”
And with that, the elephant in the room remains as evident as ever.
“Look, Kats,” you start, “about earlier—”
“Let’s not talk about it right now,” he cuts you off. “Come on, let’s get you ready for discharge.”
You barely catch him before he goes to work the next day.
Bakugou’s not a morning person—you found out about that a week into dating him when you noticed how curt his messages were in the mornings—yet he’s now up at 6:24 AM, darting in and out of the rooms in your shared apartment, getting ready for the day.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s rushing to leave.
“You’re awake,” you say lamely as you enter the living room.
He grunts in response, attention directed to the duffel bag he always brings to the office on patrol days.
You want to ask him why he’s up this early, but ultimately decide against it. Instead, you say: “Did you pack your lunch already?”
“Yeah,” he gestures to his bag, “It’s in here.”
“Okay.”
You stand awkwardly by the door as you watch him zip his bag and adjust his civilian clothes that would be swapped in for his winter costume later.
He then walks up to you and presses a kiss on your forehead—so tentatively it makes you ache.
Since when did he get so hesitant with you?
“I’ll go then,” he announces.
And before you know it, the front door shuts, his perfume leaving a nostalgic fragrance in its trail.
Only then do you realize that I love you’s were not exchanged.
The days after are unremarkably the same.
He’s been getting up extra early so that by the time you wake up, he’s already on his way to the agency.
On top of that, he’s starting to work overtime now, too.
Lately, he’s been arriving home as late as almost midnight.
You try to wait up for him—you really do—but with your own work to get to the following mornings, you just couldn’t sustain that arrangement.
And so you rarely see him.
But to your relief, despite everything that’s gone wrong with Bakugou since the night he proposed, you still fall on the same bed at the end of the day.
Albeit his back is turned against you. Still, you’re grateful. There’s a certain comfort that blankets you whenever you’re near Bakugou, and that hasn’t changed one bit.
Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you mirror him, your back now facing his.
Which is why you don’t notice it until you hear a gasp.
Propping yourself up on your elbow, you look at Bakugou, who’s now sitting upright, chest heaving.
Quickly, you rouse yourself, facing him. “What’s wrong?”
He inhales deeply as his eyes dart towards you, beads of sweat now decorating his forehead.
“Nightmare,” he croaks.
At that, you grab his ice-cold hands, squeezing them in yours. “Do you want to talk about it?”
A beat passes before he reluctantly shakes his head. “It’s just the usual.”
The usual. Being held hostage by that monster, getting kidnapped, being responsible for All Might’s—
“It doesn’t matter if it’s new or not,” you retort, squeezing his hands again in an attempt to anchor him to reality. “I’m here to listen, alright?”
Bakugou hesitates for a second before nodding, a pained expression written across his face.
He starts to lean in closer, probably to drop his head at the crook of your neck like he usually does when plagued with nightmares, before hesitating and leaning back.
“Okay.”
The next morning, you wake up not only to an empty bed, but an empty house.
Still half asleep, you trudge your way toward the kitchen, where a bento box is sitting on the island. On top of it is a sticky note that reads:
Going out w the guys after shift. Don’t wait up.
Your heart sinks at the thought of not being able to see Bakugou for the day.
Still, maybe he needs this night out.
You wouldn’t want to spend time with the person who rejected you either.
With a heavy heart, you get ready for the day yourself.
Work is the least of your concerns this morning, but you figure you have to go. You could use some distraction to take your mind off your crumbling relationship.
You’re in your bed reading that non-fiction you’ve been putting off for a while now when your phone rings.
You reach for your phone, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of Kirishima’s caller ID.
Huh.
You press the green button after a few seconds of letting it ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Y/N!” a cheery voice greets you. “This is Kirishima.”
“Hey, Ei,” you start, weirdly nervous. “How are you and the rest of the squad?”
“Actually, that’s why I called you. Can you pick Bakugou up? He’s so drunk.”
Your Katsuki? Drunk?
For some reason, the idea of talking to a drunk Bakugou, who also happens to be the bluntest version of himself, elicits an unpleasant feeling in your gut.
“Really?” you ask, voice small. “How much did he drink?”
“Not a lot, but the alcohol percentage of the ones he downed are pretty high.”
When you don’t respond for a while, he pipes up with: “Y/N?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
Kirishima sounds unsure when he asks, “Is everything okay with you guys?”
“Yes, Ei.” No, Ei. I inadvertently rejected his marriage proposal.
“Okay, that’s good to hear,” he starts. “It’s just that he barely mentioned you when he was still sober—which is a rare occurrence, if you only knew. He only started calling for you when he was three glasses in.”
Despite yourself, your stomach flips in delight. He’s still thinking about me, you think to yourself.
“Anyway, as I was saying, are you good to fetch him?”
“Yes,” you stand up and grab for your keys. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
You’re situating the car in your designated parking space when Bakugou finally stirs awake.
Once you’re parked, you turn off the engine before you reach over the console to unfasten his seatbelt. Yours follows shortly after.
You look at him, whose eyes are still closed.
“We’re here, Kats.”
At the sound of your voice, his eyes shoot open and he examines his environment, alarmed. Once he catches sight of you, though, he visibly relaxes.
Only to straighten up in his seat, stiff and unable to look you in the eye.
“You didn’t have to, uh,” he stammers, struggling to formulate coherent sentences. “Get me. You didn’t have to get me.”
You shoot him a small smile. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t say anything after that, eyes trained on your car’s windshield.
A moment passes before he speaks again.
“My mom made me do it, you know.”
You stare at his side profile. “Made you do what?”
“Propose to you.”
“Oh.”
He shakes his head, almost in disagreement. “The old hag really wants me to get married. I told her we didn’t have to get married because we’re happy the way things are and that shit is just for formality. Told me I’d be missing out on you wearing a wedding dress.”
You snort, “That’s what convinced you to ask me?”
He grins. “Nah. I just realized I wanted to get married if it was to you.”
Before you can even react, Bakugou shifts in his seat, breaking eye contact.
“It was stupid of me, though.”
Your stomach drops in anticipatory dread. “Stupid of you to what?”
He chuckles, although he seems anything but happy. “Was stupid of me to think someone like you would say yes to someone like me.
“I—” he stutters, “I wouldn’t marry me either.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sighs, “Just…who the fuck do I think am, proposing to you? I was a horrible person who fucked things up so many times growing up. Maybe this is karma biting me back in the ass.”
“Katsuki.”
“You can do way be—”
“Katsuki!”
He jerks his head to face you, bewildered and eyes glassy.
You reach over the console to hold his scarred hand, staring him down.
“Look at me.”
He does so.
“You’re not that person anymore, alright?” You squeeze his hand, “Please don’t do this to yourself.”
Under the intensity of your gaze, Bakugou can only nod in affirmation before you engulf him in your first hug in what feels like weeks.
“Come on,” you say when you finally part, “Let’s get you ready for bed.”
Bakugou sleeps like a baby by your side that night. Meanwhile, you stay up until the wee hours of the morning, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.
He thinks you don’t want to marry him.
Your heart aches at the very thought of him grappling with the most false of all statements.
You want to marry him, you really do, but all your fears suddenly rose to the surface and enveloped you the second he went on one knee.
And that’s what you’re planning to confess to him tonight.
You wait, wrapped in the thickest jacket you own, seated on the bench for Bakugou to come. You left him a note alongside his bento box earlier this morning—a note that says to meet you at the indicated address.
Lost in your thoughts and in your internal monologue, you startle when somebody sits next to you.
You look to your right, only to see Bakugou in his thickest jacket, a gray beanie covering his ash blonde locks, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Do you remember this place?” you ask, voice quiet.
He scoffs, “Of course I do, dumbass.”
At that, you chuckle. “This is where we had our first date.”
He grunts in agreement. He doesn’t say anything after that.
A few seconds pass before he finally pipes up with: “So why did you bring me here?”
Your heart’s pace quickens at the query.
You gulp, although your voice still ends up shaky. “I wanted to apologize.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
You shake your head, “You don’t understand.”
He chuckles, that same one that translates to anything but happiness. “I think I do. You don’t want to marry me, I get it.”
“No,” you say, voice louder. “I want to marry you.”
At your admission, Bakugou turns to look you in the eye. The hopeful expression on his face is staggering, you want to curl up into a ball and cry. “What?”
“I said,” you repeat, “I want to marry you.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Then why have you been acting like you don’t?”
At his question, you can’t help but clench your eyes closed. This is too much, you think to yourself, but you owe Bakugou the truth.
“I’m just scared, Kats. Truly. I—” you stammer, “I just can’t shake off the fear of losing you one day. And I know your capabilities and I know how hard you work. Just that—I don’t know. The fear of seeing you killed one day is paralyzing.”
Bakugou reaches out to you, and you let him wipe away the tears that are now falling down your cheeks.
“I’m scared, too,” he offers. “But I don’t know.”
He shakes his head, “I’m more scared of not being with you.”
At his confession, you can’t help but smile. “I think that’s how I feel, too.”
You rest your head on Bakugou’s shoulder, your hand in his. You stay like that for a few minutes before you pull away and turn to regard him again.
“Can we start over?” you ask, “I want to propose to you soon.”
Bakugou smirks, nothing but elation on his face. He takes your other hand and squeezes it.
“Not if I propose to you first.”
tagging. @katsukis1wife @rinalou @loverboyrin @brunnetteiwik @beabe19
as always, reblogs, comments, and tags are appreciated <3
2K notes
·
View notes
I DONT KNOW IF YOU WRITE FULL FICS BUT IF YOU DO PLEASE WIRTE ONE ABOUT TGAT LAST ASK.
Just about Astarion sitting in his throne of sorts, in the palace, with tav sitting in his lap. He’s bored, tav sits there- dissociating and wishing they were anywhere else. He asks them if they’d like to do something fun and they say something like “Only if you do my lord” and he saddens some, expecting them to come up with something fun like they used to but they can’t think of anything that he would approve of them doing after so many years of breaking them down and he realizes it’s gotten so dull because tav was the person that brightened his life
"Awfully dull today, hmm? How would you like to do something fun, my love?"
It's an oh-so rare quiet day in the Crimson Palace, and his favorite source of amusement sits placidly on his lap, silent as the grave and still atop him. Content as he is in the peaceful quiet with solely her company, he'd spend the day with her doing– well, something, surely. It’s been a while since they’ve had any time to themselves to truly enjoy each other’s company alone. In fact, he cannot recall the last time with any distinct accuracy.
It seems so terribly long since they've had any time to themselves. Being a Lord keeps you awfully busy.
In a tender moment, he reaches forward to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face and behind her ear with a long, pale finger. She doesn’t react save a slight instinctual flicker of her lashes. Not a hint of expression on her face. He expects her to lean into his touch as she used to and is almost shocked when she does not.
Odd, he thinks. She hardly even seems to notice anything at all.
It’s almost like she isn’t entirely present.
Still, before he can chastise her, she responds to his bid for her attention.
"If that is your wish, my lord,” She responds to his question, lifeless and monotone. Perfectly obedient, just as befits her, and yet—
He frowns, just a little. It irks him, but now that he thinks about it, he cannot recall the last time he saw enthusiasm on her face– or much of anything at all aside from the blank, hollow mask she has now. Completely impassive and unresponsive in a cruel sort of practiced indifference.
He studies her for a moment and comes to the conclusion that it reminds him of the robots they found in that strange tower in the Underdark so long ago. Programmed to respond to the right things and make the right moves, but utterly incapable of acting on her own whims. Eternally awaiting instruction.
Empty. Robotic. Precise and yet disingenuous somehow. Eerily so.
Has she been like this before? Has he simply not noticed?
Perhaps she just needs to awaken a little more. It was such a long night, and he had kept her remarkably busy. She must be exhausted, but surely, she will perk up. She always does.
Doesn’t she?
“Come, darling. What would you like to do?” He jostles his knees, dandling her on his legs like one might a small, particularly grumpy child. She bumps up and down, only reaching to steady herself on the sides of his throne.
“Whatever would please you would please me, my lord.”
He groans, rolling his red eyes, a very sudden burst of irritation bubbling in his gut. Always with the My lord, My lord, scraping and bowing like some sort of indentured serf. Proper respect is important, of course, but for the first time in a while— longer than he can honestly think back on, to be honest— they are entirely alone. He is her Lord, yes, but she knew him by another name once– did know him by another name. She knows better than to tease him in front of his vassals but surely—
He can’t remember the last time she said his name.
His real name.
How long since he has truly sat by her side and talked with her? Spent time with her? He's been so busy, laying plans and waste, conquering and shedding blood of those who oppose him. The Lord Tyrant, come to rule over his dominion of Eternal Night. She is always by his side, never straying and yet—
(“I love you, Little Star,” She’d laugh, planting a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose, which would promptly crinkle in annoyance.
“I’m not ‘Little Star,’ and I’ll never understand why you insist on calling me that.”
“That’s what your name means, doesn’t it? Little Star? Or perhaps Little Starlight– I don’t really remember.”
“Then why make that my pet name?" He rolls his eyes, annoyed at the use of his own childish moniker that follows him like a shadow to anyone who speaks even a lick of his native language. "Of all the things your brilliant little mind can concoct, you give me a child’s handle? I’m strong, dashing, capable, handsome, fearsome– but instead you choose that absurdity”
“Because you’re my little star!” And she would smile so brightly that it seemed impossible in the darkness, and he could not help but smile himself. “My light in the darkness. My Astarion, for as long as you want to be. And I love you.”
His expression would soften once again and he would simply sigh, pulling her close to kiss her temple. The night was cold, but she was so impossibly warm against him, somehow fitting perfectly in his lap and into his heart, where she’d wormed her way in against his own will. The dim firelight reflects in her eyes as she tells him again that she loves him forever if he’ll have her, and he can think of nothing he’d desire more than to ride out the endless night of eternity with her here on his lap, cradled close.)
Something gnaws at him. Something raw and edged with a vicious sort of misery he’d done so well to avoid in ages. He cannot place it but as he looks at her, his stomach is as a dark, abyssal pit, circling and swelling like a maelstrom.
Something is wrong.
He cannot place the negative emotion, and so he does as he always does now, making the strange yearning her responsibility to soothe.
He lashes out at her.
“I’m growing bored,” He says with a cold, cruel edge to his voice. “You know how much I dislike boredom, don't you, darling?"
What he seeks is a reaction. A sudden spark of life from within her. For her to grab his hand and take him to do— to do something. Surely—
And yet, with a motion so fluid that it implies an aged and practiced skill, she slides from his lap down to her knees before him, reaching towards the laces of his breeches. There is nothing behind her eyes as she extends her hand forward to unlace him, hardly even seeing him. Nothing at all.
“What are you doing?” He slaps her hands away, scowling down at her, taken back by her brashness.
“You said you were bored, my Lord.”
“And why would you think–”
Because that is what he’d taught her.
That her body was built for his amusement; his temple to defile at will. Because of the cold nights in the castle after so many years where he would reach for her, and she would quiver and shake her head with eyes rimmed red and puffy and beg to be left untouched and yet he would speak the words without thinking and she would bend for him any way he wished.
Because even as she would obey, she would cry and turn away, and he would give it little thought until one night the crying and protesting simply stopped. He thought she had learned. Made peace with her duties and loyalty to him and what it entailed. Mayhaps she had come to realize that her theatrics had little impact on him and surely, he wasn’t so wretched to her now that these waterworks were necessary. His touch could not repulse her so that her weeping was remotely acceptable. She loves him, surely she—
Because he would command her until she would kneel, and so now, she kneels without command.
He sighs, breathing the fire from his lungs, reaching down to pull her back up into his lap. She does not respond, only obeys in kind to his guiding instruction as he settles her back down on his legs. He finds a semblance of patience from within himself which is a strange and unusual feeling, mustering it up to once again ask:
“My dear, what is it that you would like to do?”
Her head cocks. She does not understand.
"What would you enjoy? If you had the freedom to do anything, what might it be?"
It takes a moment, but for the first time, a reaction: Confusion. It is slow to take hold but becomes blaringly apparent as it does. It is not as if she doesn’t know the answer, but almost as if she doesn’t understand the question.
“Whatever you would like to do, my Lo–”
“No, no, darling. What is it you would like to do?” He impresses, harsher this time, and she flinches, recoiling from… something.
From him.
If her heart was still capable of beating, he'd be able to hear the way it pumps into overdrive. As it stands, he cannot, but he is aware no less. Her scent changes entirely around him to something that has his brows furrowing. Shortness of breath, dilating pupils, hands beginning to quake— Adrenaline. Steel-edged anxiety. As if this is not a question at all, but rather a test and she does not know the answer, and failure means his displeasure and his displeasure means–
"I— What would you—" She hard-swallows, harrowed by the open-endedness of the question. "—I want what—"
("Come to the meadow with me, Asto," She would grab his hand with a mischievous smile when their compatriots were fast asleep, tugging him up from the comfort of his bedroll. "I want you to come with me."
"It's late, darling. Wouldn't you rather come here and lie with me?" He would try to tug her back down playfully, but would fall against her aggressive temerity, being pulled to his feet through her sheer will. She would stifle her giggling with a hand as she guided him past their slumbering companions, through the tree line and deep into the forest.
"Come on, lazy boy, come! Come with me!"
"Well, I'm trying to—"
She would hush him and yank him by the wrist, out into the field where he'd first had her, down once more into a bed of wildflowers and long grass. Her melodic laugh like a strange song as she yanks him to the ground despite his weak protests until she would lie her head on his chest and trace gentle patterns on his white shirt against his flexed chest.
"We don't have to come all the way out here to make love, darling—" He would move to try to kiss her, but she would adamantly press her head against his torso, insisting he stay down in the dirt with her.
"I'm not trying to seduce you," She would giggle, pointing at the star-spangled sky. "I want to lie under the stars with you."
"But… why?"
"Because I know we'll have eternity to do it, but it's my favorite moon tonight and it reminded me of you."
He squints, struggling to find anything different about it at all. "I don't notice anything, darling. It looks very much like the moon we see every night."
"It's so full and bright! Look at the rays!" She holds her hand out as if to cradle a silvery moonbeam in her palm. "It reminds me of the color of your hair."
She reaches over him to delicately pluck something from the grass, tucking it gingerly behind his ear after she does so. "These poppies are the same beautiful deep red of your eyes in the moonlight. I feel safe here; home, with you. I just wanted to enjoy it for a moment. Just the two of us."
He would wrap his arms around her waist, squeezing so tightly that she would gasp and worm about, trying to return the favor, and yet he would not relent.
"I want you to feel safe with me," he would whisper into her hair, desperately trying to memorize the scent of it, as if expecting Bhaal himself to come and steal her from his frantic embrace. "Now and forever, I want to feel home in your arms, with you.")
He thinks, for a moment, to return to that meadow, and that perhaps his love— the one he remembers— will return to him. As if her ghost still lingers there, trapped and waiting to be rescued.
He can’t.
It is not a meadow any longer, but a battlefield, not unlike the vile destruction left in Ketheric's wake at Raithewait; another one in a million places sacrificed in his conquest for glory, littered with bodies and bones. A graveyard tribute to his power, scorched soil and dead grass. No flowers bloom there anymore— there is nowhere for them to bloom between the suffocating aura of death.
All that is left is a beautiful memory buried beneath a river of dried blood, and you cannot water flowers with dried blood or wean them on bone dust. That meadow is one moment suspended in time as trapped in amber, impossible to claw free from its temporal prison. He cannot remember the last time he saw that jovial smile she had saved just for him in that damned meadow.
He cannot recall the last time she said the words "I love you" and cried his name as a preternaturally beautiful siren song without being commanded.
He frowns, feeling something strange and haunting in his chest. Something viciously clawing up his throat as he looks at her: at her empty red eyes that were once the most beautiful color, full of love and life when she looked upon him; at her contorted expression that used to be as radiant as the sun and he could have sworn that her light could have sustained him through the dark, miserable nights of his eternal curse if only she was by his side; at the frailty of her body that almost seems to creak and break beneath his weight.
"My love, look at me."
And she does, if not by command, then by instinct.
"Smile for me, will you? Can you do that for me?"
And she does, her lips turning upward and raising to reveal two sharp teeth— and nothing more. It's uncanny and revolting and wrong. There is nothing behind her eyes, nothing at all. No light, no life, and certainly no love.
He used to be able to see himself in her eyes. How her heart sang for him, cheeks blossoming with blood at the sight of him. He could hear her heart rabbit behind her ribs, her hands quaking with excitement to touch him even in the most innocent of ways. Through her eyes, he found his own value— his own worth— and finally began to understand that he deserved love; he deserved happiness. She had healed him, giving almost all of herself to do it, selflessly and without asking for anything in return even as he despised himself and refused his own agency—
And she stares at him now with soulless eyes, he is left to wonder if he has taken too much from her in his quest to take everything. Wonders if she will ever be that lovestruck, moon-eyed girl again, wanting nothing more than to lie under the moonlit meadow with him. If she will ever kiss his eyelids as a delicate butterfly and whisper eternity in his ear. If she will ever feel safe and home and loved around him again in his embrace–
Save she is no longer quaking with anticipation at his touch, but trembling from fear, lost and terrified at the posing of a simple question. Her scent is foreign even as it is familiar and he cannot recall when it began to change. There is something in her eyes that haunts him, and though he can see himself within him, what stares back is not him. A terrible realization rakes knives down his soul, a gaping maw threatening to swallow him whole. A tightening in his lungs, and even as he does not breathe, he does not believe he could even if he tried.
“Darling?”
“Yes, my Lord?”
Her face is impassive once more. Perfect porcelain expression. Not a crack in the mask. Not a wrinkle in the facade. Practiced day in and day out until it becomes real. He remembers it well.
How long has it been? How long since he has looked at her? Truly looked at her? Spoken to her? Told her he loved her?
Showed her he loves her?
When was the last day he did not command from her that which she begged not to willingly give?
He cannot remember. He cannot recall.
He demanded and she had no choice but to give. More and more and more. He drained her dry and now where was once his sacred oasis, there is nothing at all. No matter how long he looks, there is never a flicker of anything in her glassy eyes.
He wonders if even as he has gotten everything he has ever wanted, he lost the one thing he needed.
It paralyzes him. For the first time in an ageless eternity, he feels something: Panic.
Even his endless power cannot bring her back. His beloved is dead, and he has killed her. Upon him sits a pretty corpse, empty and devoid of all that made her her. A doll with her face. A doll with barely even that.
Her laugh, her smile. Her passion and desire and love. The tenderness inside of her and the warmth she once held. Everything that pulled him from his shell and showed him how to love once more. He bloomed in her light– and then snuffed it out entirely.
How long has it been? How long has she been gone?
Though she may be undying, he realizes with horror akin to a dawning sun that she is gone– and has been for some time.
“You seem stressed, my Lord? How can I make you happy again?”
Second part of the story HERE
2K notes
·
View notes