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milkb0nny · 7 months

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Hii 👋🏼 Can you do an Ivar x floki daughter? They were raised together and she was his only friend when he was younger because she wasn't scared and he'll always protect her.

Older she become a healer of the village, and one day floki want her to marry ubble/hwitserk and Ivar become very very jaloux..👀

You can make fluff/smut/ angst as you want!

thank u 🤍☺️

Sorry for my English it’s not my first language

Jealous Games

Ivar the Boneless x fem!reader

Summary: One day, your father enters your room, unveiling that your parents want you to marry Ubbe. Though, the past years you grew feeling for another man: Ivar. You never told anyone about your true feelings for the man but now that Ubbe is supposed to be your husband, you feel utterly broken down. Refusing the offer, you leave the scene, only to discover a life changing secret...

Note: Thank you SO much for this request. It was a lot of fun writing it. I enjoyed writing this particular request more than I should've. 🤍 I hope you'll like it!

Warnings: slight angst (nothing graphic), forced possible marriage, mentions of anger issues, detailed kissing scene

Genres: slight angst, fluff

word count: 2.445

Ivar's childhood was shrouded in a tapestry of dark grays and blacks, a period marked by relentless bullying, discrimination, and a stark absence of love. love. Amid this harsh environment, Aslaug, his devoted mother, stood as one of the few adults who genuinely embraced him. Yet, even her unwavering love couldn't quell the relentless growth of his simmering anger. But, within these somber times, there existed a glimmer of hope - a hope that emerged when you entered his life.

Ivar adored Floki, viewing him as his own father and protector. Whenever the cruelty of both children and adults bore down upon him, Floki served as a steadfast anchor, and so did you. Your friendship started with a shy hesitation.

Helga and Floki, your parents, had taught you to always accept others, no matter how they looked like. You watched your father engage with Ivar, teaching him the art of weaponry and regaling him with Nordic sagas. You had shared them whenever you wanted company and as a result, the two of you became friends.

As the years passed, your bond with Ivar deepened. He shielded you from any unwelcome advances, such as nasty men, while you provided solace during his most challenging moments. Together, you embarked on hunting expeditions, sharing meals at Ivar's dwelling with his family.

Fortunately, his mother held you in high regard. She possessed a strict demeanor when it came to the women who orbited around her beloved sons, yet she understood your unshakable bond with Ivar. With open arms, she welcomed you whenever you graced her home with your cherished friend.

Of course you faced discriminating comments and remarks from time to time because of Ivar, though you stayed by Ivar’s side. You were the only woman who glimpsed Ivar's vulnerabilities, the only girl who had witnessed his anguished tears and experienced the gentleness that lay beneath his hard exterior during your shared childhood.

You knew him, cherished him, and secretly, perhaps even loved him. Yet, you concealed your affections, carrying them within your heart, as your father saw you both as siblings. Sure, you grew up together and were basically one person, but you could also love him, right?

You kept your adoration hidden and you honestly were fine with it because you remained close to Ivar but you always faced struggles when a woman tried to seduce him. You were a strong and loving woman, supporting a man whom few understood or respected.

In recent years, you had devoted your time to the study of science and honed your skills as a healer. Your knowledge extended to various herbs and methods to mend any kind of injury. Ivar sought your counsel frequently, valuing the conversations you shared.

The atmosphere between you was one of relaxation, love, and kindness, something that Ivar rarely encountered in his tumultuous life. He harbored deep emotions for you, but fear held him back. Rejection had been his constant companion throughout life, even from his own father, Ragnar Lothbrok. This fear of rejection crippled him, making him hesitant to express his emotions to you.

One day, your father entered your room with an unusual expression. You initially assumed he was about to share one of Floki's eccentric ideas, as was his habit. Therefore a bright smile creeped over your lovely face, greeting your father. However, what he proposed was far from comforting; it shattered your heart in a matter of seconds.

“I've been thinking about arranging a marriage between you and Ubbe,” he said, his words falling like lead..

You raised your eyebrows, believing that he joked at first but his serious expression remained - he meant it.

“Uh, father. I don’t know if I-,” you began, only to be interrupted by his eager explanation.

“I thought you’d remain close to Ivar and find a man who truly treats you right. I know Ubbe is a good man who will respect you,” he continued.

You pondered his words briefly, acknowledging that Ubbe was a compassionate and respectful man who held women in high regard. During your childhood, you had formed a fondness for him, but it was far from romantic.

No, you truly despised the idea.

“Father, I don't wish to marry," you protested vehemently, rejecting Floki's wishes, which he met with displeasure. You couldn't fathom joining hands with a man you didn't love, especially if it were your true love's brother. The thought left you with an overwhelming sense of unease.

“Child, you've reached a point in your life where you need a man to protect you. You're all on your own, and we're concerned," he voiced his genuine worries. While you understood his concerns, this request felt like an intrusion on your own autonomy, a call you couldn't embrace. You preferred making your parents proud and being a memorable member of Kattegat, but this wasn’t your true faith.

You were bound to none other than Ivar the Boneless, a man whose depths you knew better than your own skills as a healer. As you sat there, Floki's hand swept across his weary face, his gaze avoiding yours as he delivered the unimaginable truth.

“Ubbe has asked for your hand in marriage, and we've already agreed with Aslaug. The decision has been made, my dear," he disclosed, a heavy burden of heartache settling upon you. Tears welled in your eyes, and your cheeks flushed with the ache of this revelation.

“No, Father,” you protested, your voice quivering from the shock of their decision, made without your consent.

“We only want you to be happy," Floki tried to bridge the emotional chasm, but his words fell on deaf ears. You were consumed by fury, your emotions tearing at you, digging a chasm within your heart.

“I’m not!” You cried out, finally allowing your pent-up emotions to pour forth. "I'm not happy, Father. You have a woman you love, and Mother loves you too. Why can't I?” You shouted while tears ran down your soft skin, falling onto the ground. You sobbed uncontrollably.

“No, don’t think that,” Floki tried to console you, his heart aching as he witnessed your distress. After all, you were his beloved daughter, a sweet and loving child he cherished. Right now, you feared the fatherly connection was breaking apart.

“I’m not marrying Ubbe! I’d rather die,” you declared, your voice barely a whisper but loud enough for your father to comprehend. With those words hanging heavily in the air, you rose and fled the room, leaving your father behind. As you left the building you came across Ubbe, who of course knew about the idea before you did, though you rage signalized that you weren’t enlightened.

Floki followed closely, calling your name, but your steps quickened with each utterance. Ultimately, you ran away, seeking refuge in the familiar embrace of the Kattegat forest, a place you knew intimately. You spent a lot of time in the forests and fields to collect herbs and plants, sometimes even staying overnight in summer. With your father, mother, Ubbe, and the impending marriage fading into the background, you retreated into the solitude of the woods. Little did you know your secret significant other just found out about the marriage through Sigurd.

“You’re telling me, y/n is going to marry my brother?” The crackling fire of the fireplace represented Ivar’s slight rage as he received the information.

Sigurd understood that you were Ivar's soft spot, and while he relished the opportunity to tease his brother, he also conveyed the truth. Aslaug had kept this secret from Ivar, knowing precisely what she was doing.

“Yes. Ubbe is the eldest among us brothers, so it only makes sense for him to claim one of the town's most important women, Ivar,” Sigurd explained while deftly carving a sculpture from wood.

Ivar despised the idea entirely, his lips chewed raw as he gazed out the window. It was not Ubbe's right to simply take any woman, especially not you. He believed Ubbe was not meant for your delicate being, no matter how loving, respectful, and kind he might be. At least in the eyes of the Ragnarsson, Ubbe would never be worthy.

As the evening progressed, Ubbe and Floki entered the brothers' home. Ivar remained silent, seething with anger and disappointment. However, he was not Ubbe's primary concern.

“Ubbe, she ran way. I cannot force her,” Floki implored Ubbe to reconsider.

“Floki, it’s not your fault. I love her though, and you know it. I’d treat her with everything she desires and I’ll love the children she will bear,” Ubbe explained, greeting Sigurd and Ivar with a small nod.

“You don't love her if you'll force her to marry you," Ivar's words were cold and stern, his anger barely contained.

“Excuse me?” Ubbe was taken aback by the accusation.

Finally, Ivar’s jealousy piqued and he looked up to his brother, “You heard me. She doesn’t love you. She never will!” His words struck like a shock.

Sigurd, joining the conversation, couldn't resist a taunt, “Oh, are your little feelings hurt because she won’t hop in bed with you? Poor Ivar.”

Oh, how much Ivar hated these people, these cruel brothers who always take his hope away. They rob him of his freedom, his excitement and love. They always seemed to achieve everything, while Ivar was left with nothing but solitude and heartache. As the tension simmered within the dimly lit room, Ivar's words hung heavy in the air, causing a palpable rift between the brothers.

“Ivar, you have no right to dictate her heart. She's a woman with her own choices," Ubbe retorted, his voice carrying an air of defiance.

Ivar scoffed as a response to this unsolicited statement. It wasn’t Ivar who was trying to force himself upon you, it was Ubbe. All his life Ivar did nothing to pressure you or force you to do something. You had been safe around him, no burdens dragging you down when you had spent time together.

Sigurd, needing to provoke Ivar further, leaned in with a sly smile, "Is that so, Ivar? Or are you just afraid she might choose someone else over you?"

The youngest among them decided to not react to the jokes Sigurd made as he intentionally tried to fuel Ivar’s anger. While Ivar was torn between his immense longing for you and the realization that he might never be able to offer you the love and protection you deserved, Ivar couldn't help but feel that marrying Ubbe was wrong. The young Ragnarsson decided to leave the situation, searching for you.

They didn’t, but Ivar did.

Meanwhile, you had found safety in the forest, away from the prying eyes and expectations of your family and the town of Kattegat. There, you wandered aimlessly. As you reached a small, shallow river, you placed yourself on a rock. The silence and peace gave you enough room to reflect on the horrible decision of your parents.

You couldn’t deny your love for Ivar anymore. Whenever you thought about becoming Ubbe’s wife, Ivar’s face popped up on your mind. He was the fragile yet strong man you truly desired with your whole heart.

Tears still covered your face, seeking their way down into the cold water of the river.

It was in this melancholic moment that you spotted a familiar face among the shadows. Ivar’s presence unveiled itself on the other side of the river. His intense blue eyes, filled with a mixture of longing and despair, locked onto yours.

“Y/n,” he called your name out, his voice heavy with emotion.

You blinked a few times and a broken, yet warm smile rushed over your lips. You stood up, jumping over the small width of the river, getting closer to Ivar.

“Ivar…,” you whispered, seating you down next to him.

Even though you appreciated his company, your heart couldn’t bear to look into his loyal eyes. Alone the fact others think you and Ubbe would be a suitable couple made you feel dirty.

Ivar’s eyes remained locked on you, his voice filling the silence between you, “You… you don’t want to marry my brother, right?”

You frantically shook your head as an answer.

Ivar came a little closer, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I can't stand the thought of you being with him," he confessed, his vulnerability laid bare. Jealousy or not, his emotions were genuine and Ivar thrived for your love. Yet, he never told you.

“Ivar,” you whispered, contemplating whether you should reveal your intimate feelings. “Ubbe isn’t the man I want to call husband. Of course he’s intelligent and a wonderful fighter, though…”

Ivar’s soothing voice interjected, “I want you to stay by my side.”

Finally, a massive amount of weight released the both of you, and you widened your eyes in surprise. His confession lightened a fire inside you that you had guessed was already banished. A smile lingered on your lips while you replayed his words again and again in your mind. He asked you to remain his, not to become Ubbe’s woman or anyone else’s.

His eyes expressed his fear of rejection, since you two had shared a unique relationship he couldn’t put together. Your beautiful smile warmed his mind though, letting his hope grow little by little.

Your heart quickened in response to the significant magnetic pull between you. Softly, you said the words you had longed to say the past years.

“Ivar, I love you.”

Without a further word, Ivar reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His touch was both tender and possessive, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of your face. He never held you like this - a whole new level of trust and intimacy unveiled itself. His passion and your admiration mixed together.

Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. You didn’t know how a kiss normally feels like, but you knew his kiss was the right thing. His lips were warm and inviting, and his breath mingled with yours, creating an intimate connection that defied the existence of everything but your shared love for one another.

It was a kiss filled with unspoken promises - the weight of unexpressed emotions that were kept hidden for many years. It was a kiss that spoke of a love that had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to bloom, waiting to emerge.

When he gently pulled away, your hearts were racing, and a breathless silence hung between you.

Ivar's eyes stared into yours, filled with a raw intensity that left no room for doubt. He loved you too.

“No one will take your hand, except for me, Ástvinur.”

#vikings ivar #ivar ragnarsson #i'm crying #ivar the boneless #vikings x you #vikings x reader #vikings #ivar lothbrok #ivar x reader

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ecstarry · 19 days

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@jegulus-microfic / football / 768 words / @bellaxisworld i love you

--- here's a little kiss cam brainrot <3

"But I hate football, you know this," Regulus reiterated to a very persistent Remus over the phone.

“I know, but Sirius can’t make it and he doesn’t want the tickets to go to waste. It’s just one game,” Remus remarked with a hint of something that Regulus couldn’t quite place.

That’s how he ended up at a Saturday sports match, hoping the players were hot; at least he would be entertained that way. He approached his seats and yelled Remus’ name, but someone else turned around: James.

“Reg? Why are you here? I thought I was meeting Siriu-” Regulus interrupted him, only a Potter could manage to insult him as he was greeting him.

“Nice to see you too James, well I thought I was meeting Remus. So you were also not who I expected to see.”

Before James could give a proper response, they both got a notification on their phone. Regulus looked at his screen to read Remus' quick text: Sorry, can’t make it. Have fun.

“I’m going to kill him,” Regulus mumbled.

“Sirius just canceled on me. I’m guessing you got stood up too?” James asked kindly, but only received a mean glance in response.

In silence, they took their seats. Regulus was beyond pissed. How could Remus do this to him? He thought for a second that they might’ve been set up, but he thought this ruse was a bit dramatic even for Sirius’ standards.

“Do you like football?” James asked, breaking the silence.

“Detest it,” Regulus replied tersely, still too upset to entertain James’ attempt at conversation. When his brother’s best friend asked if he wanted anything to drink, he simply declined in a polite and quick manner.

But when James returned with his favorite treats and a wide smile to his seat, he couldn’t remember what he was upset about. Regulus felt a discreet blush work its way towards his cheeks as James handed him his favorite candy.

“Sirius mentioned you liked this, so I figured that if you were stuck with me and in a place you don’t want to be, you might as well get a sweet treat, no?” James said casually, as if remembering someone’s favorite candy was nothing.

To Regulus, it was such a significant gesture, but he couldn’t help but feel a little pathetic by how such a simple token could make him feel so warm. If he was honest, maybe it had more to do with who was giving him that attention than the piece of candy itself, but that was not the time to process that.

The game continued, and to Regulus's surprise, he found himself having more fun than he had expected. While Remus would have been good company, James was captivating in his own way. Despite not being a fan of football, Regulus made an effort to stay informed about the current games. A fact that he deliberately kept from James as the other man’s eyes lit up explaining everything. He never expected to be so absorbed in James’ words or thoughts or lips or eyes or arms or smile...

Oh god, when did James Potter become so attractive?

“Regulus?” His name coming out James’ lips took him out his trace.

“Yes?”

"Kiss cam," James said, pointing at the screen in front of them. There they were, the two of them, with a crowd surrounding them, chanting for them to just kiss. Regulus felt as if seconds extended into hours as James's hand gently cupped his chin, his eyes silently asking for permission. An inaudible yes left Regulus's lips as the distance between them evaporated.

His hand instinctively reached for James' shirt, pulling him closer as if their lips touching was still too far a distance to bridge. He allowed himself this moment, the touch of an angel on a broken man. Every crevice of doubt within him was filled with warmth as James kept asking for more with his tongue. James parted slightly, and the absence of his lips made Regulus remember himself. Embarrassed, he started to pull away, but James held him tightly, his hands not leaving Regulus' face.

Regulus bravely opened his eyes to face the regret that was sure to be all over James’ face, but instead he found something else— something sweet and soft, something only honey eyes like James’ could convey. He was still light-headed from James’ touch, he couldn’t make sense of just how long he had been given access to heaven.

But the reality remained: he had just kissed James Potter, who seemed just as delighted to have kissed Regulus Black.

Maybe football wasn’t that bad.

more microfics here

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tiny-buzz · 6 months

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Regis Philbin Is Alive And Has Been Appointed CEO of Kroger

Regis Weekend Has Been Extended One Day

It Will Continue Until Friday November 10, 2023

"These idiots don't know how to run a grocery conglomerate. They're animals. We're shaking things up in a big way."

"It's wrong to make people pay for food. I'm sorry, but that's really disgusting and it's money-grubbing and it's small-minded. Food at Kroger grocery stores will now be free."

"It's a sin to charge people money for food. It makes me furious to see this happen. I was put here on earth to end this barbaric practice. So we're washing that sin clean now, with the blood of the former CEO. That's all I'll say about that."

"We want to erect memorials, atrocity memorials, but in our parking lots. And it's going to be dedicated to all the people who we tortured throughout the years by charging them for food. To their collective suffering, which built up, drop by drop, into a great sea of psychic pain. We never want to forget this sin we participated in."

"Please come to Kroger, folks, and pick out some food you like. You can then remove it from the store and eat it. Chew it up and swallow it and allow it to provide you with sustenance. If you're hungry, we'd love to feed you. People don't choose to be hungry, it just happens. No one asked to be born and to be cursed with this perpetual hunger until death."

"We're going to do a lot more to combat 'shoplifting' . . . not the act, but the word itself. It won't be used. It's meaningless now. In fact, it's considered hate speech. These people were charging you money for food. Can you believe that? They're Satanists."

"All energy here on earth originated with the Sun. Plants turn the Sun's light into energy and store it in their fibers. Herbivores convert that energy into meat, eggs, and milk. It's just about energy distribution. The energy is free and provided by the Sun. Energy is the currency of life and it's provided for free by the Sun. There's enough for everyone. At Kroger, we're in the energy distribution business. Come and get it, folks. This is from the Sun!"

"Once you have enough energy, it is your job to distribute it to others. A lot of this stuff is just bouncing back into space, and we'd like to avoid that if we can. Please capture energy and help distribute it so it stays here on Earth where we can use it."

"The universe is mostly empty. I was telling Joy the other morning, and she agrees. The absence of energy is much more common than the presence of energy. 'And there are lots of forms of energy that we can't readily use,' she reminded me. And that's true too. Kroger is reflecting on the role it plays in these processes."

"The sun created everything you see, except for the stars. Can you believe that? I think we should worship the sun. They used to do it! All the things people say about "God" are true about the sun, the only difference is the sun exists. You must avert your eyes before it. It's vast and powerful but looks down on each of us. It gives form to every thing with its light. Sure, it didn't create the universe, but it created the world. That's not enough for you? You say there are larger stars? So what? You want to worship the largest star just because it's the largest? Let those who orbit them worship. Would you call another man "father" just because he was larger than your own? The sun loves all its creation. Feel the sun's warmth on your cheek and tell me that isn't love. Worship the sun, which provides all energy for free, and please come visit Kroger, where our job is to distribute the energy that the sun created. We're feeding everybody. This is a temple to the sun."

#regis weekend #honor the man #honor the temple #food is free #worship the sun

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midnightarcheress · 2 months

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and they said speak now

it's no use, i just love you. pairing: simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader cw: nsfw bits. angst (with comfort?). sad yearning simon. sad yearning reader (in denial). enemies to... something. reader is part of tf141. no use of y/n. part 1 | part 2

Simon hasn’t heard from you since that catastrophic day.

the day he turned your life upside down. the one in which he ruined your wedding, blurted out a hushed love confession, and broke your heart by spilling the truth about your ex-fiancé. the day he watched you walk away in a tear-stained wedding dress, without the certainty that you would ever come back.

how much time does someone need to process all of that?

the following weeks felt like years. the days were unbearable, drowning in paperwork in a frantic attempt to keep his mind from sulking on his actions, possible by the strange lack of assignments during the period. did the terrorists take a break? his other option - admittedly the one he would spend most of his time doing - was staring at the ceiling of his quarters for hours as his body created a permanent indent on the mattress, a perfect tailored grave for his crestfallen soul.

the nights were even worse. he kept dreaming about you. sometimes it was warm, you snuggled in his arms, back pressed firmly against his chest while you fidgeted with the fingers interlaced with yours and he planted kisses on your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. sometimes it was ugly, your eyes shooting daggers to his heart and your enraged voice piercing through his eardrum in another daily fight, taking a toll on his mind like a frightful PTSD flashback.

sometimes it was erotic, his eyes savoring the view of your bouncing tits and beautiful flushed face whilst he pounded every inch of his cock in your tight cunt, filling the room with your pretty moans and pleas as he guided you to your third orgasm. sometimes it was horrifying, hearing your agonizing screams and watching you being repeatedly shot while he tried to rush to your position, without ever actually moving his feet, only adding your body to the long list of people he had failed to save.

no matter the scenario, it would always end with Ghost jolting awake to heart palpitations and heavy breathing, struggling to get a hold of himself. as much as your presence would drive him to madness, your absence managed to make his brain spiral. went down an endless rabbit hole and missed every chance to grasp the flimsy rope of reality.

he thought about calling. almost did a few times, glaring at your name on his contact list but never pressing the button, especially after nights out in the pub with Soap. “what ye gonna do about it, Lt? think the lass is gonna give ye a chance?” but in truthfulness, he didn’t know what to say; no words were enough to describe how guilty he felt and how sorry he was. he just needed to hear your voice. know that you were okay, or at least, alive and breathing.

no one really knew how you were, where you were, or when you’d be back; Price only stated that you extended your honeymoon leave for an indefinite amount of time. despite being your captain, he wasn’t going to question your necessity for serenity, after all, he was there when your life crumbled apart - one minute Simon was quiet on his seat, the next he was standing in the middle of the church, twisting the team’s perception of your strained relationship and leaving their jaws in agape.

while Simon deteriorated in remorse, already grieving the lost possibility of you ever being his, you made use of the no-refund policy of your honeymoon trip. a week in an all-inclusive resort by the beach, enjoying the crystal clear waters and the too-many-to-count cocktails to numb your achy heart that almost made you wake up in different rooms a few nights.

still, the only thing the hotel didn’t include on the menus was peace. as much as you tried, your mind kept reliving the wedding over, and over, and over. the memory of Ghost standing up and daring to violate your sacred moment, the sight of his wide eyes when he confirmed your doubts about your then-partner, the troublesome twinge in your chest as he begged for a chance to love you - a relentless feel you’ve been carrying everyday.

seven days at an alleged paradise were not enough to cleanse your spirit. the light waves of the ocean cradling your body couldn’t soothe your distress, as the deep end seemed to have a higher draw on you, luring you to a darker place where you could wallow without shame. misery loves company, i guess.

despite your best efforts, the following weeks were equally bleak. while you managed to maintain your focus out of your own life during the day, the dark blues of the nightfall outlining the nature’s silhouettes seen from your flat’s balcony only brought back the daunting awareness of duty. you couldn’t hide forever. it was time to be back.

your footsteps echoed in the base hallways as you made your way to the conference room, anxiety pooling on your insides and almost making you empty your stomach right there and then. in a way, it was nice to finally be back at work, fingers itching due to the need to hold a rifle and unload an entire cartridge at the first target that comes into sight. in another, you were dreading the idea of coming face to face with your friends after that disastrous day and, more importantly, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Ghost.

your frame on the doorway interrupted Price’s speech during a long awaited briefing for the team’s next mission. the atmosphere in the room suddenly got heavy, crisp air filling your lungs as four pairs of eyes glanced in your direction, taking your unforeseen arrival with the same shock as if you were a mythical creature.

“good to have you back.” the captain said, gesturing to you to join the reunion.

with a silent greeting, your legs made their way to a seat around the table, avoiding the prying looks as much as possible but ultimately failing. their watchful gaze dawned on you like cars slowing down next to an accident site, everybody stopping to see the wreckage and pity the poor life stuck in the rubbish.

but there was one set of eyes in particular that never shifted. without even facing him, you could feel Simon’s glare boring into your figure, urging you to turn your head in his direction, pleading for an ounce of awareness. his heart was beating rapidly for the first time in weeks, your presence being enough to send him to an overdrive and to turn Price’s words into white noise in the background.

in the milliseconds in which Simon looked away, you were gone. the briefing didn't last long and you decided not to linger around after it ended, fleeing the room in a hurry to avert any conversation. he was hoping for an opportunity to check on you, to talk, to explain. to pour out his feelings once again, without the pressure of trying to stop you from getting married, wishing that the time you spent apart was enough to earn at least some compassion from you.

running away from him again almost made you feel like a coward. you had always been able to stand toe to toe with Ghost, rebutting each of his snarky statements with even more venomous remarks, not caring if it would ever truly affect him. he didn’t act like it did. but in that moment, you couldn’t shake the anxiety that dominated your senses.

after years doing it, you knew that working out was a great stress-reliever and you didn’t hesitate on heading to the training room. focusing on a repetitive task that exerted your body to maximum was the easy way out of the teetering breakdown crawling its way to the surface. the sound of dull blows on the punching bag ricocheted in the empty area as you cleared your brain of any thoughts regarding him. it had been a while since you exercised, but instead of getting tired, each punch only gave you more energy, the sting on your fists only fueling your anger to the brim.

“careful there.” the gruff voice filled the nearly silent room and made you startle, quickly snapping your head towards the entrance. Ghost’s tall frame was leaning on the doorway, eyes carefully watching you as you furrowed your brows at him.

he takes a few steps in your direction, easing his way into your eyesight like a stray puppy who just wants a home. you simply choose to ignore him and go back to the punching bag, pushing aside the desperate need to ignite that fire again, to feel the fireworks bursting your chest the same way it did when his warm tongue swirled around yours.

“can we talk?” he asks, searching your eyes for even a hint of compassion but being met with nothing but a cold silence, “please?”

“no.”

your tone is harsh, grating his ears as you keep your stance, landing countless jabs in the sack. Simon is quiet, observing the intensity of your moves and how you don’t flinch despite having sore knuckles at this point. probably imagining it’s my face, he thinks, glancing around the room until his gaze falls on the sparring mat, getting the gears of his brain turning.

“let’s fight then.”

that stumps you and makes you raise your eyes. “what?”

“if you don’t wanna talk, let’s fight. we’re good at that.” he says, already stepping on the mat and stretching his arms, preparing himself for the match.

“i’m not gonna fight you, Ghost.” your eyes roll at the proposition.

“scared of getting your arse beat?” he teases, reminiscing the way he’s used to treating you. he knows you never back off from a challenge, especially coming from him, no matter how insane it sounds. you’re aware of his size and how easily it’d be for him to break you, even with your skills in single combat, but you can’t prevent your blood from boiling at the mocking undertone of his question.

without another second of doubt, you follow him to the mat, making small jumps to get your limbs loose and your blood circulating. his attentive gaze never leaves you, happily taking in your rage over the recent apathy with a pleased grin plastered on his face, the first genuine smile he has in days. at least it’s something.

the first move is his, throwing a quick blow at your head, which you swiftly avoid by stepping back. you’re determined to not let him win, your competitive side always overruling your better judgment. but you are even more determined to not allow him to let you win.

grunts and thuds fill the air as you exchange blows, each strike hitting harder than the previous. “i’ve missed you.” he says, lunging forward to kick your side. you roll your eyes in annoyance, but it’s truly exciting to finally have an adrenaline release in your organism, even if it means confronting the emotional turmoil threatening to spill out of your throat.

“when?” you ask, retaliating his kick with a jab in his midsection.

“when what?” his head tilts to the side, not understanding your question for a second.

his ears perk up as the sound of your screams muffles the gunfire around him. you had managed to disarm the soldier on top of you after being stabbed in the stomach, but the gushing laceration in your abdomen was getting the best of you, blood pressure dropping as a bullet pierced through the man’s skull.

Simon rushes to your side as soon as the lifeless body hits the ground, seeing your blood pooling on the concrete. “bloody hell.” he mutters, quickly applying pressure on the punctured point. your eyes roll as the pain increases, making you struggle to stay awake.

“don’t you fuckin’ dare die on me! keep your eyes open, come on,” he urges, gently tapping your cheeks to keep you conscious while he blasts the comms requesting an urgent medevac, “yeah, just like that, you’re doin’ so good for me,” he coos as your blood stains his ungloved hands, “no no no, come on, please, stay with me, you can’t-”

you use his moment of distraction at your advantage, landing an intense punch on his jaw. he stumbles back a couple steps, already sensing the metallic taste on his tongue. at that, the suppressed anger he’s been keeping under covers during your missing weeks comes to top, hot magma erupting like an exploding volcano. he aims for your stomach. your legs. block your arms. you dodge it barely, but he keeps going.

“the time you almost died in my arms,” he finally answers, gritting his teeth. he’s an enraged man, tackling you to the ground and firmly gripping your hands, pinning you to the mat. you grunt at the movement, heavy breathing hitting his neck as he leans even closer to your face. “you can’t tell me that you don’t feel it too. it’s there. everytime we’re together.”

Ghost’s masked face hovers over yours as you struggle to breathe. you don’t hear the shots around you anymore, only Price’s voice in the comms telling him that evac is two minutes out. you glance at your surroundings, barely processing the sight before falling unconscious again.

your brain shuts down, but somehow you still feel his touch. despite the adrenaline and his familiar roughness, the hand stroking your cheek carries a tranquilizing softness you didn’t expect. a light at the end of the tunnel that guides your way back to the living plane.

your eyes flutter open in the medbay, after feeling a sharp pain on your ribs. Ghost is sitting on the chair near the bed, unaware of your awaken state, looking out the window. his face is still covered, but you catch the slight twitch in the corner of his eyes - you’ve noticed it always happens when he’s too focused on something. you wonder what goes through his mind at the moment. yours can only recall the cracks in his voice as he held you in his trembling arms and pleaded you to stay awake.

“i don’t,” you lie, glaring at his hazel eyes. of course you feel it. the fucking fire that scarred you from the minute you had your first fight. the flame that etched his initials on your chest and marked you forever as his, even if you can’t fathom the idea of belonging to a man like him, “get off me!”

your restless squirms help you free yourself from his grasp, pushing his bulky figure to the side while simultaneously striking multiple punches on his chest. and he just takes it. he indulges your wrath, blissfully accepting your blows with nothing but tenderness. your vision gets blurry as you break the remains of his armor, stripping him of the faint defenses still guarding his heart.

he feels the power of your hits weaken when a teardrop rolls from your cheek and falls on his face. not enough to put out the wildfire devouring his soul whenever you’re near, but enough to turn it into a peaceful bonfire, whose cracks soothe your aches like a lullaby. he takes your wrists in one hand while the other reaches for your face; loving eyes, once so cryptic, gaze at the storm behind yours, signaling that it’s okay. it’s okay to feel it.

you sink into his burly arms, bathing in the heat radiating from him. for the first time, you don’t see Ghost, the shadow that haunts your nightmares and the shell of a broken man, you see Simon. the faceless man in your dreams, the one who understands you by one look, the one that fuels your deepest desires - it being a hunger for love or for lust - and still inflames all of your anger.

“come on, love,” he says, pulling up to his feet and extending his hand in your direction.

your knuckles are hurting, partially from the blows on the punching bag from earlier, partially from your rampage against his body. you take his hand and he guides you out of the mat, sitting you on top of a table. furrowed brows meet his half smile, as he positions himself on a chair in front of you and starts tending your bruises.

“i guess it has always been there,” he says, delicately holding your hands and cleaning the drying blood from it, “the feeling. buried way underneath. i didn’t understand it in the beginning, you’d drive me so insane i couldn’t even look at your face.”

you recall your first encounter with Ghost, feeling the tension of his icy glare penetrating your bones, freezing you on the spot. but somehow also feeling your chest filling with a warmth you’ve never had before. the missing puzzle piece finally returning to its place.

“i know you feel something. the intensity is there, in each bloody fight, everytime we're together, in or out of the field. i’m electrified whenever your hand brushes against mine. i’ve been dull for so many years of my life, and then you came-”

“Simon.”

your sudden interruption makes him stop talking. he raises his eyes from your sore hands to your irises, seeking for a hint of recognition. “this could never work,” you say, letting out an exhausted sigh “you know that.”

yes, he knows that. but he is also not one to evade conflict, especially with you. he doesn’t care how much trouble it’d be to make a relationship with you work. doesn’t care if you wanna change everything about him, put him in a tiny little mold where he obeys your wishes and barks at your command. hell, he’d gladly wear a collar if it meant having you as the one pulling the leash. he’s tired of concealing his emotions behind the persona. he wants you to see him for what he is underneath the pain, the trauma, the rage. only Simon.

the man who craves your proximity, your presence by his side as he lays down to sleep and every morning when he wakes. your sweet scent, your soft skin, your sparkling eyes. the one who craves your touch, reaching for every inch of his body and bringing him closer to the heaven gates in a way that no religion could. the image that feeds his most terrible nightmares and his brightest - and most obscene - dreams.

“we clash all the fucking time. as much as i hate to say it, we’re too alike, too stubborn, we’d repel each other like magnets, we-”

“yes,” he interjects, leaning closer to your face, “we are too alike. that’s what makes us good. tell me i’m not crazy. you irritate me so much because you always know what i’m thinking. what i’m feeling. my weaknesses are all at your display even when i don’t show it. you know exactly which buttons to push and which to leave alone.”

the skull balaclava covers most of his face, but you don’t mind, his eyes are the most important part. they’re familiar. you know every crease at its corners, the place of every single one of his lashes, the nuances of the color. you’ve studied them several times, trying to decipher the enigma of Ghost. you’ve gotten good at it, so his words are true. you know him. know him too much to consider the idea of being together, because the mere possibility of losing him would maim you forever.

“we're too similar because we’re two sides of the same coin. each side with its singularity, markings, engravings, but still part of the same thing, destined to be together, intertwined. two flames meant to combine, to heat each other, become one,” the faltering in his voice surprises you, but you don’t see it as a sign of bad faith. his vulnerability is a breath of fresh air after years of unbreakable security, “can’t you understand it?”

silence.

Simon senses his defeat with your hesitance. there’s no use. he goes back to patching up your hand, finishing the bandages as if it’d seal the wounds he opened on you with his actions. years of pent-up aggression planting the doubt of his true affection for you, and there’s no one else to blame but him. is there really no use at this point? the muscle inside your chest is beating loudly, threatening to burst out of your chest, but the logical part of your mind is still screaming to take back control. it’s a worthless tug of war. the brain may be astute, but it can never outsmart the strength of the heart.

“Simon.” he doesn’t dare to gaze at you, even with your saccharine voice tempting his eyes, too adamant to give more of himself in a seemingly hopeless situation. your hands move from your lap to cup his jaw, forcing his head upwards to meet the smile on your lips. it’s small, timid, soft. laced with something he’d never seen on your face but filled with the confidence you always exhibit. love.

“so,” you breathe deeply, “what now?”

took me so long omg but i think i'm finally happy with it. hope you like it. was listening to 'no use i just do' by hayley williams when i got to the end and i feel like it sums up a bit of the feelings.

also, if you see an error, no you didn't. my brain is all mush now.

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youaremyhome · 11 months

Text

The Antimatter of You

Warnings: Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader, 18+ NSFW, smut, HEAVY non-con/dub-con, drug use, possessive behavior, blackmail, manipulation, DARK. More to add. Read at your own risk!

Notes: 4.4k!! I did it!!! I promise now that it’s summer (and getting fired from my job) I’ll have more time to write/update. Hope it lives up to the hype lol let a girl know ok love ya ❤️

Taglist: @belcalis9503 @ACRAZYBIOTCH374 @fangirlwithlou @malfoytargaryen @RAFECAMERONSBADUSSY @takin-care-of-business @watersquirtpewpewboomm @magnificantmermaid @mk15x @abbybarnesstuff @lavenderhue @dirtytomatoedwrites

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! (And I’m sorry if I missed you, I love you)

The scent of flowers is nauseating but with a knock on your door, Rafe ignores it as best as he can.

It’s been several days since he’s seen you, the longest he’s gone without any physical contact. His texts were met with one worded replies or none at all. Having done a stellar job of avoiding him. Taking new routes to your lectures, roommates answering the door saying you weren’t home, skipping your Ethics class, the seat glaringly empty beside him.

Rafe knew to give you some space – if only for this once. The incident with you, him and Topper had shaken you greatly, no one had ever seen such an argument between the two of you. His best friend had given him a thorough tongue-lashing that morning after your exit. A reminder from Rafe about Topper’s general creepiness towards his sister had him shutting up instantly.

Before, Rafe had believed you were slowly - but surely - getting used to him being a fixture in your life. He wasn’t stupid enough to think you were fully submitting, of course, but he knew you would be able to get there. With time.

He’s let you have your little tantrum of silence. It was a mistake to treat you so harshly, even if you had wasted a hundred dollars worth of good product.

You’re home alone today. He’s made sure of it. Camped outside your townhome for the past two hours. All your roommates had gone out for various things, filing out one by one. The only one left was the most annoying: Daniella.

While Louise and Andi gave knowing smirks whenever the group was together, Daniella always had a strained smile. As if she struggled to let him anywhere near you.

To ensure her absence, he had recruited the help of Carson. Telling him to lure his girlfriend out so Rafe could talk to his.

He rasps on the door again, calling out your name.

“Open the door. I know you’re home.” When there’s no response, Rafe fist hits harder. “Open the damn door.”

He repeats your name multiple times as he jingles the doorknob. After a few more tries, he sighs and gives up. It didn’t have to go this way.

The click of the door is quiet, Rafe soundlessly closing it as he pockets his copy of the key. Slyly walking through the foyer, the back of your head appears when he comes into the open living room. The crinkle of plastic as his hands squeeze the stems makes your head almost fall off from how fast you look behind.

“What in the actual hell, Rafe?” Pushing off the couch, you cross your arms. A faint line creased between your eyebrows and Rafe can’t help but notice you aren’t wearing a bra. “How’d you get in here?”

“Spare.” Rafe simply says. “Y’know, just in case of an emergency.”

“Or to sneak in here like a fucking creep.”

“No…for when my girl is ignoring me.”

Rafe lifts the bouquet up, savoring how you take in the view of your favorite flowers in white and faint pink. Taking a step toward you, a minute flinch ticks at your shoulders. Rafe stops.

“Well, you can throw them in the garbage on your way out.” Your ponytail swishes when you twirl back to plant yourself on the couch. “Go away.”

“Aw c’mon baby,” Groaning, he rolls his head back. He rounds the couch, standing in front of the TV. Extending his arm out, he presents the flowers again. “How about you find a nice vase for these, and I’ll make it up to you.”

The stupid comment grants him exactly what he wants, your attention on him. Eyes like needlepoints hoping to puncture him.

“You can do so by leaving.” You turn the volume up, and you focus back on the TV.

It’s the dismissal that has Rafe’s ire prickling his skin, his patience splintering.

“Alright, that’s enough. I gave you plenty a time to pout.”

Your lips puff with your incredulous. “Pout? Pout?” You swat at the bouquet. “I’m not pouting. I’m fucking pissed and tired of you.”

'Pissed off' he could deal with. The pouting is cute. Your tears are an intoxicating aphrodisiac. But to be tired of him?

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Rafe squats down, supporting his forearms on his knees as he looks up at you through his lashes. Staring at the upwards angle of your face, he doesn’t have to wait long for your eyes to nervously meet his. Containing his anger has never been his forte. You simultaneously ignite his fire to a roaring inferno and wash it down until there’s only embers left. At the moment, he was between the two.

“I’m sorry, okay?” He blows out a breath. “I, I should’ve never gotten like that with you. Forgive me, angel?”

Leaning the flowers forward, the petals tap once against your bare knees. A deadlock between wills of opposing nature. Your facial expressions switch like the flipping of pages, the language of you becoming easier to understand the more time he spends with you.

“Apology unaccepted.”

Snatching the bouquet out of his grip, you stand and beeline for the kitchen. Rafe rights himself up, following you lazily. Playing his own game of shadow with each step and turn you make. Your slamming cabinets left and right until you find one beneath the sink, almost cracking the glass of a long vase with your force.

His gaze skims over the flimsy material of your sleep shorts, and the way your breasts slope beneath your tank top. Your hands busy themselves with arranging the stems and such, actively ignoring his presence. Hands in his pockets, Rafe takes measured strides until he’s a hairs length away from your back.

“…I never got my hello kiss.”

Your glare radiates so potently that Rafe doesn’t have to look to know it's there. Placing his hands on your hips, he walks the tips of his fingers inward and smirks when a quiver to your lower belly ripples across. Lips kiss at the tension in your shoulders, thumbs molding like dough into your sides.

“I’ve missed you…” His tongue peaks out, tasting the skin there. A hand travels down to play with the waistband of your shorts. “Missed this cunt, too.”

“Rafe – wait,” The hitching of your breath is so sweet he cups you in his wide hand in a fluid downslide. The pinching pain of your nails into his wrists has him stilling, lingering. Your neck stretches as you look back as your features pinch in. “I’m…I’m on my…y’know, period.”

He wants to believe you – truly he does – but lies spill from those pretty lips all the time so…

Frustrated whimpers break loose between your bitten lip while Rafe continues down, your head leaning on his shoulder in defeat. Swirling the tip of his middle finger closer to your hole, the touch of roped cotton has him pausing. A string.

Damn it.

Rafe sighs and trails up your slit to lightly stroke your clit once more before he’s slipping his hand out, keeping it low on your warm pelvis. It rises a rumbled chuckle from him, peering down at your weak glare. This close to your face, he can see all the small imperfections that add to the mosaic of your beauty. Gliding his other hand up, he passes a ghost of a touch to your chest before it lands with a curl around your throat. The addition of it pushes you fully into perfection.

Humming and eyes hooded, Rafe draws out a peck to your lips. The warm, soft contact is barely a kiss, just a need to feel you closer that has Rafe relaxing a fraction. “C’mon then.”

Leading you back to the couch, you resume your previous seat that looks more like a nest with a bundle of blankets, a heating pad, and candy there. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when he lays the warmed pad on your lower abdomen, wrapping a fuzzy throw around you then tucking you under his arm, situated to lean against him. Propping his feet on the ottoman, Rafe focuses on the TV which plays some sort of reality show.

Your suspicion rises like steam, muscles strained with preparation for flight. It isn’t until halfway through the show does Rafe feel your body incrementally slacken and by the third, you’ve fallen asleep.

So, if the show happens to stay on there’s no one around to judge.

Rafe likes it when you’re asleep. Can freely stare at you without an icy sneer or bitchy remark to ruin the moment. Just a doll nuzzled deep into the side of him resonating a humming of snores.

His peace is ruined by the vibrating of his phone. He checks the screen.

Ward

With care, Rafe eases up from the couch and repositions your head so it’s against a pillow then heads into the kitchen.

Ward hardly calls him. The proportion of Rafe’s outgoing calls to him weighs heavily unanswered. Taking a deep breath, he picks up.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” There’s an eager edge to his question and Rafe hates it.

“Rafe, checking in to see how you doin’?” Ward’s deep timbre carries easily through the speaker.

“Good. I’m good.” Rafe looks at the back of the couch, smiling. “Yeah, I’m actually at my girl –”

“Listen, bud,” His father starts. “You got any plans for spring break? Wantcha come down so you can help me start up this new project. It’s a big one.”

Rafe pumps his fist into the air silently, excitement coloring his voice. “No, yeah, totally! I can do that. I’m up for it.”

“You sure? This is legit business and I need you to have a clear head. That means no…partying when you’re here, ‘ight? No funny stuff while we do this. Can you handle that, Rafe?”

It isn’t the serious tone of his father’s gruff voice that has his excitement evaporating. It’s the impending disappointment there like Rafe has already fucked up. Ward giving him a chance and still expecting failure in the end. A flash of hurt burns through but Rafe shakes it off, tells himself that he deserves it considering his track record.

“You can count on me, sir. I swear.”

A pause. Rafe thinks Ward might give encouraging words. A squeeze of a hand for support, words he’s heard him tell Sarah.

Only it’s: “See you soon.” And that’s that.

The dual beep from the phone lets Rafe know Ward’s hung up, just as a ‘love you’ was balancing off his tongue. He must be busy today.

“Who was that?”

Your voice rises from the couch before your head pops up, hair all fluffy and ruffled. Eyes are a bit puffy from sleep as you blink them open. The late afternoon sun creates a soft yellow hue through the windows, catching onto strands of your hair, soaking into your skin. Rafe is momentarily blinded by the view that it takes him a second to respond.

“My dad.” Carding his fingers through his hair, Rafe smiles as the thrill returns. “He wants me to assist with a new job. This is huge for me!”

Yawning, you stretch and get up from the couch. Rafe keeps his body angled to yours, head nodding along to his babbling as you fill a glass of water.

“If he could see that I’m ready – that I’m ready to get serious, I’ll finally be a part of the Cameron legacy. My legacy. It’s about time he’s bought me into the loop…sure I’ve been tagging along since I could remember but this time, he wants my input. I’ll be able to share my ideas and he’ll have to listen.” He sighs, winded. “It’s too bad I’ll be gone for spring break –”

“Really?”

You’re at the edge of the peninsula, hip leaning against the counter as you take another sip. Your eyes shift from his to elsewhere, fingers drumming an uneven beat. Adjacent to you and with his hands braced on the counter, Rafe slides closer. Spreading his fingers apart to reach out a pinky to stroke your own.

“Don’t miss me too much.”

Scoffing, you swipe your hand away. “As if.” Your face softens a little into curiosity. “What does your dad do again?”

Shock rocks at his heart and it's damn hard to keep it in. He can count on one hand the number of times you’ve shown genuine interest in conversation with him.

“He owns a development company. Operates daily with the construction of buildings and those type of things.”

“Oh.” Your eyes are open and inviting, the slightest tilt in his direction.

Rafe steams on ahead, wanting to keep your attention. “Yeah, he started it all on his own. Born on the other side of the island. Actually made something of himself… unlike those dirty pogues down there now.”

It’s automatic to sneer out the slur. He can’t help the disgust he feels just thinking about that side of town.

One of your eyebrows raises. “Aren’t you, like, fourth generation to attend UNC?” Your chin juts out. “Wouldn’t that mean your family has had, like enough money to go for so long?”

Rafe could crack a tooth from the grinding of his teeth. You’re not the first to connect the dots but you certainly are one of the few to vocalize it.

“Third.” Rafe sucks his teeth in. “The Camerons may have started out on the Cut, but they grew to be more middle class. Only the truly elite are on Figure Eight.”

It infuriates him to no end of that simple fact. That just before he was born Ward was making his way through the Cut and into Figure Eight, the right side of the island. Where he – they always belonged.

Your eyes roll with a tilt of your head. “So, not really a pogue, not really a kook. Just an ordinary man like the rest of the world. Y’know, stepping on that island is like being in a fucked up alternate universe.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am not!” The stomping of your foot says otherwise. “It’s the worst place I’ve ever been.”

“It’s the best place.”

It’s amusing to watch your cheeks puff in frustration. “Only because of the little notoriety your family has there.”

A slow smirk spreads out like elastic, leaning into you. “Well, of course, sweetheart.”

With anyone else, Rafe would be squashing them beneath his shoe like a bug for a comment like that. With you, however…he finds he wants to know all your thoughts regarding him, the good and the bad. Suck in all the information he can, leach off every emotion you hold for him. The anger, the disgust, the begrudging pleasure.

At the same time, Rafe doesn’t have to hide behind a polite smile or use his charm to peruse you. He’s his real self. The most based form of a soul he struggles to hold onto. Wants to lay the shreds of his soul at your feet like a sacrifice, irrevocably intertwined together.

A peculiar look morphs on your face. Like when you’re working through a difficult assignment. Unmoving, focused but this time on him, which is extremely rare. Usually, you shield yourself away in a layer of ice that solidifies you.

“What?”

“What?” You parrot back, lashes blinking rapidly to break your connected gazes.

“What are you thinking about?” He angles his head low to follow your eyes.

Rafe half expects the typical retort of: ‘You don’t need to know all my waking thoughts.’

“Just…Doesn’t everyone on the island think he was a true pouge?”

So, you have listened to his rants before.

“People remember and think what they want to. Ward doesn’t have to answer to any of them.” His eyes narrow. “Why?”

Your fingers begin to fiddle with themselves. Twisting fingers in knots, squeezing the tips in a random pattern.

Again, he asks. “Why’re you so interested?”

“What? Now you’re gonna be mad I’m talking to you?”

Sass is a defense mechanism you use often; one Rafe finds the most annoying but just as addictive to combat with. It continues in his silent stare.

“I guess… I’m just confused why you would want to work with him so badly?” Your tone goes from curious to condescending within a blink of an eye. “If my dad treated me like that, I’d want to be as far away from him as possible.”

The straightening of his spine is immediate. “You don’t know shit about my dad.”

“Just that he treats you like shit –”

“Shut up –”

“Bet he’d love to know his only son is a psychotic rapist!”

His eyes bulge. A moment of stillness that enraptures the both of you. The bickering was reeving him up to ravish you across the countertop. Now, his mind whirls from the total 180 you’ve pulled on him. Never has he heard you utter those condemning words before. Rafe didn’t think you’d succumb to that dark truth, let alone say it out loud.

A scoff hiccups deep from his chest. “What fucking proof you got of that, sweetheart?” Shifting closer, your face pinches in as Rafe leers, “Your wet cunt cumming each time I force it in?”

It’s a low blow you take with stride, a flinch before you're sneering. “What about that little coke problem of yours?”

There.

There it is.

The real reason you’ve gone down this path of conversation. Nosing your way into things pretty girls like you shouldn’t concern yourself with. Much less with the intention set in your shoulders.

“You trying to blackmail me?” The chuckle comes low, barely a sound of amusement. “Oh, honey,” Rafe mocks. “You didn’t know he already knows?”

The façade of your bravado crumbles, a half step taken back with weary eyes. He tsks and cocks his head back, disappointed. With a sudden swing of his arm, the back of his hand knocks your glass of water to the other side of the room. The shattering of glass and your shriek harmonize, creating the perfect symphony to his sudden charging to you, arms an unknown mix until he shoves you against the wall.

Both hands hold your throat. Nails pierce his skin and scratch along the length trying to find a better leverage. The squeezing doesn’t stop until your eyes are pleading and swimming in the dark waters of fear.

“I may be a fuck up but I’m still his son.” Jerkily releasing you, your head wobbles on your neck. Hands barricading you in, Rafe lowers his head until your noses touch. Your panting breaths feed his next ones in.

“Don’t threaten me if you can’t back. It. Up!” His final warning is yelled, vibrating against your lips as his palms smack beside your head with each pointed word.

Your tears have gone unnoticed until you curl to the side and his lips taste the salty moisture upon your skin. Normally, the sight of them would soften his anger and harden his cock, leading the situation to hot make-up sex.

It isn’t enough. Not today.

Not when his future is within his grasp, his for the taking. Not with the knowledge of you trying to get rid of him, the idea as pointless as it is terrifying. Going to desperate measures when you should be desperate for him.

With a practiced move, Rafe retches your hair between tightened knuckles and pulls until your neck is a long arch and facing him. He ignores the pain-filled yelp and weak hands patting his chest.

“You want me to force you? Is that it, baby, huh?” Rafe hisses.

He hauls you down until your knees fold beneath you. A sick delight like seasickness rolls down to his groin as he growls. Weak defiance lives in your eyes, frowning with his name on your tongue. It's a tug of war between Rafe’s hand and your struggle to rise, keeping your hair taunt. It’s the sight of him unzipping his fly that has you hitting his thighs with a renewed alarm.

“Rafe! Stop it –”

“Keep fightin’ and you’re only gonna make it worse f’yourself.” Rafe warns another yank just to hear you shriek.

Fisting the base of his cock, he pulls it out through the opening. He aims for your mouth, but you cringe making the tip smear on your chin. Rafe tuts, guiding your head right where he wants, and flexes his arm, sure to hold you in place.

“C’mon n’ open up,” he drawls. “Take your punishment.”

Stroking up to the tip, his thumb sweeps along the ridge and tilts his hips forward, hovering just above those plush lips. Tapping the red flesh on your closed mouth, Rafe splays his hand on your chin and squeezes on the delicate bones until your jaw unhinges with a wail to relieve the pain.

Like a serpent striking, he’s pushing in before you can react. Bumping against the roof of your mouth, the rigids of your hard palate make him jerk with sensitivity and envelop the next few inches. The hot, wet rush has sparks crackling up his spine. All that heat and anger spirals down to his cock, the need to claim brooding in his balls. Grunting your name with each gag you give, his thumb caresses the corner of your lip as he watches enthralled.

A part of him wants to take his time. Use gentle strokes to coax your mouth open, train you with patience to swallow his cock just right.

Instead with a mean smirk, Rafe plunges half his cock in. The clenching of your throat makes it hard to go in deeper, the constriction of your resistance inflames his pleasure. The underside of his dick feels the rippling of your tongue like a wave, chasing after it eagerly. Your high-pitched whines are muffled by the weight of him, gargles of air getting blocked as he teases the opening of your throat.

“Can’t believe I’ve gone this long without fucking that mouth of yours.”

Saliva accumulates, thick and slippery as his cock triggers your gag reflex, spit dribbling down your jaw. Your drool coats him to create a smooth glide, lower abdomen tensing, and stuffing further in. Such a pretty sight seeing you like this, gurgling and coughing between the space of your cheeks and his cock. Eyelashes clumped, a darkening hue on your cheeks, small fistfuls of his jeans. Your gagging clinches your throat, locking him in tight before it flutters open.

Rafe allows you to pull back far enough to catch a breath. Coughing out into shaky inhales, lips puffy from abuse and slicked with combined spit and precum. Standing above you like this gives him the most delicious view of your stretched neck. From the tip of your chin to the swell of your cleavage in an expanse of skin that should be carved into marble.

Words tangle as you stutter and gasp, Rafe hushing you with faux tenderness. “I’m going to fuck ya throat now…”

Weaving his fingers once more into your hair, Rafe pushes back into your avoiding mouth. Your fighting ignites a primal urge of take, take, take within him. A bloating want fills his void. Sticky and black as tar that he wants to pour onto you, anoint you with his devoted desecration.

There is little mercy with the pistoling of his hips, ass clenching in pointed thrusts. Mummering encouragements of that’s it, such a good girl and various pitches of your name, Rafe feeds you his length with a fevered urgency. The squelching of his dick opening your throat layers with his low moans, watching as each inch disappears until your lips are kissing his pelvis.

His hips jerk involuntarily as a tickling of pleasure jolts him, your wet bottom lip moving on the sensitive spot just below his base and above his heavy balls. It feels so good and you’re not even actively sucking on him. Just a soft wet home for him to press in farther, another place he has laid claim to.

Fringes of hair droop between his eyes, almost hunched over as he pulls his hips to ram back in. Wet spots glisten on your chest, staining your tank top. A relentless pace fueled by rage and an ache.

“Fuck – ah – I’m gonna cum.” Rafe says hoarsely and tilts his head back if only to starve off his orgasm by looking away. “My good lil’ slut…swallow my cum.”

Angling your head up, Rafe slides his cock down all the way to the root. Grip tightening on your head, he rocks side to side to wiggle in as much as he can. You're choking helplessly as he fucks so deep, it feels like he might reach your heart. One hand skates down to your neck and palms the bulge, holding it there to experience the swell of it. Minuscule thrusts nudge the back wall of your esophagus, his thumb rubs up and down where the head sits.

The scrunching of your eyes and difficult breaths boosts his ego but he needs to see you. Needs you to see him.

“Look at me.” His fingers press in painfully. Eyes flickering half open, the devastation set in your irises kindles his breaking point. “Ugh,” he grunts your name like gravel between his teeth.

Stilling in the depths of you, Rafe cums.

Your muscles intuitively constrict and swallow, suctioning him with hot, white pleasure. The wet of your cheeks is like velvet as you drink his cum.

Seconds or minutes pass before he loosens his hold. Loud choking fits break between your breathing once you're free from his cock, covered in a layer of drool and residual cum. Rafe pets your hair, trying to smooth out the knots he’s made.

You’re still crying as he calms down from his high, face nuzzling into his hip to hide. God, he’s going to get hard again with you looking so pathetic.

“Did you learn your lesson, pretty angel?” Dragging rough fingers through your hair, he bunches a handful and barely pulls, your neck like a snapped cord as your head flops back. An index finger tenderly traces down your cheek to your swollen lips.

“Any more empty threats and I’ll rape your mouth until you pass out.”

#rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron #pieces of the night #fanfics #fics #outer banks #dark!rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #dark fic #rafe cameron x reader #tw #smut #outer banks smut #obx #potn

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withleeknow · 3 months

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parallel lines.

pairing: jisung x reader genre/warnings: best friends au, unrequited love au, angst; unedited (nothing new lol) word count: 1.3k note: @joy: one of your numbers was “things you said while you were driving” :D hope you like it boo, but i also hope you perish, but i also hope you like it <3

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

live in the moment. don’t let the present pass you by. that’s what people love to tell you.

it’s a bit of a cliché, but it’s not terrible advice. actually, it's something that you have to remind yourself from time to time too - to focus more on what’s happening in the now before it becomes a piece of the past.

if it were any other day, sure, you’d be up for internalizing those words.

but today? no, today you can only focus on one breathe at a time, one stoplight at a time.

because today, he’s leaving. one of the people you’ve cherished the most your entire life is leaving you and there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening.

you’re not even listening to what’s being said from the passenger seat of your car. in fact, in the past forty five minutes, you’ve only been nodding along, making a noncommittal noise every now and then to pretend like you’re absorbing whatever information he’s feeding you.

eventually, you hum at the wrong time, and that’s when he catches on.

“hey! you're not even listening to me,” jisung complains, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“sorry.” the apology is insincere as it rolls off your tongue. “i’m just a little distracted.”

“why?” he asks.

how is that even a question? you spare him a glance, then you tell him, “i’m literally driving you to the airport right now.”

he looks at you, opens his mouth to say something but stops himself before any word could come out.

you turn your focus back to the road, thinking about how the distance keeps getting shorter and shorter, how you’re just getting closer to the ending of a chapter in your life. you could drive slower and bide your time, but what good does that do? you could stall for five or ten more minutes, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s still getting on that plane and leaving you behind.

after a moment of silence, jisung says, “i thought we agreed we wouldn’t let this be sad.”

“how could it not be sad? you’re moving away. we’re saying goodbye.”

“i’ll still come visit,” he tries to reason. “we can facetime and text every day. you can fly out to stay with me sometimes. it’s not like we’re never going to see each other again.”

you huff out a breath, gripping the wheel tightly. “but it won’t be the same,” you say quietly.

to that, jisung doesn’t have a solution to appease you. because what could he even offer you at this point? what you said is true - once he leaves, that’s it. things will never be the same again. absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder. sometimes, absence just sucks.

you go over the question in your head a couple times, wondering how you could make it sound less pathetic but in the end, you find that there’s not really any way around it. “would you ever come back?” you ask. “you know, not just to visit. would you come back?”

the man beside you purses his lips in thought.

“i don't know,” his voice is small as he looks out the window wistfully. it's unlike him, but you can't exactly fault him for it. this is one of your last moments together. just minutes ago, you practically refused to let him make light of the situation and face it for what it really is - a looming goodbye that eerily feels like a farewell, and you have to try your best to focus on the road instead of breaking down in front of him. “i don't know if there's anything here for me anymore.”

that stings.

what about me? you think but don’t dare to utter out loud. did you finally outgrow me?

sometimes, you think jisung knows. knows that your feelings for him extend far beyond the confines of platonic friendship. knows that you’ve loved him ever since you knew what love was, or maybe he was the reason why you even knew what love was in the first place.

he’s silly and far too unserious for his own good a lot of the times, but he’s not stupid. and you yourself don’t exactly do a very good job at concealing your foolish heart.

you let the remainder of the drive marinade in heavy silence. you’re too distraught to pretend that you aren’t, to try and make jokes and sweep it all under the rug. when you get to the airport, you help him get his luggages from the trunk, then watch as he drags them inside.

his whole life, packed up in suitcases.

you observe jisung from a distance as he goes to the correct counter to get check in his things. two minutes and the suitcases are already off. the lady behind the counter gives him a manufactured smile as she waves him off with her perfectly manicured hands.

so quick, so easy. the process of leaving you, done in mere minutes.

he returns to you with only a bag slung over his shoulder, his passport in his hands, and a sad smile on his face.

if jisung knows, then he’s pretty decent at pretending he’s just as clueless as the next person. he has never brought it up, never even hinted that he’s aware of how you feel about him and that’s why you’re never sure if he really holds this knowledge or not.

but there’s something different about right now. maybe it’s just because this is your final moment together before the chapter forever closes, but there’s something in the way that he’s looking at you. soft, delicate features and big brown eyes tinged with regret, with a little bit of guilt.

you go in for a hug to avoid being scrutinized under jisung’s gaze any longer. you both just stand there for a couple minutes, your arms around his waist, his arms around your shoulders. your heart begging him to stay while his aches to leave.

you know he’s always wanted to leave. leave this place, leave this city. but you can’t help feeling bitter about it because it means leaving you too.

when you pull away, your eyes are burning with unshed tears but you don’t let yourself cry, not in front of him. there’s plenty of time to deal with your grievances later, when you’re alone.

“text me when you land, okay?” you say, faking a smile. then you pause, “i love you.”

jisung ruffles your hair, tries to do it the playful way he always does and tacks on a grin for good measure, but you know it’s not entirely sincere judging by the way it doesn’t reach his eyes. goodbyes are inherently sad, after all.

“love you too,” he says. it’s not unusual for the two of you to say the same words but mean completely different things.

his hand lingers on your hair as the grin dulls into a tight-lipped smile. you watch him turn around and walk away, and the burning sensation behind your eyes intensifies.

it dawns on you then, that it doesn’t really matter if he knows about your feelings or not. it doesn’t matter because he’s already made the decision to pack up his life and forget about this place forever. it doesn’t matter because knowing doesn’t change anything; your own feelings are yours to bear and he shouldn’t have to be responsible that you’re in love with him.

you stare at his retreating figure that grows smaller and smaller with every step, until he passes through the security gates and you can’t even see him anymore. you hoped he would look back, but he didn’t.

and in that moment, you know that it doesn’t matter, not even a little bit, because he can’t love you the same way you love him.

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken @extrhotjne @caitxx1 @palindrome969 @todorokiskitten @azuna-sz @meanergreener @nxzz1skz @jazziwritesthings (italicized = can’t tag)

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #han jisung angst #han jisung scenarios #han jisung x reader #han jisung imagines #han jisung x you #stray kids #han jisung

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greensagephase · 9 months

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Nonviolent Communication - Part Four

Miguel O'Hara x FemReader

Summary: Miguel shows up at your apartment again while you're celebrating your deceased boyfriend's birthday.

Word Count: 8,253

Warning: Miguel reflects on earlier days; Sad Miguel (I'm sorry)

Music inspo while writing:

"Mercy" - Max Richter, Mari Samuelson (Miguel's part)

"Nonviolent Communication" - Metro Boomin, James Blake, A$AP Rocky, 21 Savage (I love this song so much)

Part Four

Miguel steps out of the multidimensional portal into your apartment. He stares out at the living room, barely registering the sound of music when he hears you call his name. Miguel turns suddenly, startled by your presence. He stands there, in the middle of the room, in his suit as always, only revealing his face. He looks surprised to see you as the portal begins to fade away behind him, causing the objects in your apartment to fall back into place.

“Y/N - I thought you…” he starts, his eyes meeting yours.

You stare at him, still holding the knife as you stand in your kitchen. You briefly wonder what he thought. Then, you realize as you two hold eye contact. He thought you weren’t going to be home. You had told Lyla you had plans to go out. He had heard at least that part of the conversation, you realize. It seems that the moment you pinpoint his confusion to you being home, he too realizes you have figured it out because he clears his throat and looks down, as if embarrassed.

Your gaze follows his movement, to his hand. You see it then. Your mask. You didn’t even realized you left it as you had rushed out of the lab a few hours ago.

“I was leaving my lab when I saw your mask lying there. I figured you might need it for your night patrolling…” Miguel says at last, lifting his hand, showing you the mask.

You put down the knife and nod before you walk towards him. You approach him slowly, taking the mask from his extended hand.

“Thank you. I didn’t even realize I left it there. I was in a bit of a rush…” you say, trailing off as you hold your mask with both hands now.

“I noticed,” Miguel replies, meeting your eyes before his eyes flicker to the kitchen.

You suddenly feel embarrassed. You were caught in a lie. Miguel had heard you talking about having plans with friends, only to find you here in your apartment. You sigh quietly and look down at your mask for a few seconds. You finally look up, offering a small smile.

“Today is Peter’s birthday… Or would have been,” you correct yourself, looking over at the cake. “He would’ve turned twenty-six today.”

Miguel stands in front of you, still. You turn to him; his eyes are on the cake. He brings his gaze back to you and nods.

“You must think…” you start, thinking he must find this odd. You must look like a crazy woman, baking and celebrating your boyfriend’s birthday, who passed away three years ago.

Miguel shakes his head.

“I – Understand.”

The two of you stand there, silent. There’s an unspoken understanding between the two of you. You look over at the counter, suddenly remembering the ice cream.

“Shit, the ice cream,” you mutter, before you hurry to check it, placing your mask on the counter as you walk by.

The ice cream is still intact, but you know you will have to put it away soon. You turn to Miguel, who seems to be listening to the music. You can’t help but feel embarrassed despite him saying he understood. You stare down at Peter’s cake. Your emotions are a little over the place. You are sad, still grieving Peter’s absence while at the same time trying to be cheerful because it’s his birthday and now embarrassment is thrown into the mix. Your emotions override your brain and then, before you know it, you speak.

“Would you like a slice of cake?”

Miguel’s eyes shift to you. You can see there’s something there – like hesitation. You begin to feel regret immediately. Maybe this is too much. Maybe you are trespassing a line. You look down at the cake.

“I’m sorry – you are probably very busy like always,” you start, feeling heat in your cheeks. Yes, this was probably too much. Too personal. Too vulnerable. Too much for the founder and commander of the Spider Society.

“If you don’t mind… Yes.”

You look up in surprise, though you try to hide it. You hope Miguel didn’t notice the way your lips parted in surprise. You nod slowly before grabbing a plate and the knife again. As you slice the cake carefully, you feel Miguel walk from the living room section to the kitchen area slowly. You can’t help but feel like his movement is intentional, as if he’s trying to tread dangerous waters carefully. He stands behind the counter, the same side from which you ate the day he was here.

You place the slice of cake on the plate. You look at the ice cream and then at him.

“It’s probably a weird combination but – do you also want ice cream?” you ask, quietly.

And Miguel O’Hara stares at you for a few seconds before he nods. You nod and retrieve a small bowl plate. With ease, you open the ice cream container and place two scoops on it. You place the two plates in front of him before you retrieve utensils. You grab napkins and place them on the counter before placing the utensils on top of them. You return to the cake to cut a slice for yourself. Your movements are deliberately slow. You can sense that this is… Not awkward but also not easy? Whatever the word is, you are trying to give Miguel time to take a seat. As you place the slice of cake on your plate, he finally pulls one of the counter chairs out and takes a seat. From your peripheral vision, he still towers over you. You grab another bowl plate and get one scoop of ice cream. You retrieve utensils for yourself, discreetly noticing that he has grabbed the utensils you placed for him.

You cut into your slice with a fork, bringing it to your mouth. Your eyes return to the photograph, now next to Miguel’s plates, as you eat. You try not to look at Miguel as he brings the fork to his mouth. You tell yourself not to think about the fact that this is the only time you have ever seen the man eat. You wondered sometimes if he ever ate. You wonder if Lyla had to remind him to eat, the way she had to remind him to sleep.

“This is – a great cake,” Miguel says, breaking the silence. “Thank you.”

Your eyes move to him then. You nod, giving him a small smile.

“It was his favorite… Both the cake and ice cream flavor,” you respond before trying the ice cream. You haven’t eaten this flavor since last year. You only buy it for Peter’s birthday, reserving it for his day.

Miguel watches you. He doesn’t say anything, but he notices the slight puffiness of your eyes, a sign of crying. He listens to the music, recognizing the voice. He knows of Billie Holiday of course. He doesn’t know everything about your life but suddenly, he feels that he has a picture of it. You were happy, really happy. You once had everything, too. You lost it. Like him.

He can sense that you still seem somewhat embarrassed by this, but he doesn’t find anything odd about it. He understands. He finishes the cake and then the ice cream, enjoying both things despite feeling like he intruded on a very personal moment.

“Do you want more?” you ask, noticing he finished eating.

Miguel meets your eyes, and then nods. “May I please have another slice of cake?”

You nod, putting your plate down before taking his to give him another slice. You feel his eyes on you as you remove the candles gently, placing them aside on a napkin. You begin to cut another slice.

“I also…” Miguel starts, pausing. “I celebrate Dia de los Muertos, I don’t know if you –“ he pauses, and you nod, indicating you know what he’s talking about as you put the slice on his plate. “I make a small ofrenda for them.” You place his plate in front of him, meeting his eyes. “So – it’s not - Don’t feel as if…” Miguel says, trailing off and you nod.

“Thank you,” you say, understanding. You feel comfort and something else at the fact that he shared that with you, willingly, as an effort to lessen your embarrassment.

You take a deep but quiet breath in. You hadn’t expected someone to show up, even less Miguel but now that he was here… You feel – lighter? You take him in as he brings the fork to his mouth. Seems like he’s enjoying the cake, or at least you hope so. You return your eyes to Peter’s photograph, which still faces you. You stare at it, his gaze meeting yours. You smile softly before you finish your slice of cake.

Miguel continues to eat his second slice of cake. No wonder he loved it, Miguel thinks to himself, referring to Peter. The cake is amazing. Peter’s face flashes in his mind suddenly. He remembers the man’s face from the last time he was here, when he had stopped to look at the photographs on your wall. He had looked at you, smiling in all of them but he had also noticed Peter. It was obvious that the two of you loved each other deeply. It seemed to Miguel that Peter was a great man and if a woman like you loved him so much, Miguel is sure he had to be.

His mind shifts back to the conversation you had with Lyla earlier. You had lied. It’s not like he was eavesdropping, no. He would never do that. Lyla was just so loud sometimes that she tore his attention away and that’s why he had heard her ask if you had a date tonight or some other plans. That’s when he had heard about your plans to go out with friends to watch a movie. That’s why he had shown up at this time. He had spotted the mask lying on one of the many surfaces of his lab earlier, but he didn’t want to show up when you were home. He thought it would be awkward. He debated not even bringing it at all, but he knows you do night patrols, so he figured you would need it for tonight. Thus, he waited until he thought you would be gone to avoid any awkwardness.

And that’s why he was startled when you called his name. You weren’t supposed to be home, except you were. You were in the kitchen with a knife in your hand, about to slice a cake. He had barely identified the mood of the music and suddenly, he had a pretty good idea of what was happening and why you had lied to Lyla, who could be a little judgmental sometimes. He understood. He knew. He hadn’t celebrated Gabriella or his wife’s birthdays as he didn’t think he could handle such a thing, but he did set up an ofrenda for them each year.

You look up at Miguel, he looks as if he’s in deep thought. You wonder what he’s thinking about. Your ears focus on the music, Billie Holiday is still playing.

“I should turn that off,” you mutter, realizing the ambiance in the room is… too romantic.

You set your plate down, about to head to the living room section.

“Don’t,” Miguel says softly, stopping you in your tracks. You turn to him, his eyes already on you. “It’s nice.”

You nod slowly, staying quiet for a few seconds. “Peter loved this kind of music,” you share, as you pick up the ice cream container. “You want more?”

Miguel shakes his head. “I think I’ve had enough. Thank you, though.”

You turn around and put the leftover ice cream away in the freezer. You turn around again. Miguel is looking down at his plate but then looks up.

“He had good taste in music then,” he says, which makes you smile.

“I thought so, too.”

Miguel takes a moment before he adds, “He sounds like he was a great partner.”

You nod, hugging your arms. “He was. He was wonderful,” you say, turning your attention to Peter’s photo, wanting to say more about him but reluctant to unleash all your memories, thoughts, and feelings on Miguel.

Miguel doesn’t fail to notice the look in your eyes. It is obvious that you love Peter. All he can do is watch, wondering if that’s the way he looked at his wife once. He can’t help but also think how lucky Peter is, to still be loved beyond his death. The same way that Gabriella and his wife are lucky.

How lucky are those who pass away and have someone still love and remember them, Miguel often thought… Miguel doesn’t let himself think about it often, but a small fear creeps on him sometimes. Slowly but surely, crawling to his mind.

Was he going to die alone? Would anyone mourn Miguel O’Hara? Was anyone going to remember him? Or was he going to be a small, insignificant memory that came occasionally to his recruits’ minds when they thought of their work or earlier days as members in the Spider Society? Would they share their memory to whoever they were talking to or was near them? Would they say he was cold and stoic? Would they mention how he didn’t let anyone in? Or would they think about him for a few seconds before he was put away from their minds? Forgotten once again.

He buried those thoughts as deep as he could, burying himself even deeper into work to avoid having to reflect on those questions. He had no family. His parents had passed away many years ago. It was his father first and then his mother. His only sibling, Gabriel, had passed away three years before Miguel inserted himself into Gabriella’s life, leaving him with no one. No family and little friends if you could even call them that.

He was lonely though he never admitted it out loud. He drowned himself in work to fill the void and to avoid his thoughts. He worked day and night. Sometimes the only thing he saw were his monitors for hours. He had grown so accustomed to the light of them. He had grown accustomed to the silence that was only broken by Lyla. He told himself he was good. At least he had Lyla.

Then, his work was the very thing that led to his brief happiness. He discovered a way to travel through the multiverse. He traveled to so many universes , recruiting other Spider-members, his mind already settled on founding the Spider Society. It was then, through his traveling and exploring of each universe, that he found one in which a variant of himself had a family. He watched that universe for some time, longing to be like that version of himself in secret.

That version wasn’t Spider-Man. He led a normal life. He had a daughter… Gabriella. Miguel had never admitted it to anyone, but he had envied his variant. This version of him was carefree. He was happy. There were no worries about saving someone or something. This variant was a father, and a very dedicated one. He attended school functions for his daughter. He was a part of the parent teacher student organization. He baked brownies and cookies for fundraisers. He attended every soccer game. He worked a normal job. He picked up his daughter from school and dedicated the evenings to her. Miguel often watched as they played board games on their dining table. Gabriella’s laugh as she played board games with his variant filled him with a happiness he hadn’t felt in so long. He watched in awe as his variant helped the child with their homework every evening, seeing how bright she was.

They had the perfect life.

Miguel longed to have that for so long as he watched from afar, knowing it was wrong. And then the unexpected happened. His variant was murdered, making Gabriella an orphan. Before he knew it, he was traveling to that universe and replacing his variant, taking the chance of having a happy life.

As he took the life of his variant, he thought he had it all then. He had a daughter – family at last. He had another purpose in life besides work. He eventually found a partner who he fell in love with quickly, marrying shortly after, solidifying his family. Miguel feels pain as he thinks of his wife now, sweet Adriana. They were happy, the three of them. Miguel finally had what he had dreamt of for so long. What he had longed for. He had the perfect life, at last.

And then it was gone.

That same loneliness returned, except this time it was accompanied by guilt and grief. That fear that he had carried before his discovery of multiverse traveling, returned as well. He was lonely. He had no one. Again. As the days, weeks, and months went on after Gabriella’s universe collapsed, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was his fate. Maybe he was meant to have a lonely life. Maybe that’s why everyone was taken away from him. It was his fate: to be lonely for the rest of his life and to dedicate himself to work. Maybe his entire purpose in life was to protect the fate of the multiverse, so all those people in each universe could have a chance of living happy lives, even if it meant that he couldn’t have that very thing. That was his sacrifice.

“Being Spider-Man is a sacrifice. That’s the job. That’s what you signed up for,” he remembers telling Miles Morales months ago.

“You have a choice between saving one person and saving an entire world. Every world.”

After Gabriella and Adriana, this was his motto. He was sacrificing himself to save every universe. So, he worked day and night again. Forgetting to eat and sleep sometimes. Though sometimes it wasn’t because he forgot. It was a form of punishment. He had destroyed Gabriella and Adriana’s universe. He had ruined their, and millions of other people’s, chance of living happy lives since their universe collapsed.

“Daddy! Dad? Dad! No!”

He forgot to sleep sometimes but he mostly avoided it to avoid the nightmares. He dreamt of Gabriella and Adriana often, but Gabriella made more appearances in his nightmares. Gabriella haunted him more… He didn’t have the chance to see Adriana one last time. They had said their goodbyes in the morning before she went to work. They had kissed goodbye. Their last moment had been peaceful. His memory of her was a sweet and happy one. By the time he realized something was very wrong, she had already ceased to exist, leaving no room for another interaction.

But Gabriella… He held her in his arms as he carried her through the city, his heart racing and hurting from the loss of Adriana. He ran and ran as other Spider-members helped civilians only for them to disappear seconds later. His mind whirled with thoughts as he clutched his daughter, who was terrified and clung to him for comfort and safety, to his chest. He needed to save Gabriella. He needed to protect his daughter. She deserved to live a long life. And then he heard her last words.

“Daddy! Dad? Dad! No!”

Then she ceased to exist right before him, leaving his arms empty. He remembers as he stood there with empty hands, still feeling the warmth of his child. He remembers how her warmth began to fade away, as if she had never been in his arms at all. Her last words echoed through his mind over and over again. His heart felt heavy. Vacant.

He heard her cries in his dreams every night for weeks. Each night he woke up screaming, tears running down his face. He was angry, frustrated, mournful, devastated, and so much more. He felt every imaginable emotion those nights while he paced his empty apartment back in Nueva York. He threw things around, like flipping the dining table and its chairs. He broke and shattered objects. He cursed himself and screamed into the silent night. His cries and screaming went unheard as he lived in the penthouse of his apartment building and owned the two floors under the penthouse, too. There was no one to hear his destruction or his screaming. He eventually stopped sleeping, only succumbing to his exhaustion when his body began to give out.

He was alone. He had caused the collapse of a universe for his own greed, he thought. All to not be alone. All to fill his fantasy of having a family.

He couldn’t even think of friends in the aftermath of everything. If he had been unable to create strong friendships before Gabriella and his wife’s death, now it felt nearly impossible. He didn’t want it. He thought he didn’t deserve friends, especially after the events that happened, involving Miles Morales. He had been wrong. So wrong. He thought he was in the right for so long only to be proven wrong. He wasn’t proud of his actions. He knew everyone else had pushed past it. They had moved on, except him. He took his mistake and punished himself. Once again.

He pushed everyone away. Every single time anyone tried, he pushed them away. Push, push, push. Until they gave up. He couldn’t remember who the last person who had tried was. It was so long ago. No one bothered to try anymore as the spider members knew it was to no avail. Or perhaps they hoped that one day he would come around on his own. But then someone else came along.

As he looked at you, still staring at Peter’s photo, he thought about the things you have done, and continue to do for him. Like the coffee. He knows the cafeteria staff never gave you extra as you had said so many times. He initially waved it off, the way he ignored your gesture the first few times. He eventually grew curious, wondering if it was true that the cafeteria staff gave you extra coffee. He pulled the security cameras’ footage, his curiosity winning. That’s how he learned that your excuses were just excuses. He knew you lied about the coffee, the way you knew he had lied about why he had shown up weeks ago after you went radio silence because of your period. You deliberately took coffee to him, and he didn’t know why. He wondered why you bothered and continued even when he ignored you at first. Even when he left the cup on the table, his sign that he didn’t care. Even when he gave you the bare minimum of a response, you didn’t stop.

Then you offered to start organizing the lab. He remembers the way he wanted to shut down that idea quickly. He didn’t want a random new recruit hanging around the lab, moving his items around but Jess had intervened. She had said the place needed it and he just gave up, too busy to argue with her. Besides, he had been sure that you would only show up once. His first impression of you was that you were too sweet. Too kind. Too warm. Too happy. Miguel felt that he and you were opposites in those early days. He often felt like a dark, gloomy cloud that rained on everybody’s mood. He didn’t care but he was aware that some of the Spider Society members found his mood foul. You on the other hand… you had a smile on your face. You walked around HQ with a lightness, like nothing could possibly bring you down. That’s why he had been sure you would only show up once to organize the lab. You wouldn’t be able to take the silence. You wouldn’t handle being unacknowledged. You were going to stop whatever it was that you were doing by taking him coffee and organizing his lab, the same way that everyone who had ever tried getting close to him had stopped.

But you stayed. You showed up the next week, asking Lyla if you could come in. He remembers pausing from his work as he heard Lyla tell him you were there. You had asked her to ask him if you could come in. He remembers staring at his screen, struck by this. You hadn’t taken the liberty of barging into his lab like other members. You asked for permission first. You respected his space. Before he knew it, he had nodded at Lyla. And there you were, going into his lab to organize the clutter of advanced technology pieces for the second time. And now, he had lost count of how many times you have been there.

He never said anything when you were in the lab, sometimes he acknowledged you by humming, other times he didn’t. But his curiosity had grown. You asked each week if you could enter the lab, and this made him wonder about you. You were also good on missions, or at least he was told so by Jess, who took a liking to you quickly.

Much to his surprise, you had also quickly been incorporated into a friend group. It seemed that you had settled into the Spider Society fast and successfully. This just added to his curiosity and because he had the technology and knowledge at his disposal, he had learned about you. He learned you lost your own version of Peter. He hadn’t allowed himself to see further but this single piece of information made him wonder how you could walk around so happy.

He wondered sometimes as you answered Lyla’s questions while you organized the lab. Of course, he never said anything. He tried his best to ignore the conversations each time, trying to give you and Lyla privacy. But Lyla was loud sometimes, getting too excited. He was never able to fully ignore the conversations that took place between the two of you.

“Okay, okay! Tell me this! What are your comfort foods?” Lyla had asked one time.

“Pasta,” you had answered so fast.

Miguel just listened as Lyla had distracted him that time. He just shook his head discreetly. It seemed that even his AI assistant had taken a liking to you. He just kept working though, trying his best to remain focused but he was brought back to the conversation a few other times. This was an occurrence every week, though he never showed it.

Things remained the same for weeks. Miguel honestly lost count. You kept taking coffee to him and he eventually started nodding at you or giving you a “hmm”. He didn’t know why. He just did one time and then he started doing it here and there.

He also noticed you were punctual each week, something that he valued highly. He didn’t fail to notice how you showed up to do what you had volunteered to do. You never wasted time or slacked even if you could’ve because at the end of the day, it wasn’t your job. Miguel definitely appreciated the organization though, as he started to realize how much faster he found what he was looking for sometimes. Your system of organization helped him immensely.

It was all going well. Or at least it was a good set up. You didn’t mind him not talking. You didn’t mind that he addressed you sometimes, and other times didn’t. You didn’t try to talk to him, asking him questions about this or that about his life the way that other members had tried asking him before. You just did what you had volunteered to do. You were a good member of the Spider Society.

And then one day, or rather that day, he sat in the same conference room at HQ where he always schedules meetings. He had already passed out the reports for the meeting. He was reviewing them, as always, making sure everything was precise for the hundredth time. The minutes were going by, the meeting time getting closer and closer. He had looked up towards the door for some reason, as if he was expecting something at that moment. And then it struck him that you hadn’t shown up yet. He had looked at the time. You had missed your time window. You always arrived earlier than anyone else but when he looked at the door again, there was no sign of you. He remembers sighing deeply and shaking his head, as if trying to clear his mind. The meeting started and ended; your usual seat remained empty. There was no scent of coffee.

After the meeting, Jess made the slight comment to Hobie that your gizmo showed no activity. Neither of them worried though. They walked out of the conference room, chalking your absence to some emergency in your universe. Miguel had simply brushed it off, picking up his items before heading back to his lab. Before he knew it, however, it was time for you to show up at his lab to organize it. He continued working on his monitors as he noticed you hadn’t arrived on time. You were late now but whatever.

“So strange…” Lyla had quietly said.

“What?” Miguel asked as he moved one monitor away, but he knew. He just knew what Lyla was going to say before she even said it and he didn’t know why he knew. He didn’t like that he knew.

“Well – Y/N should’ve arrived by now but she’s not here yet.”

Miguel kept working, narrowing his eyes. “She’s probably just busy.”

“But it’s so unlike her… She would’ve notified you she wasn’t showing up,” Lyla had said, looking at the lab’s door with concern, as if still hoping that you would show up.

And yes, she was right, Miguel had realized. You were that kind of person. That’s when his mind began to drift away from his work. You missed the meeting and now the weekly organization time. You seemed like the type to let someone know you would be unable to show up because of an emergency but you hadn’t. Jess, who was like a mentor to you, hadn’t heard from you. Even one of your friends, Hobie, hadn’t heard from you. There was no activity from your gizmo either.

Miguel stared at one of his screens, his mind filled with these thoughts, his attention away from what he was supposed to focus on. He grunted in slight frustration. Why was he thinking about you? You were probably fine. You probably had something else come up. He wished that Lyla hadn’t said anything. He wished that he hadn’t heard Jessica and Hobie’s comment about the lack of activity from your gizmo. He wished he hadn’t noticed your absence.

He had sighed, closing out the screen in front of him.

“I’m going to run maintenance on you Lyla,” Miguel said, letting her know.

Lyla simply nodded, though she had noticed frustration coming from Miguel. She knew better than to ask and besides, she had a pretty good idea what was going on with Miguel. Miguel wasn’t a heartless person. He was capable of caring even if he wished he didn’t anymore and Lyla could sense that you were on his mind. She wondered if the sudden maintenance decision had to do with you.

And it did. Miguel purposely ran maintenance on Lyla before he traveled to your universe so she wouldn’t know where he was going. He didn’t want Lyla to bug him about it. He was just going to check. That was all. He was just going to verify that there wasn’t something incredibly wrong with your universe. Something that could mess with the fate of the multiverse. Yes, that was it. The fate of the multiverse as always…

So, he showed up to your apartment. It was day and the apartment was dark. It was silent. Too silent. Miguel looked around your apartment. There was no sign of you, and he briefly thought you were probably out and about until he saw the gizmo on your living room’s console table. It looked like it had just been dropped off carelessly. That didn’t sound like you at all, and Miguel fleetingly wondered why he believed that if he hardly knew you. Before he knew it, he was walking towards the room he assumed was the bedroom. And there you were.

His eyes immediately took in the sight of you. You clutched your stomach with your hands. Your eyes were shut, and soft groans escaped from your lips. He remembers moving through your room swiftly as you told him to go away. He knew something was wrong then, you never talked like that. Or at least, he had never heard you talk like that to someone.

And that’s how he spent hours at your apartment that day. It was the first and only time he had stayed at one of his recruits’ homes for that long. He had been invited to dinners before, mostly by Peter, who hosted Friday dinners for his group of friends that had become like a little family. The same one he knew you were a part of now. He now wondered if you attended those dinners, the same ones he never went to.

He only went to his recruits’ homes if it was necessary, staying for a few minutes but now you were the exception. He made homemade rice socks to ease your pain. Before he knew it, he was doing other things he hadn’t done for someone else in years. He washed the two dishes in your sink. Put away the clean ones, learning the ins and outs of your small but clean kitchen. He took out the trash. He checked on you occasionally, noticing that you no longer clutched your stomach and your groans of pain had eased at last. He felt relief to see his efforts had worked. Even your face, which had shown your pain, was relaxed. You slept peacefully, hugging a pillow to your body.

Miguel had watched you for some time, leaning on your bedroom doorway. The last time he had slept that soundly was when he lived in Gabriella’s universe. His worries had eased. His loneliness and restlessness had ceased to burden him. He had a normal sleeping schedule back then. He went to sleep at ten, having put Gabriella to sleep at nine so she would get plenty of sleep. He would then get up at six. He’d make coffee for himself and later, when married, for his wife as well. He made breakfast for Gabriella, ensuring she was always taken care of. He prepared her lunch. Gabriella and he had a schedule. Or well… His variant and Gabriella had a schedule and he had learned it.

Miguel puts those thoughts away now, not wanting to plague you or ruin your celebration. His eyes are still on you, and yours are on Peter’s photograph. The point was that he thought all those that had passed away who still have loved ones alive, are lucky. They are honored, remembered, and loved.

Miguel had no family. He didn’t call his colleagues friends, especially after he pushed them away but as he looked at you, he thought of your gestures, like taking him coffee and organizing his lab. He thought about the fact that he had shown up at your apartment and stayed for so long. He thought about how you had calmed him the following day when he discovered Lyla had hidden photos and videos of his family. He thought about how you were now being vulnerable with him, letting him in on something so personal the same way he had with you weeks ago.

As he looked at you and all these thoughts flooded his mind, his fear of dying alone and having no one to mourn or remember him dissipated in that moment. Maybe he would never find someone to love again. He didn’t know if he could love like that again. He didn’t know if he was ever going to have a child again… He knew Gabriella wasn’t his biologically, but it was as if she had been. It hadn’t mattered to him. She was his daughter. Su hija.

Mi niña, Miguel could not stop himself from thinking, remembering her and hearing her voice in his head. A warmness spread through his chest.

Maybe he was never going to have a family again. Maybe it really was his fate to live the rest of his life like this, and Miguel just needed to accept it but… as he looked at you and thought of what you had done for him so far, he couldn’t help but feel some assurance that maybe there would be someone, you, who would show up to his funeral one day. He knew Peter and Jess would, too. Even if none of you were family, he felt a little relief. He hid it well but as he looked at you, there was some appreciation from your boss. His fear had settled for once and it was thanks to you.

You, who hid your grief and loss so well from everyone. You, who had let him in. You, who was showing him, the way he had shown you. He wanted to say something then, but he didn’t know how to say it. Miguel wasn’t so great at expressing his feelings these days. It had been a long time since he had.

You suddenly look at him, meeting his eyes.

“You know… I’ve done this each year since his passing. This is the first time someone else has joined me and…” you pause. “Thank you for not judging me and for joining me,” you say at last.

“I would never judge you or anyone for this… I understand as much as I understand how – hard it is to let someone have a glimpse of these moments,” Miguel says slowly and quietly, his tone is full of sincerity and understanding. “I know how hard it is… how much it takes to allow someone in… thank you,” he says, meaning it. You had let him in the way he had let you in that day he discovered the secret photos and videos.

You nod, feeling a warmness spread through your own chest. It was difficult to let someone else in. This is why you never mentioned it to your friends. Besides, they had all gone through their own loss in some way. The last thing you wanted was to add your own to theirs. You sigh. “That’s why I lied to Lyla.”

He nods back, with a knowing look. “Lyla can be a little judgmental sometimes, so I don’t blame you at all.”

You chuckle lightly. “That she can be sometimes… She said earlier that going to bookstores wasn’t considered something fun,” you say, shaking your head.

Miguel tilts his head, remembering that part of the conversation. He had heard it unwillingly. “Lyla’s idea of fun is different from ours, I guess.”

Now you tilt your head. “You like to read?”

Miguel nods and then sighs. “Yes, but I don’t read much these days,” he says, trying to remember when the last time he read a book was. It was when Gabriella and his wife were still alive. Before he knows it, he begins to speak. “I stopped after… We used to go to the bookstore each weekend. Gabriella also enjoyed reading.”

You smile sadly and sigh, understanding. “It takes a long time to be able to do some of the things you used to do with them.” You pause. “It’s hard.”

Miguel nods, knowing as well. This showed up in many ways for him. Like cooking or reading. The day he cooked pasta for you was the first time he had cooked in years, and he had cooked that specifically because he had heard you say it was a comfort food. Miguel sighs softly. He feels comforted knowing he isn’t the only one who can’t do specific things after losing his loved ones. He, however, hopes that your standard of living is better than his. He knows he doesn’t sleep or eat well sometimes. He doesn’t rest and relax. He hopes that you are not like him. He hopes you have it better in those aspects. As he looks at you, he hopes you have a chance of one day moving on and possibly finding someone else in the future.

He wonders if you are even open to the possibility, but he doesn’t ask, as it’s something very personal. The two of you fall into silence but it’s not an uncomfortable one. You are two people, sharing grief and loss in that moment. You eye the cake and look up at him.

“Do you want to take some with you?” you ask him.

Miguel looks at you and nods. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

You nod and start cutting him a few slices before you move around your kitchen, finding a container to put the cake in. You can feel Miguel’s eyes on you as you search but it doesn’t bother you.

“So – if you don’t mind me asking, what kind of books do you like?” you ask, as you find a container but not the lid. You frown as you search for it.

Miguel watches you from behind. It seems that you can’t find a lid and he finds this amusing for some reason. He clears his throat and thinks about your question.

“I used to enjoy sci-fi books.”

You nod as you search deeper in your cabinet. Where the hell is that lid, you wonder briefly before you reply.

“You know… that makes sense,” you say, as you move some lids around.

“And history books,” Miguel adds behind you.

You turn at that. “I like – or well, I used to read historical fiction.”

Miguel stares at you intently, with a look on his face that feels like he might smile at any moment because his lips move slightly. You turn away to keep looking for that damn lid.

Miguel continues watching you.

“Mind if I look at your bookshelf?” he asks, and you pause.

“Oh – no. Go ahead,” you say, surprised as you continue to look for the lid.

You hear him stand up and move across your apartment. You look behind your shoulder, taking a peek at him in the corner where your bookshelf is located before you look for the lid. You move a container and there it is. You pull it out just as you hear him talk.

“You have a lot of these books,” he comments, making you wonder what he’s talking about.

You place the container with leftover cake on the counter and walk over to him.

“What kind?” you ask, as you stand next to him, eyeing the book he’s holding.

You freeze as you recognize the cover when he turns it over, apparently reading the back of it.

“These books with animated covers. Romcoms?” he asks, eyeing the cute, animated book cover.

You clear your throat and nod, feeling a little heat rise to your cheeks. He puts it away to your relief but then pulls out another one to your dismay.

“Hmm,” Miguel lets out as he reads the back.

“Yeah, it’s just romcoms… I went through a phase a few years ago. I also like mystery, like… This one,” you say, spotting a book you remember is in the mystery genre. This is your attempt to take his attention from the misleading romcom books but when you turn to Miguel to show him the other book, you see him flipping through it.

Fuck. You just stare and hope that he doesn’t land on one of those pages. To your relief his face remains the same as he flips through it before he puts it away and takes the one you are offering him. You sigh quietly in relief that he didn’t read anything that might change his opinion about you. Miguel nods as he reads the synopsis.

“Sounds interesting,” he mutters with furrowed brows, placing the book back where you got it from. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever return to the habit of reading.”

You nod slowly. “I hear that,” you say, looking at the books you have bought over the last three years but haven’t read yet.

The two of you stand there, in front of your bookshelf, closely. You suddenly feel like you’re too close to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind as his eyes scan the books. He seems genuinely interested in the titles.

Miguel finally turns to you. He has spent more time than he anticipated but he’s okay with it… He feels oddly at peace right now, standing before your overflowing bookshelf with books that contain… interesting content to say the least. Miguel clears his throat, trying to forget what he partially read. No wonder you were trying to get him another book, he realizes, feeling amused but also intrigued by this. This has added another layer to you, making you even more interesting to him.

Miguel sighs. “It’s getting late. I should probably head back to Nueva York… You probably need rest, too,” he says softly.

“Yeah – I guess it’s late now,” you say looking at a clock on your wall, realizing it is quite late now.

Miguel nods, stepping back and taking a few steps away from you. He begins to click on his gizmo, preparing to leave. “Oh, my cake,” he says, suddenly remembering and reminding you.

You nod and walk to the kitchen section, retrieving the container. You walk back to him, handing it to him. Miguel takes the container gently from you.

“Thank you,” he says, softly but laced with something else like appreciation. You can’t help but feel that his thank you is not just for the cake though. You push it away, not knowing that Miguel O’Hara’s constant fear of dying alone has been settled thanks to you tonight.

You smile up at him. “Thank you,” you say full of gratitude. “Your presence tonight… It helped me,” you admit, hoping it’s not too much for Miguel and it isn’t, or at least it doesn’t appear so because he nods with a calm face.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he responds, meaning it as he feels it’s the least he could do after you helped him diminish his fear. He looks down at the container, making you look at it, too. It looks so small in his large hands.

Miguel gives you one last nod before he opens a multidimensional portal, making objects in your small apartment float. He looks at the items and gives you an apologetic look. You chuckle.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, and he nods again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at HQ,” he says as he steps into the portal.

“See you tomorrow” you say with a small wave as he begins walking into the portal.

A few seconds later, he disappears completely before the portal itself begins to fade. You watch as the floating objects begin to descend slowly the more the portal fades until they fall, the portal closing.

You sigh as you look around. Another birthday for Peter but at least this time was different. You can’t help but feel glad you accidentally left your mask earlier as you begin to put the objects away. Miguel really helped tonight as you would’ve probably cried more if he hadn’t shown up suddenly.

You walk to the record player, which at this point has stopped playing. You remove the current vinyl and place another one, one that’s lighter on your emotions right now. You head to the kitchen and clean up by yourself, feeling good. Once done, you turn and face Peter’s photograph.

“Happy Birthday, love. I really hope you had a great one. I hope you didn’t mind that my boss showed up but at least you’ve met him now,” you say with a smile. You plant a kiss on your fingertips and then bring them to the photograph, right on Peter’s lips. “Thank you… for everything you ever did for me, Peter. I love you,” you whisper, staring at the photo for a few more seconds before you turn the record player and lamps off, and head to bed, feeling pleased with today.

Back in Nueva York, Earth-928, Miguel steps out of the portal but not into his lab. He steps out into his penthouse, for the first time in weeks. He looks around the dark penthouse for a few seconds and with a single voice command, the lights turn on. Miguel blinks, adjusting to the light. He heads to the kitchen and places the container in the fridge. He’ll have more of it tomorrow, he thinks as he heads to the bedroom. He enters it and looks at the bed for a few seconds before he deactivates his suit, leaving him in his boxers. He climbs into bed, feeling odd at first but as he relaxes his body, he feels the exhaustion take over him as he thinks of what happened tonight in your dimension. He feels at peace for once.

For the first time in over a month, Miguel O’Hara begins to fall asleep on his bed.

And for the first time in years, he has no nightmares.

---------------------

Translation for italicized words: Dia de los Muertos - Day of the Dead Ofrenda - Altar for Day of the Dead Su hija - His/Her daughter Mi niña – My girl (daughter)

Lowkey laughing at myself right now. I ended up splitting the last part because it was too long, only for me to do it again but this time, I’m leaving it. I had planned to talk a little more of Miguel's past before Gabriella and I hurt my own feelings with that. I just want to give this man a tight hug, good food, bathe him in affection, and take care of him!!! Side note, I can't wait for BTSP to see more of his story because we literally know nothing!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this and I’m sorry if I made you sad with Miguel’s point of view. I hope I made it up with the ending though 😊 I also want to add that I previously thought this was only going to be like four or five parts, but I think it’s going to be at least six or seven parts now as I don’t want to rush things between Miguel and the reader because I don’t think Miguel (and reader) would immediately jump into a relationship. It’s going to take some time and I want to explore more moments with them to make it as realistic as possible. Also, just realized it’s been two weeks since I first posted part one. Crazy! Thank you again for the support, it’s greatly appreciated!

I still love Miguel. That's all.

Tag List: (It seems I finally found a way to tag those that I was unable to last time, apologies for that)

@loverlorn @saturnknows @d1lf-loverrr @eddiestitmiguelsbigdick @freehentai @arithestrawberry @scaleniusrm @haradasaya @spidermanismyfav @bitchykittenconnoisseur @thecraziestcrayon @obi-mom-kenobi @natsury-kazuki @rootin-tootin-morgan @coraline750 @edgycatx @safixiovi @sunnyx07 @nxrdamp @rorel1a @oceanstar19 @happishark @carmilla01 @somebodyelsethanyouthink @adora-but-ginger @angie2274 @vampi-amora @tired-writer04 @plzfeedmebread @shadow-pancake9 @tynakub

To the people below, I had to tag you in the comments because it wouldn't let me on the post, idk why :(

@mashiromochi @loveletterfrommwah @mandodinstuff @muzansucker

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tkaulitzlvr · 6 months

Text

FORGET - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: when tom comes home from rehearsals in a bad mood, you suggest a way to make him feel better.

content: smut

a/n: i hate this but i haven’t posted in a while so hopefully it makes up for my absence. i’m having to reupload this bc for some reason it didn’t show up under any tags when i posted it the first time 😍😍 i love tumblr such a great smooth-running app 💗

the front door opens and closes quickly with a loud thud, soon destroying the peaceful silence that had remained throughout the house all day. it was evening, the sun almost set as it cast a plethora of dark purples and oranges across the cloudless sky. the day had been totally unproductive on my end: tired body sprawled out on the couch, enveloped in soft blankets, hands reaching lethargically to the bowl of popcorn resting in my lap, eyes fixed on the series that i had insisted to spend one hour watching, knowing that i had countless jobs to do - though time quickly passed by until it had totally slipped through my fingers.

tom however, had been the complete opposite of lethargic, having woken up early this morning and leaving for the studio as he had done everyday for the past week, a big show coming up at the weekend that he needed to be well prepared for. he had sealed our lips in a sweet kiss before exiting, embracing me in a quick hug before hurrying out of the door, seeming as happy as he would be any other day. yet the chaotic entrance he displays as he enters the living room tells me that he is not feeling at all content, his jaw clenched, with anger clouding over his expression, painting the beautiful features with a dark stare that admittedly frightens me the second i register his change in mood.

"tom?" i call out, leaning forward as his sultry frame nears my own, walking towards me slowly and slumping onto the couch beside me, maintaining a distance too large to not be questioned, instead of wrapping a gentle arm around my waist and attacking me with kisses as he usually would after a long day like this one.

he utters an almost inaudible 'hey baby', his words tender despite the lack of kindness that his tone and actions display, before letting out a deep sigh and massaging his temples, his head falling backwards in what i can only assume to be frustration. in any normal circumstance, he would be showering me with affection and asking me about my day amidst subtle complaints towards his own. yet he remains distant, eyes skittish, leg bouncing up and down as he refuses to shift his gaze towards mine or make any conversation, creating the questions of whether i am the reason for his current bad mood.

"what's wrong?" i ask, turning to face him and moving closer, placing my hand on his thigh in attempt to bring any comfort, no matter how small.

"nothing." he mutters, refusing to look in my direction, the harsh expression plastered on his face failing to soften. though he doesn't refuse my touch, allowing my hand to run soothingly across his thigh, my touch tentative as i test the waters.

"you don't come home looking this upset every day." i respond, not giving up despite his cold demeanour. my voice is soft, barely above a whisper, not wanting to frustrate him any more than he clearly is, instead opting for a more subtle approach, recognising the comfort that he silently craves. "talk to me."

the gentleness within my tone appears to work in my favour, tom slowly seeming to warm up to me, an exasperated sigh escaping his mouth as he turns to look me, his expression immediately softening, any remnant of tension fading away. he extends his hand outward, placing it on top of my own and giving it a small squeeze, the small act silently saying 'sorry for being a dick', though he quickly verbalises his apology as his mouth opens to speak.

"shit- i'm sorry baby." he mutters, shaking his head in apparent disapproval towards his own actions, the grip that his hand has on mine tightening slightly, his thumb running slowly up and down the skin. "practice was really stressful today, that's all. everyone expects so much of me and it's just a little too much sometimes. i didn't mean to take it out on you, i just-"

i immediately cut him off, resting my head on his shoulder and angling it slightly, allowing our eyes to stay interlocked, a soft smile now etched upon his face, though i can tell it is forced, one that aims to console me instead of signal towards his happiness. "don't apologise, i get it. is there anything i can do to make you feel better?"

"it's okay schatz. i'll be alright." he mutters, resting his forehead against my own. the sudden close proximity allows me to register the rapid change in his eyes, the sea of brown soon taken over by lost as they darken, his gaze flickering from my eyes to my lips. he hesitates though, head nearing towards my own at an unimaginably slow pace, leaning in until our lips eventually touch, sealing in a sweet kiss. he is gentle, choosing to savour the tender moment rather than act on his impulses that are becoming increasingly obvious despite his attempt to hide it. i quickly kiss back, my hands naturally wrapping themselves loosely around his neck, tom's soothing my waist whilst the other reaches not so innocently, grabbing my ass and pulling me onto his lap.

i break apart from the kiss, moving downward slower and slower, hands trailing teasingly down the spread of his thighs, eventually stopping once my head is eye level with his crotch, noticing the way that his bulge becomes prominent through the material of his jeans. this angle allows me to notice his chest heaves up and down, ragged breaths leaving his now parted lips, legs spreading apart to allow my head more space where he wants it most.

"how about..." i mumble, voice low and seductive, lashes batting as my eyes look upward into his own, whilst my fingers reach towards the button of his jeans, making contact with them ever so slightly. "i make you forget about it all. hm? how does that sound baby?"

"mhm." he whines, hands reaching for the button of his jeans, doing so with limited success as i reach to stop him, much to his dismay. "fuck- please, just do something."

"just sit back baby. let me do the work. you're stressed out, i wanna make you feel good." i whisper, slowly moving his hands to rest at his sides, fingers hooking around the zipper of the oversized denim as i tug it downward, eyes never leaving tom's. he hoists his hips upward, allowing me to remove the jeans easier, letting the material pool at his feet, wasting no time before sliding one finger into the waistband of his boxers.

"jesus christ- please, don't tease. need to feel you." he breathes out, his voice low and ragged, clearly unable to withstand the slow pace of my movements, wanting more than just my touch, needing it to travel elsewhere, his boxers an obstacle to his desires.

somewhat pitying his desperation, i nod my head, complying with his plea, my fingers wrapping securely around the cotton, finally pulling them downward, his dick springing from the material, a loud groan sounding from his lips at the feeling. his eyes darken, no longer kind and forgiving as they had been when he was pleading just a few seconds ago. they are different, reflecting the desperation which is made more evident than ever before, no longer concealed by the thin material of his boxers.

and, before he is able to utter another breathy complaint of my hesitance, i soon put any ability to form coherent sentences to bed when my lips make contact with the tip of his dick, hand resting at the base as i slowly take it in, studying the way his mouth falls open, eyebrows threading together as he is unable to do anything but watch in awe, tired lust fuelling his motivation to keep his eyes open, refusing to tear his eyes away from the sight unfolding below him.

the temptation to stop just before taking the final few inches in becomes real once i realise that i cannot take much more, my entire body stopping momentarily to accustom to feeling so completely full, though the motivation of his short moans, quiet and almost unnoticeable, prompt me to go just that little bit deeper, until his tip hits the back of my throat, hand beginning to run up and down what i am unable to fit in.

almost instinctively, his hand threads through my hair, collecting the loose curls within his fingers, threading through it roughly as they begin to craft a makeshift ponytail, though i soon pick up on the true intention of his touch, realising that it is nothing close to resembling innocence, every ounce of intent behind it as i recognise the gentle movements the palm of his hand initiates, encouraging my mouth to move just a little faster.

"fuck schatz- just like that..." he allows a much more obvious moan to sound from the back of his throat this time, no longer concealing his recognition of pleasure that i provide, his walls soon crumbling down when i speed up, deciding that pretending to be in any place other than heaven itself would be foolish, unable to deny the way my mouth moves in just the right way, prompting him to his release faster than ever before.

the tears that soon cloud my vision act as no restraint towards my movements, cheeks hollowing as they tighten around him, the effect that this has on him impossible to deny as he curses under his breath, a guttural moan leaving his parted lips in clear confirmation of his satisfaction, this all i need to sink onto him further, determined to push him towards his release.

and he is clearly not too far away from it, his hips beginning to thrust upward, meeting my own movements as his steady hand on my head becomes not so assured, fingers shakily threading through my hair as he manages to take some control, though not enough to direct the way that my mouth moves. nothing has ever been clearer than his desperation, his hips stuttering more often than they manage to keep their movements contained, his tip repeatedly hitting the back of my throat, tears soon cascading down the tinted skin of my cheeks, the feeling of his dick beginning to twitch inside telling of just how close he is to his climax.

"fuck, don't stop baby, gonna cum..." through his moans he manages to speak, his mouth opening and eyes finally squeezing shut, this the only warning i receive before he shoots his hot cum into my throat as i quickly swallow it, a loud groan following his release. thrusting sloppily into me a few more times, his eyes open slowly, chest heaving up and down, entire body trembling as he comes down, finally allowing my mouth to leave his dick, saliva coating the length once i move away.

even when i adjust myself, collapsing beside him breathlessly, i can tell that this isn't enough for him. he craves more, beyond his fucked out expression, i see that he needs to feel me once again despite the evident fatigue etched upon my face. and he shows no shame in acting on his desires, reaching forward and pressing his lips onto mine once again, the kiss lacking the softness it had before. this time, it hints towards pure lust, desperate touches being nothing more than physical evidence of his hunger.

"just one more baby. can you do that for me?" he mumbles against my lips, our foreheads touching as he hovers above me, my head slowly nodding before i impatiently pull him back downwards, initiating the kiss this time as our lips reconnect once again, this time with more desire. he seems pleased by my sudden acceptance, enjoying the way i reciprocate his movements, craving nothing more than to see me begging for him, no longer looking for the innocence that had initiated whatever ungodly acts that are about to resume. his tongue delves into my mouth, teeth sinking into my bottom lip as he becomes rougher by the second, not interested in wasting time as i had the first time. his hands find the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one swift motion, taking only a few seconds to admire my frame, instead rushing to kiss the soft skin of my neck, his impatience taking any ability to appreciate what is in front of him away, though i know that he silently always will, his actions evidence of his adoration no matter how impulsive they seem.

heavy sighs escape my lips as he continues to mark my neck, hands fumbling with his t-shirt, desperate to remove it. tom quickly catches onto my impatience, removing his lips briefly from my collarbone to discard the material. my eyes immediately lock onto the soft skin trailing from his upper shoulders, gaze ending on his lower stomach, each inch of skin being caressed by my soft touch hand, running carefully over each muscle, the pads of my fingertips making gentle contact with his front whilst we maintain eye contact, the silence only frustrating tom more.

"i need you so bad." he mutters, hands finding the waistband of my leggings, my hips shifting slightly to allow him to tug them down. the air between us is a barrier to him, separating him in every way possible despite its invisibility. i feel it, almost as much as i do his body against my own. i long to be closer to him, yet he is connected to me, our torsos pressed together with our legs intertwined. we are so close, aligned with each other both physically and mentally, but it isn't enough. my heart twists at the gut-wrenching realisation that this moment will not last forever, aching to be intimate with him for every remaining second of my life. and each kiss he plants on my lips i gladly reciprocate, sealing our love in the most pleasurable way possible.

though when his lips kiss just above my panties, i lose all sense of reasoning, all ability to think about anything beyond the feeling of his mouth working against my body. it is enough to send me into a trance, hypnotised by the possibility of being pleasured, using this reality to tune out any thought that doesn't centre around him. he is my oxygen, his touch my endless supply of, the way his hands run along my body casting every worry, every mere uncertainty, even my surroundings away, my mind solely focused on the pleasure he is giving me, every crevice of my body caressed by his wandering hands, until they reach my underwear, tugging them down at an agonisingly slow pace.

"please." it is my turn to beg this time, soon realising how completely irritating it is to be so close to the very thing you want, the feeling soon becoming nothing short of a need as i gaze desperately into his dark brown eyes, willing to plead until my throat turns raw if the reward is feeling him inside me.

"be patient, meine schatz." he briefly responds, joining our lips together whilst one hand reaches behind me to unclip my bra as it quickly falls to the floor along with the rest of our clothing.

i struggle to be as complacent as i had been, failing to hide my growing desire to have him inside me, pulling him downwards into me and clutching his upper back so tightly as if he can slip out of my grasp. this emotion is overwhelming, every inch of me fuelled with utter ecstasy, thoughts of heaven itself seeming pathetic compared to this.

becoming overly impatient, my hands scramble for his underwear, pulling it downwards whilst his lips are attached to my collarbone, leaving purple-ish marks. he quickly pulls away, staring tenderly into my eyes, his gaze carrying thousands of emotions despite the silence between us.

"are you ready?" he whispers, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear as he positions himself. "tell me if i hurt you, okay baby?"

i nod my head eagerly, knowing that any pain that would come from this would be insignificant in comparison to the pleasure. "i need words honey." he whispers, kissing my cheek repeatedly, finally satisfied when i utter a confident 'yes'. he pushes into me, a choked moan escaping from my parted lips, a slow groan coming from his as he begins to move. the euphoria coursing through every vein, every nerve within me is set alight the second he bottoms out.

it takes a few thrusts for him to create a steady rhythm, and even less for him to recognise the angle needed to drive me close to insane, my eyes rolling to the back of my head as he hits the place where i long for him most. small groans sound from the back of his throat, his heavy breath fanning over my neck with each thrust, head buried tightly into my neck. any chance to get closer to him, i feverishly take, wrapping my legs around his torso, allowing him to hit deeper spots nobody has ever felt before.

"oh fuck..." he mutters, speeding up as his hands find mine, interlocking instantly as he moves them above my head, our eyes catching each other's. the way he looks at me with such love, eyes capturing my own with such tenderness, such desire that it almost pushes me to my climax itself. it is this small act that brings along the realisation that i am hopelessly devoted to him, willing to put myself in almost any situation if it means that i am able to cherish moments like this with him, because without him i am an empty vessel. he fills me up in a way that has me begging for more, a moaning mess beneath him.

"please, don't stop!" i whine tiredly against his lips, feeling my release coming closer as my stomach tightens. desperate to reach it, i slowly begin to move against him, his hips stuttering against me in response, giving me the signal that he is close too.

"i know baby, i know." he recognises how bad i need it, speeding up in spite of his evident lethargy, his breath getting caught in his throat as he thrusts a few more times, throwing his head back and letting out a loud sigh, his release triggering my own. i swear i can see stars, my vision fading away, body so lost in intense pleasure that it is unable to focus on anything else but the steady movements of tom's hips as he rides out our highs.

breathlessly, he collapses on top of me, lazily stroking my hair as his lips are slightly parted, sweat glistening on his forehead whilst he attempts to regain his composure. this time i know he is finished, body tired and exhausted as it rests against my own, the room silent besides from our heavy and irregular breathing.

"thank you baby. always so good for me, love you." his voice is ragged, throat raw and tired, yet he exercises his limited energy to remind me of our love, his lips planting a slow kiss on my forehead.

requests are open! keep sending them in!!

#tom kaulitz #tokiohotel #kaulitz twins #tom kaulitz smut #tomkaulitz #tom kaulitz x reader #kaulitz #tom kaulitz fluff #tom kaulitz angst #bill kaulitz #bill kaulitz x reader #tokio hotel

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throwaway-yandere · 1 year

Text

Dendro NA: 101 (Yandere!Alhaitham/Reader)

a/n: “ansy weren’t you going to write faceless!ayato and music composer!tighnari” well yes but things happened so now here we are. I’m dedicating this fic to crying anon since they’re the person that gave me an idea of an "what if Alhaitham had an elf!darling?" after this fic. The beginning reads like an enemies-to-lovers fic with a slice of crack where nothing goes wrong but trust me it’s not lmao

unreliable synopsis: After Alhaitham forged your signature, you're now forced to become the Acting Grand Sage’s assistant. It's even more annoying when he nearly visited your house all drugged up. Seriously, when will he learn to respect his seniors?

CW: yandere themes, noncon touching, aphrodisiacs, possessiveness, so much bickering, and the reader slanders dendro for plot reasons.

Pulcinella, The Rooster, came to visit early in the morning.

“Pups, please… Stop turning my apartment upside down and just tell me what you want.”

It was unexpected how the old man barged into your “unconquerable mess of an apartment” with the intent to celebrate your newfound job at the Haravatat. Mayor Pulcinella isn’t your direct grandfather, but he is your grandfather’s brother. The fact that you are connected to him is a well-known secret (as absurd an oxymoron as that may sound) in the College of Engineering and Technology at the Akademiya. Because of the collectivist mentality that characterized your family, every last pointy-eared relative you are aware of is blatantly nosy and annoying. The "mayor" is much more so.

Pulcinella did come to extend his congratulations, with a generous batch of cookies even, but he had an objective in mind. His way of showing that he cares is usually in the form of letters but he stands right in front of you now. You can only imagine how difficult it is for someone in his position to take a leave of absence this far since Port Ormos is so far away from home and it takes days for mail to arrive here.

Your grandfather is obstinate. Terrifying so since you recognize that expression on his face all too well. Although you are unsure of what he needs from you, you do know that you want him out. Immediately.

“Don’t talk to me in that tone, child.” He scowled, jabbing your briefcases with his wooden cane. “I’m not leaving until I find it.”

That "Rooster" moniker belongs to him without a doubt. Your belongings were seized by the elf-like a bird's beak. He prodded the dreadful equation-filled sheets hanging on your wall and snatched a few trinkets on your work table. Good lord. Pulcinella made so much noise that if you weren’t already planning on starting your day, you would’ve been incredibly cranky when he knocked on your door.

“For Her Majesty’s sake– just what are you trying to find, grandpups?”

He turned to look at you.

Not mad, but disappointed– sad, even.

“An engagement ring. Evidence that you’re dating that fool, Alhaitham.”

You groaned.

“Him again?! Motherf—”

Pulcinella quirked his eyebrow at your outburst, “hmm?”

You chuckled nervously, “ah, sorry, I just… It’s nothing.”

No, it was not “nothing.” That bastard ruined a lot of things for you, including your vision. You didn’t want a dendro vision. You were praying for Rex Lapis every night even after his death but somehow being involved with Alhaitham strayed your path to gaining the “grass fertilizer tool” as you loved to call it. Sure, there’s little evidence that he’s the reason behind the fact that you got a dendro vision instead of geo but that doesn’t change the fact that you want to crush him between your palms like a writhe scarab. Especially after he enlisted you as his scribe-disciple without your consent. What a complete scumbag.

Oh, to quit the Akademiya only to be forced to go back again…

But of course, your grandpups don’t know anything about this and you have ZERO intentions of letting him in on your business. If he knows, then ALL of Snezhnayan elves know.

“I’ve heard from your mother that you’ve gone lovesick and left the Akademiya,” Pulcinella spoke in a slow somber tone. “And falling recklessly in love and gaining a dendro vision does not sound like you at all.”

Eww. Lovesick? Hell no.

If it weren’t for this man, you would’ve graduated as a fully pledged civil engineer next year. If he wasn’t such a great scribe, no, forger, your signature wouldn’t be on that damn contract.

That man seriously has no respect for his seniors.

Nevertheless, it was too late to do anything. You just have to accept the consequences of your inaction. Additionally, if you're going to take this "new job," you might as well act as if you adore it.

Hooray! Don’t you love working for Alhaitham? Isn’t it fun to discard your 4 years of studying? Oh, what joy! You definitely did not burn your eyebrows out trying to ace FIFTY Kshahrewar mock tests!!!–

“Talk to me, poppet.” He continued, eyebrows knitted. His wrinkly hands reached to gently hold yours. Suddenly, you remembered that he is still family. That this was the same old major that your young self boasted their miniature construction toys to.

“I’m worried that something might’ve happened. And my dear, health is not the absence of disease or infirmity, it is also–”

“The complete state of physical, mental, AND social wellbeing. Yes. I know, Pups. You nearly forced me to study medicine.” You groaned and palmed your forehead, weak but playful.

He chuckled heartily.

The old man’s rather soft with you compared to his other grandchildren. If he wasn’t, you’d likely find yourself as Il Dottore’s new assistant.

Although most people would find working for a harbinger, especially The Doctor, to be a complete nightmare, you concluded that being Alhaitham's slave was the epitome of "overrated garbage," and you despise the scribe so much you can't even remember his appearance. Sure, Layla’s jealous that you’re essentially set for life by being a scribe assistant but at least Dottore gives his assistants a hefty pay (discounting his crimes against humanity…)

You’re not proud to call Alhaitham your boss. That stupid #093c0d face doesn’t make your 2 million mora salary worth the trouble. He needs to pay for your mental health insurance–

“Are you alright, poppet? You’re looking at me like you would with one of your test slimes.”

You exhaled deeply, “sorry, I suddenly thought of a hex code #093c0d person.”

Pulcinella closed his eyes.

“A dark green shade?”

“That’s right.”

“...”

With an unreadable yet deliberate face, Pulcinella fixed his gaze on you. Your unique perspective on others didn't seem to disturb your grandpups the way it did your parents. He is one of the select few who is aware of how you assign people's personalities through colors. Pulcinella raised his glasses further up before giving a sage-like nod. The moment he crossed his arms, you knew he understood what you were trying to express.

“So it’s a lover’s quarrel.”

“Yes, exactly.”

…

“Wait, what– NO!!! Pups, please stop assuming shit– things!!!”

Never mind— he is SO far off.

Why is he convinced that you’re dating that prick? What the hell did your mom tell him?!

“I heard that, poppet. And do not misunderstand, I think this is a good thing.”

Your uncle-grandfather cupped your cheeks and squished them between his fingers. Perhaps this is what people consider a wholesome grandpa-grandchild dynamic– but social norms should’ve also labeled this as domestic violence. His pinching hurts. Your clipped groans made him grin wider.

“After all, this means that you have seen his flaws and true character. What better way to break a couple up than a genuine argument?”

“PWUUUPS!!!”

Pulcinella pulled his hands away.

“I felt distraught when I heard you have given up your pursuit of civil engineering and chose a career in the Haravatat,” he sighed and took off his hat, holding it against his chest. “I was rooting for you, dear. I had faith in your aspirations. Even Lord Capitano found it upsetting to learn that the future engineer I frequently boasted about had become a lesser Lord Kusanali underling.”

You squirmed and rubbed your cheeks, staring at the ground.

Lord Capitano was not someone you often interacted with, but you knew that he had an eye for talent– and he sought after yours. Perhaps this is your ego talking, but it felt like even he believed you’re best suited for an engineering course too. Other than your grandpups and subsequently his recruit, Ajax, Lord Capitano was one of the Fatuis you respected.

Alhaitham truly crushed your dreams.

“I know, Pups…”

“You know what to do, right?”

You nodded solemnly, before looking him dead in the eye. Pulcinella can see your determination clear as day.

You breathed in.

“I’m going to commit arson.”

He patted your back, smiling.

“That’s my grandchild!”

Pulcinella tip-toed and ruffled your hair.

“Alright, this old man had given up. Just show grandpups where the ring is.”

“Her majesty the Tsaritsa’s sake– I already told you Pups– ALHAITHAM AND I ARE NOT DATING!!!”

It was an exceptionally hot evening in Sumeru City despite being far from the desert. You should be inside your apartment right now, studying the Dendro Vision book Alhaitham gave you but you’d rather be where you are now. It’s about to get warmer, yet you’d dare argue that both you and master architect Kaveh’s headache can compete with its 38°C average temperature.

“C’mon, please?”

“No, I’m not helping you burn Alhaitham’s house down.”

“What?! Why not?!”

“Damnit, (Y/n)– BECAUSE I LIVE THERE!!!”

“Oh, right.”

You flopped back to your seat, eyes rolling back, deflated.

Kaveh cried out in pain while lowering his head to the table. He somewhat resembled a dried-out raisin. He had a drinking binge the night before, so this isn't because he's not a morning person. Although you expressed regret for knocking on his (Alhaitham's) door, the architect never misses a chance to rant about his housemate. Kaveh's pain wasn't even close to how much he detested Alhaitham. Now here you both are, sitting outside Lambad’s Tavern like morons because you both forgot to bring your wallets.

Not a sight you’d expect from a master-of-all-trades (ex-)engineering student and a genius architect.

“Damn it…” You whined. “What else am I supposed to do now?”

“Await until Focalors passes her judgment,” he answered hoarsely.

In other words: curl up and die, probably.

“Yeah… Yeah, that sounds viable. Let me just go to Fontaine real quick– oh wait, I can’t, because some dumbass scribe paid the corps to keep me from reaching the borders.”

Kaveh chuckled, still caressing his headache, not caring how his messy and unwashed locks covered his eyes. You’d be surprised if he told you he didn’t just get out of bed. He appeared like he was ready to sleep for all eternity, or more accurately, Kaveh’s starting to look eerily similar to Layla. In terms of colors though, he’d still be a #ffda29 and not a #003153.

He sneered, “did the sun always look this bright, powerful, and oh-so hateful?”

“It wouldn’t look like that if you didn’t down the pitcher I left on the table last night, Kaveh.”

You both turned to look at the voice– rather, the abyss. Alhaitham stood behind you. Or at least, you think it’s him.

Okay, here’s the deal: you hate remembering his face.

You handle your memory much like a student would a personal bookshelf– you’ll occasionally take out the information you no longer wish to retain in favor of more useful and relevant ones. As a creature with longevity, an elf should be picky when it comes to memories. You believe your approach is in the same vein as Pulcinella disposing of “less valuable assets’' without hesitation. If there’s no point in having it, why carry the baggage? But there are at least two facts that you can easily recall about Alhaitham: it’s his voice and the color #093c0d.

In other words, he’s just a talking dark green slime in your eyes.

Which he considers a major step up, by the way. You went from ignoring him to recognizing his voice, to associating him with one color. That’s quite a development. A pathetically slow progression, but still a positive one.

“THERE YOU ARE, ALHAITHAM, YOU PRI–”

The man swiftly dodged his slap by crouching down. He honestly didn’t have to put in the effort when Kaveh’s attacks were sluggish.

“–CK! WHY’D YOU LABEL THE ALCOHOL AS WATER?!”

Tons of passersby stared at Kaveh as he flailed around, but they were quick to look away. It’s no longer a secret that he lives with the scribe. Everyone in Sumeru City knows about his tactless antics and none are deaf when it comes to his loud gripes about his housemate. Even so, you went up to him to soothe his worries and restore his reputation because not everyone understands he's not a bad person.

Alhaitham scoffed, glaring.

“I didn’t. The label said "Fire-Water.””

“WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES THAT MAKE?!”

“Fire-water? Oh.”

Your hand flew to your mouth as you connected the two dots.

That beverage from Snezhnaya is notorious for having a high alcohol content and is only known in Mondstadt as the drink Master Ragnvindr forbade exports of. As a quote-unquote "wine connoisseur," you were invited to one of his parties. Fortunately, you were able to warn Diluc of how potent it is firsthand– Kaveh? Not so much.

You snorted.

“Yeah, Kaveh, I hate to take Alhaitham’s side on this but this one is on you, friend.”

The blonde’s eyes widened, betrayed.

“HAH?!”

“Need I remind you that fire-water is an alcoholic beverage, Kaveh.” Alhaitham waved his hand, emphasizing his condescending tone. “Maybe if you listened to me instead of ranting about my work ethic, you would’ve known that I received it as a gift from a Fatui Harbinger.”

Your ears perked up. “From a Harbinger?”

Alhaitham smirked but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Hmm. I’m certain that you know him, assistant (L/n). His name is Pulcinella,” the scribe said. “He left me a note. He said he wishes that I drink to my heart’s content as a thank-you gift for hiring his grandchild. I wasn’t aware you have a kind grandfather.”

You smiled back, crookedly.

No. No, your uncle-grandfather DEFINITELY wanted to see Alhaitham in pain. He didn’t even bother giving him a bottle– he gave him a fucking leftover pitcher.

Alhaitham took your arm. Unfortunately, he’s taller than you with muscle strength you can’t compete with. You squirmed but resistance was futile. Doesn’t mean you can’t bite his arm off–

“Assistant (L/n)–”

You gritted your teeth. “Don’t touch me, sir.”

Alhaitham paused, processing how much emphasis you put into pronouncing the word “sir.”

“–I’ll be taking you away now.” He looked down on your friend and scoffed. “Kaveh, do try your best to not be a burden to Mx. (L/n) again.”

Kaveh clutched his head, still in pain.

Sorry, Kaveh. That drink and beating headache were not meant for you in the slightest. You made a mental note to make it up to him, but not today. You have a lot on your plate right now.

“Idiot. They’re the one that invited me here!”

“True–”

“I quite frankly don’t care,” Alhaitham spat coldly.

“From now on, refrain from having conversations with my assistant. Unless you’re prepared to face the consequences.”

“Do you remember the approximate damage multipliers an aggravate reaction causes?”

“Nope.”

“Tch. I just discussed this, I can’t believe you already forgot.”

“You think I forgot? Haha, hell no. I didn’t forget, I just wasn’t paying any attention.”

Alhaitham dragged you down a secluded area in the rainforests with a sword in hand. Quite frankly, you hoped he brought his weapon to kill you, but you’re well aware of what this is about.

This is a lesson straight out of a page of “Dendro Vision Qualifications 101: Normal Attack Patterns.” The Acting Grand Sage thinks that you should have at least enough fighting proficiency for you to start formally working for him. As for you? You think this whole charade is utterly meaningless.

Sometimes, you truly do wish you were born as a rock instead. Maybe then you would be able to perform the “gray-rock method” whenever Alhaitham starts his drivel about dendro visions. You bet you’d make a pretty good tombstone for your dead childhood friend if you were a rock. Being a rock is probably the nicest thing to be. You get to be something created from the Geo element– the element and vision you desired. And not dendro.

Anything but lame old dendro.

This is so stupid. You wanted a geo vision, damn it. What on earth did you do to make Rex Lapis spite you, and what kinda breakthrough did you accomplish to gain the Lesser Lord Kusanali’s favor instead?!

If only you got something that isn’t the same as Alhaitham’s vision. Maybe if you got an electro vision you’d be learning how to brandish a lance with the General Mahamatra instead. Unlike most people, you enjoy being in his prolonged company and dry jokes. You’ve exchanged letters with Cyno multiple times– but your friend’s on-the-spot puns are 10x funnier than the things he writes down. Of course, that’s only because his earnest delivery sells it.

“In this fighting stance, you can perform up to 4 consecutive attacks, dishing out dendro damage approximately every 2 seconds interval–”

You held up your Eye of Perception.

“Bold of you to assume I’ll use this vision.”

“–charge attacks on the other hand require a hefty amount of stami–”

You yawned, halting Alhaitham in the middle of his “lecture.”

There’s a reason why you chose an Eye of Perception, and that’s because, unlike most catalysts, it procures physical damage as well. With someone as petty as you, it’s only natural that you’d brandish a weapon that doesn’t rely too much on dendro reactions.

“Yeah, I’ll just hit the enemy with my catalyst. Like, aim and shoot, or maybe I’ll just go with blunt force. This eye of perception looks like it’s made of metal, it can probably dish out some physical damage–”

Alhaitham shifted forward. Your gentle yet insouciant voice forced him out of his momentum.

“(Y/n).”

“...Yes, sir?”

His gaze sharpened.

“Pay attention.”

You snorted. Was he trying to intimidate you?

You, an elf who lived longer than him? How arrogant. It was becoming clearer why Alhaitham never once had a girlfriend or boyfriend. Or maybe a genuine friend in general. His senior who happens to also be his housemate does not count.

“No thanks.” You laughed to yourself, barely containing your amusement. “I think I’m doing fine.”

“What do you expect will happen if you don’t listen to my instructions? Your unfailing indifference sickens me.” He sheathed his sword back. “Do I have to spell everything out? You’ll get injured in combat. You won’t be able to defend yourself from fungi, eremites, and other enemies on the prowl. All for what? Useless pride? Grow up. Accept that you got a dendro vision and be done with it.”

“Tch…” You know how you feel, but you do not have the strength to say it out loud.

What an impossible task. He’s telling you– the most stubborn person you know– to give up on your goals? Inconceivable. You bet he sees the mediocre majority as nothing more than defective pawns, and you’re well aware you belong in that lowly category.

To him, grief may as well be easy as breathing. For you, years had gone by and you could still hear their voice. The scribe knows nothing about tributes for the dead.

Your old childhood friend beckons you back to the chasm. His voice comes once the dark rears in, reverbing his desperate pleas for a fitting grave. It’s a voice that twists around your chest like a knife. You can’t get their faces out of your memetic bookshelf, but it’s not as if you’re willing to dispose of them.

You didn’t want a dendro vision.

You wanted a geo vision to construct mausoleums for your dead friends.

Alhaitham scowled.

“Fine. We’ll resume our lesson next week.”

He bumped into your shoulder as he walked by. For a split second, you’re reminded that your superior had longer eyelashes than you do. And it made the gesture more annoying.

Strange.

Alhaitham wouldn’t normally let you off so easily…

Maybe he’s busy?

“If you’re so insistent on only utilizing physical attacks, be my guest. Next time, I will not back down a single step.” Alhaitham walked away with heavy feet, stamping the dirt with his heels.

The consequences of your actions began to sink in. You may have lived longer than Alhaitham, but needless to say, he had more experience in combat.

Admittedly, you may have done yourself a disservice by acting out… You huffed.

No, no way.

“What could possibly go wrong? He’s just a feeble scholar!”

Unsurprisingly, Alhaitham was not, in fact, a feeble scholar.

Thankfully you have the Eye of Perception at your disposal because the moment he found you walking towards Devantaka Mountain the following week, the bastard went for your jugular.

“What the fuck, Alhaitham?!”

You fired a single shot, aimed higher this time knowing that he would attempt to evade. Much like his actions with Kaveh last time, Alhaitham was quick to dodge that projectile. His timing is impeccable as he activated his vision.

#ff0e0e starts blaring in your line of sight. You’ve always trusted these colors— your instincts.

You’re in danger.

“Tch!”

You almost didn’t recognize that it was him. If he wasn’t breathing heavily, you would've mistaken him for an assassin. Alhaitham never made any unnecessary movements. His slashes were not done with the intent of harming you, but shepherding you to an appropriate trap. Your knee scraped against the grass and minuscule rocks. Prioritizing distance over attacks was a wrong move– he’s faster than anticipated. You gasped sharply as the scribe pinned you against a tree trunk–

… His scent caught your attention.

“A cicin mage’s perfume…?” You mumbled, eyes wide.

That didn’t seem right. Their perfume usually doesn’t smell this unpleasant and metallic.

Your ears drooped down as you realized this Alhaitham did not attack because he’s a lunatic, no. That malodorous stench was akin to a grandmother’s bittersweet husk.

This Alhaitham was under the influence of aphrodisiacs, and it is not something you can fault him for.

“What– What on earth happened?”

He twisted your arm slightly, not enough that’ll make you scream but just rough for a tiny yelp–

and that’s how he boldly claimed your lips.

You froze in horror, letting him take advantage of your plight. Alhaitham pulled away, panting slightly.

“F-Fuck…”

Alhaitham moaned as he slipped his tongue back inside. You tried to stop him but you yelped the moment his hand groped your thigh. His breath fanned your flustered skin as he moved to slither his arms around your waist, closing the already small distance between you two.

You weakly pulled back. The rainforest had never felt this humid before.

Something is truly off about his scent.

“L-Let go!!!” You hissed and punched his chest, completely forgetting your catalyst in your panic. “What the hell is wrong with you?!?! Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

He didn’t listen despite your physical protests. Alhaitham disgustingly crooned down and sloppily dabbed wet kisses down your neck. His saliva dripped over his shoulder, coating you in hopes that it would leave his trace.

It felt wrong. You felt dirty– like you were kissing an actual #093c0d slime.

“P-Please…” He whispered, his voice dropping dangerously weak and vulnerable. “H-Help me, (Y/n)…”

Your face flushed as you wiped the saliva that connected you both from your lips.

You’ve never heard Alhaitham beg before.

Is this really him?

His fistful grip on your clothes grew taut as desperation colored his knuckles white. You had never seen Alhaitham lose his cool the way he does now, and the broken sight in his eyes made you uneasy and uncertain.

He looked pathetic.

“Haitham, your…” your hand supported his neck and he hungrily leaned in to feel your touch. “Your heartbeat is loud.”

“I know,” he whimpered.

You bit your lip. You could sense his pulse going faster.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been kissed– or first anything. You’ve had your fair share of “soulmates” and “flings”, but those happened decades ago. Before you were mastering engineering, you were a freelance artist who’d had many affairs with humans and elves alike out of the undiagnosed emptiness that was grief. Up until Faruzan made you start a new leaf, you indulged in numerous vices, including wine and one-night stands. She was the closest a human could hope to understand the loneliness an elf would have.

Both your appearance give the illusion of youth, but your bones are held together by flesh older than this man. She would undoubtedly be angry with you as soon as she learns that you enabled Alhaitham's small rendezvous.

“Alhaitham, I’m more than a decade years older than you–” you squirmed.

“But I want you,” he groaned.

Those words felt so different when he was the one who said them. Nearly sinister.

“I know,” you said, but your voice doesn’t match the confidence you were meant to exude. “But this isn’t you, this is your hormones doing the talking. Where did the cicin mage attack you?”

“Between Pardis Dhyai and Yashna Monument”

“Between WHAT?!” You gawked. “That’s miles away from here!”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!!!”

You yanked his shirt. It’s thin, yet surprisingly durable. The strength of the fabric is not what made you unnerved, but his stare.

He gazed at you as if you were his lifeline— as if you were the only thing that allowed him to breathe. Alhaitham’s hot breaths were shallow, fanning your face as you took note of how red his face, neck, and ears were. You noticed how he struggled to gulp— struggled to keep his composure. His bedroom eyes had not once diverted their attention away from you.

“It doesn't matter how far I ran. You were the one I wanted to see. You were the face that came to mind after getting poisoned."

You pretended not to hear that.

“Alhaitham, we need to get you to Tighnari.”

“He can’t help me.”

“The forest watcher can most certainly help you more than me.”

“You don’t know that.”

You don't want to hear him talk anymore, to be honest. You're horrified by how weak and inaudible his voice sounded.

“Why did you come to Avidya Forest all the way from there? Why not head straight to the city?”

“So many questions…” He irritably spat. “Just stop talking and kis–”

“I refuse,” you glared. “Why were you heading towards Port Ormos? Did you think I was going to help you get over this mess out of the goodness of my heart?”

Did he forget how much you loathe him?

“No. No, of course not.”

He chuckled, full of self-loathing.

“I know you hate me, (Y/n). I would hate myself too.”

You raised an eyebrow. Of course, he’s self-aware— you just didn’t expect him to say that out loud.

Alhaitham continued, “but I’m not the one at fault here.”

Defeated, he rested his head on your shoulder. To avoid having you look at his expression, Alhaitham cupped your back, running fingers through your scalp so that you may only look forward. His body pressed against yours firmly. There’s no possible way for you not to be wholly aware of how warm he was and how fast his heart was beating.

It was distracting to know how much the poison affected someone like Alhaitham, whom you thought was damn near untouchable.

Awkwardly, you returned the favor and played with his hair. Alhaitham gasped softly, making you shiver as you realized how sensitive you are to his breathing from this position.

“And who would that be?” You asked quietly. “If your pride won’t let you seek Tighnari’s aid then since you’re here you might as well tell me everything, starting from the very beginning.”

“T-That won’t be necessary.”

“If we want to rule out who your true assailant is, then yes it is,” you answered. “I think this is what you call the process of elimination.”

Suddenly, he pulled away from you with his arms stretched out. Alhaitham still kept you pinned on the tree, but there’s more space for you now to move and see his face.

Ah, you’ve nearly forgotten again.

Alhaitham has green-orange eyes.

“No need.”

He clicked his tongue.

“It was Pulcinella. Your grandfather sent a cicin mage in an attempt to seduce and assassinate me.”

… Oh.

You should’ve guessed. You really should’ve guessed that he was behind all this.

Instinctively, you tried to cover your mouth from shock, but he quickly grabbed them and pressed them back to the tree behind you again. He tightened his hold once more, making you wince.

“I didn’t mind at first because your grandfather reminded me of my own grandmother,” Alhaitham gritted his teeth. “Pulcinella—”

He bit his bottom lip, his seafoam eyes looking unstable and royally pissed.

“He’s not after me because of my position as the Acting Grand Sage. H-He was merely looking after you. His expression was one I recognized. It's a grandfather's love. I may not show empathy as frequently as my housemate would like, but at least I am conscious of how important family is. I don’t want you to have to arrange your grandparent’s funeral like I did.”

You’re not unaware of who Alhaitham’s grandmother was. At one point, you had befriended her back when she was out on a mission to acquire 1,000 books. To think that you’ll meet her grandson for the first time in college and that you’ll end up in a situation like this… you’re sure she would’ve never condoned any of this. She wouldn’t appreciate that her grandson was trying to fuck the elf that helped her build her small library.

This is wrong.

Everything about this is wrong. From the age gap to the work power distance– it’s vile–

You want to vomit.

“So— s-so what did you do?”

“I didn’t want to kill your grandfather in retaliation.”

“Yes, you’ve established that. You don’t usually beat around the bush— go back to being the Alhaitham I know and just get straight to the point, damn it!”

“I ended up tracking all of his people in Sumeru down.”

He chuckled lowly.

Your heart started racing as well.

If his heart was beating out of excitement, yours were out of a rational fear that you wouldn’t get out of this unscathed and mentally sound.

“It’s laughable how his lackeys were so incompetent. If they listened to my lectures at all, they would’ve known how to defend themselves.”

“What… What the hell are you talking about?”

There was nowhere to run. You’re trapped unless Alhaitham lets go of both your wrists. Your dilated eyes surveyed the woodland, but you weren't confident that, should the occasion arise, your shaky knees could put some distance between you and the scribe.

“Didn’t you notice? They were stalking us from the moment I was teaching you how to use your vision last week, and likely even before that.”

His face drew near and you strained your neck to hopefully maintain at least a hair of distance between both of your lips.

Alhaitham closed his eyes.

“Did you honestly think I’d postpone our practice due to your mild complaining? Don’t you understand how excruciating it is to be away from you for a week?”

He pressed his forehead against yours.

“But I had to do it. For us.”

“Where… Where were you when you were gone? What did you do to them?”

You didn’t want to ask.

You already know the answer.

“When will you start thinking before you speak?”

With fears renewed, your body felt small underneath his gaze. He’s not even looking at you— his piercing green eyes weren’t even looking directly at your soul. You turned away and gazed at his left shoulder— shrieking.

Never in your 100+ years of life did you feel so stupid. Only now did you realize that it wasn’t just a cicin mage’s perfume you smelled earlier.

There was blood all over his coat.

“Stop screaming, (Y/n). I’ve finished the job and it’s high time you reward me, wouldn’t you agree?”

#ansy-writes #yandere alhaitham #alhaitham #al haitham #yandere al haitham x reader #yandere alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere oneshots #male yandere #x reader fanfiction #yandere male lead #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin impact

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bosbas · 5 months

Text

Chapter 7: you search in every maiden's bed for something greater

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader WC: 3.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, misogyny (not by anyone relevant dw), idiots in love being idiots in love, angst, mentions of sex and drinking

Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: errr.... it's going to get worse before it gets better. sorry in advance

June 19, 1814 - Perhaps word of this author's disappointment by the ton's lack of happenings has reached Bridgerton ears. Whispers around the ton indicate that Mr. Benedict Bridgerton has been packing his belongings for an extended duration, leading one to speculate if this departure is more than a fleeting journey. The observant eyes of society are left to wonder about the purpose behind such preparations and whether, in the midst of packing, the second Bidgerton son is inadvertently leaving behind not only his material possessions but also a potential union with a certain Miss Beaumont.

Benedict was just about done packing, disappointed that his upcoming trip had been pointed out in the ton's gossip column. He was hoping to slip out relatively quietly, not needing further speculation on why he was leaving you, an undoubted topic of conversation for Lady Whistledown. The very reason he was leaving was for your sake, and he didn't want anyone making his own absence harder for you.

The past days had been nothing short of agonizing for more than a few reasons. Ben knew his mother was disappointed in him for leaving, not immune to her sad stares and soft sighs, but he just couldn't go on like this. If he ignored his feelings, he knew he wanted you to find a husband, just as you had asked him to let you do. But he couldn't ignore his feelings. Not entirely, at least. Benedict was going half insane watching you dance with eager suitors and hearing you talk about the exotic and beautiful bouquets you had later received from them. He could barely sleep, plagued by thoughts of someone else making you laugh, and the dull ache in his chest had become a permanent fixture.

His art studio felt cold and empty now, rarely graced by your warm and lively presence. Ben couldn't find it in himself to spend the hours he used to in there, missing your animated commentary as you read whichever book you had taken from the Bridgerton library that day. He had barely been able to paint at all recently, inside or outside his studio, frustrated that every single sketch or painting he started was in some manner related to you. Worse, he found he had little to no inspiration for new works without you by his side. Every single aspect of his life was completely turned upside down by your absence. Even the moon looked different. He could not look at the stars at night without remembering how your eyes looked at night, reflecting the soft starlight in the sky.

So he was leaving. Perhaps it was a cowardly thing to do, but Benedict was desperate to regain some sense of normalcy in his life. He knew he couldn't have you, but he couldn't watch someone else have you, either. The only viable choice he saw was to go away, back to the countryside. Of course, his family saw right through his weak excuse of "needing time away to work on his art," but at least no one had the sense to confront him about it. Yet still, the truth lingered in the look of pity he received from Anthony and Colin and the quietly exasperated "Are you joking?" he heard Francesca whisper to Hyacinth.

Ben had come to see you a few days ago and broken the news, and you had barely been able to concentrate since. Even though you had established some distance from your best friend, you still relished in the comfort of his nearby presence. You knew that even if you had a dreadful dance at a ball, one quick smile from Ben could immediately heal your stepped-on feet and put you in a better mood.

But you supposed him leaving was for the best. At the moment, you weren't seriously considering any suitors yet. No longer having Benedict by your side might end up being more beneficial to you, even if your eyes were constantly filled with unshed tears and your lower lip was raw from nervous biting at the thought of him away in the country for months on end. You supposed you would have to move on from him, laying your feelings to rest. That was the whole point, was it not? Benedict would leave, and you would stop wishing every man you talked to was him.

You were in your garden now, hiding in your usual spot behind the rose bushes with your nose stuck in a book in an attempt to evade your mother's call to practice your needlepoint. With Benedict leaving tomorrow, you reasoned that you should be excused from mind-numbing activities such as sewing due to your emotional distress. Unfortunately, your mother did not share this opinion, and you were forced into hiding to escape her demands.

Hearing footsteps coming your way, you shrunk further behind the bushes, hoping you hadn't been caught and could spare another five minutes of peace.

"Y/N Beaumont, come out of there this instant. You cannot simply avoid me when you don't want to play the pianoforte," came Benedict's voice from above you, taking on a high-pitched voice as he attempted to imitate your mother when she was frustrated with her children. You instantly relaxed, bursting into laughter.

"You are so evil! I thought I had actually been caught out. Although my mother wants me to practice needlepoint instead of pianoforte this time," you said as you rolled your eyes, playfully hitting his arm as he sat beside you.

Ben laughed, shaking his head and snatching your book from your hands, leafing through it absentmindedly. "Hmmm, I figured it was something like that. I came into your house and saw the Countess quite exasperated, asking me if I knew where you were hiding," he said. Seeing your widening eyes, he quickly continued, "Oh, but don't worry. I would never betray you like that. The rose bush stays between us."

"Well, since you're leaving tomorrow, you very well could have revealed the hiding spot and escaped an untimely death," you retorted. Although you meant it as a joke, you couldn't help the break in your voice as you took in the reality of Benedict leaving for the countryside. You wrapped your arms around one of his, resting your head on his shoulder. You were breaking every rule you had established for your friendship, but you didn't care anymore.

Sighing deeply, Benedict placed his hand on top of yours. He could easily sense the pain behind your playful dig and couldn't help feeling the same way. Not finding the strength to continue the faux-playful exchange, Ben simply placed a soft kiss on the top of your head. "Either way, I could never. You're still my best friend. Always have been, always will be, Y/N Beaumont."

You could feel a wave of tears welling in your eyes, starting to flow as you softly said your next words. "I know. I'm going to miss you, Benedict Bridgerton."

He looked down at you, feeling a fondness so fierce he felt the prickling of tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat, wanting desperately to end this chapter of your lives on a good note. He grabbed your hands and stood you up so you were facing him. He could barely stand the sight of your tear-stained face, beautiful as ever despite your reddened eyes. A few quiet moments passed between you, both of you attempting to regain composure, but the pain of losing the other made it entirely impossible.

He was still holding on to your hands, thumbs rubbing softly up and down in the way he had always done. But this time, they did not bring you comfort. Instead, you burst into tears, closing the short distance between you and sobbing into his chest, not caring that your tears might ruin his clothes. To be loved was to be changed, after all, and God did you love him.

Wrapping his arms tightly around you as you sobbed, Benedict was at a loss. He couldn't fathom what life would be like after you, barely remembering what it had been before you. To willingly walk away from this, from you in his arms, from your shared intimacy, from the unbreakable bond the two of you had formed over two decades... he had to be insane. Yet he had no choice, as the past few weeks had shown. All Ben could do was rub a comforting hand on your back as you cried, murmuring sweet nothings in an effort to alleviate the excruciating pain he knew you were feeling as well.

Finally, he spoke. "I'm going to miss you more, Y/N. And I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to end like this. I never wanted it to end at all, actually."

Feeling another kiss at the top of your head, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes. You were no longer sobbing, just sniffling as tears ran down your face. "Me neither," you choked out, eyes still on him. You wanted to take in as much of him as you could before he left. You wanted his face burned into your mind forever, leaving a permanent mark you could never get rid of.

As you sniffled again, you felt him pull you into his chest, hearing him say softly, "It's going to be alright, darling." He placed a tender kiss on your forehead, pulling you back again to look you in the eyes. He then followed a delicate trail, pressing soft kisses between your furrowed brows, on the tip of your nose, and along the tear-streaked canvas of your cheeks. Then, hesitantly, he reached your lips.

His eyes were intense, heavy with emotion, as you felt his lips hovering above yours. You had never been kissed before, but you would so easily forgo social norms if he just closed the distance between you. You were inches apart, breath intermingling, eyes boring into each other. You could feel the palpable electricity between you, a mix of fear and familiarity. In that suspended moment, your heart beating with his, anticipation hung thick in the air. You were about to cross a precipice of intimacy you never had before, finally acting on the pressure that had been building for years. You wanted him so badly, and you could tell he wanted you, too. At least right now. Desire was running through you in a way it never had before, and you wondered whether the sort of itch you were feeling right now was the same one Ben talked about when he explained the night of the marriage. Is this the itch that would be scratched? You understood what he meant now, needing him so desperately to touch his lips to yours, to bring you the relief you sought in him. Benedict moved a fraction of an inch closer to you, and you drew your breath in anticipation, lips forming into a smile.

Yet suddenly, Benedict groaned and abruptly withdrew as if an unseen force compelled him to sever the burgeoning connection. Pushing you away in more senses than one, he roughly rubbed his face with his hands. You could tell he was in a state of complete panic. Hurt and confused, you watched him rub his eyes frustratedly, refusing to meet your gaze.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry," he stammered, a haunted look in his eyes betraying the fear of losing all the meticulously constructed defenses he had placed between you. "I don't know what came over me. That was so not right. I just—" His words stumbled, a confession hanging unspoken in the charged air between you.

You couldn't stop yourself from flinching, understanding the implications of his words. You supposed it should never have been like this. The two of you were best friends, after all. But you were desperate for him to look at you and give away some of what he was thinking, needing any sort of reassurance, so you reached out, softly gripping his bicep. "It's alright, Ben. I know you didn't—"

But he cut you off, his head shaking in fervent denial, avoiding your pleading eyes. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. Look, I should go; I still need to finish packing. But I'll come by early tomorrow morning to say goodbye if you're awake."

Without granting you a lingering look, he turned away, leaving you alone in the garden where you had played together as children, where your friendship had once blossomed. Tears ran unobstructed down your cheeks, and your heart broke cleanly in two.

---

You found yourself promenading alongside Mr Henri Deschamps in Hyde Park once again, politely nodding every time he looked to you for reassurance that his talk about hunting was not, in fact, the most boring thing you had ever heard in your life. And it wasn't, but you were inclined to think that it was pretty close. Nevertheless, you liked Mr Deschamps more than most other suitors, enjoying the philosophical debates the two of you would sometimes engage in.

Henri was from France but had come to England with his younger sister to see her married off last season. Although he was successful in this endeavor, he liked England so much that he chose to stay and find a wife for himself. Still, you were a tad fearful that Henri would want to return to France when, and if, the two of you were married. He had been courting you for a short time, only a couple of weeks. Still, you were careful in expressing your desire and taking it slow, despite thinking that you would probably end up marrying him if all kept going the same way it was now.

All things considered, Mr Deschamps was an adequate match for you. He was intellectually stimulating at times, came from a good background to be able to provide for you, and he wasn't bad-looking either. Besides, his accent was fun to listen to even when his words were not. It had been nearly three weeks since Benedict had left for the country, and though you missed him terribly, you were having a much easier time actually thinking of your suitors as potential husbands instead of fun ways to pass time before you spoke to Ben next.

Hearing Henri mention something related to a book you were currently reading, you perked up, excited. "Actually, I read that—" you started, only to be interrupted by the man at your side.

"Ah, of course, you read this, you read that. When does it stop, Miss Beaumont? You are always reading something. Men do not want this. We want an obedient wife who will not cause us any more stress than we have in life. We want a wife who will give us heirs quickly and who will listen to what we say," came Mr Beaumont's interjection. You were stunned, frozen in your spot, but he grabbed your arm and continued speaking as he dragged you with him.

"Men do not want a woman who is smarter than them, Miss Beaumont. How about you stick to your good qualities, oui? You are very beautiful, but no one will ever marry you if you keep discussing books. No one wants to hear about books," he finished, sending you a pointed look.

You could barely believe what you were hearing. "But—," you tried, only to be interrupted by Mr Deschamps once again.

"But— But— But—," he mocked cruelly. "But nothing, Miss Beaumont. This is the truth, yet you still argue with me. It is the same in France as it is here: women should not argue with men. You would do well to remember that."

You wrenched your arm out of his grasp, appalled by his egregious behavior. He rolled his eyes at your reaction, turning around and throwing his hands up in the air, clearly exasperated. You angrily stared after him as your mother, who had been walking a few paces behind the two of you, caught up.

"What in the world was that? I cannot believe he spoke to you in such a disrespectful manner and in front of everyone, at that," she exclaimed, fuming. Clearly, she had heard at least some of your conversation. You could only shake your head in disbelief, still reeling from Henri's sudden outburst. He had effectively squashed your hopes of ever finding an appropriate husband in under three minutes. It would have been impressive if it didn't leave you so hopeless.

---

Far from the hubbub of the city, Benedict lay in his messy bed, staring at the now-empty spot beside him, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through his half-open curtains. With ever-deepening bags under his eyes and a dwindling excitement about life, he grappled with a reality he never thought he would confront. The echoes of your shared dreams from your youthful days mocked him, a poignant reminder of a time when marriage felt like a distant concept.

This had become somewhat of a routine by now. Benedict had taken to finding solace in the arms of various women, seeking momentary distraction from the ache in his heart. With each encounter, it became glaringly evident that physical intimacy offered no relief from the unending yearning he felt for you and your friendship, forever changed by his choices.

Loneliness enveloped him each time the women left, a feeling he had become all too familiar with in the past few weeks. He barely slept, opting instead to imagine your life back in the city, full of exciting balls and surrounded by the warmth of your family. And his, he supposed. But most of all, he couldn't help the painful thoughts of you with another man, discussing your favorite books, or forming inside jokes with one another.

He was comforted only by the fact that he had not yet received a wedding invitation. Surely Benedict would have been invited to the momentous occasion had you finally found someone to spend forever with. However, the comfort he felt from this was significantly overshadowed by the implications of your inevitable wedding. One last goodbye. A proper goodbye, this time. Here, in the countryside, he could theoretically return to you anytime. But once you were married, you would be gone forever, and the wanting he felt now would only multiply, consuming him entirely.

In the quiet hours before dawn, he often wondered if the past could be revisited, a past where the two of you made plans to get married. The idea of a marriage where he was free to pursue his artistic endeavors and you continued your literary pursuits lingered in his thoughts every single night. It seemed that he was only interested in marriage if it was an arrangement similar to the one you had dreamt up as children, and the chances of attaining that were slim to none. Benedict found himself yearning for a simplicity that had been lost in the complexities of adulthood. With you married off, he would have to find a wife eventually. But perhaps he did not want to marry at all. Maybe he would stay a bachelor, making vows to his art rather than a woman he knew could never compare to you.

For now, he continued his escapades. In the long run, he was not confident that this would help him forget you or forget the fierce love you inspired in him, but he was desperate for any way to stop thinking about you, if only for a few hours. So he indulged, going to raucous gatherings, mainly populated by artists. People used their canvases at these parties as a means of liberation, but he only used them to mask his true feelings. He could momentarily quiet his mind, painting and dancing and drinking before he eventually came crashing down to reality.

—

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Tag List (lmk if you want to be added!): @bellahadidnt16 @like-gabriel-and-castiel @riverraingrayworld

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comfortless · 4 months

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hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?

Roach Head

lich! König x fem necromancer! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.

notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!

wc: 6.7k.

It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.

Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.

There is only the absence of everything.

You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.

You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.

There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.

You know that nothing good comes from silence.

It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.

A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.

That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.

Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.

Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.

You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.

Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.

You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.

This one is entirely an unknown.

He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.

That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.

You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.

A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.

You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.

Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.

Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.

You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.

This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.

“I know what you are, hündchen.”

The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.

Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.

“Why have you brought me here?”

The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.

Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.

“Sorry, I just—“

“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.

You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.

If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.

His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.

“I see…”

He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.

The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.

You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.

This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.

You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.

So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.

From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.

“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.

Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.

Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?

Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.

“Sleep.”

The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.

He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.

You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.

When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.

You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.

A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.

Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.

Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.

You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.

Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.

Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.

None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.

You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.

“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.

“I didn’t either.”

You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.

A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.

The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.

“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”

“Sure.”

It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.

In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.

You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.

“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”

It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.

“Court you?”

“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”

“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”

You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.

More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.

When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.

— — —

Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.

The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.

Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.

Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.

“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.

“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”

“You said you were not courting me.”

“I’m not, hündchen.”

He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.

“You didn’t sleep well either?”

“Nein.”

“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.

You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.

He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.

“Warm,” he murmurs.

You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.

It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Ja… I like this.”

“I do too...”

So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.

When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…

König does not breathe.

You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.

It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.

“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.

“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.

König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.

“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”

“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”

“Geduld.”

Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.

— — —

This dream is worse than any before it.

You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.

Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.

You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.

The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.

When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.

The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.

König.

You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.

The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.

It hurts.

You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.

At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.

The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.

You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.

When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”

It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.

“Nein. I just want to be understood.”

And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.

— — —

There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.

A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.

The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.

“Hm?”

“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.

“You already have been.”

He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.

Finally, he hums in agreement.

“Then I should have you, hm?”

He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.

Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.

“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.

“You want to..?”

König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.

He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.

The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.

Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.

König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.

“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.

He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.

A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.

You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.

“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.

Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.

The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.

He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.

The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.

“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.

“Ja… because you were made for me.”

You don’t disagree.

This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.

#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #cod fanfiction #könig #konig #and now i sleep for 40hrs farewell everyone everywhere

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