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norabrice1701 · 1 year

Text

Consequence

A Ghost!Horstmayer x Fem!Reader AU

Summary: “Seriously?” You say, sighing in vague annoyance. “A ghost?” You don’t consider yourself to be a superstitious person, and you certainly don’t believe in haunted things lurking around dark corners.

Of course, it doesn’t make sense. Of course, ghosts aren’t real. You just need your overactive imagination to calm down.

But then comes the night that changes everything...

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut; explicit language; references to 1918 pandemic and lost love; Horstmayer needs a hug

A/N: Last year, it started with a pirate!Horstmayer fic and now we have ghost!Horstmayer on this Christmas Eve. Curl up somewhere warm with something warm & cozy, and I hope you enjoy! And to those who celebrate the holiday - I wish you all a Happy & Merry Christmas 🎄😊❤️

You inherit the apartment from your Great-Aunt Alphonsine. Heartless as it sounds, you didn't even know that you had a Great-Aunt Alphonsine until the lawyer calls you.

“The care and maintenance of the apartment is part of your Great-Aunt’s estate. Should you choose to retain the dwelling, you will only be financially responsible for the consumables.”

“The consumables?” You echo in confusion. “What does that mean? Consumables as in… water and electricity?”

“No, miss. Consumables as in food, paper products, toiletries, and so forth. Your Great-Aunt’s estate has allocations for utilities, cleaning services, repair services, tax fees, and insurance costs. She was adamant that you shoulder no additional financial burden with the inheritance of her beloved home.”

On and off over the years, your mother has spoken of the estranged family that lives in France, but surely, this has to be too much. You’d never met Great-Aunt Alphonsine, and doesn’t she have any immediate family of her own? Or is this her way of trying to reunite the family?

Regardless, you still can’t believe it. Even now as you stand - still dumbfounded by the simple fact that you’re actually here in Paris - staring at the building’s elegant stone and wrought-iron facade, you want to pinch yourself.

Nearly overnight, you’ve gone from a cramped, nearly-windowless apartment to this sweeping, third-story, top-floor apartment with commanding views of the Luxembourg Gardens. Nearly overnight, you no longer have to choose between paying rent or paying down student loans. Nearly overnight, you find yourself faced with the decision of what to do with such a classy place, but you figure that you should at least see the interior before deciding.

And the interior doesn’t disappoint. Cozily appointed and elegantly furnished, the whole apartment proves an expert study in Edwardian class and comfort. Each room hosts gleaming wood fireplaces, lush rugs, and plushy armchairs and settees. The living room with a piano in one corner and a simple writing desk tucked in another corner looks like the perfect place to continue work on your novel. The dining room is warm and intimate, and blessedly, the kitchen has been updated with modern appliances.

The hallway hosts three inviting bedrooms and one sophisticated bathroom. Each progressive room makes you feel sloppy in your jeans and sweater, yet also puts you completely at ease. The old-world charm and elegance of the whole place should probably be intimidating, but there is something undeniably homey and inviting about it.

You make your decision and settle in right away. The living room becomes your favorite haunt and think-tank, while the master bedroom serves as your private lair. You’ve never known such stylish comfort or pleasant environs. In fact, it’s a marvel that your Great-Aunt has managed to outfit her home in a way that doesn’t feel old and stuffy but still retains the splendor of a bygone age.

As time passes, you meet the cleaning lady by name of Marie-Rose who tiptoes around on silent footsteps, and the all-around handyman, Georges, who is never without a jovial smile beneath his bushy mustache.

“This is an easy fix, mademoiselle.” Georges says, extending the ladder legs. “I’m glad that you called.”

“I appreciate that you came so quickly, but really, there was no rush.” And you mean it. Replacing a burned out lightbulb in the living room chandelier isn’t an urgent matter, but Georges wouldn’t hear of it.

“Well, Mademoiselle Alphonsine was just the kindest lady, and I wouldn’t want to do her an insult by way of you, now.”

Your mouth pulls to an awkward, closed-mouth smile. “I wish that I had known her better.” Or at all, really.

Georges unboxes the new lightbulb, nodding up at you with a reassuring smile. “I’ll have this replaced in no time. Don’t you worry, mademoiselle.” Despite your insistence otherwise, he refuses to call you anything else. “But keep an eye out for that ghost, would you please?”

He starts to climb the ladder, and you arch a dubious brow. “Seriously?” You say, sighing in vague annoyance. “A ghost?” You don’t consider yourself to be a superstitious person, and you certainly don’t believe in haunted things lurking around dark corners.

“Oh, you can be sure of it. Mademoiselle Alphonsine had many stories about her resident ghost - even said that she glimpsed him in the foyer mirror once. Eyes like golden chocolate, she said.”

“Golden chocolate?” You hum skeptically. “And I’m sure that every time this old building creaked, that was the ghost, too?”

Georges nods as he works. “Mademoiselle Alphonsine swore that he was always here - as a chill when she entered a room, as a phantom whisper against her cheek, as a fallen and broken object.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” You scoff, shaking your head. “I mean, it makes sense why a single, elderly lady living alone would conjure tales about a ghost when things went bump in the night. It’s the most basic trope in all of horror-dom! And once she believed it, I’m sure it just became easier each time something ‘supposedly-mysterious but easily-explainable’ happened for her to just chalk it up to her resident ghost.”

Georges laughs softly but nothing about it is comforting. “Then, don’t believe in the ghost at your own peril, mademoiselle. But far be it for me to speak ill of the dead - either Mademoiselle Alphonsine or her resident ghost.”

Of all the ridiculous nonsense. There are no such things as ghosts, regardless of what your Great-Aunt or her handyman think.

And yet… you can’t fully banish the lingering thought. Especially in the dark hours of night when the city grows still, when the building grows silent, when shadows dance on the walls. You start to notice the ambient creaks and groans of the centuries’ old building. You start to notice the reflections in polished surfaces, unable to stop the creeping moments of suspicion and the urge to do a double-take over your shoulder.

Eyes like golden chocolate, indeed.

Of course, it doesn’t make sense. Of course, ghosts aren’t fucking real. You just need your overactive imagination to calm down.

But then comes the night that changes everything.

The day has been absolute hell in a handbasket, and you need to lose yourself. So, you do: retiring to your bed with a half-full bottle of wine and your favorite vibrator. It has been a while since your last boyfriend, and you treat yourself far better than he ever did. Still trembling from your first orgasm, you writhe against the bedsheets, slowly teasing towards your second. Your slick, sensitized skin sings as you drive the toy harder, chasing the pleasurable swell inside you. The wood and plaster walls echo with your soft cries and whimpers - and in the moments your eyes wink open, you see yourself in the mirror mounted above the bedroom fireplace.

The debauched sight that you paint should probably be shameful, but you’re too far gone to care. Your hair fans across the pillowcase, sleep shorts and underwear discarded with your sleep shirt rucked up. With one hand twisting and pinching against your breast, the other works the toy inside you. The desperate heat builds to a crescendo as you drag against your white hot spot of pleasure, tearing a long cry from your lips as you start to boil over.

Glass cracks and shatters across the room, slicing through your fog of arousal. You scream at the sudden burst of sound, and the toy slips from your grip. Your body fights a new surge of adrenaline-fueled energy as you stare at the fractured mirror over the bedroom fireplace. Cracked lines radiate across the reflective surface originating from a point in the middle. Several glass shards have broken loose, now smashed against the polished wood floor.

Your heart races as you sit up to get a better look, overcome with the impending rush of your denied orgasm and the fear that bolted down your spine at the sight. Especially as you stare at the distorted reflection in the mirror’s broken remains. It looks… you gulp. Another shiver runs through you as you squint harder in the low light. The shape coalesces into a distinct, shadowed outline of a head and shoulder - and eyes.

Eyes that glint with golden chocolate.

You blink, and the image disappears. Or… has it even been there in the first place?

The thought keeps you awake longer than you care to admit. And ever since, you haven't been able to shake the unnerving feeling that you’re being watched.

Sure, it sounds cliche. Fuck that, it’s definitely cliche. You’re starting to be no better than your Great-Aunt, really: living alone in an old house with an antique mirror that had finally just cracked from age. You don’t need to let the power of suggestion get to you. Of course, there hasn’t been a ghost with golden chocolate eyes watching you in your bedroom. The implications of that are just too fucked up.

But none of that stops a shiver from crawling down your spine when living room floorboards squeak while you sit unmoving on the couch. It doesn’t stop you from giving the foyer mirror a suspicious side-eye every time you walk past or glimpse shadowy movement on its reflective surface.

All of it stirs traitorous, lingering questions to life. Has Great-Aunt Alphonsine been right? Does her home indeed have a resident specter of some sort? Could there really be such a thing as ghosts?

The nagging questions torment you for the better part of two weeks, not helped each night when you crawl into bed and stare at the bare patch of wall above the fireplace where the mirror used to hang. But finally, emboldened by another bottle of wine, you open an incognito browser window and let your search history spiral down a rabbit hole.

Are ghosts real

Why do ghosts haunt

Can you banish ghosts

Can you contact ghosts

Madame Lastra incantation

Dr. Vladimir Zugravs’s Collection of Spells and Other Curios book

The next day finds you at the National Library of France. Of course, the section you seek resides in a quiet, dusty corner of the archives that surely crawls with ghosts of its own. Fluorescent light bulbs buzz overhead as you scan the spine titles and catalog numbers. Eventually, you find Dr. Zugrav’s book and pull it from the shelf as your heart leaps. Thumbing through the pages, you glimpse all sorts of sketches - diagrams of plants, people, symbols - and page after page of obscure, occultist lore.

When you find the page entitled ‘Madame Lastra’s Incantation for Contact Beyond the Living World’, a forbidden thrill runs through you. Fuck, you can’t believe this actually exists, and worse… would it actually work?

Back in the warmth of your living room, you pour over the pages with rapt interest. It… honestly, it sounds so easy. Does it really only take sandalwood scented air and a red beeswax barrier coupled with the right words to contact the dead? You read the pages again and again, looking for the obvious catch. If it is supposedly just that simple, then why doesn’t everyone know about this?

But once you have the sandalwood incense and red beeswax candle, you wait until Saturday night. The fact that it’s Christmas Eve just happens to be a coincidence. You already told your parents that you aren’t able to come home for Christmas, and if you really have the chance to make a new friend, then… well, who wants to be alone on Christmas Eve?

So, you sit in the foyer and light the incense. As the woodsy smell permeates the air, you light the candle and let it burn for several minutes to form a blood-red puddle of molten wax. With careful movements, you dribble the wax in a line just behind the front door, spanning wall to wall as the book instructured. Admittedly, you do cringe at the sight of the vibrant red wax cooling against the finely polished wood floor - and god, maybe you should go to a therapist after this - but for now, you’re too committed to stop.

When the line looks thick enough - honestly, the book wasn’t too specific - you set the candle next to the incense and sit cross-legged, staring at the front door and the fresh line of wax. You turn the page and your breathing quickens. Adrenaline surges through you, taking a deep breath to listen to the gentle piano Christmas carols that play in the background as a low fire burns in the living room fireplace accompanied by the soft glow of a table lamp.

In a clear, purposeful voice - the book is incessant on that part - you recite the words. It sounds even stupider and laughingly implausible as your voice echoes off the woodwork, as if waiting for the punchline of some elaborate joke. But then… the fire flares in the living room from the corner of your eye and a wave of intense heat rolls over you. Lightning strikes outside the windows and roaring thunder threatens to burst your eardrums. Strobing lightning continues to blind you as shapes and shadows melt and shift around you. With wide eyes, you glance around as fear otherwise paralyzes you.

God, shit, fuck… what have you done?

Thunder shakes the building incessantly, but your blood freezes as audible, distinct footsteps creak down the hallway. Your heart sticks in your throat as blood pounds in your ears, turning around to see… an unknown man emerge from the shadows.

His thick chestnut hair and beard hold a neat style as he frowns down at you. He wears dark, high-waisted trousers of an antiquated fashion with a white dress shirt, matching vest, and tie neatly knotted at his throat. Firelight and lightning gleam off a wristwatch set against a thick leather band wrapped around his right wrist. He looks for all the world like he just stepped out of a late Edwarian-era photograph, and a chill runs through you.

He rests his hands in his trousers’ pockets as he comes to a stop at the living room threshold, his face hard with disapproval. “I understand that modern sensibilities have changed,” he says with crisp, Germanic syllables. “But have you completely dispensed with all sense of general propriety?”

You stare back at him, agape and lost for words. Too many questions overload your brain as you meet his sharp, golden chocolate eyes. Eyes that are all too familiar from a hazy moment in your bedroom’s shattered mirror.

He blinks those otherworldly eyes as irritation tightens the corners of his mouth, and he nods vaguely over your shoulder. “Referring, of course, to the mess that you have made on his floor. Terribly inconsiderate of you as a guest, considering how that red dye will no doubt leave a permanent stain.”

Your eyebrows climb to your hairline. “A guest…? But I live here.”

He shakes his head in slow reproach. “This is not your home anymore than it is your Great-Aunt’s or mine - we are all houseguests here.” He advances slowly, coming more into the flickering firelight and your pulse quickens as he continues. “But, perhaps you are not as worthy as she was - first, for damaging his floor, and second, in this unwelcome -.” His words stop short as his face pinches in open confusion and disbelief.

You freeze in equal uncertainty, watching his keen gaze fix on the roaring fire. Lightning still flashes all around - or, perhaps strobe is a more accurate word - especially as you realize that thunder no longer accompanies each bright bolt of light. Without another word, he strides forward with his attention clearly diverted from you.

With trembling movements, you push to your feet as you continue to stare at him. Just who in the hell is this man? He can’t just come into your house uninvited… or was he invited? You stand just inside the living room, staring at the broad line of his back as he pauses in front of the fireplace. He holds his left hand in front of the flames as if warming chilled skin, but the look of astonishment on his face makes your brow furrow.

Chilling realization creeps through you as he continues to stare at his hand in a mix of disbelief and reverence. You wet your top lip, exhaling sharply. “You’re Great-Aunt Alphonsine’s resident ghost, aren’t you?”

“I prefer that you call me Karl Horstmayer.”

You gasp as realization slams through you, and holy shit… the incantation has worked. The truth before your eyes stuns you as lightning flares at random, disorienting intervals. You blink away from him in your stupor, still trying to process it all, and your mindless gaze sweeps around the room. At least, until you notice that the familiar table lamp has just… disappeared. In fact, the fireplace and lightning are the only light sources around you.

Your mind reels at the implications, and you turn towards the windows that overlook the gardens across the street. It’s impossible to make out anything of the city beyond - no streetlights, no rustling trees - as if everything outside has been swallowed up by the soundless lightning storm.

Everything about that thought sends your mind into overdrive as your heart races. “Does… does that mean that I’m… dead?”

He shrugs a disinterested shoulder, still studying his hand. “What is dead?”

“Dead is how y-you’re a ghost.” Your words shake with mounting uncertainty. “And how I’m… I’m - where are we, anyway?”

“Why do you assume that I have all the answers?” His words cut sharp. “Aren’t you the one with the occultist book?”

“The book doesn’t say anything about this!” Honestly, if the incantation is going to transport you to some freakish vortex between life and death, the book should at least fucking mention it.

If your outburst bothers Karl, he gives no visible indication. Instead, he simply lowers his hand back to his side as the corner of his mouth lifts with a sad, fond edge. “All I know is that I have not felt such warmth in well over a century.”

Despite your unease, your brow knits as you process his words. “No? Not even when… well, assuming that you’ve walked this apartment as you are now,” you gesture at him, suddenly feeling woefully out of your depth. “Does that mean that you don’t feel physical sensation…?”

“Not as such.” He answers softly. “But the eternal now has no physical concept, so your question is invalid.”

“That makes no sense.” You shake your head, returning your gaze to him as you wait for him to respond.

But neither of you speak for several long minutes. Brilliant purple-white light continues to burst out the windows, punctuated only by crackles from the fireplace and the eerie melody of distorted Christmas carols. You strain your ears to listen, just able to recognize ‘Silent Night’ despite how melancholy and dissonant the tune sounds.

You force a swallow, continuing the conversation in his stead. “I mean - clearly, this is a physical place. I’m standing here, a-and you’re standing there. And there’s a fire, and music… and you called it his place.” You pause, blinking over at him as he stands unmoving, still just staring into the fire. “So, if I’m a guest and you’re a guest… then, whose place is this?”

Heart-wrenching sadness eats at the lines of his handsome face despite his failing attempts to hold a stoic appearance. It ages him so young - younger than you’d initially estimated due to his deceptive facial hair. What has happened to this young man? By all accounts, he looks healthy - as if he could still be alive today.

The muscles of his throat work around a hard swallow. “This is the home of the Audebert family. Camille Audebert, in particular.” He pinches his mouth shut as if needing a moment to collect himself.

Concern stirs in your chest as you wrap your arms around yourself and step into the living room. “And who was... is Camille Audebert?”

Karl’s eyes swim with firelight and distant memory. “Someone who I met on a Christmas Eve long ago. Someone who… who I had hoped to find again. But someone who died in this house before I could get here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You take another careful step forward. “How did he die?”

“The flu of 1918 swept through Paris, sparing neither the rich or the poor, and he succumbed much like countless other victims.”

A chill runs down your spine as your heart lodges in your throat. “The flu of 1918… that sounds unreal….” Your voice trails off as the unnerving lightning reflects off your skin and clothes. “Is that also when you… died, too?”

“No.” He offers a weak shake of his head. “I followed… in 1919, I think it was. You’ll forgive me on the exact year…”

You ach an incredulous brow, unable to believe it. “And you’ve been here - in this place… this apartment since 1919, give or take.”

His heavy eyes drop closed as he bows his head solemnly.

Your tongue runs across your top lip. “Then, why don’t you just leave?”

“That’s not how it works.” His voice chills you to the bone. “Actions on the mortal plane ripple through eternity, and a deal with the devil is just that.”

“But you’re…,” you start as you struggle to understand. “Surely, you’re not… like a demon or something.”

“No,” he gives a short shake of his head. “But one needn’t be a demon to find themselves in hell.”

You regard him in a moment of contemplation. Is he really trapped here? What deal has he possibly made? You exhale an uncertain sigh, hesitating until you catch yourself. For fuck’s sake, this man is a ghost – what do you really have to worry about? “So, what -” your words stick in your throat despite yourself. “How long do you have to stay here?”

He turns an almost pitying, closed-mouth smile towards you. “Time is a mortal construct. It doesn’t exist in the eternal now. As such, I shall simply reside as I am until… until the stars turn cold, I suppose.”

Your heart goes out to him as your gaze softens. “That sounds incredibly lonely. With no one for company.”

“Yet, you’ve proven that it’s possible.” His brow furrows as if he just realized something that hasn’t occurred to him before. He turns towards you with his haunting, perceptive gaze. “Tell me, why did you seek this meeting tonight?”

The intensity of his firelit gaze leaves you fumbling for words. Why exactly have you contacted him? Is it merely to satisfy your own curiosity? Is it just to vindicate your Great-Aunt?

“And tonight, of all nights,” he continues, not unkindly as he gestures vaguely with his left hand. “I am not unfamiliar with the carols in the air, though again… to hear them so vividly now is….” He trails off with a shake of his head.

“Vividly?” You arch a dubious brow. “It sounds like they’re playing underwater on an untuned piano.”

“And yet all I hear is clear, harmonized perfection.” He drops his eyes closed in clear indulgence of a treat that he’s been so long denied.

A shiver races down your spine at the thought and you can’t help but wonder. Each time that you play music in the house and enjoy tonal melodies, does he hear the sort of tuneless, distorted musical notes that you hear now? Is your presence in whatever this place is somehow letting him experience the world of the living from beyond the grave? The implications of that only make your mind spin and a distant ache blooms in your skull. You take a deep breath, massaging your temples and feeling woefully out of your depth.

Nothing about this makes any sense – but honestly, what did you expect by using some incantation to contact a dead ghost? And now… just where the fuck do you go from here? How long are you going to stay here? How long does the incantation last? And, really, just what do you have waiting for you back on the other side tonight?

Your gaze falls to the blazing fire for another long minute. If Karl Horstmayer is indeed dead, then why shouldn’t you just be honest? You nibble your bottom lip before speaking. “I guess it’s just…” you trail off, sighing as anxious butterflies erupt in your stomach. “It’s Christmas Eve, and I just… I didn’t want to be alone.”

He shifts almost uneasily on his feet. At first glance in the swirls of blinding light, perhaps a blush dances high on his cheeks above his beard, but you can’t tell for sure. It does nothing to detract from his handsomeness, and an appreciative smile edges your face.

He catches your gaze, his own pensive and analytical as he regards you. “And straddling the veil between worlds is the best way to remedy that?”

Your mouth pinches with irritation. “I… well, yes – I mean, you’ve been watching me and because I… I saw you.” You don’t want to delve into the details since - fuck, this man has seen everything that happened in your bedroom. “I saw your brown eyes - eyes of golden chocolate - just like my Great-Aunt had said.”

His eyes darken with obvious memory as the shared knowledge of the night that your bedroom mirror shattered hangs between you. Heat flares along your skin despite the fire’s warmth, gathering low in your belly under his intense scrutiny. From his words so far, the extent of his physical sensation may still be a mystery, but clearly, he isn’t emotionally unaffected by the events that took place in this house.

You wet your top lip as your breathing quickens. “You say that the eternal now has no physical concept, yet you were able to break the mirror that night. For that was you… watching me….”

A startlingly ashamed look crosses his face as he drops your gaze. “As only the dead can. Not one of my finer moments, I regret to say.”

His dizzying verbal circles make your head spin, but they’re far from off-putting. “But you only feel guilty now that I’ve confronted you about it, right? Never thought you’d get caught, right? And why would you if I’m your first-ever visitor...” And, shit, the implications for the future crash down around you. As long as you stay in this house, he will be here watching you – each time you shower, eat dinner, sleep, pleasure yourself or share your bed with anyone else. Honestly, the thought should probably repulse or terrify you, but there’s something oddly… comforting about it. In the knowledge that you’ll never truly be alone.

But what about Karl? Is he forever condemned to just watch humanity pass him by from within the confines of this apartment? “So, what does that mean, then?" You ask softly. "‘As only the dead can’…?”

“Precisely that. A spectral existence has no physical concept in the eternal now.”

“That’s such bullshit.” You shake your head pleadingly, stepping around the couch towards him before you think better of it. “As we’ve both agreed – we’re both standing here. And you’ve felt the fire’s warmth on your skin, heard clear music – so, don’t tell me there isn’t anything physical in this moment.” You reach your hand out to his white shirt sleeve covered arm to prove your point.

Your fingers connect with the fine fabric and solid forearm beneath, gasping as sapphire sparks burst into view and wink out with wispy trails of smoke. The scent of cedar and citrus fills your nose – and in that moment, you see everything.

A life shrouded by the shadow of an older brother. A steadfast dedication to military service befitting a dutiful second son. A horrific world war that shatters the globe and leaves permanent scars. A forbidden, blossoming love in a snowy trench on an unexpectedly peaceful night that tragically, abruptly ends in a global pandemic. A destructive desire driving him to reunite with his beloved.

And in that moment, when his eyes meet yours, his face blanches with the discovery of profound knowledge. As if he, too, sees everything in your life that led you to this moment as you stand with your hand on his arm somewhere between life and death.

The breath punches from your chest as the images run through your mind and emotions boil within you. Your heart constricts yet threatens to burst, your stomach tightens with anxious knots yet lightens with hopeful anticipation. Your eyes see only him, blind to the rest of the world as you want to cling to him, to lose yourself in him, to have him lose himself inside you.

Blood pulses through you, pooling low and needy as damp heat soaks your core. All at once, you realize how hard you’re breathing, stunned and reeling.

You force a swallow as dizziness consumes you. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening.”

He gives a slow, bewildered shake of his head, obviously just as speechless as he gasps for breath alongside you. With your mind awash in a sea of unfamiliar memories and new sensations, your hand trails up his forearm, almost disappointed that more sparks don’t appear. You raise your other hand to his chest, both exhaling long moans when you press your palm flat over the woolen waistcoat. A shower of deep blue sparks rain down around your hand as more of that intoxicating scent suffuses the air.

You struggle for breath as a fresh wave of heat surges through you, touching the essence of your being. It extends beyond physical or emotional, as if… as if his spirit touches yours, speaking in a language that you don’t understand yet comprehend implicitly. And god, just listen to yourself, but your brain - and body - are truly too far gone to care. His warm, heavy hand falls against the small of your back, and you arch against the touch with a soft cry on your lips.

Electricity jolts through you, driving you closer in his embrace, overwhelmed at the onslaught of sensation erupting from his touch. Everything about the moment compels you closer to him, each touch igniting more sparks and reaching some deep-rooted part of your soul that belongs only to him.

Your lips fuse together in an intoxicating haze as that delicious scent wraps around you and sapphire light gleams beyond your closed eyelids. He can’t be close enough to you as tongues tangle and you cling to the solid, sturdy build of shoulders. His broad hands find your hips, pulling you flush against him - body to body, soul to soul.

He needs to be closer - so much closer - and your hands tear at his tie, his vest, his shirt buttons. The heat of the fire is a distant memory compared to the scorching touch of his skin as your own clothing falls away with wisps of smoke and showers of sapphire starbursts. Everywhere he touches draws you helplessly towards him as he dissolves into you and pulls you down to the plush, thick rug in front of the fire.

Your legs wrap around his waist with mindless instinct, driven only to connect with him in the most intimate way as your soul demands. Breath leaves you and sanity abandons you as he slides deep into your core, piercing your heart and soul as he buries himself in your heat. His groans drown against your lips as smoke and sparks shroud the frenzied rocking of his hips and he drives himself to fill you completely.

Unrecognizable cries leave your lips, echoing in the void as you take everything he gives you and surrender yourself completely. The crescendo builds with unstoppable intensity as you claw at his back, tasting the salt on his neck and relishing the burn of his beard on your skin. A moan tears from you as you convulse around him, and a heavy force claws at the very essence of your being, shearing something inside you as euphoric ecstasy pulls you under.

The deafening roar of his own release mixes with your deafening cry as blood pounds in your ears. Your vision swims in hazy light as your body drifts away from you, and you struggle to breathe under the gnawing sensation. His solid weight against you fades as darkness eats at the corners of your mind, and you feebly cling to him with all that you possess.

His lips ghost against yours as your hands fall slack and thought abandons you completely.

You blink awake, foggy headed and bleary eyed. Desperate to ignore the throbbing pain in your skull, you squint against the bright, invasive morning sunlight – Christmas morning sunlight – and don’t know what to think. Especially as you become aware of three things in quick succession.

One – the thick living room rug scratches and itches against your bare skin. A dark blue blanket covers you, surprisingly soft by contrast to the rug but completely unfamiliar to you. You grip it close, aware that it’s the only thing shielding your naked body from the clear windows.

Two – you feel absolutely drained. As if you haven’t slept or eaten in days, or maybe both. Your minimal movements against the rug are sluggish and uncoordinated as you continue to wake up and come back to yourself. Quite obviously, whatever you experienced last night has taken a heavy toll.

Three – you aren’t alone. A larger, broader, obviously nude and obviously male body presses against your backside as you lay against the uncomfortable carpet. You scrub a hand over your face, trying to wipe away the cobwebs and not disturb your slumbering bedmate.

Good god, what had actually happened last night? With fleeting clarity, you remember the lightning-drenched living room, the uncanny golden chocolate eyes, and the scorching pleasure – but now faced with the cold light of dawn, has any of that actually been real? Or did you really just knock back one too many cocktails, pick up a guy, and lose yourself in delusional fantasy?

You groan, stretching against the carpet and catching a glimpse at your smartwatch. Fuck, it’s already so late. With another groan, dreading the inevitable awkwardness of saying goodbye to a one-nightstand that you don’t even clearly remember, you roll over and prepare to face your fate.

You jump in surprise against the blanket, shocked to see two golden chocolate eyes blinking blearily back at you. Your heart pounds as you stare at Karl’s familiar features and bearded face as he lays beside you with dark swirls of his chest hair just visible above the blanket’s edge.

You gape, unable to believe it. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Here?” He groans, looking back at you in equally growing confusion. “What is… why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” You parrot back, gripping the blanket close, hyper-aware of both your naked bodies beneath the navy fabric. “This is my house, and you’re the dead ghost, and…” Your words trail off as your mouth fails to keep up with your raging thoughts. Does this mean that you have died, too? Are you now condemned to stay in this house with him for eternity?

A car horn blares outside the window, drawing your startled gaze. How does that make any sense? If you are dead, then why are you able to hear a car plain as day? You force a hard swallow as you try to think through the sluggish fog in your head. Maybe you aren’t dead, after all, but instead, maybe he is… does it make sense for him to be… alive?

But, seriously… have you somehow fucked him back to life? However crass and ridiculous that sounds. Is that why those strange, sapphire sparks had ignited between you? Has your life force somehow rejuvenated his own...?

Your head hurts too much for such mind-bending thoughts. Slowly, you turn back to him, catching his gaze as he studies you with equal bewilderment. His mouth pinches to a tight, hesitant line as he obviously considers a thought.

Tentatively, he reaches a hand forward, brushing the back of his knuckles along your forearm. No blue sparks or blue glow emanate from his gentle caress, but a low, thrumming rhythm grows in your blood. You gasp as the beating pulse aligns with the cadence of your own heartbeat, reverberating in tandem harmony. “Is that…,” you ask in a breathless whisper, “your heartbeat?”

His own breathing stutters as the contact lingers, and he twists his wrist to wrap his fingers around your forearm. “It’s your heartbeat, it has to be…” he whispers reverentially. “Mine stopped beating so long ago….”

“Then, why are you here?” Heat sings in your veins as your body recognizes its missing half - the answer to make you whole, body and soul.

He pulls his hand back, and the cloying sensations instantly dull. You’re still drained beyond comprehension and in serious need of sustenance, but whatever his touch has just ignited begins to fade without the sustained physical contact.

Just what the fuck have you done? Are you somehow forever bound to him? And him to you? How would you ever know? And is that what you really want? What about the rest of your life? What about the rest of his life? At least, now that he seems to have one again….

He shakes his head, sighing heavily. “We may never know the answer. But before we start trying to figure it out,” his face softens as the corner of his mouth lifts. “I guess there’s only one thing to be said.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

He fixes his golden chocolate eyes to yours, and… okay, maybe seeing those eyes every morning wouldn’t be so bad. A smile tugs at your mouth as you stare at him, hearing his accented words wrap around you and echo with the fading thrum of his twin heartbeat. “It’s not my holiday… but Merry Christmas, Liebling.”

#lieutenant horstmayer #karl friedrich horstmayer #daniel brühl x reader #daniel brühl fanfic #daniel brühl x you #daniel brühl #joyeux noël #joyeux noël 2005

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