#demaurelis

[eksvaized]

Part Six König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu

After König has done his utmost to soothe your frenzied state, he gently ushers you into the bedroom. With a gentle push, he makes you lie down before wrapping you in a mountain of blankets. Then he disappears into the bathroom because he still needs to take a shower and wash all the dirt and grime off his body.

During this interlude of solitude, you attempt to corral your frenetic thoughts, which are galloping through your mind at a frantic pace. The relentless racing of your thoughts intensifies the throbbing in your head. Your eyes are puffy and bloodshot. Strands of your hair cling to your damp cheeks. But, at least your sobbing has ceased, and your tears have evaporated, leaving behind only their salty residue.

The silence that cloaks the room, like a comforting shroud, begins to massage your nerves, unknotting the taut tension in your shoulders. It’s as if an oppressive weight is slowly being lifted, and the waves of stress and anxiety are receding.

Everything that happened—days filled with worry, nights marred by a lack of sleep, the conversation with König—now seems just like a distant, bad dream. A nightmare that you’ve just woken up from.

Surprisingly, when you accused König of cheating, the argument did not escalate into a full-blown fight. Despite the tension and your skepticism, he was able to persuade you that there’s nothing going on between him and Sarah. He confessed that there might have been times where their interactions could have been misconstrued as flirtatious, but he assured you that his relationship with her remained strictly professional. König made it clear—she isn’t his type, and he has absolutely no intention of jeopardizing the relationship that he has built with you over the past two years just because some woman happened to bat her lashes at him.

When you asked why he keeps entertaining her presence, why he doesn’t outright reject her advances, his response was that he simply couldn’t afford to ignore her. He revealed that the higher-ups had grown suspicious of Sarah, likely due to her recent transfer. Their tendency to scrutinize everyone and everything, as if looking through a magnifying glass, had led them to task König with the responsibility of monitoring her activities. This was an assignment he had initially desired to refuse. However, his resistance was eventually chipped away by the promise of additional compensation for his efforts.

“And I need that money—” His statement caused your eyebrows to knit together in confusion. After all, his current income was more than sufficient. “I’m saving it for something.”

His cryptic response only ignited your confusion, like a spark in dry tinder. When you probed, he only offered a shake of his head. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He planted a kiss on your forehead, and said, “Can’t tell yet.”

You trust König, and you want to believe him and everything he’s told you. However, after your mind refuses to quiet down, you get out of bed. As your bare feet touch the cool floor, a shiver slithers down your spine. You kneel down in front of König’s duffel bag, which he has thrown down by the wardrobe. After rummaging through the pockets, you pull out his phone.

Deep down, you know there is something you need to do, something crucial, before you can forget about all of this, before you can lay your doubts to rest.

The soft hum of the shower from the bathroom abruptly ceases. Your eyes dart to the closed door as you freeze in place. You strain your ears, listening for the telltale sound of footsteps, but there is none. You know you can’t let König find you snooping through his phone again. So, with your heart pounding in your chest, when he doesn’t come into the room, your attention returns to the phone in your hands. You enter his passcode and unlock it.

Your mind is consumed, fully focused on one task: checking for any new text messages from Sarah. Every ounce of your being needs to know, to confirm, if he and Sarah had been in any form of contact while he was away. Your eyes hungrily skim through all the conversations, the old ones, and the recent ones. But after what seems like an eternity, you come to a heart-wrenching realization. The entire conversation thread between him and Sarah, every single exchange, has vanished. He has scrubbed his phone clean, like a crime scene, meticulously wiped of any incriminating evidence.

Why would he go to such lengths to delete everything if there was truly nothing going on between them? After all, you’ve already read all their messages, so there’s no point in hiding them now... unless he didn’t tell you the whole truth.

The whirlwind of thoughts in your mind is unrelenting, each one darker and more terrifying than the last. Amidst this chaos, an idea emerges. It’s a foolish one, so much so that you can almost hear the voice in your head chastising you for even giving it a moment’s consideration. It’s an idea you shouldn’t even entertain, let alone consider acting on. Yet, time is a luxury you simply don’t have. You take a moment to draw in a deep breath, attempting to steady the storm within you. With a newfound, albeit shaky, resolve, you press the call button.

Slowly, you walk to the window; the phone clutched tightly in your hand. As you press it to your ear, the nerve-wracking beeping sound echoes in your head. Each beep seems to amplify your unease, stirring up a churning sensation in your stomach. Deep down, buried under layers of rational thought and logical reasoning, you know it’s wrong to call Sarah. But you want to hear her voice; you need to speak with her, even if you are not sure what you are going to say.

The beeping comes to an abrupt halt, and your heart seems to stop beating for a moment when you hear the high-pitched ‘hey’ from the other end of the line.

You hold your breath, remaining silent, hoping that she wouldn’t catch on that it isn’t König who is calling her.

“Miss me already, hm?”

The urge to say something, to tell her to stay away from König, is overpowering, but the words are stubbornly stuck in your throat. Your body freezes, as if ensnared and bound by unseen chains that constrict tighter with each syllable she utters. Your fingers curl around the curtains, grasping them tightly as if their thin fabric could somehow prevent you from collapsing. Your legs feel wobbly, like they might give way underneath you at any moment.

“You left without saying goodbye, and now I can’t stop thinking about you… and your promise to have a cup of coffee with me after you return. Although I was thinking… Maybe we should go for something stronger? A beer for you, and some nice fruity cocktail for me. Of course, I’ll expect you to be the gentleman I know you are and pay—”

As if in slow motion, the phone slips away from your trembling hand. It crashes onto the ground with a sound that reverberates throughout the room. Skidding across the floor, it disappears from sight, hiding somewhere under the dark abyss of the bed. Despite its disappearance, Sarah’s piercing voice continues to echo, as she giggles, calling out to König in an annoyingly sweet tone.

This is all too much for you: you shouldn’t have called her, you shouldn’t have dared to touch König’s phone. This was all a mistake—trusting König was a mistake.

A crushing pressure, akin to an iron band tightening around your chest, begins to build, making breathing feel like a grueling battle. Your breaths become rapid, erratic and shallow, and each gulp of air is harder to catch than the last. Your vision blurs at the edges, the world around you spinning out of control. Panic sets in and you realise you need to escape from the house; an overwhelming urge to leave, to run and hide from the world until it stops spinning, takes over. Until the feeling that you are going to run out of breath and faint subsides.

Managing to gather some strength, you hurriedly pull a sweater over your head and stuff your feet into your sneakers. With a newfound urgency, you bolt out of the bedroom, forcing your legs to move even faster when the sound of the bathroom door creaking open reaches your ears. But before König has a chance to see you, before he has an opportunity to catch and stop you, you’ve already fled the house and the front door slams shut behind you.

The icy breeze greets you outside, whipping against your exposed skin and leaving a chilly, tingling sensation on your face. You stand there for a moment, allowing the cold to seep into your bones and the uncertainty to creep into your mind. But then your feet carry you across the empty street. After a few minutes of frantic doorbell ringing, or rather, smashing the button with your index finger until your nail chips off, the door finally creaks open. Simon’s face peers through the crack, his eyebrows knitted together in surprise. It’s clear that he didn’t expect to see you tonight, especially because you had declined his earlier offer to come over.

“Can I come in?” You ask with a trembling voice. But before he can answer, you push past him and step inside. You’ve decided that you aren’t ready to take no for an answer—not tonight. Your options are limited, to say the least. Your family lives across the country, and you don’t have any friends you can turn to. Simon is the only one you can rely on.

A few days ago, in the serene hours of a late-night conversation, he made a promise to you. He told you that you could count on him. That no matter what happens, if you ever need anything, he’s there for you.

After you step inside, Simon closes the door, his tall figure casting a long shadow on the worn-out carpet. He turns around to face you, his eyes filled with quiet patience as he waits for you to explain why you’ve shown up at his doorstep like this, why your eyes are red and puffy from what seems like hours of crying, and why you look like you want to kill someone.

“I think he is lying to me,” you say. Simon’s face contorts into a puzzled expression. He’s unsure about what you’re referring to. “My boyfriend. I confronted him earlier. He said he wasn’t cheating, but I didn’t believe him. I don’t know why—I ended up calling her...” You trail off, pausing to exhale. “I don’t know why I did that. But when she picked up—she didn’t say much—but just the way she spoke, the flirty tone in her voice... makes me think he didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

Simon lets you vent for the rest of the night and listens to you without interjecting. At first, you struggle with articulating your whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, but the encouragement in Simon’s eyes, the light hand squeezes, and his small, understanding nods embolden you. He keeps you talking, letting you rant until your words run out and there’s nothing left to say.

“You can stay here tonight,” Simon offers. “...if you want.”

You nod. The idea of spending the night on his couch doesn’t necessarily sound like the epitome of comfort, but the thought of going home tonight fills you with a sense of dread. You don’t want to see König; you can’t even bear the thought of looking at him. You need a brief respite from his presence, some time to process everything and decide on what you want to do next.

As your eyes graze over the clock, you can feel the weight of exhaustion settling in, realising how late it is.

“You don’t need to babysit me for the rest of the night. You should go to bed,” you say, but Simon shakes his head.

“I don’t mind staying up, and I doubt you want to be alone.”

As you lean into him, you find a comfortable spot where your head rests on the curve of his shoulder. Your hands fall into your lap and you tug at the hem of your sweater, fiddling with the loose thread. His arm drapes over your frame. The rhythmic motion of his fingers on your shoulder, tracing soothing, tight circles, releases the anxiety in your body, leaving you feeling completely relaxed.

A yawn escapes your lips, and you rub your eyes in an attempt to ward off your drowsiness. Simon says something, but his words are lost to you since you’re not paying attention. You raise your chin to look at him, a question “What?” leaving your lips.

“Are you tired?” He repeats and his eyes lock with yours. “You can sleep in my bed if you’d like. I’ll take the couch.”

You suddenly become aware of just how close he is—the space between your faces is virtually nonexistent. You can feel his warm breath on your skin as he exhales, his arm slowly slipping down from your shoulder, his fingertips lightly tracing your curves before he rests his hand on your hip.

Your eyes, drawn as if by a magnetic force, gravitate towards his lips. An insistent voice in the back of your mind scream at you to draw away, to retreat from the uncharted territory you are about to cross. However, you choose to defy it, silencing the voice and clearing your mind. Slowly, you inch forward, closing the remaining gap. Simon doesn’t recoil. He doesn’t reject your advance. After an initial moment of stillness, he reciprocates, his lips brushing against yours.

As he kisses you, his touch on your cheek is both soothing and exhilarating—a paradox of sensations that leaves your heart pounding in your chest. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin as he deepens the kiss, subtly urging you to tilt your head to accommodate him. You find yourself being gently maneuvered onto the couch, with him looming over you. His body presses against yours, becoming a source of heat in the cool room.

You know that you shouldn’t be kissing him, that you shouldn’t be allowing him to touch you. Yet, you find that you can’t, or perhaps more accurately, don’t want to stop. And he, in his silent acquiescence, doesn’t move away from you either.

A/N: this will be the last update till the weekend cuz I have to focus on uni and exams for a bit p.s. most of you know that I'm editing this fic (hence why I deleted the old chapters), and so, if you have read this story already & know how it will end, please don't spoil it in the comments because I enjoy reading reactions from people who have stumbled upon this story for the first time anyway, thank you for reading and commenting!! all the feedback motivates me and makes me excited to edit and post rest of the chapters :)

[atexonat]

I guess Lucas won’t be seeing Eliott today

[detournementsmineurs]

Exposition “Le Théorème de Narcisse - Jean-Michel Othoniel” dans les jardins du Petit Palais, novembre 2021.

[vexedtonightmares]

hi! @cheloueliott & i think that you’re a genious at writing comedy, so we have a lil prompt. an au where eliott’s in the police force with a b99 vibe; lighthearted & kinda dumb, & he keeps fake arresting lucas for silly things to balance out his struggles with the actual job. example: ”lucas..... i told you to stop torturing me by being so cute...... i can’t keep arresting you for assault against an officer seventeen times a day.” or something like that afjdksdks we’d literally pay to read it ✨

i am SO sorry this has taken ages, but i hope that the result is worth it ;) i hope you enjoy eliott’s shitty pickup lines as much as i do 

read it on ao3 here

_________________

no shame

Lucas knew he was in trouble when the megaphone came out. In his defense, he wasn’t even doing anything wrong, or anything at all. He was simply walking down the sidewalk, grocery bags in hand. There was nothing illegal or attention worthy about what he was doing, but he should have known the detective would find him regardless.

Detective Demaury, referred to in Lucas’ mind simply as ‘the detective’ because he was annoying and therefore unworthy of Lucas using his actual name. Lucas could never tell if it was a good or a bad thing they were never around other people when the detective found him. On the good side, it was embarrassing most of the time, but on the bad side, maybe if other people witnessed it Lucas wouldn’t have to deal with the detective anymore. 

The first time Lucas had seen the detective, he’d been worried he was actually in trouble for a crime he couldn’t remember committing. By now, he knew better. 

“Lucas,” the detective sighed through his megaphone. Lucas regretted giving him his name. “I’m afraid I have to take you down to the station.”

Lucas paused on the sidewalk, rolling his eyes and turning to face where the detective’s car was following beside him. He was pretty sure the megaphone wasn’t even police mandated. “What is it this time, Demaury?” 

(He never called him the detective to his face, because he wasn’t rude, but he also didn’t call him Eliott, which the detective had told Lucas to call him many times.)

“Theft,” the detective said with a cheesy grin. Lucas rolled his eyes again and started to walk away. This was a waste of his time. Unfortunately, the detective still had a speaker, and Lucas hadn’t walked away fast enough. 

“Because you stole my heart,” the detective said through the speaker, and it was enough for Lucas to halt and turn around, stomping his way over to the cop car. 

As he leaned down to the window, Lucas jeered, “Good one, did you come up with that on your own?”

“I did,” the detective said, setting the megaphone down, eyes bright and blue. It really was a shame to waste eyes like that on someone like this. 

“You need to stop. Seriously,” Lucas said, more adamantly. “Maybe your other conquests thought the whole stalkery cop thing was hot, but if you don’t stop this I’m filing a restraining order against you.”

The detective’s bright eyed dimmed slightly. “Two things. One, I’m a detective, not just any old cop, and two, you’re not a conquest, and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you were.”

Lucas snorted. That was rich. How could he not be, when the detective looked like that. (Demaury may have been annoying, but Lucas wasn’t blind.) He also didn’t care what the detective thought of him, he’d had enough of pretty men making pretty promises to love him and leaving.

“I don’t care about your apologies,” Lucas said, “I just want you to leave me alone.”

The detective’s eyes dimmed further as he opened his mouth, looking like he was going to argue, then stopped. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Lucas was surprised enough by this that he stepped back from the car, barely registering as the detective pulled away from the curb and off into the streets without another word. He felt bad, for a moment, wondering if he’d gone too far before mentally slapping himself. If anything, the detective had gone too far. Cornering civilians in the street was hardly the way to win their hearts. Whatever, maybe this meant he’d never see the detective again.

He saw the detective again, but this time the detective didn’t see him. He wasn’t in his uniform, so he must not have been on the job, or he was undercover or something. Lucas was visiting his mom in the institution she was housed at, something he’d been meaning to do for a while but hadn’t quite gotten around to because he wasn’t the best son in the world. 

When he went back into the lobby to schedule his next visit, the detective was sitting in the waiting room, casually flipping through pages of a book he must have brought with him. Lucas wondered if he was visiting someone too, or maybe he was just there following a lead on some case. He didn’t really know how being a detective worked, didn’t really care. 

His body language looked different, his whole demeanor did, really. He didn’t look half confident, half cocky, he looked human. He looked like the type of person Lucas could envision himself coming home to after a long day, melting into his arms and wondering how he’d gotten so lucky. 

Lucas blinked the image out of his mind as quickly as it had come. What was he doing fantasizing about domestic life with the man that consistently embarrassed him on the street for no reason? What was he doing fantasizing about anyone at all? He had no time or want for romance in his life, he’d been burned enough in the past to know that it wasn’t worth it. 

Still, Lucas waited there in the lobby, even though he’d already had his visiting time with his mom. The detective hadn’t looked up once, but if he had he would have seen Lucas across the room, watching him but pretending like he wasn’t. Lucas busied himself with his phone, trying not to look so obvious. 

After a few long minutes, someone walked out, calling the detective’s name, and he stood, passing Lucas by without so much as a glance. Lucas watched him go, then chided himself for watching him go, then chided himself for even being there to watch him go. 

Much more time must have passed, because soon enough Lucas heard a confused voice saying, “Lucas?”

This time, the detective did see him. Lucas tried not to look flustered. “Not you again,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

The detective ignored him. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting my mom,” he said swiftly, not really caring what the detective might think about that. The detective’s eyebrows shot up very briefly, but he simply nodded. He still didn’t look like himself, at least the version Lucas was used to seeing. “You?” he asked, when the detective said nothing further.

“Just… stuff,” the detective said inarticulately. 

“Stuff?”

“Detective… stuff.”

Lucas nodded. “Right. Well, I’d better be going, so—”

The detective blinked a few times and took a step back. “Right, sorry.”

Lucas looked up at him, not moving, not saying a word. The detective bit the inside of his cheek, looking up at the ceiling, and Lucas finally regained control over his body, walking to the door. 

“Lucas wait!” 

He felt a hand on his arm, and for some reason he didn’t pull away. The detective was looking at him hesitantly. “Can I walk you out?”

Lucas sighed, finally wrenching his arm from the detective’s gentle grip. “What do you want now, Demaury?” He pushed open the door, knowing the detective would follow.  

“I wanted to apologize,” the detective said, catching up with him, and Lucas stopped abruptly. 

“You what?”

“I wanted to apologize,” the detective said, voice timid but genuine. “If I ever made you feel uncomfortable or anything like that… I’m really sorry. I just see you a lot, and you always look like you could use some cheering up, and with my job a lot of times I need cheering up, so I figured…” he trailed off, shaking his head, “But I went about it in the wrong way. I’m sorry, I’m really not a dick, I swear.”

Lucas didn’t know what to say. The detective shook his head again. “You don’t have to say anything, or forgive me, but I just wanted you to know.”

With that, Demaury walked off, leaving Lucas standing there stricken. Demaury had thought he needed cheering up… It was true, for the most part, but how had he seen Lucas more deeply than most of his close friends?

It wasn’t that his life was bad, but it wasn’t good either. Every day was every day, and Lucas just did the best he could to pretend that maybe someday it would be better. That there would be something to look forward to when he woke up in the morning. He’d had no idea that Demaury might have been feeling the same way. 

Lucas went to visit his mother again the same time the week after, for no particular reason at all. It was extremely likely Demaury would never be there again, but on the off chance that he was… Well, Lucas didn’t totally know what he would say, why he suddenly cared so much. He wanted to tell Demaury that he’d accepted his apology, that was all. 

His mother was surprised to see him again so soon, and he felt a little awful for having stretched his visits out so much that seeing her twice in two weeks was jarring for her. They had a good time, a nice talk, and Lucas left in high spirits, forgetting his ulterior motives entirely. 

This time, Demaury was the one waiting. 

Their eyes met across the waiting room, and suddenly Lucas found his feet carrying him to a stop in front of Demaury, who stood from his chair as Lucas approached. 

“More detective stuff?” Lucas asked. 

Demaury eyed him carefully. “Something like that.”

“Walk me out?” Lucas asked further, taking in Demaury’s surprise. He knew, then, why Demaury had seen him and wanted to cheer him up. He thought Demaury might have been as sad on the inside as he was. 

They maintained a respectable distance apart as they walked out, Demaury’s hands in his pockets, Lucas’ hands swinging by his sides. 

“How’s your mother?” Demaury asked, looking at him sidelong. 

“She’s alright. Better than a few weeks ago, but not her best,” Lucas answered honestly, not sure why he was trusting Demaury with that information. 

Demaury nodded, looking back at the ground. “I know the feeling,” he said, with no further explanation. 

“I forgive you, you know,” Lucas said, “For all the stuff I got so pissed off about… I didn’t consider that you might have been trying to make me laugh.”

Demaury smiled sadly. “I’ve never been very good at comedy.”

Lucas shook his head, arguing, “I’ve never been very good at seeing the best in people.”

They dropped again into silence, steps in line with one another. It was true, Lucas always looked for the worst in people. He didn’t used to be that way, but that was one of the things about growing up, wasn’t it? Losing your idealism, your faith in the world and the people in it? 

“I’ve never been very good at seeing people’s worst,” Demaury said after a while, “Either that, or I don’t want to.”

Lucas had the overwhelming sense that he and Demaury were two sides of the same coin, one hurt by the people they’d mistakenly let in, the other hurt by the people who didn’t even want to try. Lucas said, “I don’t think that’s a bad thing, if that’s what makes you, you.”

“And what’s so great about me?” Coming from Demaury at any other time, Lucas would have scoffed in his face, told him that there was nothing great about him, and that he should just be on his way, but this wasn’t any other time.

“I don’t know,” Lucas admitted, because he didn’t, “But I’m sure there’s more great things there than either of us will ever know.”

Demaury stopped walking abruptly, and Lucas turned back curiously, hoping he didn’t say something wrong. Demaury looked at him with those piercing eyes of his, crease between his brows. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

And see, when things got too close, too intimate, Lucas ran, shielded himself with wit and nonchalance. “How dare you accuse me of being nice, Mr. Demaury, I’m wholly offended. I work so hard, and this is what my reputation has come to?”

A few emotions flitted across Demaury’s face, looking a bit troubled, but then he melted into an easy smile. “Me, call you nice? I would never. The only nice thing about you is that ass.”

A laugh bubbled its way out of Lucas’ mouth before he had a chance to stop it. Demaury looked pleased with himself, but Lucas wasn’t going to let him off the hook for that one easily.

“That all you got?” he taunted, sighing dramatically through his nose. “No playing the bad cop telling me how naughty I’ve been?”

Now it was Demaury’s turn for a scandalized laugh. “I think you’re confusing me with Santa Claus,” he giggled, a light, childish sound, that warmed Lucas’ insides. He wanted to bottle it and listen to it whenever he wasn’t feeling his best. 

Lucas simply raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Fine, then, show me your best. God knows you have a lot more where that one came from.”

Demaury cocked his head to one side, lost in thought, and Lucas briefly thought that he was going to refuse, but then he grinned to himself, shaking his head like whatever he was about to say would be the death of him. 

Demaury frowned, looking at Lucas sternly, “Lucas Lallemant, you’re under arrest,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” Lucas said, walking backwards as Demaury walked a few paces behind him. “Why am I under arrest?”

“Assault against an officer,” Demaury said matter-of-factly, and Lucas halted his pace. 

“Wha— I—” he began, and Demaury cut him off.

“You’re torturing me, you see.” He took a step closer to Lucas, bringing them toe to toe. “You’re so cute it’s physically painful.”

Lucas stopped his stammering, melting into a partially relieved, partially exasperated grin. He poked Demaury’s chest, shaking his head dazedly. “Ridiculous. That’s what you are.”

“You asked for it,” Demaury said, picking up his pace once again, passing Lucas by. And, well, Lucas supposed he had. 

“You’re not too bad yourself, you know,” Lucas said, falling back into step beside him. “If you weren’t a detective, you’d make a great Disney prince.”

Demaury put one hand to his chest, stretching the other out to Lucas. “Only if you were my princess.”

Lucas swatted the hand away, trying not to notice the electricity when their fingers touched, even if only briefly. “You think you’re smooth, huh?”

Demaury retracted his hand scrunching his nose and holding his fingers millimeters apart. “Little bit.”

Lucas laughed, loud and clear. They were nearly at the subway station, and Lucas knew this was where they would have to part. He didn’t want them to part, and he didn’t think Demaury wanted that either. But he was scared, at the end of the day, he was always scared. 

“So this is where we say goodbye, then,” Demaury said, nodding to the stairs leading underground. 

Lucas merely looked up at him, thinking that if Demaury told him not to go, he wouldn’t. But Demaury did no such thing, ruffling Lucas’ hair slightly instead and sharing a soft smile. “See you around, Lucas.”

“See you, Eliott,” Lucas said, watching as Eliott’s soft smile turned into a larger one. He wasn’t sure why, all he’d said was goodbye. Eliott took a few steps back, still looking at Lucas, and then he was gone, lost to the masses of people in the city. 

Lucas didn’t make it down to the subway for quite some time.

Lucas wasn’t actively trying to get arrested, but he wasn’t not trying to get arrested. He’d gone back to visit his mom the same time the next week, and the week after, but Eliott hadn’t been there either time. He hadn’t really expected him to be, it was surprising enough two weeks in a row, but a part of Lucas was really hoping he would have been there. Against his better judgement, he wanted to see Eliott again, and he wanted Eliott to see him.

He hadn’t resorted to calling the police, because that would have been insane, but he didn’t have any better ideas. His little dog, Ouba, started yapping in the corner of his apartment, probably needing to go out, and he had an epiphany. This would be, without a doubt, the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but he was past the point of caring.

By the time he went to the police station, flyers had been printed and friends had been called, warned to go along with whatever story he came up with should anyone ask. 

Idriss Bakhellal was at the front desk when he walked in, and he greeted Lucas with a wide grin. Somehow, Lucas had forgotten Idriss was on the force as well, and now his idea was looking even more stupid. 

“Lucas! Long time no see, what brings you here?” Idriss asked, reaching out to give him a high five. 

Lucas bit his lip, hiding the single flyer he was holding behind his back discreetly. “Um, is detective Demaury in?”

Idriss furrowed his brows. “Eliott? You know Eliott?”

“Not really,” Lucas said quickly, lying through his teeth, “But I spoke to him on the phone earlier, and he said he’d meet me when I got here…”

“Is everything all right?” Idriss looked concerned, and while Lucas appreciated it, he hadn’t planned for this. 

Lucas nodded fervently. “Yeah, yeah, all good, just a missing dog.” He figured if he spoke fast enough, Idriss wouldn’t make out his words. 

“Ouba’s missing?!” 

Then again, when were things known to go his way.

“Yeah, but it’s fine, detective Demaury said he’d help me find her and whatnot so… is he here?” Lucas smiled weakly, and Idriss frowned deeper. 

“Does Imane know? She’d help too,” Idriss said. 

Lucas sighed impatiently, regretting being born. “She does, yeah. She’s helping already with the girls. Detective Demaury?”

“Yes?” a voice said behind Lucas, and he turned around, met with the sight of Eliott in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt, badge hanging around his neck on a chain. His eyes brightened infinitesimally when he saw that it was Lucas.

“Yo, Eliott, this is Lucas, he said you guys spoke on the phone earlier about Ouba?” Idriss interrupted, and Lucas widened his eyes, begging Eliott to play along. 

“Yeah, I was just coming to find him,” Eliott lied swiftly, bright grin making its way onto his face. “Follow me?”

Lucas nodded, thanking Idriss and following Eliott around the precinct. Eliott looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “You know Idriss?”

That wasn’t the question Lucas had been expecting, so he was taken off guard a moment. “Yeah, I’m good friends with his sister,” he answered. Then, as an afterthought, “I forgot he worked here, actually.” 

“Who’s Ouba?” Eliott asked, ignoring the last part of his statement.

Thankfully, Lucas was prepared. He thrust his flyer into Eliott’s hands. “My dog. She’s missing.”

Eliott frowned slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Lucas gave a tight smile and a shrug, taking the seat Eliott offered to him beside his desk. Eliott continued, “Why, um, did you come here, then?”

“I figured the police could help better than random neighbors I’ve never spoken to,” Lucas said, answers prepared beforehand. They all sounded stupid now, but oh well.

Eliott cracked a soft smile. “Detectives don’t usually handle this sort of thing, you know. A little below our pay grade.”

Lucas reddened furiously. How was he supposed to know what matters were handled by different levels of police workers? He snatched his flyer back. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s stupid, I’ll just—”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Eliott cut him off, laughing. “I didn’t say it was stupid. Ouba means a lot to you?”

Lucas nodded. She really did, he didn’t know what he’d do if she ever actually went missing. 

“Well then of course I’ll help,” Eliott said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Yeah?” Lucas confirmed with a hesitant smile. 

“Yeah.”

Eliott took the flyer back from Lucas, hanging it on the wall of the precinct. “This is a good place to start, a lot of people cycle in and out of here.”

Lucas nodded like it made a difference. He knew none of these people would find Ouba, because she didn’t actually have to be found. Eliott grabbed his keys off his desk and gestured to Lucas. “Come on, I’ll take you home. Maybe we’ll find her on the way!”

“Oh, no it’s no trouble, really—” Lucas began, but Eliott was already out the door. 

The ride wasn’t awkward, not in the slightest. It felt like they would never run out of things to say to one another. Lucas almost forgot that he was only with Eliott because he’d lied about his dog going missing, then wondered what other dumb excuse he’d have to come up with next time. 

Eliott parked illegally on the curb in front of Lucas’ apartment building, and Lucas teased him about abusing his power, making Eliott laugh that beautiful, joyous laugh of his. 

“I’ll walk you up,” Eliott said, and Lucas froze. If he did that, he’d know Lucas had lied about Ouba, and he’d definitely have questions. 

“No, that’s ok,” Lucas said hurriedly, nearly catapulting himself from the car and rushing to the door. He should have expected Eliott would follow as he fumbled with his keys. 

Eliott looked amused, not put off in the slightest. “Everything ok?”

“Perfect. See you around,” Lucas said, trying to slip through the door without Eliott noticing. Eliott did notice, and he caught the door before it could close. He held up his badge to Lucas apologetically.

“NYPD, I need to take you back to your apartment,” he said, grinning cheekily.    

There were two problems in this situation, the first being that Lucas couldn’t call the police, or even threaten to because Eliott was the police, and the second being that secretly, he didn’t want to. Even if it meant he was caught in a lie. He didn’t know when that had changed.

Still, he did try to run, hoping he’d get on the elevator before Eliott had time to catch up. Of course, the stupid outdated elevators failed him, because life hated him, and Eliott stepped on beside him. “Nice try,” he said, then laughed. “What are you hiding up there, a secret collection of beanie babies?”

“If only,” Lucas said to himself, leaning against the wall. Neither one of them said a word as Lucas made his way down the long hallway to his apartment, number 2027. He prayed to any god who would listen that Ouba was asleep in his room and wouldn’t come out to try to impress a visitor. 

The door unlocked and Lucas was met with silence. He let out a sigh of relief. Eliott looked around the otherwise normal apartment in confusion. “This is what you didn’t want me to see?”

“I thought it was messier,” Lucas lied lamely, and Eliott just laughed.

“And here I was thinking you made up a story about your dog going missing to hang out with me,” Eliott joked and Lucas tried not to give himself away. 

“Ha. That would be ridiculous.”

Right on cue, there was a jingle, and that jingle was Ouba’s dog collar as she ran from Lucas’ room to greet the voices she heard. Eliott froze, looking from Lucas, to the dog, then back to Lucas. 

He burst into near maniacal laughter. “Shut the fuck up,” Lucas warned, but Eliott ignored him.

“You pretended your dog went missing to hang out with me.”

“I did not.”

“Really? Because…”

“My friend Yann must have found her and brought her home, he has a key.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Guess you have bad lie detecting skills.”

“Or maybe you’re just a bad liar.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

Lucas didn’t realize how close they were standing until there was no more than a breath between the two of them. “And what if I did do what you think I did?” Lucas asked, voice a breathy whisper.

“I would say you didn’t need to,” Eliott answered at an equal tone, “I would say that you could have told me anything and I would have run to you regardless.”

Lucas swallowed, noticing the way Eliott’s eyes watched the motion. “Why is that?”

“Because I like you Lucas, I like you an awful lot. And I think you like me too.” Eliott’s eyes were piercing, but steady, as he waited on a response.

Lucas breathed in and out deeply, eyes dropping to the floor, then back up to Eliott’s gaze. “I don’t know how you did it, but I think I like you too,” he admitted, “And if you don’t kiss me in the next five seconds, I think I might explode.”

Eliott obliged him willingly, lips meeting in perfect harmony. Lucas was a lonely soul, but Eliott’s kiss told him that he wasn’t alone anymore. He hoped that his kiss said the same in return. Eliott’s arms wrapped around his neck as their kiss deepened, and Lucas ran a single hand through the beautiful disaster of Eliott’s hair. 

When they broke apart, Eliott was smiling so brightly Lucas thought the sun had made its way into his small living room, lighting up the world anew. “Would you like to go out with me sometime, Eliott Demaury?” Lucas asked. Do you feel it too? he meant, The magnetic pull between us? 

“Nothing would make me happier,” Eliott said, and Lucas kissed him again. Kissed him because he wanted to, because he could. 

“You probably have to get back to work?” Lucas asked a bit grumpily, letting Eliott rest their foreheads together gently. 

Eliott raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Didn’t you hear I have a lost dog to find?”

Lucas raised one back. “Is that so? In that case, you should definitely work on that.”

“Oh trust me, I am,” Eliott said, “I think we should check in your bedroom.”

Lucas narrowed his eyes appreciatively. “You’re absolutely right, we should definitely check there.”

Lucas pulled Eliott by the hand, giggling like a giddy school child. He was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. 

“Hey Lucas?” Eliott said, and Lucas glanced up at him “I almost forgot, I need to give you a ticket.”

Lucas paused. “Wait what? You were the one who parked illegally!”

Eliott shook his head, small smirk playing across his face. “You’ve got fine written all over you.”

“Oh my god shut up. I hate you.”

Eliott smiled innocently. “I don’t think you do.”

“Nah, I don’t think I do,” Lucas agreed.

[nochoicebuttostan]

even bech naesheim, niccolo fares, elliot demaury, joana bianchi acosta and david schreibner did not pave the way so that wtfock could make this mess with their even character

[chloeep]

a better place

Written with DeMaur (Maurice Roper) what if I had it all,would you love me?what if I said it all?would it mean anything? on this journeytrying to find my waydesiring, never deservingchasing who you want me to bewhen I found a better placeyou didn’t stay I wish,I wish that I could be differentAnd I need,I need to get back my sanity I wanted to go backto who I was beforebut you burned every…

[plenohrian]

Fire Emblem inspired sprites of my oc, Katerina DeMaur. All I have is the neutral expressions done for her so far, but I really like how its coming along. 

[riverdubplate]

[eksvaized]

Part Seven König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu, @pinkslaystation

As the first rays of daylight gently filter into the room, you slowly awaken, your eyes fluttering open. Yet, the sheer intensity of the vibrant morning sun proves overwhelming, causing you to instinctively shield your face with your arm. It’s as if a spotlight has been directed straight at you, momentarily blinding you and making it challenging to adapt to the sudden burst of brightness.

Slowly, the sun’s rays pierce through the window, gradually filling the room with a stifling heat. As you lie under the layered blanket, you can feel the warmth seeping into the fabric. The sensation of being wrapped in the blanket is akin to being enclosed in a suffocating woolen coat during the hottest days of summer, compelling you to forcefully remove it and toss it aside. A sigh of relief escapes from your lips as you do so.

You lie there for a moment longer, allowing yourself to adjust to the temperature and bask in the comforting stillness that only the early morning hours can bring. However, this moment of peace is shattered when you blink a few more times, forcing your eyes to adjust to the light. As your gaze roams the space, drinking in the details of the unfamiliar surroundings, it eventually settles on the bed you’re laying in. More specifically, it settles on the sleeping figure. Simon. He’s laying there, right next to you. Lightly snoring, he has his back turned to you, completely undisturbed by your sudden awakening and the turmoil of emotions that have come with it.

Fragments of last night’s memories seep into your mind like tendrils of fog curling around your thoughts. You recall the moment you kissed Simon. And he kissed you back. Yet, a single kiss was not enough. It failed to quench the overwhelming desire that had been steadily accumulating over the many months. Nor did it manage to diffuse the palpable electric tension that had settled between you two, like an unspoken challenge waiting to be met. Even the heated make-out session that followed, a whirlwind of passion and urgency, did not satiate your shared need.

Like a starved man, Simon impatiently clawed at your clothes. He tugged at the fabric insistently, as if each second you remained clothed was a second wasted. He peeled away it all, leaving you bare and vulnerable before you could fully comprehend the gravity of what was happening. His hands, coarse yet gentle, began a deliberate exploration of your body. His fingers traced the contours of your curves. They dug into your flesh, as if trying to etch every inch of you to memory. In that moment, you were damned—you were aware of his intentions, and yet, you found yourself unwilling, or perhaps unable, to put a stop to it…

In a vain attempt to clear the tumultuous clutter that is your mind, you slowly close your eyes, permitting the darkness to envelop you. You draw in a long, deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs, holding it there for three agonizingly long seconds. As you hold your breath, you feel the tick of each second, each one seeming longer than the one before. The world, with all its noise and chaos, comes to a standstill. Eventually, you allow yourself to exhale, releasing the air in a slow, controlled manner, trying to mimic the calm you so desperately seek.

You sternly tell yourself, almost commanding your mind, not to think about it. You must forget what happened; it was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment that you can’t afford to repeat. You try to convince yourself that it was just a moment of weakness, a one-off aberration that doesn’t mean anything. But deep inside, in the corners of your heart, you can’t help but not regret it—it’s a paradox, a silent war between your mind and heart.

Turning your head, your gaze falls on Simon. In his sleep, he rolls over, his heavy arm sneaking around your waist. With a slight tug, he pulls you closer to him. There’s a serene expression on his face, as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of your shoulder. In this quiet moment, you suddenly become aware of the fact that your clothes are discarded somewhere in the living room.

You try to extract yourself from Simon’s embrace, intending to retrieve your clothes and dress up, but he stirs in his slumber. He mumbles something unintelligible under his breath. His grip tightens around your body, drawing you back into the bed. With a sigh of resignation, you allow yourself to settle back against him. Your body naturally gravitates towards his, like two magnets drawn together. Your tension, once as rigid as a tightly strung bow, melts away under the gentle caress of his fingertips, dancing over your skin. It’s a delicate touch that sends shivers down your spine. His hand then settles on your hip. Despite the guilt and shame, that gnaws at your conscience—a lingering aftermath of your actions—you find a sense of comfort and security nestled in Simon’s embrace.

You don’t have your phone, but you’re sure it’s flooded with messages and missed calls from König. He’s likely wondering where you are, considering you left without a word. The thought that he may have spent a sleepless night worrying about you crosses your mind, sending a pang of guilt through your heart. But you try your best to push it away, choosing instead to focus on Simon, on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the soft rhythm of his breathing.

After another hour of waiting, Simon finally wakes up. He unwinds his arms from your waist and rolls onto his back, yawning. You stand up, pulling the blanket off the bed and wrapping it around your shoulders. Despite the room being heated more than necessary, you don’t care. A sudden wave of modesty washes over you, prompting an unexpected desire to hide yourself from his gaze. This feeling strikes you as somewhat absurd. Especially considering that after the events of yesterday, there is barely anything left to hide—he has seen it all.

You tiptoe out of the bedroom to the living room, clutching the blanket around you. A moment later, footsteps follow you. Simon leans against the doorway, his eyes fixed on you. He watches as you dress with an unreadable expression on his face. You find yourself grateful for his consideration in putting on a pair of loose sweatpants.

Despite this, you can’t help but catch glimpses of his bare chest, your eyes fixated on the way his muscles ripple with every movement. As you steal these quick, furtive glances, your cheeks flush, getting brighter and brighter each time.

“About last night...” Your voice cuts through the silence, shattering the silence like a stone through glass. You speak up since neither of you have dared to say anything yet. “Us. Together. It was a one-time thing. We can’t... we shouldn’t repeat what happened. Ever again.”

Simon makes no objections. He simply nods, accepting your words without argument. His unexpected silence takes you aback, but you don’t question it. You are afraid that further discussion might change his mind or, worse, reveal more than what you’re prepared to confront.

You even make him promise. No, it’s actually more than that. It’s a vow — an unbreakable pact that Simon will not tell a soul about how you ended up in his bed. You want him to keep this secret, to forget about it all. Your greatest fear is for König to find out: it’s not that you regret sleeping with Simon, but… but you also don’t want to lose König. It’s a selfish thought—wanting to have them both—but you decide this is a problem for another day. For now, you don’t want to be forced into making a choice. The fear of making the wrong one scares you.

* * *

As you return home, the quietness of the house engulfs you. You pull off your shoes, throwing them off to the corner. The erratic rhythm of your heart, pounding like a drum in your chest, echoes in your ears, amplifying the stillness surrounding you. You find König in the kitchen. His eyes are fixated on something outside the window. You feel a sinking feeling in your stomach. It’s a dreadful gnawing sensation that refuses to subside as you tentatively follow his gaze.

Your eyes land on the house across the street—Simon’s house. The sight of it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the morning chill. Could König have seen you leaving? Your breath catches in your throat, a lump forming that you find difficult to swallow. You stand there, frozen, rooted to the spot, your mind buzzing with a million thoughts, a million possibilities.

But you force yourself to regain your composure, to steady your hands that have unconsciously started to tremble. After all, you hadn’t brazenly strutted out through the front door; you had been careful, meticulously so. You had snuck through Simon’s backyard, even taking a meandering route around the neighbourhood, winding through side streets and alleyways, before daring to step foot in your own home.

Your attention shifts to König’s hands. He’s fiddling with his phone, his fingers brushing over the screen absentmindedly. Even from where you’re standing, you can see your image displayed on his screen, your name and number underneath. You contemplate retreating, thinking a shower might buy you some time before you have to face him, talk with him. But just as you’re about to slip back into the shadows, he senses your presence, like a predator catching the scent of its prey.

His head swivels towards you with a jerk, his eyes widening in surprise at your sudden appearance. The phone slips from his grasp, clattering onto the countertop. His reflex response is to pull you into a steel-trap embrace, his hold so unyieldingly tight that you fear your ribs might splinter under the pressure. His hands roam over your body, running over every inch as if he’s assessing for any signs of injury. It’s an instinctive need to ensure you’re alright. Then, his palms cradle your face, gently tilting your head from one side to the other.

Eventually, König pulls away. The deep lines of worry etched in his features slowly fade away as he realises you’re unharmed. Fine, perfectly fine.

He finally breaks the silence. “Where have you been?” His voice is low, tinged with a harshness you rarely hear.

“Out.”

Clearly unsatisfied with your evasive response, he presses further. A sense of urgency creeping into his voice. “Where?” Despite his insistent questioning, you remain silent.

He launches into a barrage of inquiries, a torrent of words that batter against your defenses. Each question is met with either your silence or brief, vague responses. You’re afraid that if you say too much, you’ll trip over your own web of lies.

“... and you didn’t think you should tell me, or at least take your phone with you?” He asks.

You respond with a simple shake of your head.

As König continues to push, to probe, to accuse, you feel your patience wearing thin, slowly being eroded like a cliff under the relentless assault of the sea. The familiar heat of anger begins to simmer within you. You want to retaliate, to shout back, to let loose the torrent of words that have been building up within you. You want to confess that you had called Sarah, to accuse him of cheating, to hurl the same accusations that have been ricocheting around your skull like bullets in a steel drum. But you hold back, biting down on your tongue, the metallic taste of restraint filling your mouth. You want to prevent this argument from spiralling into a full-blown fight, from escalating into a war of words that neither of you would win.

Because, as much as you hate to admit it, you aren’t oblivious to the bitter irony of the situation — you are no different from König. You had accused him of cheating, of betraying your trust, of being the villain… Yet, here you stand, guilty of the same crime.

[eksvaized]

Part Eight König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu, @pinkslaystation

Each time you find yourself wrapped in the comforting embrace of Simon’s arms, you can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. It’s as if you’ve broken a solemn promise you’ve made to yourself—a vow, a pledge, a commitment to stay away from him. This whirlwind of emotions, this cycle, has become a repeated pattern, a recurrent loop that seems to have no end.

After every night spent tangled in the sheets of Simon’s bed, you sternly tell yourself, and him, that this was indeed the last time. You assert, with a firmness that lacks any genuine conviction, that you won’t be crossing the threshold of his doorstep again.

However, this proclamation, this denial has turned into a part of a routine, too. It’s just like the part when Simon, with that irresistible charm of his, teases you. A mischievous glint twinkles in his dark eyes as you hurriedly gather your scattered clothes from the floor, peeking under the bed to look for your missing panties, only to stand up and see Simon twist the thin, soft fabric around his fingers.

His voice dances around you, a teasing melody of amusement, challenging your resolve. He doesn’t believe you can resist him, and his assertion fills the room. A knowing smirk slowly, almost lazily, creeps onto his face. Then, he always adds, with a hint of anticipation in his voice, “I won’t lock the door—in case your bed gets too cold. Again.”

You dismiss his words with a casual flick of your hand, a facade of indifference masking the turmoil within. You declare that you plan on spending the night at your own house, in your own bed, under your own roof. Yet, no matter how hard you push Simon away, how intently you try to maintain the distance, how determinedly you try to build walls around yourself, an invisible, magnetic force always lures you back to him. It pulls you back into the warmth of his arms, back into his bed, back into a world where nothing else seems to matter…

These days, it seems to be more of a rule than an exception that you find yourself spending the night at Simon’s place. This is particularly the case when König isn’t around to notice your absence. However, even when König is present, his attention is far from you. He’s usually engrossed in his phone, busily dealing with work politics, rumours, and gossip. This scenario provides you with ample opportunity to sneak away, and you seize it on numerous occasions.

Every time you cross the street, leaving your house behind and heading towards Simon’s, a heavy cloak of guilt wraps itself around your shoulders. It’s like a shadow, constantly trailing behind you, tracing your every step. Yet, the adrenaline rush you experience from the risk of being caught in the act at any moment works like a balm. It momentarily drowns out the shame and guilt, providing a temporary respite from your inner conflict.

There were one or two close encounters with König, where you almost got caught red-handed. But each time, you managed to think on your feet and concoct a believable excuse. And each time, König, in his naivety, accepted your hastily made up excuse without suspicion.

Simon has grown into an obsession, more than just a fleeting thought. He’s an insatiable fire consuming your every waking moment, infiltrating your thoughts, spreading tendrils of longing and desire through your day and night. No matter what you’re doing or where you are, he’s always there, at the back of your mind. And the mere thought of him - his presence, his voice, even his laughter - is enough to send a giddy rush of excitement coursing through your veins. Everything about him, from his gaze to his infectious smile, makes your heart flutter in a way that you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s as if you’re a schoolgirl with her first crush again, blushing uncontrollably and giggling at the slightest provocation. And after what seems like an eternity of waiting and wanting, of yearning for something more, you’re finally receiving the attention you’ve been desperately craving.

However, you’re well aware that you need to end things with König. It’s a task that’s easier said than done, especially given the circumstances. You haven’t been able to muster the courage to break things off yet, knowing all too well that König will demand to know why. He will want answers, and you’re not yet ready to confess that you’ve been having an affair.

It all reminds you of the time when you wanted to confront König about his own infidelity. You kept telling yourself that you’ll do it tomorrow, but when tomorrow came, you found another excuse to delay the confrontation. It’s the same with your confession now — each night before sleep, you promise yourself that you will talk with König in the morning. But when the morning comes, fear and guilt make you push that conversation further and further into the future.

* * *

It’s one of those long, seemingly endless nights where you are lying wide awake in bed, enveloped by the frigid sheets. The evening’s chill seems to seep into your bones, making the bed feel colder than it is. The day has been a marathon, filled to the brim with copious amounts of coffee—a decision you’re now regretting as the caffeine courses through your veins, denying you the sleep.

Your mind aimlessly wanders, drifting to thoughts of König, who’s been dispatched on yet another mission, leaving you alone to endure the deafening silence of your home for the next few long days.

Drained yet restless, sleep eluding your desperate grasp, you reach out for your phone. You scroll through your contacts until you land on Simon’s name and decide to send him a text.

Minutes that feel like hours pass as you wait anxiously for his reply. The oppressive silence of the room is punctuated only by the faint, rhythmic ticking of the clock in the hallway. When a response doesn’t come, a pang of disappointment courses through you, but you decide to send another message. A more direct invitation this time. “Come over?” you type, hoping he’s awake and willing to offer you a much-needed distraction from the loneliness.

Not too long after, the front door groans as it swings open. You had hidden a spare key outside, tucked away beneath an unassuming rock, specifically for Simon. You lock your phone, its screen dimming before you toss it onto the plush mattress without a second thought. Your fingers weave through your unkempt hair, soothing your excited nerves as you sit up in anticipation.

Simon has been in your house before and is familiar with the layout, so you don’t bother leaving the comfort of your bed to greet him.

The sound of heavy, determined footsteps reverberates through the house, growing louder and closer with each passing second. Each footfall stirs a flutter of excitement within the depths of your heart. However, the rhythmic footfall abruptly ceases. An unsettling, eerie silence envelops the house. As you look at the gap under the bedroom door, a flickering shadow catches your eye.

“Simon?” You call out, your brows furrowing in confusion.

Though you’re aware, he’s likely just pranking you, attempting to scare you, you find it more irritating than entertaining and wish he would just drop the act. Reaching over, you flick on the lamp. Its warm, comforting glow bathing the space in a soft light. “Stop playing around,” you demand again. This time, there’s a hint of irritation in your tone, laced with an undercurrent of budding anxiety.

No answer. Your patience, already worn thin, finally snaps, and you rise from the bed, determined to confront Simon and put an end to his childish game.

As you tiptoe, each step taken with extreme caution, you inch closer towards the closed door, pressing your ear against it. The faint sound of Simon’s breathing reaches your ears, and you can’t help but smirk at the realisation that he probably didn’t hear your soft footsteps. You decide to scare him.

“Boo!” With a sudden burst of energy, you swing the door open in one fluid, swift motion, your fingers slipping off the cool metal handle because of the abrupt movement.

However, the smirk that was plastered across your face fades away almost instantly when you see he isn’t here. The hallway is dark and empty. It’s as though he has dissolved into the very shadows, leaving behind only a frigid silence that gnaws at your courage.

“Simon? This isn’t funny anymore,” you call out, your voice echoing through the silence. You wonder how he was able to move so quickly and silently — you should have heard him walking away.

Yet again, your words are met with no response.

An icy shiver runs down your spine, like cold fingers tracing your back, sending a wave of unease rippling through your entire body. Like a creeping fog, fear seeps into every inch of you, its grip paralysing you, forcing you to stand still. With wide, frantic eyes, you scan the eerie surroundings, your gaze flitting from one corner to another, desperately searching for any trace of Simon.

A terrifying thought crosses your mind, causing your heart to beat faster. But... what if it’s not Simon messing with you? After all, he didn’t respond to your text. He may still be asleep in his house, and instead, you are now playing hide and seek with a stranger who has broken into your home.

A sudden noise—the sound of shattering glass—from the kitchen breaks your train of thought. Your heart plummets and, in a state of panic, you dart back into the room, slamming the door shut louder than you intended.

You’re now certain that it’s not Simon who’s lurking in the shadows, and you realise that you’re left with two choices. The first option is to gather your courage and try to escape, but the overwhelming fear glues you to the spot. So, you stumble towards the bed instead—your second option is to call for help and hope that it arrives in time.

As you frantically search for your phone, your hands glide across the lumpy mattress, tossing pillows and other items onto the floor in your haste. You mentally chide yourself for carelessly throwing your phone onto the bed instead of placing it on the nightstand. But finally, your fingers wrap around it, and you let out a shaky breath of relief. Yet, just as you unlock the phone, a hand clamps over your mouth. A body presses against yours.

“Caught you,” a low voice whispers into your ear, and an arm slinks around your waist, effectively immobilising you and preventing any chance of escape.

Simon. Your heart slows down when you realise it’s him. The phone slips out of your trembling hand and falls back onto the mattress. As you swallow the scream that had been building in your throat, a faint smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

You attempt to turn around because you want him to push him away and curse him for scaring you. But as soon as your body moves, his grip around you tightens. Like a python ensnaring its prey, his arms pull you deeper into his embrace, binding you closer to the heat of his body.

“You shouldn’t have been so desperate, you know,” he murmurs, his voice a low whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. “... your neediness for attention made it easy for me to manipulate you.”

You are not sure what he is talking about, but you don’t want to listen anymore. Whatever twisted game he’s playing, you want him to end it now. You want him to leave your house—leave you alone. Yet his hand remains firmly clamped over your mouth, his arm still wrapped tightly around your waist. His fingers dig into your side with such force that you know it will leave a bruise.

In a fit of desperation, you sink your teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. He responds with a hiss—a sharp exhale of pain that sounds like steam escaping from a pressure valve. His hold on you slackens momentarily. That brief second is all you need, and you push him away with all the strength you can muster.

Before you can whirl around and deliver an ultimatum, your vision starts to distort. A wave of darkness washes over you, pulling you down into its inky depths. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you stumble, struggling to stay upright. But it’s no use. Your body gives up the fight and you crumple to the ground.

As you regain consciousness, a harsh, persistent ringing fills your ears, drowning out the silence of the room. A throbbing, pounding pain pulses rhythmically at the back of your skull. It takes several agonizing, disorienting seconds for your memory to return, filtering through the fog of confusion that clouds your mind. When it does, your eyes widen in terror and scan the room.

Simon is gone and you are… tied to the bed; your hands are fastened tightly above your head to the headboard, your mouth sealed with a piece of tape, the distinct aroma of the glue filling your nostrils and making you nauseous.

A wave of panic engulfs you, washing over you like a chilling tide. You begin to thrash around in desperate, futile attempts to free yourself, to escape the bindings that hold you captive. However, the unyielding restraints only seem to gnaw into your skin even deeper, tightening their grip on you, etching themselves into your flesh.

Simon’s chilling voice reverberates reaches your ears. It paralyzes you, causing your body to turn rigid, as if encased in a tomb of ice. Your breathing becomes shallow, each intake of air a struggle as you try to muffle your whimpering cries. Your vision blurs as tears well up in your eyes; hot tears sting, like a thousand tiny needles pricking at your pupils, causing you to blink rapidly in a frenzied attempt to clear your sight.

Despite the bedroom door being firmly shut, you can hear the distinct sound of Simon pacing anxiously in the hallway. You can’t physically see him, but you’re certain he’s talking with someone on the phone conversation with someone.

“...Hurry up. I have her—there’s not much time,” he commands, the authoritative tone in his voice chilling you to your very core. His voice gradually recedes as he moves away, the sound of his footsteps growing fainter. Only to become audible again, a haunting echo, as he draws closer to the door. “No, but what other choice did I have? She would never have willingly gone me...”

Wrestling against your restraints, you make a vain attempt to sit upright. Like a captured bird flutters against the bars of its cage, you tug and twist at your bindings, shifting them in an effort to loosen them. The rough texture, like sandpaper against your skin, grates, and rubs, and the constant friction only serves to magnify the uncomfortable pressure on your already raw and chafed wrists.

The low murmur of Simon’s voice is a constant in the background, his words washing over you in a disjointed rhythm. “... I would, but I can’t just toss her over my shoulder and carry her to...” His voice, muffled and distant, keeps fading in and out, like a radio struggling to find the right frequency.

While you’re unable to grasp the entire conversation, the fragments you do catch are enough to elicit dread, making it clear that it isn’t going to end well for you.

“... I doubt Sarah will keep König distracted for much longer—he puts up with her because he knows he has to,” Simon says in a matter-of-fact tone. The mere mention of König’s name sends a shiver down your spine, causing you to freeze in place. And… and Sarah? Why would she be involved in all of this? “And unless you want König to cut your head off for touching his girl, I suggest you move your ass....”

[eksvaized]

Part Five König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu

You and Simon become friends. This friendship is something you haven’t experienced in quite some time. Simon makes you feel heard and understood. It’s a refreshing change from the usual dismissal of your feelings. He has a knack for making you feel like your emotions and thoughts are valid, and that you are not overreacting or blowing things out of proportion whenever you want to talk about something that bothers you.

Simon’s visits become a regular occurrence, and the two of you find comfort in sharing meals together during the long, lonely evenings. However, he only agrees to start visiting when you assure him that your boyfriend is out of town and won’t be coming back anytime soon.

Both you and Simon decide that it’s best to keep your growing friendship under wraps. Your boyfriend is a jealous man, and given the already sensitive state of your relationship, you fear he would react negatively to you having a male friend over and spending time with him. This could potentially jeopardize any chance of having a conversation about the suspicions you harbor over his fidelity; you are still seething with anger towards König, and you need answers from him about whether or not he has been unfaithful.

There are moments when guilt seeps in, making you question the time you spend with Simon. But then you remind yourself that you aren’t doing anything wrong. Your relationship with Simon is purely platonic. He always respects your boundaries, never attempts to make any unwanted advances. Despite this, however, there are instances when the playful banter and the unmistakable undercurrent of tension between the two of you becomes almost too hard to ignore. It’s as if you’re teetering on the brink, about to tumble into a territory that both of you are aware should remain unexplored. And yet, regardless of how close you come to this precipice, you always manage to pull yourself back at the very last moment. You never cross the line, nor does Simon.

* * *

Simon extends a rare invitation to his house on the day König is expected to return home. Remarkably, this marks the first time he has ever done so. Typically, the two of you hang out at your place, a comfortable routine that has naturally formed over the relatively short time you’ve known each other.

His unexpected invitation, coming out of the blue, throws you into a state of indecision, leaving you in a quandary. You find yourself caught in a mental tug-of-war, debating the likelihood of him ever asking you over again. The idea of visiting his home is tempting, yet you are know you must decline his offer.

So, later in the day, after you’ve taken a long shower and have settled into the living room, you pick up your phone and send him a short message, telling him you are busy.

Anxiously, you sit and wait with bated breath. Your eyes, wide and unblinking, are transfixed on the relentless ticking of the clock, its hands chasing after each other in an endless loop. Each passing minute feels like a drop of water in a vast ocean, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, yet so crucial in this moment.

You had spent countless seemingly endless hours rehearsing your carefully crafted speech with Simon. Every word, every pause, every inflection had been deliberated over, practiced until they flowed like a well-rehearsed song. And all you wish for now, with a desperation that is palpable, is for König to return home sooner rather than later. You are a dam, filled to the brim, ready to burst and spill the torrent of words that have been shackling your heart like a pair of iron chains.

The moment the familiar purr of a car engine seeps into the quiet air, reverberating off the walls of the silent house, and the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking echoes in the hallway, you inhale sharply. The air rushes into your lungs, only to become trapped in your chest. Your heart drops, sinking to the pit of your stomach as if it were made of stone. A sheen of chilly sweat begins to coat your trembling palms, while your muscles coil themselves into tight knots. The meticulously prepared speech, the one you had dedicated hours to memorizing, suddenly evaporates from your mind, dissipating like morning fog under the harsh glare of the sun. Your once unwavering confidence begins to waver, too, teetering on the edge of a precipice, threatening to dwindle away completely.

The moment König’s foot crosses the threshold of the front door, a chilling sensation grips him like icy tendrils. It’s a sensation akin to a discordant note played in a harmonious melody - something is deeply amiss. The comforting ritual of your presence to welcome him home is disturbingly absent.

Regardless of any argument or disagreement you two might have before he leaves for his mission, the unspoken promise between the two of you has always been that you’d be there, ready to bury the hatchet and jump into his arms in an enthusiastic, heartfelt reunion whenever he returns. But this time, there’s no such greeting.

In the dimly lit living room, he finds you. Curled up on the couch, you are lost in your thoughts, fiddling absent-mindedly with some nondescript object in your hands. As he steps into your line of sight, he can see the tempestuous storm brewing in the depths of your eyes. They flit over your shoulder, briefly meeting his gaze before quickly darting away. Your expression is hard—a stark contrast to the gentle warmth he’s accustomed to. This unexpected shift in your demeanor plants a growing seed of worry in his heart, a concern he can’t quite shake off.

“Shatz, is everything okay?” The words leave his lips when he steps closer to you, the space separating you two shrinking with each stride.

His voice carries the weight of weariness, the echo of a battle-hardened soldier returned from a grueling mission. Yet, beneath the veneer of exhaustion, a thread of worry winds its way through his tone, an echo of his mounting concern sparked by your uncharacteristic silence.

In response to his question, you morph into a statue and remain silent. Wordlessly, with a flick of a wrist, you toss the note you’ve been holding onto the coffee table. After the paper lands with a soft thud, you gesture for him to pick it up. Your arms wrap around your waist, and your fingers clutch the fabric of your shirt. Drawing your knees up to your chest, you wait for him to look at it.

His eyes lock with yours, brimming with a sense of confusion, as though he’s attempting to decode a cryptic, unreadable script that has been presented to him. He silently read the note. As he digests the words, his fingers start to tear at the rough edges, gradually shredding the paper into tiny fragments. They flutter to the cold floor, gathering at his feet like fallen snowflakes. The room falls into an eerie silence, only interrupted by the faint rustling of paper dancing in the air before settling down.

As the last piece of paper falls down, the silence in the room becomes even more pronounced, amplifying the heavy tension that now hangs thick in the air. The atmosphere escalates, becoming almost palpable, a physical entity that fills every corner. It’s as if the room itself holds its breath, waiting for König’s response; you can feel a knot forming in the pit of your stomach.

You expect him to explain it to you, and to reassure you that this note didn’t mean anything. You hope he would tell you that you spent all this time stressing over a mere misunderstanding. However, much to your despair, he remains silent, acting as if he is oblivious to the situation and doesn’t understand the implications of your question.

Summoning every shred of courage you have left, you voice out the question that has been tormenting you, gnawing at your peace, casting a dark shadow over your happiness. “Are you cheating on me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, yet echoing loudly in the room.

You dare to speak because you realize he isn’t going to initiate the conversation. He isn’t going to comfort you, or offer any words to alleviate the heavy burden of uncertainty that’s weighing you down.

His response comes as a shaky nod, but the word ‘no’ remains a prisoner in his mouth. You feel like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode any moment. What you find most infuriating, what feels like a slap to the face, is König’s casual attitude towards the whole situation. It’s as if he views this as just another one of those pointless arguments that you’ve started out of sheer boredom, with no real significance or underlying issue. His lack of seriousness, his inability to acknowledge the gravity of the situation, only fuels your growing frustration, making you feel more misunderstood and isolated.

“I found this note and... I wouldn’t have cared, but before you left, I read the texts from her on your phone,” you start, your voice trembling with emotions. You continue, “And based on what you’ve told me about her, the way she flirts with you, and the fact that you let her do it, it all points to... it appears as if you are having an affair with her.”

The words spill out of you like water breaking through a dam. Once the floodgates are open, it’s almost impossible to stop the flow. Fragments of the speech you’ve painstakingly rehearsed over and over in your head begin resurfacing.

“I need you to be honest with me. If you want to break up, if you don’t love me anymore and would rather be with someone else, just tell me,” you implore, your voice growing shaky as you valiantly fight back the tears that threaten to blur your vision and spill down your cheeks. “I can’t keep tiptoeing around you… pretending that everything is fine. The way you’ve been treating me lately makes me feel like I’m nothing more than an inconvenient presence in this house—an annoyance that you merely tolerate.”

You rise to your feet, feeling the sting of hot tears that blur your sight. You hastily wipe them away with the sleeve of your shirt, leaving the fabric wet. König remains silent, his eyes unreadable. His silence feels like a confession. An admission of guilt. Why else would he remain mute unless he was indeed cheating? Why else would he not rush to his own defence?

As you attempt to walk past him, the desire to retreat and hide in the safety of the bedroom overwhelms you. But as you move, his fingers curl around your wrist in a gentle yet firm hold—a silent plea for you to stay. His grip pulls you back, stopping you in your tracks, compelling you to pivot on your heel and turn back to face him again.

His gaze, intense and probing, sweeps over your face, as though trying to read the turmoil of emotions reflected in your eyes. The intensity of his stare makes you feel bare. Exposed. It’s as though he can see into the very depths of your soul.

König raises his hand to your face, cupping your cheeks with such tenderness that it makes your heart ache. His thumb slowly traces a soothing path over your damp skin, erasing the tear-stained trails that had trickled down your cheeks.

Overwhelmed, you tightly shut your eyes, feeling the weight of the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air between you. It becomes unbearable to maintain eye contact; the silence suffocating. There’s a tangible tension that engulfs you both, making it hard to breathe. The warmth of his presence, the brush of his fingers against your skin, and the intensity of his gaze all conspire to make your heart ache painfully in your chest. It’s a constant reminder of everything you’re desperately trying to escape at this very moment.

“I’m not sleeping with Sarah,” he says, keeping your eyes captive and refusing to let you look away even when you try to free yourself from his grip. His touch feels like it’s scorching your skin. “I would never cheat on you. I regret the way I’ve treated you. I never realised that my actions made you feel this way—”

As he continues to speak, his voice gradually fades into a distant murmur, barely audible amidst the vast expanse of your thoughts. It feels as though you are submerged beneath the calm waters of a serene ocean, the gentle waves muffling his words like distant echoes, as the liquid silence engulfs your senses. The world around you becomes hazy, and a profound realization sinks in - the bitter taste of being wrong.

The notion that he, the person you trust more than anyone else, could ever betray you, had lodged itself in your mind. But now, it appears absurd. The mere thought that König could do something so harsh, so utterly unthinkable, is crazy.

Doubt had clouded your judgment - how could you even imagine he would do such a thing?

[eksvaized]

Part Four König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01

You don’t immediately confront König about the texts you discovered on his phone. Initially, you keep quiet because you’re still trying to comprehend and process the shocking revelation. The words you read are still swirling around in your mind, causing you to question everything you thought you knew about your relationship. However, as you remain silent, a creeping sense of doubt infiltrates your thoughts. You question your own judgement, wondering if perhaps you have misunderstood the situation. You wrestle with the notion that maybe there’s an explanation, a context that you’re not privy to.

The very notion that König could betray your trust and cheat on you is too painful to even consider. While there are times when he seems distant and you sometimes feel that he doesn’t pay enough attention to you, deep down, you still want to believe in him. You want to have faith that the man you love would not hurt you in such an unimaginable way.

And then, there comes a moment, when you find yourself aimlessly standing in the kitchen. Your eyes, almost instinctively, drift towards the window. There, you catch the sight of your neighbour. As your gaze lingers on him longer than it should, a pang of guilt washes over you like a tidal wave. Suddenly, it hits you like a bolt of lightning, the realization that your thoughts are straying, straying into a territory that you never intended to venture into. It makes you question whether you are really any better than König.

Your boyfriend might occasionally engage in harmless flirting with other women. Yet, you are in a similarly precarious situation, guilty of the same act of letting your eyes wander. You find yourself infatuated, even slightly obsessed, with the man who lives across the street. Even now, at this very moment when you should be returning to your living room, where König is waiting for you, you find yourself rooted to the spot, unable to move.

You let out a weary sigh, the weight of the world seemingly pressing against your chest. Your hands reach up to rub your face. The thought of confronting König has been gnawing at you, consuming every waking moment with a dread that’s nearly unbearable. You know deep down in the pit of your stomach that you should have a conversation with him. Yet, the haunting fear of the unknown keeps you paralyzed.

The morning has started off on such a high note, with König in a great mood. The last thing you want to do is to cast a dark cloud over the day. So, for now, you decide to push the matter aside, tucking it away in a corner of your mind. Yet again, you make a solemn promise to yourself, a vow sealed with the weight of your own resolve, to broach the subject of his potential infidelity the following day. Tomorrow, you would face the storm head on. But for today, you allow yourself a moment’s respite from the looming storm.

However, when the promised tomorrow arrives, you cannot break the silence. Again. Your lips remain sealed, your words swallowed by the anxiety of what his response might be. As the hours turn into days, and then into weeks, you find yourself trapped in a continuous, never-ending loop of silent mornings that stretch out before you, each one more daunting than the last.

Every day, you wake up filled with a newfound determination, believing that today would be the day you would finally gather the courage to ask him the daunting question that’s been relentlessly haunting your thoughts, echoing in the empty corners of your mind. But every time the moment arrives, every time you find yourself standing at the precipice of confession, you bite back the words, swallowing them down as they rise in your throat.

The question stays unasked, lingering in the air between you like a ghost, because you’re terrified of what Konig might say. You fear the rejection, the disappointment, the potential heartbreak, and breakup that his answer might bring—you fear the change that might come. But above all, you fear falsely accusing him. And so you remain silent, caught in a cycle of fear and anticipation, waiting for a tomorrow that might never come.

* * *

“Trust me… I’ll make up for it when I come back, okay?” König’s words echo in the hallway as he steps closer to you. The intensity of his gaze is almost palpable, and the air seems to thicken. As he leans down, his lips find their way to your forehead. It’s a gentle touch, soft and tender, sending a comforting warmth seeping through you, spreading from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

His hands find their place on your waist before venturing further, sneaking under the hem of your shirt. The feel of his gloves lightly grazing your bare skin sends a shiver down your spine, a ticklish sensation that has you squirming in his arms “I know you really wanted to visit your family, and that you are disappointed that the plans had to change, but this… this is the last time I’m breaking my promises.”

You’ve considered the idea of going alone, but the thought of flying on your own is daunting and the prospect of traveling across the country by yourself is something you’d rather not do. So, a part of you wants to trust him, to believe in the sincerity of his words. However, there’s this lingering voice at the back of your mind, a constant nagging reminder of past experiences, urging you not to place too much hope on the chance that König would keep his word this time.

As he leans down to kiss you, his hands trace the contours of your body. They glide downwards in a slow motion before settling on your hips. His fingers hook around the belt loops on your jeans, exerting just enough pressure to tug you gently, yet insistently, closer to him.

König pauses then, creating a moment of suspense that makes your breath hitch. As his eyes focus on you, his forehead comes to rest against yours. The intensity of his gaze is magnetic, drawing you in and holding you captive.

In the quiet space between heartbeats, he breaks the silence. His voice, low and husky, “I’m going to miss you.” The words hang in the air, a poignant reminder of the inevitable parting that looms ahead, adding a bittersweet edge to the tender moment you two are sharing.

You give a slight nod in response; the words stuck in your throat, unable to find their way out. You’ve always found it excruciatingly hard to bid him goodbye, to watch him walk away with the haunting uncertainty that he might not come back. The fear always nibbles at your heartstrings. But this time, it feels distinctively different from the departures that preceded it. This time, he tenderly wraps his strong arms around you, pulling you into the comforting warmth of his embrace, holding you so tightly as if trying to imprint the moment into his memory. His voice, a soft murmur laced with raw emotion, tickles your hair as he leans in to whisper the three words that make your heart flutter: “I love you.”

* * *

As each day passes by, one following the other, they march in a slow, monotonous rhythm, a procession of identical hours and minutes that seem to stretch into infinity. You fall back into your mundane routine, the familiar patterns offering some semblance of normality. You fill your hours with activities, tasks and hobbies, each one designed to distract you from the overwhelming sense of loneliness that threatens to consume you. This feeling, this insidious companion, becomes particularly potent whenever you are alone in the house.

One of these mundane activities is doing laundry. It’s a chore that brings you face-to-face with König’s oversized duffle bag, which is practically bursting at the seams, indicating it’s full of dirty clothes. With a sigh, you approach it, lift it with an effort, and start extracting the smelly, forgotten laundry. You can’t help but crinkle your nose in disgust — König’s disregard for cleanliness, particularly his tendency to leave his dirty clothes lying around when he returns home from a mission, is a habit you’ve always found distasteful.

As you lift the worn-out duffle bag for one last shake, ensuring every last piece of clothing has been retrieved, a crumpled, forgotten piece of paper tumbles out and lands softly on your lap. It piques your curiosity. Casting the bag aside, you pick up the paper, your fingers tracing its creased edges as you attempt to smooth it out.

It’s a hastily torn page from some notebook, its edges rugged. Something has been scrawled across it in messy, rushed handwriting, as if the thoughts were too fast for the hand to keep up with. The once vibrant ink has smudged, faded, and blotched in places, making it a challenge to decipher the words. So, you bring it closer to your face, your eyes squinting in concentration, your mind eager to decode the what was written so hastily.

Meet me at the usual spot when you come back. -S

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t pay much attention to the note. After all, it’s not uncommon to find a medley of objects, ranging from old notes to various pieces of paper, interspersed amongst König’s possessions. He has a habit of stuffing it all in the side pockets of his bag, rather than disposing of everything.

However, on this occasion, the mere sight of a single initial inscribed at the end of the note instantaneously triggers a wave of memories, all leading back to the cryptic messages you had encountered on König’s phone. While there isn’t any concrete evidence linking the note to Sarah, a gut feeling, combined with a series of coincidences, leads you to believe that this note was penned by her.

Throughout the entire day, you keep the note tucked away with you. It sits in your pocket, feeling heavier than a handful of stones. Now and then, you find your hand subconsciously reaching out to touch it, just to reassure yourself that it’s still there. You are gripped by the fear of misplacing it, consumed by the thought of it slipping out of your pocket unnoticed, or worse, accidentally throwing it away with the day’s rubbish. .

You are filled with a profound sense of regret, a feeling that gnaws at your heart. You wish you had discovered the note sooner, at a time, when König was still within reach, still at home.

You can’t help but allow your mind to wander to what could have been. It’s crazy how something so small could hold such big implications. It is the missing puzzle piece—the catalyst you needed to muster the courage to confront him, to have a heart to heart conversation about the questions that have been haunting you for weeks now. However, he is no longer here to provide the answers you seek. His presence replaced by an echoing silence and cold emptiness.

Yes, you can call him, while clinging to the hope that he hasn’t decided to turn off his phone and that he will be willing to pick up. But you yearn for more. You want to see the expression changing on his face as the truth finally sees the light of day. You want to witness that moment of raw honesty, not just hear it.

Your evening culminates with you sinking, almost melting, into the plush cushions of the couch. The room around you is bathed in a soft, dim light, the last remnants of the day’s glow that are gradually fading away, surrendering to the impending darkness of the night.

You seek refuge from the tormenting thoughts that have taken a firm grip on your mind, and attempt to distract yourself with a bottle of wine. This bottle, which you found hidden deep in the far corner of one of the kitchen cupboards, had been lying there neglected, its layer of dust indicating its long-standing disuse.

 You’d hoped that the warmth of the wine trickling slowly down your throat would offer some semblance of solace, a temporary respite from the turmoil within. However, the wine doesn’t seem to be working its anticipated magic. Instead of the calming effect you’d hoped for, the chaos inside your mind persists, relentless and unforgiving. It leaves no room for tranquility.

The note, those haunting words etched upon it, along with the vivid image of König and Sarah together, play in your mind like a broken record. The heart-wrenching thought of them together is like a punch to your gut, making you reel with a pain you’ve never known before. All these thoughts, these nagging reminders of a reality you’re not yet ready to accept, continue to circle in your head. They are like unwelcome guests who have not only overstayed their welcome but have also made themselves too comfortable, refusing to leave the confines of your already burdened and overwhelmed mind.

At this point, you are at a loss, unsure of your own emotions. You stand on the precipice of an emotional abyss, not knowing whether to let your pent-up frustration take the reins. To yell, to scream, to let it all out in a burst of cathartic anger, or to let the tightly held dam of tears break loose, allowing yourself the release of a heart-wrenching cry. A cry so deep, so raw that you might just end up crying until you’re completely spent, until you’re hollow and numb, devoid of any feeling.

You grumble when the doorbell rings. A sense of annoyance bubbles up within you, prickling at your skin like a thousand tiny needles, since you are certainly not in the mood to entertain unannounced guests. In your quiet frustration, you stubbornly choose not to move at first, silently praying that the person standing on your doorstep will take the hint and leave. But much to your dismay, the doorbell rings again. Again. And then, again. The repeated disturbance finally causes your patience to snap like a twig.

With an audible groan, after it becomes clear that the uninvited visitor won’t leave, you angrily pull yourself up. You march towards the door; your mind filled with bitter thoughts, ready to confront and cuss out the person who dared to disturb you.

As you reach out to twist the knob and open the door, the words you had been rehearsing seem to become lodged in your throat, rendering you momentarily speechless. A look of surprise paints your face as you take a sharp breath in. Standing at your doorstep is your neighbour.

His gaze, piercing and inquisitive, travels down your body before snapping back up to meet your eyes. It is at this moment that you suddenly become aware of your appearance. You are clad in one of König’s old, worn-out shirts that hang loosely on your frame, coupled with a pair of grey joggers that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is dishevelled, a wild mess that you haven’t bothered to tame, to say the least.

To top it all off, the haunted look in your eyes is unmistakable; in a sense, you are indeed being haunted. The note, stashed away in your pocket, seems to radiate an intense heat that burns through the fabric of your joggers. It feels as though it’s searing your skin.

“You’ve come to borrow another cup of sugar?” You inquire, your voice laced with a rich, unmistakable layer of sarcasm. The once overpowering feelings of hesitation and intimidation that had previously gripped you, rendering you silent during your last encounter with him, have now dissipated.

“No.” The word falls from his lips as he shakes his head. A few rebellious strands of his hair tumble forward to obscure his eyes. It looks like he just stepped out of the shower—his locks are still slightly damp, and you can’t help but notice the way they’ve darkened from their usual shade.

Your eyes wander, drawn to the subtle changes in him you hadn’t noticed before because of your nervousness, but the movement of his arm pulls your attention away. Your neighbour extends his hand towards you, his fingers curled something. His action effectively diverts your attention from his appearance. “But I wanted to give you back this.”

Upon closer look, you realise it’s the cup you had lent him. You nod, reaching out to take it from him. Your fingers brush against his. Just days ago, such touch had sent a jolt of electricity coursing down your spine, made your heart beat faster, and even caused you to blush. But right now, it all is replaced by an all-consuming numbness and emptiness that has taken up residence within the deepest corners of your heart.

You want to tell him that he really didn’t have to go through the trouble of returning the cup. But there’s a question that’s been burning at the back of your mind, a question that you’ve been wanting to ask him for quite some time now.

“What’s your name?”

“Simon,” he says. There’s a moment of silence that seems to stretch on but only lasts a few heartbeats.

His brown eyes dart towards your vacant driveway. The absence of your boyfriend’s truck does not go unnoticed. Then, as if on a silent cue, they flit over your shoulder, taking in the hollow emptiness of the hallway behind you. Every corner, every shadow, scanned with an almost unnerving precision. And then, within the blink of an eye, his gaze returns to its original position, resting on your face, studying you with an intensity that’s hard to ignore.

“Y/N,” you also say, deciding to introduce yourself as well. It feels only fair after all.

It’s clear to you that you should shut the door right in Simon’s face, just like you did the last time he showed up late in the evening. However, the weight of the note in your pocket feels extraordinarily heavy, and it ignites a burning desire within you to retaliate against König. The wine, which has been flowing freely tonight, is clouding your judgment and leading you to make irrational decisions.

“Do you want to come in?” you ask, a question that in the sober light of day, you will probably regret.

“Won’t your boyfriend be mad?” Simon replies. For a moment, you find yourself puzzled, wondering how he knows about your relationship. But then it dawns on you—his house is right across the street. There’s no way he could be ignorant of your comings and goings, and he’s certainly not blind or stupid. He must have spotted König at least a few times.

“He’s not at home,” you say, a hint of defiance in your voice.

You half-expect Simon to turn down your invitation. But to your utter astonishment, he takes you up on your request and steps over the threshold, into your home.

After you lead him to the living room, you pour him a glass of wine, draining the last drops from the bottle. Sitting down on the armchair, he leaves you to claim the entire couch for yourself. The conversation, initially, is awkward and stilted—you find yourself grappling for the right words to say, and his intense scrutiny doesn’t help.

His lips are curled into a smirk, his gaze shamelessly scanning your figure with a heated intensity that causes a rush of warmth to flood your cheeks. However, you find solace in the wine; the more you concentrate on the swirling ruby liquid in your glass and drink, the easier it becomes to maintain the conversation.

You expect him to make advances, to reciprocate the flirtatious overtures that you not so subtly weave into your sentences. But even when you let slip a few obvious innuendos, a few candid remarks about the palpable loneliness that you feel, or about his undeniable attractiveness, Simon doesn’t seem to register them. Or if he does, he does a commendable job of feigning ignorance.

As you sit across from him, you can’t help but notice the way he listens to your every word, his attention never faltering. It’s as if your conversation is the most important thing to him at that moment. His eyes—always focused on you. Somewhere along the way, amid the banter and the wine, you find yourself veering away from idle chit-chat, starting to open up to him. The conversation takes on a more profound tone, and you begin sharing things you never thought you would. You pour your heart out, peeling back the layers, revealing parts of yourself that have been hidden for so long.

“If you want to know the truth instead of trying to come up with your own version of it, you should just ask him and stop avoiding the difficult conversation just because you’re afraid of its outcome,” Simon says after you share with him your suspicion that your boyfriend might be cheating.

You’re not entirely sure why you chose to unveil such personal turmoil to him. Perhaps it was his empathetic gaze or the fact that he was simply there. At the right moment. Regardless, it feels incredibly cathartic to finally unload the burden that has been weighing heavily on your heart, even if the person you’re entrusting this secret to is essentially a neighbour—a person you barely know.

The atmosphere is saturated with a silent, heavy melancholy, palpable in the surrounding air. Simon catches a fleeting glimpse of the sadness mirrored in your eyes. He’s quick to offer consolation. His words, tender and sincere, gently brush away the dark, brooding clouds that had gathered in your mind, casting a shadow over your thoughts. Eager to distract you from your worries, he shifts the conversation to a lighter note.

He starts talking about everyday occurrences, sharing amusing anecdotes, and recalling some old memories, all in an attempt to bring some normalcy back into the equation. This strategy, simple yet effective, seems to work its magic as your gloomy mood gradually lifts.

As the hours unfurl and slip away, you find yourself deeply engrossed in a multitude of topics, ranging from the mundane to the profound. Simon appears genuinely interested in getting to know you. His demeanor is open, warm and encouraging, prompting you to open up and share parts of yourself that you usually keep hidden away. As you share stories about your life, yourself and your relationship, you answer his volley of questions with refreshing honesty.

However, it’s only much later, when the conversation has dwindled and you’re left with your thoughts, that you realize that Simon, despite leading the conversation and asking all the questions, has shared very little about himself.

Eventually, exhaustion creeps in. You lower yourself down on the couch, stretching your legs out, the stiffness in your joints slowly dissipating as you sink deeper into cushions. Without realizing it, you drift off to sleep, an empty glass still clutched in your hand. The last thing you remember before sleep completely engulfs you is the sound of Simon’s voice, a soft cadence in the background, narrating his recent move to America for work. What surprises you is the lack of an accent, quite unusual considering he hasn’t spent a significant amount of time in the states yet. You want to comment on it, but the thought remains unspoken, swallowed up by the encroaching fog of sleep.

When you awaken, the armchair that he had been occupying is empty. You assume that he must have gone home—the house is quiet, devoid of any sound of footsteps.

The soft glow of the moonlight illuminates the darkness, offering you just enough light to navigate through the house without stumbling. But as you make your way towards the bedroom, the soft glow of a light turned on in the hallway catches your attention. You halt and see Simon’s silhouette. He appears to be engaged in something, though from your position, it’s hard to tell exactly what. Several doors are left slightly ajar.

“What are you doing?” You ask, your voice piercing the silence. Simon looks startled at your sudden question. He turns around, his body stiffening before eventually relaxing.

“I was just looking for a bathroom,” he explains.

“Oh,” you respond, suppressing a yawn and scratching the back of your head as you point towards the room across the corridor.

A/N: finally I was able to edit this chapter-- it took me so damn long because of all the midterms (which literally left my brain scrambled) >.< but thank u for the patience & hope you enjoyed it!!

[eksvaized]

Part Nine König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu, @pinkslaystation only one more chapter to go, yay!!

The moment Simon first steps into the room, your senses falter and fail to immediately recognize the man standing before you. As your eyes unwillingly land on an imposing figure, dressed entirely in black with a sinister skull mask obscuring his features, a scream erupts from your throat, only to be stifled by the tape on your mouth. Each deliberate, heavy step he takes towards you seems to echo ominously, causing your already terrified body to coil tighter in fear. The tension knotted in your muscles is pulled so taut; it feels as if it’s on the brink of snapping , like a wire stretched past its limit.

Desperately, you attempt to convince yourself that this is not real. You try to imagine that it’s only a nightmare. A mere figment of your overactive imagination. But when Simon sits on the edge of the bed and the mattress creaks under his weight, the sound resonates with a harsh reality that shatters your hope. It’s at this moment that you know, without a shadow of a doubt, it’s as real as the air you’re struggling to breathe.

His large, gloved fingertips trail slowly, almost delicately, under your quivering jaw before curling around your chin with an assertive forcefulness that brooks no resistance. His grasp is unyielding, forcing you to meet his gaze, to look into his eyes.

“It’s a shame our little fling has to end like this,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. His thumb brushes across the rough surface of the tape, tracing the curve of your lips hidden beneath.

Your body instinctively shrinks away from his touch. A fresh wave of tears, akin to a looming storm cloud, wells up in the corners of your eyes, threatening to surge forth, ready to cascade down your already damp cheeks.

Before, his hands on your skin, his fingers caressing and kneading your flesh, his lips exploring the contours of your body—all of it kindled a fire inside you, leaving you yearning for more, consumed by a craving that was insatiable. But now, all you want is to repel him, to shove away his touch, to erase all memories of the times you willingly got in his bed.

At first, you fight back. Your body convulses and shakes violently on the bed as you try with every ounce of strength to let out a scream, to somehow make him back off. You grit your teeth, your muscles straining as you fight against the bindings. But as the struggle continues, a crippling exhaustion seeps into your limbs. You come to a grim realization that your efforts are in vain—there’s not much, if anything at all, that you can do while bound.

The only reason you force yourself to regain your composure, to calm your racing heart that is pounding against your ribcage like a wild animal in a cage, is the small glimmer of hope that shines in the darkness. If Simon has any intention of moving you out of here, out of this dimly lit, fear-soaked bedroom, he will have to untie your wrists from the headboard. And when that moment comes, you plan to seize that fleeting opportunity to make a run for it, to escape from this hellish nightmare.

You notice Simon incessantly glancing at his phone. His eyes flicking to the screen every few seconds. You can practically feel his mounting frustration, his rapidly dwindling patience filling the space with an oppressive tension. But then, the faint sound of a car pulling into the driveway penetrates the silence, causing him to spring to his feet. Your heart drops like a stone in your chest and your eyes widen in terror, your back suddenly slick with a cold, clammy sweat. Whoever he’s been awaiting, whoever he’s been so impatiently expecting, has now arrived, and you can’t help but dread what happens next.

In a swift movement, Simon pulls out a blade, twirling it in a nonchalant manner between his fingers as if it were nothing more than a toy. The incongruity of the situation - the casual display of the weapon - momentarily stuns you. He then presses the cold metal against your throat. The chill of it seeps into your skin. You’re too afraid to even breathe, your instincts screaming at you to pull your head back, to get as far away from the blade as possible. But his hand clamps onto the back of your neck, keeping you firmly in place against your frantic efforts.

“I’m going to cut the ropes now... but if you try to run—” His words send an icy shiver racing down your spine as he drags the blade across your skin, stopping abruptly as the sharp tip of it grazes your exposed collarbone. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence — the threat in his voice is clear enough, and the implication of what would happen if you tried to flee hangs heavy in the air.

The front door hinges creak, and the subtle sound of footsteps ring through the hallway, growing louder as they approach the bedroom. A wave of dizziness and panic washes over you, so intense it’s almost tangible. Your heart pounds violently against your rib cage, threatening to burst forth, and you have to expend every ounce of your remaining strength to brace yourself against the overpowering urge to faint.

Simon, his fingers firm around your shoulder, makes you sit up and instructs you to place your hands behind your back. You comply, your arms trembling. But before he can bind your wrists again, the bedroom door swings open with a dramatic flourish, causing both you and Simon to swivel your heads towards the ominous silhouette that now looms in the doorway.

In the dim light, you recognise König, and a shaky whimper escapes your dry, cracked lips, a sound that is half relief, half terror and muffled by the tape. Despite everything, you’ve never been happier or more relieved to see him; he wasn’t supposed to come home tonight. Simon straightens his back, his hand pushing you back into the bed with too much force. You crumple onto the mattress, your face buried in the cold linen.

König, however, wastes no time. He merely pauses for a split second, his eyes absorbing the scene like a hawk spotting its prey, before launching himself at Simon with the raw ferocity of a wild beast. When his clenched fist collides with Simon’s skull, you hear a sickening crack, and the shockingly loud sound of impact reverberates off the walls, sending a chilling echo through the room.

Summoning every ounce of strength that remained in your weary body, you manage to roll out of the bed. The harsh impact of the cold floor against your skin is jarring. You painstakingly pick yourself up, wincing as you rip the tape off your mouth. Your skin stings, your lips throb with residual pain, but the momentary discomfort is worth it as you’re finally able to take a deep, gasping breath, your lungs burning with the sheer effort.

“Lauft! Raus mit dir!” König roars when his eyes fall on your shaking frame; he has Simon pinned to the wall.

König doesn’t often use German around you, and your knowledge of the language is rudimentary at best. However, at this moment, you don’t need fluency to understand the command he’s issuing. His eyes, filled with a desperate plea, speak louder. As your heart thunders in your chest, adrenaline fueling your movements, you race out of the bedroom, but a sudden realization brings you to a halt.

König’s order is clear—he wants you to flee, to escape the danger and ensure your own safety. But leaving him to face Simon alone is a choice you can’t bear to make. The guilt that gnaws at your conscience is a harsh reminder that you are the root cause of this chaos—you are the one who let Simon into your lives. The ensuing guilt and shame, the overwhelming sense of responsibility, it consumes you.

The adrenaline courses through your veins like wildfire, setting every nerve in your body ablaze with a high alertness that makes drawing a full, satisfying breath an insurmountable task. With your heart pounding like a war drum, you sprint towards the kitchen, your movements frantic and slightly uncoordinated due to the sheer fear coursing through you. As you search the surroundings, your hands knock off various items from the countertops, causing a cacophony of shattering noises as several things break upon impact with the floor.

Finally, your fingers wraps around the handle of the largest knife you can find, its weight somehow comforting in your trembling grip. However, just as you turn around, an unexpected punch lands squarely in your stomach. The force of it knocks the wind out of you, causing your vision to blur and distort as you gasp for air.

You collapse onto your knees; the knife slipping from your grasp and clattering noisily across the floor. It ends up far from your reach when a boot kicks it towards the corner. As you attempt to rise, the same boot now stomps down on your arm, pinning you to the floor while a knee digs into your back, grinding against your spine with unyielding pressure.

“What the fuck, Ghost?” The voice of the stranger who attacked you booms out, but the only response is the sound of punches being traded from the direction of the bedroom.

Each breath comes in sharp gasps, as if fighting against the relentless pain scorching your back. Determined, you try to push yourself up again, pressing your palms into the hard floor. However, your efforts are thwarted as another forceful shove sends you sprawling back down.

When fingers wrap around your hair and your head is yanked upwards, you can’t suppress a whimper. “Hands behind your back!” The gruff voice barks into your ear, but stubborn defiance flares within you, and you refuse to heed the command.

The man growls in frustration, the sound raw and animalistic, and abruptly lets go of your hair. His hands immediately shift to your arms, yanking them back with a brute force that takes your breath away. You struggle against the iron grip, your limbs flailing, kicking and screaming in an attempt to break free. But even as you expend all your strength, the stranger proves to be stronger.

When you raise your head once more, it falls back down and your cheek meets the cold tiles, their chill seeping into your skin.

In a flurry of motion and raw emotion, König bursts in, his entrance into the kitchen akin to a hurricane. His eyes are ablaze, the fire of vengeance and unbridled rage dancing in his gaze. He takes in the scene, you, sprawled on the ground with a man over you, pinning you down to the ground without mercy.

The terror spikes in your heart and your eyes widen further when you notice a figure stealthily approaching König from behind. Like a predator, he lurks in the shadows, an ominous presence made more menacing by the mysterious object he clutches in his hand.

Simon. His name echoes in your mind as he comes into view. Using a sleeve of his shirt, he wipes the blood off his face. His mask has been ripped off, revealing his now bare face. His nose is twisted in an unnatural manner, likely broken, and his bottom lip is swollen, the skin around it an angry shade of red.

“Behind you!” You yell, but König doesn’t react because his focus is solely on you; his attention honed on the stranger above you. König lunges at the stranger, ready to rip him off from your prone form, his intention—to tear the stranger’s head off his shoulders.

But then, in a split second, with the abruptness of a lightning strike, someone’s gun goes off, its explosive noise shattering the tranquillity, only to be replaced by a haunting hush.

König stops abruptly in his tracks, his momentum suddenly coming to a complete halt, as if ensnared by invisible chains. The world seems to slow down as you watch the light slowly start to fade from his eyes, replaced by a distant, vacant stare. His lips part slightly, an unspoken word lingering on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say something, but can’t.

His intense gaze is fixed on you. But his body, which until now stood erect and defiant, starts to collapse, crumpling slowly down to the ground—not a single word, not even the faintest whisper, manages to escape his lips before he succumbs to his inevitable fall.

The once pristine white tiles beneath you now bear the grim witness to the ever-spreading stain of dark crimson blood. The pungent, metallic smell of iron forcefully invades your senses. Your voice is choked with sorrow, and you cry out his name, once, twice, and then multiple times, each utterance more desperate than the last. Your pleas ring through the silence, but König shows no signs of movement and remains still as a statue.

Simon stands at the doorway, his gun pointed directly at König’s head, but upon realizing that a single bullet was enough and he didn’t miss, he lowers his arm and his eyes fall on you.

[eksvaized]

Part Ten König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu, @pinkslaystation

Your ears are ringing. It’s a relentless high-pitched noise that reverberates in your skull, making your temples throb as if a thousand needles are piercing them. The pain is disorienting - you can’t think, you can’t hear anything beyond the incessant ringing, and you can’t breathe. It is as if all the oxygen was sucked out of the kitchen in an instant, trapping you in a vacuum bubble.

On your skin, there’s a scorching sensation, as if you’re being seared by an invisible flame. Yet, it’s in stark contrast to the icy cold that penetrates deep within your core—a chilling frost that leaves you feeling hollow and numb, like your very soul has been frozen.

Simon’s gaze is still fixed on you. The silence is a tangible entity in the room, a monster that feeds on every sound, leaving an echoing void in its wake. It amplifies the ringing in your ears, making the world around you grow quiet and dark.

The stranger behind you still has his knee pressed to your back. You resist, your muscles straining and twitching, like a wild animal ensnared in a hunter’s trap, desperate for freedom. But he doesn’t yield, he remains as solid as a rock, his grip on you unrelenting. His nails dig into your flesh, a sharp pain that keeps you rooted in place, stopping you from moving your arms, which are pinned helplessly behind your back.

Your eyes never leave König’s body, or the puddle of blood that continues to grow bigger, spreading and staining the white tiles.

Deep down in the pit of your soul, you know he is gone, that he has been taken away from you. However, adrenaline courses like a wild river through your veins, and your body is completely overwhelmed with a chilling sense of terror and a deep, unbearable despair. The emotional turmoil makes it difficult for you to think or comprehend the harsh, cold reality of what has just transpired. You keep muttering König’s name like a sacred invocation, as if by chanting it enough times, he will come back to you and bring an end to the nightmare that you are in; a nightmare for which you feel solely responsible.

When the stranger rises, it’s as if a mountain has been lifted from your back. His iron grasp loosens, freeing your arms. Your body aches as gravity drags you down, but you fight against it and fling yourself at König, wrapping your arms around him.

His skin is still warm to the touch. But as your fingertips trace a path along his cheek, a path you’ve traced countless times before, you can feel the heat slowly fading away.

His eyes are glassy and lifeless. They are riveted to the ceiling, and you find yourself wishing, praying, begging for him to just look at you one last time. But despite your pleas and the countless times you utter his name, begging him to wake up, his body remains still.

His lips are parted, and you can see a trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, staining his skin.

You press your palms to the ground as you push your body up to sit on your knees. With shaky hands, you carefully lay König’s head on your lap. You cup his cold cheeks and press your lips to his forehead.

Suddenly, you feel two firm hands gripping your shoulders and someone attempts to force you to stand, but you stubbornly refuse to move. Your arms instinctively coil tighter around König’s lifeless body, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if it were a lifeline, gripping it with a desperation as if clinging to it could somehow bring him back.

The clamor of voices and the commotion around you is deafening, but your mind is shrouded with a heavy fog of disbelief and grief. You can’t focus on the words being exchanged between the stranger and Simon, their heated conversation sounding distant and muffled.

“...What the hell, Ghost?!”

“Keep your voice down...!”

In your peripheral vision, you notice the stranger’s abrupt movement as he shoves Simon with the force of a raging bull. Simon, however, stands his ground, snarling angrily in response. Simon’s gaze keeps flickering back to you. Yet, his eyes never settle for long, because you refuse to raise your head and meet his gaze.

The men try to figure out what to do with you. With König’s death, and their plan - whatever it was - in shambles, you’ve lost any value you might have had to them.

“We can’t leave her here... But she’s not coming with us either...”

“...no one would know if...”

“That’s insane… We can’t do that!”

“What else do you propose we do?...”

Your hands are drenched in sticky crimson, the metallic scent of blood filling your nostrils as you cradle König’s head. As your trembling fingertips comb through his matted hair, you can feel the indentation where the bullet had pierced his skull. The visceral sensation jolts through your body, causing it to instinctively recoil. A gut-wrenching whimper escapes your lips, breaking the tense silence that hangs in the air.

“...this will look like an accident...”

“...you already screwed up by shooting him, you can’t...”

“which means that one more casualty won’t... especially one as insignificant as her... it will be overlooked.”

The cold, hard barrel of a gun presses against the back of your head. You freeze, paralyzed by fear, but you refuse to turn around or glance over your shoulder. Every fiber of your being screams at you to move, to run, to save yourself, but you remain steadfast in your refusal to abandon König. Deep down, you know what fate awaits you; all you want now is for Simon to cease prolonging the inevitable and finally pull the damn trigger.

With a wave of despair washing over you, you shut your eyes and press your tear-streaked face into the fabric of König’s shirt. The soft material absorbs the hot, salty tears that relentlessly stream down your cheeks.

The anguished wails that escape your lips reverberate through the cold, sterile kitchen, filling the air with a palpable tension that clings to the walls and hangs heavily in the air.

Your body convulses with each heart-wrenching sob, causing your frame to shudder and quiver uncontrollably. It’s as if an unseen force is shaking you, punishing you.

You always assumed you would fear death, but in this very moment, you find solace in the thought of embracing of the enveloping darkness.

Click.

It is quick.

Not painful.

König’s lifeless gaze bores into your soul. As you gasp your final breath, you cling to him, your fingers entwined in the fabric of his shirt. Your eyes fall down, and you glimpse something that has slipped out of his pocket. Something that looks awfully like a black ring box. You try to reach for it, your trembling hand sliding down König’s chest, your fingers inching towards the cold, unforgiving ground in a desperate attempt to claim it. But before your fingers can brush against its surface, or before you can steal one last glance at König, the relentless, unforgiving force of gravity pulls your lifeless body down, sealing your fate.

In that fleeting moment, as your world narrows down to the sound of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears, you yearn for redemption, your soul - a lone ship adrift in the vast ocean of despair - desperately pleads for forgiveness in the afterlife. You find yourself praying, begging to the silent gods that somehow, in the depths of eternity, you will be granted a chance to find König and beg forgiveness for your grave mistake, which led to you and him, dead on the kitchen floor.

A/N: editing this chapter took a lot of time because i’m incredibly busy, and because i wasn’t sure about the ending. initially, i planned to make this last chapter longer to elaborate on Simon's intentions, the stranger's identity, and Sarah's involvement. but I decided against it all. the ending is meant to be ambiguous and up for interpretation because after all, Y/N died before she could get any answers. I know some people hate not knowing everything, and there are a lot of questions still left, but that what the point of this story—the ending is meant to be tragic. anyway, thank you for reading!! xo

[plenohrian]

Katerina DeMaur