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ohwaitimthewriter · 6 months ago

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The Memory Keeper

Chapter 1 : List.

Pairing : Noa x human reader

Warning : A bit of mourning. Otherwise, all clear for this one!

Summarize (please I'm so bad at writing these!): A woman, allowed to live as long as the virus keeps running through her body, living on autopilot for 260 years, is going to see her life takes a new turn, finding hope in something that might come to put an end to her wandering.

Words : 3.2k

A/N : It has been a long time since I've written something and it feels pretty good to get back at it with this story! I hope you'll like it and do not hesitate to share your thoughts or like/reblog, it's always appreciated! As English isn't my native language, I'm sorry if you find mistakes or weird wording in there, let me know if you find some and I'll be glad to correct them!

Enjoy your reading 😊

The Memory Keeper masterlist.

It wasn't going to be a difficult day. The list was ready, the tasks the same as the day before and the day after. You had to go to the river: catch a fish, fill the flasks with fresh water, bathe… You had to get on your horse and on the way back, stop at the 16th tree on the right, get off, walk 30 steps and fill the bag with blackberries. You had to avoid the brambles and avoid tripping over the prominent root. Get back on the horse and ride home.

Prepare the fish: remove the head and tail, the skin, gut it and remove the bones, light a fire to cook it. Yes, evolution had done many things, but it must have missed the episode where it was necessary to improve the human digestive system. So the fish still had to be cooked.

The garden had to be tended. Over the years, it had evolved too. It had been a long time in the making. A vegetable garden, tomatoes, green beans and, you couldn't quite remember how, artichokes had found their place too. An apple tree was easy to grow. It took time, but it was easy. And then there was this little gem you'd stumbled upon one day: a rosebush. It was an important one. You had to take care of it too.

You always had to do something.

Your hands knew what to do and how to do it. Your legs took you where you needed to go, and at that particular moment, they had led you to your horse. You had to remove his saddle and bridle, check his hooves and remove any stones that might have got stuck on them. Run your hand over his belly to loosen the skin compressed by the girth. And don't forget to give him a drink. When it came to eating, he found everything on his own, except perhaps an apple, which you gave him from time to time to thank him for his help. He knew how to ask, too. In fact, he huffed and gave you a nudge.

Okay, an apple.

He followed you to the apple tree and you climbed onto his back. You could reach the branches, but it was always difficult to keep your balance. Especially when your right hip wasn't working properly. And you sighed. It really wasn't convenient.

You had to go on with the list, what was next?

“ Hearing my voice at least once and speaking so I don't forget.”

This was important. You had to remember how to speak. The world had forgotten, but you must not. You had no right to forget.

“Say something new.”

And you looked around.

“It's cloudy today.”

Which meant rain wasn't far off. Your horse was now grazing beside you.

“You should take shelter.”

You smile, you'd said one more sentence today. Your horse's ears twitched as if to say “I do what I want” and you shrugged. After all, he was the one to decide. But you didn't want to get wet in the rain. You patted his neck and went off to find shelter in your wooden hut.

You've lived here for a long time. A very long time. So long that you no longer needed a torch to light up the big room when night fell or when the clouds darkened the place. You knew exactly where the shaky table was, the armchair with its deformed, hollowed-out seat and even the little plastic pot you kept forgetting to put back on the table to avoid getting your feet caught in it. And despite the years, you never tripped over it.

You were right to come home. You'd just had time to put the water flasks and the cooked fish on the table when a torrent of water hit the floor. The end of the list would have to wait. The timing was perfect, as your stomach signaled that it was time to fill up, and the smell of the wood-fired fish made your mouth water.

Settling back in your armchair, you ate the fish, watching the rain fall against the hut's only window. Eating with your hands was no longer as disturbing as it had been at first. There were a lot of memories that had slipped away over time, but you almost smiled when you thought back to the embarrassment you'd felt the first time you'd had to eat like that. If you'd known back then where you'd end up…

A sigh.

Drops tumbled against the window and some seemed to challenge themselves to get to the bottom first. They were following the path traced by others before them, but obviously not all roads were good ones to take. Some raindrops went straight down, others tried to cut off their opponents' path, and still others weaved in and out to create their own path. Then a raindrop caught your eye. It seemed the most likely to win the mad race. It glided and slalomed proudly until it landed delicately on your windowsill, blending in with its sisters who had landed there before it.

You turned your eyes to the last piece of fish, which you brought to your mouth.

You took one last look out the window, and that's when you caught sight of it.

A shadow.

A shadow had just moved past your window. The rain kept on pounding against it and you could see the trees in the distance stirring in the wind, and you were sure you saw the shadow moving, quickly to the right, but the shadow was gone. There were only raindrops, only the wind, and you could even hear the dull roar of an incipient thunderstorm.

A deep breath. You had to.

Then a sigh.

The rain and wind must have played a trick on you. If the storm picked up, you definitely wouldn't be able to finish your outdoor to-do list. But that didn't matter, there was still plenty to do inside.

First you had to tidy up. Keeping the interior clean and tidy was important, so you couldn't leave the water bottles on the table. You grabbed them and stepped over the little plastic pot that stood between the table and what you could call a kitchen. At least, that's what you would have called this part of the hut back in the day, because there was only a broken sink and a cupboard without a door. You passed the front door and it rattled against the latch in the wind. You had managed to install a branch across the door, allowing you to keep it closed in bad weather. However, as it didn't close very well, the wind always managed to rattle it between the branch and the latch. But you got used to the noise. So you walked past the shaky door to put the water bottles in the cupboard, and when you heard a suspicious rustling sound, you jumped, staring at the door.

You frowned at the unusual sound. You had been holding your breath, but the wind suddenly whistled through the doorframe, which was sorely lacking in hermetic seals. So you breathed out, taking a calmer breath. The wind. Mother Nature was definitely testing your nerves tonight.

Well, you still had to change your clothes. Night was coming on and you couldn't possibly sleep in your day clothes. You stepped over the little plastic pot again and made your way to the wooden chest beside the fireplace to find a t-shirt and a pair of jogging shorts with a hole in the left knee. Maybe one day you'd find a stray piece of fabric while walking through the forest, so you could mend it. But you hadn't yet got to the list asking you to explore the surrounding area.

There were 7 lists divided into 4 sections, themselves arranged in 12 categories. It was your way of keeping track of time. You no longer counted the days, let alone the years; you'd long since lost the very notion of time. But to grow crops, harvest the fruits of the forest and simply follow nature's millimetric events and be able to anticipate them, you needed a reference point. The lists, though mostly identical, were that reference point. Hanging on the wall with pieces of wood you'd carved yourself, they determined your days and the things you had to do.

You didn't really know when or how you'd started making these lists. But judging by the ink, half washed away by the years - some of the lists had even gone back to being blank - it must have been a long time ago.

You put the current day's list back in its place. Tomorrow, you'd have to complete it while carrying out the next one. But there was one more thing you needed to do indoors before settling into your armchair for the night. One last important thing.

From the chest, you took out a picture frame. The corners were worn, the wood had crumbled and you had to handle it carefully to avoid getting splinters in your hands. You set the frame down on the floor by the fireplace, knelt in front of it and reached into the jar on your right to pick a rose petal, which you placed carefully in the right-hand corner of the frame.

You struggled to swallow.

That's where it always got complicated.

Once again, you reached into the jar and pulled out 7 petals. You always needed 7 petals. You placed 6 of them in a circle on the dry twigs in the fireplace and began humming a song whose words you'd long since forgotten. But you remembered the feeling. You felt a lump in your throat, and you often wondered how you managed to keep the song going.

You hummed, and on the last petal, with the help of a needle, you delicately traced his initials. You had to be careful not to press too hard, you shouldn't pierce the petal, just brush against it enough to see, if you concentrated hard enough, the outline of the letter you were drawing. You also had to blink a few times to see clearly what you were doing. It was important to get it right. Once you'd written the letter on the petal, you laid it at the center of the circle.

It was always at this moment that your hands shook. You needed a moment. Just a bit of time.

You had to wipe your hands over your eyes, the most important thing was to handle the two flints on the floor with care. Your hands had to be steady, not shaking. You interrupted the song to get your breathing under control.

Inhale.

Breathe out.

Grab the flints.

Inhale.

Exhale.

A sharp stroke.

The clatter of the stone threw sparks onto the pile of twigs and a flame sprang up. You started humming again as the fire slowly consumed the wood until it reached the petals of the circle.

A tear.

The fire continued to progress and you stared desperately at the petal in the center, quickly ridding yourself of the tears that were blurring your vision. The flame touched the edge of the petal and you watched the letter “C” burn away and disappear into the ashes.

The flame faded as the twigs gradually disappeared and, once gone, you slipped the petal on the frame back into its jar.

Now you had to put the frame away. Your fingers brushed the edge of the picture inside of it. Despite the years, you had managed, by some miracle, to keep the photograph almost undamaged. At least, sufficiently intact that you could still distinguish the shape of an ape in the center of the picture, despite the cracks.

He was a force of nature. You had taken this photo on a December day, you still knew because you could still discern the white flakes clinging to his dark fur. Back then, you loved taking pictures.

What did they call you again?

The memory keeper.

Even after all this time, it still made you smile. You gently squeezed the frame between your fingers, keeping it balanced on the knees you'd just tucked in towards you. This way, he was a little closer to you.

You made an extra effort to remember the day. He was standing high enough to see everyone around him. He must have been talking about something important; he always had that powerful, soul-piercing stare when he was saying something important. But he always looked…

“Grumpy.”

You concluded your thought in a whisper that knotted your throat. Grumpy. You almost expected to hear him growl, his ego bruised, every time you reminded him that he was sometimes a little too grumpy. “Grumpy because a lot on my shoulders,” he'd snap back at you. “No, grumpy because you're old” you'd always reply, your eyes always playful. And you were the only one who could say such a thing, with the only result being an amused snore coming from him.

And you felt yourself take a deep breath. Of all the pictures you'd taken, this was the last one you had left. You had to put the frame back in the chest, so your fingers tightened even more around the wood. Your head tilted slightly forward, closing your eyes as the wood touched your forehead.

Tonight was difficult.

You took another deep breath, and before the knot in your throat hurt too much, you straightened up and went to put the frame in the chest.

“Caesar, tonight is really difficult,” you whispered, watching the shadow of the lid close over the frame.

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It had been a restless night. When your eyes opened the next morning, they felt heavy and swollen, and you found yourself rubbing your eyes to try and make the heaviness go away.

Today, there was much to do. After changing from your night clothes to your day ones, you removed the branch blocking the door and let the sun shine in, warming your skin. The fresh early-morning air caressed your skin and you took a few seconds to smell the distinctive light scent that follows a thunderstorm.

No sooner had you taken a few steps forward than your feet bumped into something hard, causing you to lose your balance. In a fraction of a second, you found yourself on your butt on the ground, a stabbing pain in your right hip that had failed to move to stop you from falling.

“Ouch!” was the only thing that slipped out of your mouth.

You straightened up slightly, remaining seated in the grass, to see what had caused your fall and a pile of apples laid exactly under the wobbly small porch that covered your front door.

God, what a dummy not to have put that away last night. You thought to yourself, looking down at your hands full of dirt. You'd have to go to the river to clean it up, and now you'd just have to take your night clothes with you because you'd also have to wash the ones you were wearing-the mud from the storm must have dirtied your current clothes.

A pile of apples. You thought as you rubbed your hands together.

A pile of apples. You glanced at your right hip. Pfft, if you'd made Caesar break it to put it back in its place, you'd never have fallen today. In fact, you'd have avoided more than one fall.

All because of a misplaced pile of apples.

A pile of misplaced apples.

And like a light bulb switching on, your gaze suddenly fell on those apples that actually had nothing to do there. You hadn't gathered them the day before.

Then you heard it. A muffled purr came gently from behind you. Surely you should have turned around, stood up and dealt with it, but you'd found yourself rooted to the spot, eyes glued to those apples, waiting as an orangutan appeared in your field of vision.

And you refused to look at him, your hands balled into fists to keep them from shaking. You weren't afraid. No. But for some obscure reason, your brain had simply decided to freeze.

The orangutan once again let out a rumble, softer this time, and held out his hand to you.

“I'll help.”

His voice made you blink several times. You did your best to snap out of your stupor, but this time your eyes agreed to look at him, and the orangutan seemed delighted.

Just one more moment. It took another second, just one, to see your hand slip into his and before you knew it, you were back on your feet.

“Raka, we must go.”

The second voice surprised you a little. It sounded familiar and your eyes fell on a chimpanzee, a little further away, who had just finished saddling a horse. You frowned, your horse? You were trying to determine whether it was really yours, but the distance didn't allow you to be sure. There was only one way to find out.

So you whistled.

The horse shook its head and the chimpanzee didn't have time to grab the reins before your horse galloped off to meet you. They were going to take your horse… in exchange for a stack of apples?

You grabbed the reins and stroked the horse's neck as he snorted. He chewed the bit and blew heavily through his nostrils.

For a fraction of a second, you forgot about the two large apes who, from the sounds they were making, weren't particularly happy to have lost a chance of obtaining a second means of locomotion: in your peripheral vision, you could see another horse quietly grazing.

Your hands still knew what to do, and it didn't take you long to remove the bridle and bit from your horse's mouth.

“He doesn't like it.” you said simply.

And only silence answered you, so you showed the bridle to the two apes.

“The bit, he doesn't like it, he's not used to it.”

Your answer didn't seem to convince them. They stared at you, dumbstruck, and if you paid close enough attention, you could almost see their mouths hanging wide open. And that left you bewildered. What didn't they understand? You'd heard them talking, so that certainly wasn't the problem.

“You can't take my horse.” You went on, starting to remove the saddle.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that they were staring at you as if you'd just landed from the sky.

“If you want a horse, there's a wild herd to the south, past the river.” And you pointed in the right direction.

They remained silent as tombs, but the chimpanzee followed the direction you pointed with his eyes.

“Just be careful, the group's stallion isn't very friendly.” You thought it important to tell him.

Your gaze fell back on them and the orangutan, Raka, if you'd heard correctly, hadn't moved a muscle. The chimpanzee, on the other hand, was staring at you thoughtfully, as if he was trying to put together a puzzle with a missing piece. He then moved towards you inquisitively, perhaps, confused?

“Echo, speak?”

It was certainly the most surprising sentence you'd ever heard in your life.

#planet of the apes #kingdom of the planet of the apes #fanfiction #noa x human reader #noa x reader #pota #kotpota #oc/reader

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mononijikayu · 2 months ago

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devotion — geto suguru.

“I thought if I gave my life to God, he would spare yours.” You stared at him, stunned, as his words sank in. “Suguru… I don’t understand.” He looked down, his hands trembling. “Years ago, when we… when we lost touch, I heard about your illness.” he explained, his voice heavy with emotion. “I was told you might not survive. I felt helpless, powerless to do anything. So, I prayed. I prayed with everything I had, and I promised God that if he saved you, I would give my life in return. I would serve him, devote myself to his cause. And you… you recovered.”

GENRE: alternate universe - modern au!;

WARNING/S: angst, fluff, forbidden romance, love, hurt/comfort, nsfw, r-18, smut, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, falling in love again, sexual intercourse, pining, hurt, religious guilt, happy ending, aged up characters (suguru and reader are in their 40s), first loves rekindling their relationship, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of pining, depiction of religious aspects, mention of parting, mention of the past, mention of previous husband, father! suguru, widowed! reader;

WORD COUNT: 12k words

NOTE: i was thinking whether or not this is what i should publish for kinktober but i feel like since i've been going on this trend of giving my stories a happy ending, i feel like this is one of them that deserves it, i feel. this is the sequel of 'to build a home'!!! anyway, i hope you enjoy it as much as i did!!! and love wins all, even time!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

kinktober 2024 - kayu's version

if you want to, tip!

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YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU’D SEE HIM AGAIN. But you were getting too ahead of destiny. It has been nearly twenty years since you last saw Geto Suguru. Time had blurred the details of his face in your memory — the precise shape of his smile, the warmth in his eyes when he spoke your name.

You thought you’d forgotten him, buried him under the weight of all those years. But there he was, standing at the front of the room, his voice steady and serene as he read the eulogy for your husband.

You tried to focus on the words, tried to let them seep into your soul and cradle your grief. But all you could see was him. The lines on his face had deepened, a touch of gray in his hair, but he was still so achingly familiar. You could feel the stirrings of something old and hidden, something you thought you’d buried long ago.

You felt guilty. This was the day you were supposed to mourn your husband, to remember all the good moments you had shared. But as you sat there, dressed in black, your gaze kept drifting back to Suguru. How strange it was to see him like this — a priest, of all things. You wondered what had led him down this path, what had happened in those years you hadn’t been a part of his life.

His voice was calm and soothing, and it reminded you of the way he used to speak when you were alone together. You found yourself holding your breath, the memories coming back like an unexpected wave. The nights you spent talking until dawn, the feel of his hand in yours, the way he’d look at you like you were the only person in the world. You closed your eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to you like a desperate whisper.

You were grieving, yes, but somehow those old feelings resurface, like they had been waiting all this time, just beneath the surface. It was wrong, you knew it, but there was something in the way Suguru spoke, in the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment too long, that made it feel like maybe, just maybe, this was meant to be.

And as the service drew to a close, you wondered if he felt it too.

As the ceremony ended, the quiet murmur of condolences filled the room, but you barely heard them. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of sorrow and anticipation you couldn't quite understand. People passed by, offering their sympathy, their touches gentle on your arm, but your eyes were on him. Suguru stood at the front, still dressed in his somber robes, speaking with a few guests, his expression kind and composed, but you saw the moment he noticed you watching.

He paused, his words faltering for just a second, and then his gaze found yours. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to fall away, and there was only the two of you, standing on opposite sides of a great chasm of time. You felt rooted in place, as if moving would shatter whatever fragile connection had formed between you across the room.

When you finally mustered the courage to approach him, your steps were slow and tentative. He turned to face you fully, his hands clasped in front of him, and for a moment, you were struck by how different he looked, and yet, how much the same. The years had softened his edges, but his eyes — those deep, searching eyes — were just as intense, just as familiar.

“Suguru,” you breathed, unsure what else to say. His name felt foreign on your lips after so long, but also strangely comforting. He gave a small, sad smile, the kind that spoke of understanding beyond words.

“It’s been a long time,” he replied, his voice a quiet murmur, almost swallowed by the room’s low hum. There was a gravity to his tone that made your chest tighten, as if he was trying to convey all the things that had gone unsaid in the years between you.

You nodded, feeling the sting of tears you had not expected. “I never thought I’d see you like this,” you confessed, your voice trembling. “I didn’t know you… became our little town’s priest.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that was both strange and familiar, and something in it warmed you. “Life has a way of leading us to unexpected places,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t expect to see you here either… under these circumstances.”

You flinched, a fresh wave of grief washing over you. “No, I suppose not,” you whispered. “But it is good to see you, even now. Even… like this.”

He nodded, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was filled with all the things you wanted to say but didn’t know how. You could feel the years stretching between you like a bridge you were both afraid to cross.

“You look…” he started, then faltered, his gaze sweeping over your face. “You look just as I remember, even after all these years.”

You laughed softly, a sound tinged with both sorrow and disbelief. “I doubt that,” you replied, shaking your head. “It’s been a long time. We’ve both changed.”

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice soft. “But some things don’t change. Some things stay with you, no matter how much time passes.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Was he talking about you? About whatever you once had? You wanted to ask, but the words stuck in your throat, caught between your grief and the unexpected flood of emotions his presence had stirred.

Instead, you simply stood there, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, feeling that old, familiar ache that you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying all these years. And when he reached out, his hand hovering just above yours, you found yourself closing the distance, your fingers brushing against his in a touch that felt like both a question and an answer.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” he said, his voice low, filled with a sincerity that sent a shiver down your spine. “I truly am.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. You didn’t know if you were thanking him for the words, or for being here, or for just being him.

You cleared your throat, a delicate sound breaking the tension between you. Your heart still aches from the loss, but there was a strange comfort in his presence, a familiarity that felt almost like a balm. You glanced to your side, where your daughter stood, her small hand gripping yours tightly. She looked up at you, her young face a mix of confusion and sorrow, her eyes still red from crying.

For a moment, neither of you moved, standing there like two ghosts caught in the past. But in his eyes, you saw something flicker — a spark of recognition, of something that had never really gone away. And as the room began to empty, you knew this was not the end. Not quite. Not yet.

“This is my daughter, father.” you said softly, turning to Suguru. “Say hello, sweetheart.”

Your daughter hesitated for a moment, still clinging to you, but eventually she offered a shy smile. “Hello.” she whispered, her voice small and uncertain.

Suguru’s expression softened as he crouched down to her level, his eyes gentle. “Hello there, child.” He greeted me warmly, his tone light. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Father Suguru.”

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide what to make of this stranger who seemed to know her mother so well. But Suguru had always been good with children, you remembered. There was a kindness in his demeanor that drew them in. After a moment, she nodded, accepting his presence with the solemnity only a child could muster at such a moment.

“You’ve grown up so much.” Suguru said, his gaze shifting back to you, and there was something tender in the way he looked at you, a flicker of an old memory shared between you.

Before you could respond, two young girls approached from behind him, their eyes wide with curiosity. They looked almost identical, with long dark hair and matching dresses, and they stood close together, their hands clasped as if seeking comfort from one another. You noticed the way they watched Suguru, their eyes full of trust and affection.

“These are my girls.” Suguru said, smiling gently. “Mimiko and Nanako. I adopted them some years ago. They were… lost, in a way, and I thought I could offer them something of a home.”

You felt a pang of recognition in your chest, understanding without needing to ask. He had always had a soft spot for the vulnerable, a quiet compassion that was buried beneath his strength. The girls looked up at you, curious and shy, and you gave them a gentle smile.

“Hello, Mimiko. Hello, Nanako.” you said softly. “It’s very nice to meet you both.”

They glanced at each other, and then Mimiko, the braver of the two, stepped forward. “Are you our father’s friend?” she asked, her voice small but direct. There was something almost protective in the way she looked at you, as if she was gauging whether you were worthy of her father’s trust.

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. A friend? Were you even that anymore? You wanted to say something else in the back of your mind. You were more than friends, you were lovers. You were everything to each other. Yet you couldn’t. Your lips would not move. But before you could find the right words, Suguru chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

“We used to be….close. We met each other a long time ago,” he answered for you, his gaze never leaving yours. “But we finally met again today, it would seem.”

Nanako, still holding Mimiko’s hand, tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Why did you stop?” she asked innocently.

You felt your breath hitch in your throat, a thousand unspoken answers rising to your lips. How could you explain? How could you sum up all the lost years, the paths that had diverged, the choices that had led you here, to this moment?

Suguru turned to his daughters, his smile soft but tinged with a hint of sadness. “Sometimes life takes us in different directions, my dear.” he said gently. “But it doesn’t mean we stop caring about the people we once knew.”

Mimiko seemed satisfied with this answer, but Nanako continued to watch you, as if trying to see into your soul. You could feel the weight of her gaze, but there was no malice in it, only a child’s unfiltered curiosity.

“I’m sorry…..” you said, addressing Suguru again, though your eyes flicked briefly to the girls. “For all the years we lost. I… I didn’t mean for it to be that way.”

He shook his head, a soft smile touching his lips. “Don’t apologize to me about it.” he replied. “We did what we had to do, back then. But it’s good to see you now, and… to see the life you’ve built.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “It’s good to see you too, Suguru.” you whispered. “And to your girls too.”

He nodded, his gaze holding yours, and for a moment, the weight of the years seemed to lift, just slightly. You weren’t sure where this would lead, if anywhere at all. But you knew that something had shifted, something had opened between you, a door long closed but never quite locked. And maybe, just maybe, there was room to step through, to find out what lay on the other side.

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YOU DIDN’T HAVE IT IN YOU TO LEAVE THE HOUSE FOR A WHILE. The days had grown longer since the funeral, each one stretching into the next with a quiet emptiness you hadn’t anticipated.

The house, once filled with the familiar rhythms of your husband’s presence, now seemed to echo with a silence that settled deep in your bones. To stave off the hollow ache that threatened to consume you, you kept yourself busy — perhaps too busy.

You tended to your garden with a fervor that bordered on obsession, your hands constantly stained with earth, fingers rooting through the soil as if searching for something buried there, something that might fill the void.

The roses were blooming better than ever, their petals full and lush, as if they knew how much you needed them now. Your days blurred together in the quiet sanctuary of your backyard, kneeling among the flowers until the sun dipped below the horizon.

When you weren’t in the garden, you took your dogs for long, meandering walks. They were your faithful companions, sensing your grief in their quiet, unspoken way. You found solace in their steady presence, in the rhythm of their paws on the pavement, and the way they’d look back at you, as if making sure you were still there, still moving forward.

But your daughter, ever perceptive, noticed the way your days seemed to stretch out like a taut wire, threatening to snap. She was packing for college now, her room in disarray, and you could see the worry creasing her brow every time she glanced your way.

One evening, as you sat together at the kitchen table, your daughter set down the book she’d been pretending to read and looked at you with a seriousness that caught you off guard.

“Mom.... I.... uh…..” she began, her voice soft but firm. “I’ve been thinking… about when I leave.”

You forced a smile, trying to keep your tone light. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve got the garden, the dogs… plenty to keep me busy.”

She shook her head, her expression earnest. “That’s just it, though. I don’t want you to be just… keeping busy. I want you to have people around you. Friends. People to talk to.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “I have friends,” you insisted gently, though you knew what she was getting at.

“Not like that,” she countered, shaking her head. “I mean… I want you to have new friends. I know this has been hard on you, losing Dad. And I just… I worry about you being lonely when I’m gone.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, a familiar sensation these days. “I’ll manage,” you murmured, but she wasn’t deterred.

“What about Father Suguru?” she asked, and you blinked, surprised. You hadn’t expected her to bring him up, not after the funeral, not after everything that had been left unspoken between you and the priest who had once been so much more.

“What about him?” you asked cautiously.

“He seems… nice.” she said, hesitating for a moment. “And you used to know him, right? Before Dad, before everything. Why not… reconnect with him? I mean, he invited you to church activities, didn’t he?”

You looked down at your hands, feeling a twinge of something you couldn’t quite name. “I don’t know… It feels strange, after all these years.”

“Maybe…..” she conceded. “But he’s reaching out, and I think it might be good for you. You don’t have to do it alone, you know? And it might help… to have someone around who understands.”

You looked up at her, seeing the concern etched in her young face, the worry that you had tried so hard to keep at bay. She was right, of course — the house was too big and too quiet, and the days too long. And perhaps, she had a point. Perhaps there was something to be said for reaching out, for finding solace in old friendships, even if they had been left behind in another life.

“I’ll think about it.” you finally said, offering her a small smile.

She reached out, taking your hand. “Just try, Mom. For me. I just want you to be happy… to find some peace.”

You nodded, feeling a tightness in your chest that you hadn’t felt in a long time. “I’ll try.” you promised, though the words felt heavier than you expected.

That Sunday, you found yourself standing outside the church, the morning sun casting long shadows on the stone steps. You hesitated, your heart thudding in your chest, but then you saw him — Suguru, standing by the entrance, greeting the parishioners as they arrived. His face brightened when he saw you, and he raised a hand in a small, almost tentative wave.

Taking a deep breath, you walked toward him, feeling the weight of the years between you like a whisper in the air. But as you drew closer, you felt something lift, something small but hopeful, as if maybe — just maybe — there was still room for new beginnings, even now.

Suguru’s smile widened as you approached, a gentle warmth radiating from him that eased some of the tension winding tight in your chest. He was dressed simply, in a way that suited him, with the plain black shirt and collar of his vocation. Yet, there was an ease in his posture, an openness that seemed to welcome you without hesitation.

“Good morning.” he greeted softly, his voice carrying a familiarity that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’m glad to see you here.”

You returned his smile, though it felt a bit shaky on your lips. “I… thought I’d take you up on your invitation.” you replied, your words feeling tentative, almost shy. “My daughter encouraged me to come.”

He nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. “She’s a wise young woman.” he said, his tone light. “I’m sure she just wants you to have some company, some… support.”

“I think she worries about me.” you admitted, glancing down at your hands. “And she’s right. The house is quiet. Too quiet, sometimes.”

Suguru’s expression softened, and he stepped a little closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate level. “I understand,” he murmured. “More than you know. It’s easy to feel lost in the silence after everything changes. But… you don’t have to go through it alone.”

You felt your heart ache at the kindness in his words, at the understanding he offered so freely. “Thank you.” you whispered. “It’s… been hard. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

Suguru’s gaze held yours, steady and patient. “Grief has a way of sneaking up on us when we least expect it.” he said softly. “But you’re here now. And that’s something. You’ve taken a step.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I suppose I have.”

He gestured toward the entrance of the church, where people were beginning to gather, a soft hum of conversation filling the air. “Would you like to come in?” he asked. “We’re having a small gathering after the service — just some coffee and a chance to chat. I think you might enjoy it.”

You hesitated for a moment, the weight of uncertainty heavy on your shoulders. But there was a sincerity in Suguru’s eyes, a quiet encouragement that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

“I think I’d like that.” you said finally, your voice is firmer than before. “I could use a bit of company.”

His smile grew, genuine and warm. “Good.” he said, stepping back to let you pass. “I’ll be right by your side if you need anything. And I’m sure there are plenty of people here who would love to meet you.”

As you stepped inside, you were immediately enveloped by the soft glow of the stained glass windows, the warm, golden light casting colorful patterns across the pews. The room was filled with the low murmur of conversation, and you felt a flutter of anxiety in your chest. But Suguru was beside you, his presence steadying, and somehow that made it easier.

He introduced you to a few members of the congregation — older women with kind smiles, younger families with children who clung shyly to their parents’ legs. You exchanged polite pleasantries, feeling a bit like a fish out of water, but everyone was welcoming, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold emptiness that had filled your days.

After the service, as promised, there was coffee and tea in the small parish hall. You found yourself standing beside Suguru as he chatted easily with a group of parishioners, his voice calm and comforting, his laugh a soft rumble that seemed to put everyone at ease. You watched him from the corner of your eye, still marveling at the way he had changed and yet stayed so much the same.

At some point, Mimiko and Nanako found their way to your side, their small hands tugging on the hem of your jacket. “Are you going to be our friend too?” Mimiko asked, her eyes wide with hope.

You smiled down at her, your heart softening at her earnest expression. “I’d like that very much, if you would allow me.” you replied, and she beamed, satisfied with your answer.

Nanako, quieter but just as curious, looked up at you with a small smile. “Papa says you used to be his best friend.” she said matter-of-factly.

Suguru chuckled softly, a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. “Children are so honest, aren’t they?” he murmured.

You laughed, feeling a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. “Yes.” you agreed, looking at him. “They are.”

Your conversation flowed, you felt the tension in your shoulders begin to ease, the heaviness in your chest lifting, if only just a bit. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And as you stood there, surrounded by new faces and old memories, you realized that maybe your daughter had been right.

Maybe this was what you needed. Not to forget your grief, but to find a way to live with it, to let it become a part of you without letting it define you. And perhaps, with Suguru beside you, with new connections to explore, you could start to build something new from the ashes of what you had lost.

You caught Suguru’s eye again, and he offered you a small, understanding smile, as if sensing the shift within you. And for the first time in a long time, you felt something like hope.

══════════════════

TIME WITH SUGURU HEALED YOU. Over the next few weeks, you found yourself spending more and more time at the church. It had started with Sunday services and slowly expanded to weekday gatherings — a book club here, a community dinner there, little things that filled the empty spaces in your days.

Geto Suguru was always there, a quiet, steady presence. He was kind, attentive without being overbearing, and somehow, being around him made things feel just a bit lighter.

Your daughter noticed the change in you when she came home from college for the weekend. She saw the way your smile reached your eyes again, the way you seemed less burdened, and she was pleased.

“I knew you’d find someone to talk to, mom.” she said with a grin, her voice teasing. “Father Suguru is nice, isn’t he?”

You blushed at the mention of his name, feeling a strange mix of guilt and warmth. “He’s… he’s been very kind to me.” you replied. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to, that’s all.”

But deep down, you knew it was more than that. Slowly, gently, you and Suguru had begun to fall into the rhythm of your old friendship, but there was something new simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken that neither of you dared to name.

You felt it in the way his eyes lingered just a little too long when he looked at you, in the way your hand brushed his in passing and lingered a moment too long. There was a magnetic pull between you, a quiet longing that seemed to grow with every passing day.

And yet, there was a line you both knew you could not cross.

Suguru never spoke of it, but you could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he caught himself when he stood too close or when his hand brushed yours in a way that felt almost… intentional.

He would smile, pull back, and busy himself with something else, as if to remind himself of the boundaries he could not breach. You could sense the struggle within him, the way he tried so hard to remain the devoted priest, the man who had chosen a life of service and sacrifice.

It was during a rainy afternoon, after a small charity event at the church, you found yourself in his office, helping him sort through donations. The rain pattered softly against the windows, casting a muted glow over the room.

You were both seated on the floor, sorting through clothes and toys, when your hands brushed again. This time, neither of you pulled away. Geto Suguru’s breath caught in his throat, and you felt your heart race in response. The air between you grew thick, charged with an energy you could no longer ignore.

He looked up at you, his expression conflicted, torn between the desire you both felt and the commitment he had made. “I shouldn’t…” he began softly, his voice barely a whisper.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his words. “I know,” you replied just as quietly. “I know it’s… complicated.”

Suguru’s eyes searched yours, as if looking for something — some kind of understanding, or perhaps, absolution. “I’ve… I’ve given my life to this.” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor. “To the church, to God. I made a vow.”

You nodded, your heart aching at the pain in his voice. “I don’t want to make things harder for you.” you whispered. “I don’t want you to have to choose.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “It’s not that simple.” he said, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. “I… I made that vow because I had to. Because I felt it was the only way I could atone for something. Something I never told you.”

You blinked, confused. “Atone? For what?”

He hesitated, the struggle evident in his eyes. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice trembling with the weight of his confession. “I became a priest because… because I thought it might save you when you got in that accident.” he said, his words barely more than a breath.

You held your breath for a moment. You don’t know how you were going to deal with what he might say to you. What truths may come out. What can you say, what can you say and do after all these years? He'd hidden all that, he'd kept his silence for more than twenty years and you don't know what to do.

“What do you mean to say?”

“I thought if I gave my life to God, he would spare yours.”

You stared at him, stunned, as his words sank in. “Suguru… I don’t understand.”

He looked down, his hands trembling. “Years ago, when we… when we lost touch, I heard about what happened.” he explained, his voice heavy with emotion. “I was told you might not survive. I felt helpless, powerless to do anything. So, I prayed. I prayed with everything I had, and I promised God that if he saved you, I would give my life in return. I would serve him, devote myself to his cause. And you… you recovered.”

Your breath caught in your throat, a whirlwind of emotions crashing over you. “You did that… for me?”

He nodded, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “I did. And I couldn’t break that promise, not when He answered me. I couldn’t… I still can’t. Not like this.”

A lump formed in your throat as you realized the depth of his sacrifice, the weight of the promise he had made. “Suguru, I… I don’t know what to say.” you whispered, feeling a mix of gratitude, sorrow, and something else — something deeper, more complicated.

He reached for your hand then, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t have to say anything, okay?” he replied softly. “I just… I needed you to know. I need you to understand why I can’t… why can't……..”

You nodded, tears blurring your vision. “I understand.” you said, your voice breaking. “I won’t ask you to break your vow. I just… I just don’t want to lose you again.”

He squeezed your hand, his expression pained but resolute. “You won’t.” he promised. “Not as long as I can help it. But we have to be careful. We have to… to find a way to be friends again, without… without crossing that line.”

You nodded again, swallowing back the tears. “I can do that.” you said quietly. “I can try.”

══════════════════

YOU COULDN’T HELP UNDERSTAND WHAT TO FEEL.The days after your confession were a blur of forced distance and unspoken words. Every time you passed by his office or saw him in the hallways, there was a tension, a gravity that threatened to pull you back in. But you resisted, reminding yourself of the vow he had made and the reasons why you had to keep your distance.

His promise was not something to take lightly. You knew that, and so did he. There were obligations, personal codes, things he held dear, and breaking them meant more than just a fleeting moment of passion. It meant betrayal — to himself and to the values he had sworn to uphold. You couldn’t be the reason he wavered, no matter how much your heart ached with the memory of that moment in his office.

The memory haunted you. The way his eyes softened when you spoke, how his gaze lingered just a little too long, how his lips parted, ready to say something that never came. It was both a promise and a plea, something unspoken but understood between the two of you. Yet, you knew it couldn’t be.

So you did what you thought was best. You put distance between you, told yourself it was the only way to keep things under control. You busied yourself with anything and everything, trying to ignore the weight in your chest that grew heavier each day. But it wasn’t just you who pulled back.

He, too, kept his distance, his demeanor cool and composed, almost like nothing had ever happened. But there were cracks — moments when his eyes would meet yours across a crowded room, moments when his voice would catch ever so slightly when speaking to you.

In those moments, you wondered if he was feeling the same pull, the same struggle to keep his distance. Was it difficult for him too? Did he regret the way things were left, or was he relieved that you had taken the initiative to step back?

Despite the pain of staying away, you told yourself it was for the best. It was the right thing to do, even though every fiber of your being wanted to run back to him, to let yourself fall into whatever this was between you. But you couldn’t — you wouldn’t be the reason he broke his vow. Because as much as you longed for him, you respected him more.

Still, late at night, when you were alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t help but wonder: What if? What if you hadn’t walked away that day? What if he had been the one to break the distance? The uncertainty gnawed at you, leaving you with a bittersweet longing that neither distance nor time could seem to quiet.

But the distance only seemed to make things worse.

At first, it was easy enough to stay away. You busied yourself with gardening, taking the dogs for longer walks, filling your days with mundane chores and errands. But the quiet nights were harder.

Your thoughts would drift back to Suguru — to the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the way his voice dropped to a whisper when he spoke your name. You’d catch yourself imagining the brush of his hand against yours, the warmth of his body close to yours, the way he had leaned in just a bit too close, as if he might kiss you if only for a second.

You knew you shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. He was a priest. He had made a choice, a vow, and you respected that. But the more you tried to push those thoughts away, the more they seemed to creep in, filling the quiet spaces of your mind.

Suguru was struggling too. He tried to focus on his duties, on the congregation, on the children who relied on him. He threw himself into his work with a fervor that bordered on obsession, trying to drown out the thoughts of you that seemed to linger no matter how hard he prayed.

But late at night, alone in his quarters, he found himself thinking of you. Of your laugh, your smile, the way you had looked at him in his office, your eyes filled with understanding, with something deeper that had taken root in his chest and refused to let go.

He would close his eyes and imagine what it would feel like to reach for you, to pull you into his arms, to taste your lips, to feel the heat of your skin against his. He hated himself for it, for the desire that surged through him like a tidal wave, threatening to sweep him away from everything he had promised to uphold. He’d kneel by his bed, his forehead pressed against his clasped hands, and pray for strength, for guidance, for something — anything — to take this longing away.

But the longing only grew.

One evening, as you sat on your porch, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting a soft golden glow over the garden, you felt the ache of loneliness settle deep in your bones.

You had spent the day trying to distract yourself, but nothing seemed to help. Every thought circled back to Suguru, to the way he made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t felt in years. You found yourself wondering what he was doing, if he was thinking of you too, if he was struggling as much as you were.

Without really meaning to, you reached for your phone. You typed out a message, then deleted it. Typed another, then deleted that too. You sighed, setting the phone aside, telling yourself to stop, to let it go. But your hand hovered over the screen, and before you knew it, you were calling his number.

The phone rang once, twice, and then his voice came through, soft and uncertain. “Hello?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Hi.” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I… I hope I’m not bothering you.”

There was a pause, and you could hear the hesitation in his breath. “No.” he replied finally, his voice gentle. “You’re not bothering me.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “I just… I wanted to see how you were.” you admitted. “It’s been a while.”

He let out a soft sigh, and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. “It has.” he agreed. “I’ve… missed you.”

You closed your eyes, the words sinking into your skin like a balm. “I’ve missed you too.” you confessed, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “I’ve been trying to stay away, but… it’s harder than I thought.”

He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of a chair. “I’ve been trying too.” he admitted, his voice strained. “But it’s… it’s not easy.”

There was something in his tone, a rough edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “Suguru…….” you whispered, your heart pounding. “What are we going to do?”

He let out a breath, and you could feel the weight of his struggle, the battle raging within him. “I don’t know....." he replied honestly. “I’ve been praying for guidance, for… for something to help me make sense of this. But every time I close my eyes, all I see is you.”

Your breath hitched at his confession, the honesty of it slicing through you like a knife. “I… I feel the same.” you whispered. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About… about what it would feel like to…”

The words were right there, lingering on the tip of your tongue, but they felt too potent, too dangerous to release. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening, your heart pounding in your chest as you stood there, teetering on the edge of a confession you weren't ready to make.

You wanted to say it, to let it all out — the weight of your feelings, the yearning that had grown over time, the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop feeling for him. But the moment felt too fragile, too charged. One wrong word and the delicate balance you both had maintained for so long would shatter. And so, you trailed off, your voice faltering, the unsaid hanging thick between you.

But he knew. The air in the room seemed to shift, charged with a tension that neither of you could deny. You could hear it in his breathing, the way it hitched, just for a moment, as if he was caught off guard by the depth of what you almost said. His chest rose and fell with a newfound heaviness, each breath more labored than the last, betraying the calm facade he tried to maintain.

He didn’t look at you right away, as if turning to face you would confirm everything — the longing, the hesitation, the unspoken desires that had been building between you both for far too long. But when he finally spoke, his voice trembled, a slight quiver beneath his usual steady tone. It wasn’t much, barely noticeable to anyone else, but to you, it was everything.

It was proof that he understood that he was feeling the same thing you were, even if neither of you could fully articulate it. His words, whatever they were, seemed like an afterthought, just filler to mask the emotions surging beneath the surface. Yet, the tremor in his voice betrayed him, and for a moment, you wondered if he would be the one to break first.

But he didn’t. Instead, you both stood there, suspended in the weight of your silence, the unspoken words pressing against your lips like a dam about to break. You could feel the heat of his presence, the way the space between you seemed to shrink without either of you moving an inch. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to hear, but neither of you dared cross that invisible line.

Even though nothing was said aloud, the room felt full — full of everything you couldn’t bring yourself to admit, full of everything he had already understood. The weight of it pressed on you, thick and heavy, and you realized that sometimes, words weren’t necessary. Sometimes, the silence, the shared breath, the trembling voice, said everything that needed to be said.

And in that moment, you both knew.

“I know.” he whispered, his voice raw with need. “I’ve thought about it too. More than I should.”

Your heart raced, a flush spreading over your skin as the heat of his words washed over you. “Maybe… maybe we could just see each other.” you suggested tentatively. “Just… just to talk. Nothing more.”

He hesitated, and you could feel the conflict in his silence. But then he spoke, his voice thick with longing. “Just to talk, like back then....” he agreed. “But… if it becomes too much…”

“I’ll leave.” you promised. “I don’t want to make things harder for you. I just… I just need to see you.”

He sighed, a sound of both relief and resignation. “Okay……” he said softly. “Come to the church tomorrow. After the evening service. We can… we can talk.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, your heart racing with anticipation, with fear, with desire.

“Okay.” you whispered. “Tomorrow.”

When the call ended, you felt a strange mix of emotions — excitement, anxiety, a deep, pulsing need that you couldn’t ignore. You told yourself it would just be a conversation, just a chance to clear the air, to find some semblance of peace in this storm. But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t be that simple. Nothing between you and Geto Suguru had ever been simple.

And as you lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, you wondered what tomorrow would bring, and whether you’d have the strength to resist the pull that had only grown stronger with every moment you spent apart.

══════════════════

YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT WHAT TO DO. The next evening arrived like a cold weight pressing on your chest. You stood outside the church, your clothes soaked through as the rain beat down relentlessly, its bitter chill sinking into your bones.

Each gust of wind cut through you, but the storm raging around you was nothing compared to the turmoil within. You had rehearsed what you might say over and over, yet as you stood before the old wooden doors, the words felt distant, unreachable.

With a shaky breath, you reached out, your hand trembling as it grasped the iron handle. The door creaked, groaning under the pressure of your push, the sound amplified by the hollow quiet inside.

Stepping across the threshold, you could hear the echo of your footsteps against the stone floor, each step amplifying the pounding of your heart, which beat in sync with the thunder rumbling outside.

The church was nearly empty, its vast interior engulfed in an eerie stillness. The last remnants of the evening service had long since faded, leaving only a few flickering candles scattered around the altar.

Their faint, wavering light sent shadows dancing across the old stone walls, casting strange shapes that seemed to twist and shift with every gust of wind that rattled the windows. The air smelled of damp wood, incense, and something ancient — a scent that seemed to settle deep in your lungs, grounding you in the moment yet unsettling you all the same.

You paused just inside the doorway, wiping the rain from your face, and took in the silence that surrounded you. Despite the stillness, the weight of the space pressed down on you, amplifying your anxiety. You weren’t sure if it was the setting or the reason for your presence that made your chest tighten, but every breath felt like an effort.

The soft hum of the storm outside was barely audible within the stone sanctuary, creating a strange sense of isolation. You found yourself both soothed and unnerved by the contrast — the chaos outside, the fragile calm inside.

And yet, even within this tranquility, there was a tension, a palpable sense of anticipation that settled in your gut. You were here for a reason, but now, standing in the dim light of the church, the reality of it felt heavier than you had imagined.

You walked slowly down the aisle, your footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling, each step measured, deliberate, as if delaying the inevitable. The pews were empty, save for a few scattered hymn books and prayer pamphlets left behind.

The rows stretched endlessly before you, and every flicker of the candles seemed to emphasize the emptiness, the vastness of the space, making you feel smaller with each passing second.

As you approached the altar, your breath hitched in your throat. This was the place where vows were made, promises were sealed, and lives were intertwined — for better or for worse. But you weren’t here for such formalities.

No, your visit was shrouded in uncertainty and the kind of unspoken tension that you had no idea how to resolve. The closer you got to the altar, the more the anticipation surged, twisting inside you.

You hesitated, standing just a few feet away from the altar steps. The candles flickered, casting long shadows that stretched toward you like fingers reaching from the past, urging you to move forward. But you remained still, heart pounding, breath shallow. The moment felt suspended, like a string pulled taut, ready to snap.

In the stillness, you wondered what awaited you — what words would be exchanged, what truths would be revealed. The anxiety gnawed at you, and yet, beneath it all, there was a strange undercurrent of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this night would bring clarity, an answer to the questions that had haunted you since the last time you were here.

And so you stood there, fighting the urge to turn back, knowing that what happened next could change everything.

You could hear Suguru’s voice in the distance, speaking quietly with one of the parishioners. You waited near the back, your hands clasped in front of you, trying to steady your breathing. When he finished, he turned and saw you, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache.

"You're here." he said, walking over to you. His voice was low, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes — relief, maybe, or hesitation.

"I am." you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "I… I needed to see you."

He nodded, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering for just a moment too long. “Come with me.” he murmured, gesturing toward a small room off to the side. His office, you realized. The room where it all started.

You followed him, your footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor. The air felt thick, heavy with unsaid words, with unspoken need. Once inside, he closed the door, and you both stood there for a moment, staring at each other, unsure where to begin. You could feel your heart pound at each step you took. Your breath hitches as you walk with him, many thoughts racing over and over in your head.

Suguru took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "I’m glad you came." he said, breaking the silence. "But I… I don’t know if this is a good idea."

Your chest tightened at his words, a mixture of frustration and longing bubbling to the surface. “I don’t either.” you admitted, “but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t just… ignore this.”

He looked at you, his eyes darkening with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “Do you think it’s easy for me?” he asked, his voice rising slightly. “Do you think I don’t feel it too? This… this pull?”

You took a step closer, feeling a spark of anger mixed with desire. “Then why are we fighting it, Suguru? Why are we pretending like this isn’t happening?”

He shook his head, his frustration evident. “Because I made a promise, you know that.” he snapped. “Because I dedicated my life to something bigger than myself, and I can’t just… I can’t just throw that away!”

You felt a surge of emotion, a frustration that had been building for weeks. “I’m not asking you to throw anything away!” you shot back, your voice louder than you intended. “But you can’t just… you can’t just pretend you don’t feel anything. That we don’t feel anything!”

His eyes flashed with something you couldn’t quite name — anger, maybe, or desire. “I’ve spent years pretending, trying to bury these feelings,” he said, his voice low and raw. “But every time I see you… every time I hear your voice…”

He stepped closer, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes locked onto yours. “It tears me apart. And I don’t know…..” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve tried to stay away. God knows I’ve tried. But I… I can’t.”

You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension between you thick and suffocating. “Then don’t.” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Don’t stay away. Don’t push me away…Please.”

His breath hitched, his hands twitching at his sides as if he was fighting the urge to reach for you. “This is madness.” he murmured, but his voice lacked conviction. “This… this is wrong.”

“Is it?” you challenged, your heart pounding in your chest. “Is it really so wrong to want… to feel…?”

He closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. “I don’t know anymore.” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what’s right or wrong when it comes to you.”

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him closer. “Then stop thinking.” you said softly, your voice trembling. “Just… just feel.”

For a moment, he froze, his breath catching in his throat. Then, something inside him seemed to snap. He surged forward, his hands cupping your face, his lips crashing against yours with a force that took your breath away.

The kiss was desperate, hungry, years of longing and frustration pouring out in a single, electrifying moment. You felt his hands tangle in your hair, his body pressing against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to taste him, to know that this was real.

Your back hit the wall, and he pressed against you, his mouth moving against yours with a ferocity that made your knees weak. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, could taste the salt of his tears on his lips. You were drowning in him, in the scent of him, in the feel of his body against yours, in the way his hands roamed your back, pulling you closer, deeper into the kiss.

But then, as quickly as it began, he pulled away, gasping for breath, his hands still holding your face, his forehead resting against yours. “We… we can’t.” he panted, his voice broken, torn. “This… this isn’t right.”

You were both breathing hard, your chest heaving with the effort to calm the storm raging inside you. “I know,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I know it’s not. But… but I need you, Suguru. I need you so much.”

He closed his eyes, his hands trembling against your skin. “I need you too.” he confessed, his voice choking with emotion. “God help me, I need you too.”

And in that moment, as you stood there, pressed against the wall, your breaths mingling in the darkened room, you both knew that something had changed. A line had been crossed, a boundary shattered, and there was no going back.

The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, tangled together in a moment that was as intoxicating as it was forbidden. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to feel the weight of what was between you, to acknowledge the depth of your desire, the strength of your longing.

Suguru’s lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, more tentative, as if he was afraid to break the fragile moment. “What are we doing?” he whispered against your mouth.

You closed your eyes, feeling his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t know.” you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath. “But I don’t want to stop.”

He swallowed hard, his forehead still pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face as if he were afraid you might disappear. “Neither do I.” he confessed, his voice breaking. “Neither do I.”

His breath was ragged, his hands shaking as they cupped your face once more, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, as if he were searching for something he had lost long ago.

The world around you seemed to dissolve into a blur, leaving only the two of you in this sacred, forbidden moment. Tears slipped down your cheeks, and he felt them against his skin, his own eyes closing tight as if he could hold back the storm of emotions threatening to consume him.

He kissed you again, harder this time, a low, shaky sigh escaping him as his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you against him with a strength that bordered on desperation.

“Forgive me.” he murmured against your lips, the words barely audible, his voice thick with emotion. “God, forgive me…”

But even as he spoke, he knew there was no forgiveness for what he was about to do, no absolution in this moment of need and longing. He felt the weight of his vows, the promises he had made, the life he had chosen… and yet, when it came to you, every vow seemed like a distant memory, every promise a faint echo of a past life.

His hands moved to your shoulders, pressing you back against the wall, his lips trailing down your neck, kissing every inch of skin he could reach as if he were worshiping at an altar.

“I’ve sinned so truly and endlessly for all these years.” he whispered, his voice raw, broken. “I’ve sinned, loving you… wanting you… needing you…”

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, needing to know this was real. His lips moved lower, tracing the line of your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin.

“You’ve always been my god.” he confessed, his voice a breathless prayer. “And I… your most devoted follower…”

He sank to his knees, his hands sliding down your sides, his lips brushing against the fabric of your dress. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire, his expression a mixture of longing and torment.

“I can’t stop.” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “I won’t stop…”

His fingers hooked into the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly, reverently, his lips pressing kisses to the exposed skin of your thighs. You shivered, your breath catching in your throat as he continued, his hands trembling against your skin.

“I’ll sin for you… over and over.” he murmured, his lips brushing against the curve of your hip. “Because I can’t let you go…”

He kissed lower, his mouth trailing down the inside of your thigh, his breath warm against your skin. He paused for a moment, his hands gripping your thighs, his forehead pressing against your belly as if he were fighting some inner battle. And then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he kissed you again, his lips finding the center of your desire, soft and demanding all at once.

You moaned, your head falling back against the wall, your hands gripping his shoulders as his tongue flicked against you, tasting you, savoring you like the sweetest sin.

He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, his hands tightening their grip on your thighs, pulling you closer as his tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles, each stroke a prayer, each touch a confession.

He kissed you there, over and over, his mouth moving against you with a fervor that was almost holy in its intensity. He could feel your body trembling beneath his hands, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he worshiped you with every ounce of devotion he possessed. His tongue swirled around your clit, teasing, tasting, the heat of his breath mingling with the heat of your skin.

His hands gripped the soft flesh of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he held you steady, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue moving faster, hungrier, seeking to draw out every cry, every moan, every shudder of pleasure. His own breath came in ragged bursts, his heart pounding in his chest, his body trembling with the force of his own desire.

He couldn’t stop — didn’t want to stop. You were his sanctuary, his salvation, and in this moment, he was lost in you, lost in the heat of your skin, the taste of your desire, the sound of your breathless gasps. He moaned against you, the sound filled with need, with longing, with a hunger that bordered on desperation.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on as he continued, his lips and tongue moving against you with a fervor that was almost frantic. He felt your body tense, heard the soft, breathless moans that escaped your lips, and he knew you were close. Suguru wanted to push you over the edge, wanted to hear you cry out his name, wanted to feel you shatter against his lips.

And so, he continued, his tongue flicking faster, his lips pressing harder, his hands gripping your thighs as if he could anchor himself to you, as if he could hold you here, with him, in this perfect, sinful moment forever.

You cried out, your body arching against the wall, your hands tightening in his hair as you came, a soft, breathless moan escaping your lips. He groaned against you, his tongue never stopping, his lips moving against you with a fervor that was almost holy, almost desperate, as if he were afraid to let you go, afraid to let the moment end.

And in that moment, he knew — he knew he would never be able to stop sinning for you. He would never be able to walk away, to forget the taste of you, the feel of you, the sound of your voice crying out his name. He was yours, body and soul, for better or for worse, for all eternity.

He pulled back, his breath ragged, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and filled with a longing so deep it nearly broke your heart. He looked up at you, his hands still gripping your thighs, his expression a mixture of awe and torment.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke, as if every word took effort to push past the weight of his desire. "I can't... I can't stop this." he confessed, his forehead resting against your stomach, his breath warm against your skin. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you closer as if anchoring himself to you, needing the connection as much as the air in his lungs.

You tangled your fingers in his hair again, your pulse still racing, the aftermath of the moment leaving your body humming with a mix of exhaustion and anticipation. You could feel the tension in him, the battle between what he wanted and what he knew was dangerous, and yet you both understood — there was no turning back. Not now.

Slowly, you tilted his chin up, guiding his gaze back to yours. His eyes, still dark with desire, searched yours, and you could see the fear in them — fear of the depth of this thing between you, fear of how much it already consumed him. But beneath that, there was something more. Something tender, vulnerable, almost fragile.

"I don't want you to stop." you whispered, your voice soft but firm. "I don't want this to end.”

Suguru's eyes softened for a moment, then clouded with guilt. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. "I'm sorry." he murmured, his voice breaking with regret. "I'm so sorry… I led you to sin. This desire—my desire—it’s wrong, I’ve tainted you. I should have never let it go this far."

You shook your head, heart pounding, and leaned into his touch. "No." you whispered fiercely. "You didn't lead me anywhere I didn't want to go. I chose this. I chose you. If we're sinners, then I'll carry that sin with you. Together."

Without hesitation, you captured his lips in a kiss that was hard, desperate, and messy, like you were trying to devour him, to merge with him completely. And Suguru, filled with equal need, responded with the same raw intensity. His hands roamed your body, hungry, claiming, as if trying to make sure this moment, this choice, could never be undone.

In one swift motion, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the confession box. The small, sacred space that had once held secrets and forgiveness was now your altar of passion. You both fumbled with your clothes, hands frantic, lips still locked in that feverish kiss. When the last piece of fabric fell to the floor, he broke away just long enough to whisper.

"You are my god. I was never meant to devote worship to anyone else."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and the intensity of his devotion left you breathless. When he finally entered you, filling you completely, your body arched, as if instinctively trying to get closer, deeper, into the space where the boundaries of pleasure and need blurred into something beyond comprehension.

The moan that escaped your lips was loud, unrestrained, ripped from your throat like a prayer answered after too long in the desert. And as if answering your plea, Suguru thrust harder, deeper, his breath ragged, his skin slick with sweat as the storm outside raged in perfect synchrony with the chaos inside you both.

Thunder cracked, the air vibrating with the sound, but neither of you cared. It was the storm that gave you permission to be loud, to scream, to lose yourselves in this forbidden act. The rain pounded against the windows, a constant drumbeat to the rhythm of his body pressing into yours, over and over, until your mind was lost in a haze of pleasure so blinding you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began.

You came, hard and fast, your body trembling uncontrollably in his arms, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His pace grew more desperate, each thrust pushing deeper, more insistent, like a prayer that had to be spoken aloud, no matter the cost. His worship of you was not gentle; it was fierce, almost frenzied, as if the very act of being inside you was the only way he could breathe.

"Suguru." you gasped, barely able to speak, your voice broken and breathless. But the sound of his name on your lips seemed to spur him on. His hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you impossibly closer, his movements becoming rougher, more urgent. Every thrust pushed you higher, every stroke making your body shake, your legs trembling as you gave into the pleasure that threatened to overwhelm you.

He was relentless, his need for you all-consuming, driven by something more than mere desire. It was devotion, pure and raw, a longing that had been pent up for far too long. His words from earlier echoed in your mind — You are my god — and you could feel the truth of it now, in every touch, every movement, as he gave himself to you completely.

You whimpered as your body responded to him again, another wave of pleasure building as he moved deeper inside you, filling every part of you until there was nothing left but him. The tension between your bodies, the heat, the raw, primal hunger, grew too much to bear. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body clinging to him, needing him, wanting him, as he pushed you closer to the edge again.

The storm raged outside, lightning flashing, illuminating the room in brief moments of stark white, and in those flashes, you could see the look on his face — dark, intense, a man consumed by his love for you, by the act of giving himself over entirely, as if nothing else mattered in this world.

And maybe it didn’t.

"Suguru..." you moaned, feeling yourself break once more as your body surrendered to him completely, trembling violently against his as he continued to claim you, over and over, as if this moment would never end.

Suguru’s pace never faltered, his body pressed relentlessly against yours, each thrust deeper than the last. His eyes were half-lidded with a raw, burning need, his hands never loosening their grip on your trembling body.

Even as your voice broke into breathless cries, your hands clutched desperately at him, grounding yourself in the overwhelming sensations that coursed through you. He was utterly lost in you, consumed by the devotion he had promised — his worship of you unending, fervent, and wild.

Your body ached with the pleasure of it, shaking beneath him as he continued even after you had come. He was relentless, his hips driving against yours in a rhythm that sent shivers down your spine, each movement feeding the fire that burned between you. You felt overwhelmed, consumed, your body unable to keep up with the intensity of his desire, but you didn’t want him to stop. Not ever.

“Suguru……” you whimpered again, your voice cracking, barely able to speak as his thrusts grew rougher, more desperate. “Please…”

But whether you were begging for more or for a moment’s reprieve, even you didn’t know. He responded with a low, guttural moan, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. His eyes, dark and wild, locked onto yours as he murmured in a voice thick with lust.

“I need you… I need you more than anything. You’re everything.”

Your heart pounded, his words igniting something deep within you as your body gave in completely, surrendering to him as if you were both caught in the grip of something sacred and sinful all at once. He pushed deeper, each thrust taking you to the edge of what your body could handle, the pleasure blending with a delicious ache that left you trembling against him.

The thunder outside roared, masking your moans as his worship grew more fervent, his devotion unrelenting. Your body shook beneath him, every nerve alight as he claimed you over and over. Your hands slid up his back, your nails digging into his skin, marking him as yours as he took you higher, his pace unbroken, his rhythm fierce and untamed.

Lightning flashed again, casting the room in harsh light, illuminating the way his muscles strained as he drove into you, his face twisted in both agony and ecstasy. His voice, hoarse and filled with desperate reverence, reached you between the booming thunder.

“You’re mine… only mine.”

The words broke something in you, your body shaking as the pleasure surged through you once again, your cries swallowed by the storm. You clung to him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you, your body collapsing into his as the intensity of it all took you to the brink of delirium.

Suguru wasn’t far behind. His movements grew frantic, his body trembling with the effort of holding back as long as he could. But in the end, he couldn’t resist any longer. With a low, primal groan, he buried himself deep inside you one last time, his release washing over him as he collapsed into you, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

For a moment, neither of you moved, tangled together in a haze of exhaustion and bliss, the sound of the storm outside slowly fading into the background. His breath was heavy against your neck, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered.

“I’m never letting you go.”

And as you lay there, wrapped in each other, you knew the truth of it — this was something neither of you could escape. Not the sin, not the pleasure, not the way you were both hopelessly bound to one another. For better or worse, you were his, and he was yours. Bound in sin, bound in love, bound in something far more powerful than either of you could understand.

══════════════════

epilogue

The car hummed softly beneath you as you drove, the highway stretching out ahead, quiet and serene in the early morning light. Your daughter sat in the passenger seat, her backpack nestled between her feet, her gaze fixed out the window as the city gave way to the open road leading toward the airport. The silence between you was comfortable, but there was an unspoken tension — the weight of goodbye looming just ahead.

You glanced over at her, your heart swelling with pride and a little bit of that inevitable ache that comes with watching your child leave. She had grown so much, blossomed into a young woman full of ambition and dreams. College was her next chapter, and you were ready to let her go, even if the thought tugged at your heart.

As if sensing your thoughts, she turned to you, her brow furrowed in concern. "Are you gonna be alright, Mom?" Her voice was soft, careful, as if she was more worried about you than her own big journey ahead.

You smiled at her, reaching over to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Yes, sweetheart. I'm going to be fine." You paused, your smile growing a little softer. "I have Suguru."

She smiled back, a knowing look in her eyes. She had grown up with Suguru around, seeing the way you two fit together. Over time, she understood the depth of your bond, even if she didn’t know the whole story.

"I’m glad." she said quietly. "He’s good for you."

You nodded, your chest tightening a bit as the airport came into view. "He is. And I’m going to miss you. But you know you can come back anytime, right? This is always your home."

She smiled, though it was tinged with the same bittersweet feeling you carried. "I know, Mom. I’ll come back as soon as I can."

After pulling up to the drop-off zone, you hugged her tightly, savoring the warmth of her embrace. "I’m so proud of you." you whispered, holding her just a little longer than usual.

"I love you, Mom." she murmured back before pulling away, her eyes a little misty. She gave you one last smile before grabbing her bag and disappearing through the airport doors.

For a moment, you sat there, watching the entrance as people hurried by, the world continuing on as always. You felt the pang of her absence already, but you knew that she was ready for this new adventure. And so were you.

With a deep breath, you turned the car around and headed back toward town, a quiet excitement building in your chest. Suguru was waiting for you. As you neared the church, the sight of it stirred something in you. It was the place where so much had started, where your life had taken a turn you could never have predicted.

Suguru had officially left the priesthood some time ago, and now, he was finishing the last bit of paperwork to close that chapter of his life. His decision had been made with a clear heart, for both of you and for the daughters he had taken in, Mimiko and Nanako. The three of them had already moved the rest of their things to a house just outside of town, the place where you would begin your new life together.

As you pulled into the small parking lot of the church, you spotted him standing near the entrance, his dark hair tied back, his expression calm but focused as he signed the last of the documents. He looked up when you parked, his lips curving into a soft smile as you approached.

"All set?" you asked as you reached him, your fingers brushing his in a quiet greeting.

He nodded, setting the paperwork aside. "It’s done. Everything’s in order." His smile widened, that familiar warmth in his gaze. "I’m free."

You exhaled softly, the weight of his words filling the space between you. He had left the priesthood not for the sake of running away from something, but for the chance to fully embrace the life he wanted — the life he wanted with you.

"So," you asked with a playful tilt of your head, "where to next?"

Suguru smiled, reaching out to take your hand in his, his touch grounding and steady, as it had always been. "I want to devote the rest of my life to you," he said simply, his voice gentle yet filled with unwavering certainty.

Your heart swelled at his words, a rush of warmth flooding through you. He had always been devoted, but now it was different. Now, there were no barriers, no walls between you. It was just the two of you, ready to build something beautiful together.

You smiled, stepping closer and resting your head against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a way that felt like home. "Then let’s go, hm?" you whispered. "Let’s start the rest of our lives."

And as you drove away from the church together, toward the house that would soon become your shared home, the future felt wide open — a new chapter, a new beginning. You had Suguru. You had love. And for the first time, you felt entirely free.

319 notes · View notes

jmkjournalblog · 18 days ago

Text

"Soulmates" Part 1

Part 2

Pairing:Wednesday Addams x FemVampire! Reader

Summary: The Fem!reader, vampire with a penchant for dark humor and psychopathic tendencies, is sent to Nevermore Academy by her parents following an unpleasant incident involving the murder of a couple of triple students in her previous school. Despite their contrasting personalities, the reader and Wednesday form a complex bond, navigating their differences while facing challenges that threaten to keep them apart.

A/N: This text combines three chapters written at different times, so there might be slight differences in style. Also, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes))

Warnings: Shitty humor

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The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the picturesque town. It was a quaint, almost idyllic place, with its cobblestone streets and charming old buildings—a far cry from the darkness that lurked within the reader's soul. She stood at the edge of town, a lone figure amidst the bustle of the afternoon crowd. Tall and imposing, with an air of quiet confidence that set her apart from the ordinary townsfolk, she surveyed her surroundings with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

The Y/n was not here by choice. No, she had been sent—a pawn in a game she had no desire to play. Her parents, in their infinite wisdom—or perhaps, their utter lack thereof—had deemed it necessary to exile her to Nevermore Academy, a school for misfits and outcasts. It was a punishment disguised as a solution, a way to rid themselves of a daughter whose darkness they could no longer abide.

And so, here she was, alone in a town that reeked of desperation and decay, a stranger in a strange land. It was a bitter irony, she thought, that a creature such as herself—a creature of the night, born to roam the shadows—should find herself so utterly exposed in the harsh light of day. But she was not one to dwell on self-pity, nor was she inclined to mourn the loss of a home she had long outgrown. No, she would embrace this new chapter of her existence with the same ferocity that she embraced life itself.

With a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, the Y/n turned her gaze towards the looming silhouette of Nevermore Academy, its spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a long-forgotten deity. And as she took her first steps towards her new prison, she couldn't help but wonder what twisted fate awaited her within its hallowed halls.

*Y/n POV*

As I stepped into the imposing entrance hall of Nevermore Academy, I was greeted by the sight of a young girl. She was dressed in the school uniform, her blond hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she approached with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Welcome to Nevermore Academy," she said with a wry smile, extending her hand in greeting. "I'm Enid Sinclair. And you must be the new arrival."

I nodded, returning her handshake. Enid's warmth and charm were a welcome contrast to the oppressive atmosphere that hung me like a shroud.

"Nice to meet you," I replied with a forced smile. There's no point in being rude, this school is my last resort, and it's better to try to be nicer to people. "I must admit, I wasn't sure if anyone would meet me."

" I always give a tour of the school to new students, especially since you will be my roommate." A smile spread across her face. God, I wish I could be as carefree "It's going to be so much fun, you, me and Wednesday are three new best friends".

Three best friends? Well, that's one way to look at it—a trio of misfits ready to conquer the world, or at least survive sharing a room.

"Wow, lucky me," I muttered inwardly, plastering on a grin that probably looked more like a grimace. "I've always wanted to be part of a trio. How did you know?"

I forced another polite smile, masking my inner cynicism with practiced ease. "Okay, we can't stand here all day. Let's go. "

After walking around all the main areas of the school, Enid and I headed towards our room. The whole time we were walking, I couldn't shake the feeling that this place was definitely going to be interesting. Enid had her own issues, but I'd always been attracted to people who looked at the world with an unhealthy amount of optimism. Talking to her should dilute my morbid thoughts with a touch of sweet idiocy. For being alone with myself again does me no good, though it gives me a lot of pleasure.

“So, roomie, ready to see your new abode?” - Enid said with a smile, her hand resting on the doorknob. With a casual shrug, I followed her into the room.

A huge room greeted us, with beds on both sides. The left side was a riot of colors, what I would call “colorblind worst nightmare” It was a cacophony of hues that defied description. Plush toys adorned one wall. Well at least it is not dakimakura with half-naked characters from anime or furi costumes. On the other side of the room, the atmosphere was stark—black linens on the bed, a desk, and a typewriter. Its practically untouched. It felt more like a museum piece than a living space, devoid of any trace of personality. Enid had mentioned that the other girl had only recently moved in…

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM ROOM?” – Enid asked in irritation.

Her voice startling me out of my thoughts. Distractedly looking around the room, I completely missed the girl who was tearing off colored stickers from the right half of the huge window. It must be Wednesday.

“Dividing our room equally,” replied Wednesday, her voice dripping with disdain. She kicked the last of the colored paper to Enid's side for emphasis. "It looks like a rainbow vomited on your side." She finished in a calm tone, as she returned to the desk at her side of the room.

God, I love drama.

“I...” I could literally see Enid's ears steaming right now.

“Silence would be appreciated.” Wednesday spoke as she quickly cut her roommate off. "This is my writing time."

I like this school already.

“Your writing time ? ” Enid asked, raising an eyebrow.

Wednesday rolled up her sleeves as she situated herself in front of her typewriter. “I devote an hour a day to my novel. Perhaps if you did the same your vlog might be coherent.” she slides the carriage of the typewriter to the side as she continued, “I've read serial killer diaries with better punctuation.”

She read serial killer diaries? One point to the goth girl.

Enid clenched her fists “I write in my voice. It's my truth. It's what my followers love.”

“Your followers are clearly imbeciles.” Wednesday stood up from her desk as she moved infront of Enid. “They respond to your stories with insipid little pictures.”

“Uh, you mean emoji's?” a small smile appears on Enid face “It's how people express their feelings. I realize that's a foreign concept to you.”

“When I look at you, the following emojis come to mind. Rope, shovel, hole.” She continues “By the way, there are two D's in Addams." she moved back over to her desk. “If you're going to gossip about me, at least spell my name correctly.”

“Ahem”- as much as I'd love for this delightful show to continue, I can't just stand there like an idiot with things to do. I could certainly settle down nicely on my suitcase to brew some coffee and continue watching this wonderful drama, but I think sooner or later they'll notice me.

“Oh, sorry about that please, I'm just not used to this attitude. Wednesday, meet Y/n. She's going to live with us too.”

“That's okay, Enid, you can continue this lovely conversation, very intriguing actually. All I need to do is put my things somewhere and ideally lie down myself. The long drive and the splendid but somewhat drawn-out tour, has tired me out.”

Wednesday turned to me. “Nice to meet you, now if you'll excuse it’s my writing time,” she said, before turning back to her typewriter. She began methodically tapping the keys of her typewriter.

I smiled to myself, amused by the interaction. These two were definitely something else.

“Ms. Thornhill has decided that your bed will be on Wednesday's side, there's more room and the closet is close by. Bed should be arriving soon, but in the meantime, you can lay out your things, the outer two doors are yours.”

“Got it, okay then, that's what I'll do for now.”

Taking the suitcase in my hands I headed over to the closet, starting to put things away. I've always had a problem with this, not that I don't like it on the contrary, pedantically folding shirt to shirt, pants to pants, has always calmed me down. Things in the closet should look like they're on the counter of a boutique. If something doesn't look right, I can't sleep well.

Enid put on a song. I guess this is another one of God's tests for all the sins I've done. Don't get me wrong, I like music, but on rare occasions. People who play it on a regular basis to soundtrack their daily routine are the real psychopaths.

“Turn it off!” Wednesday gets up from her chair and heads over to Enid.

I couldn't help but stifle a laugh at the exchange. It was moments like this that made me grateful for immortality. Trying not to attract attention, I peeked out from behind the locker door, amused by the unfolding drama.

“This is your final warning!”

As she got too close Enid raised her hands and let out her rainbow painted nails out a claw. “Don't mess with me. This kitty’s got claws and I’m not afraid to use them.”

Suddenly the door swings open and a woman walks into the room.

“Good evening girls.” She looks around the room throwing a glance first at me and then at Wednesday. “I wanted to make sure that Wednesday and Y/n was settling in...”

She walks to the middle of the room, kicking up mud from her shoes on the wooden floor…. It drives me insane.

“I’m Ms. Thornhill, your dorm mom. Apologies, I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived. I trust Enid has given you the old Nevermore welcome.”

“She's been smothering us with hospitality, I hope to return the favor. In her sleep”.

Such unconcealed aggression, I like it.

“Enid did a great job of showing and telling me everything, thank her so much, and it's nice to meet you,” I interjected, wanting to move the conversation along.

Ms. Thornhill turned to me, offering a warm smile. “I'm very glad it went well.”

“The only thing I would like to ask about is the bed. I wouldn't really want to sleep on the floor on the first day in such a beautiful place. It would have dampened all the excitement I got out of today.”

“Oh right, the guys were supposed to bring it, but it looks like they're running late. I'll have to find them again and tell them.”

At this rate, I was going to sleep on the floor tonight.

“Ms. Thornhill, why do we need the guys? Why don't you just show me where to get it, and I'll take it from there? I think I'm strong enough to do that,” I replied with a sweet smile.

She looked at me in disbelief. I smiled a little, letting her catch a glimpse of my fangs.

“Ah, okay, I didn't realize right away. Not all vampires who are in this school have abilities such as strength or speed, so...Let's go,” she said, turning around and heading for the door. I followed her, casting a disdainful glance at the dirt left on the floor.

Who even does things like that?

Y/n POV

The walk with Ms. Thornhill was uneventful, except for her curious glances, which I pretended not to notice. She seemed… overly friendly, and her cheery disposition grated against every instinct I had. There was something unsettling in how her smile lingered just a bit too long. Still, I played the obedient new student—sweet smiles, polite nods, not even a hint of fangs. It wasn’t hard to find the storage area, cluttered with dusty furniture and half-forgotten relics from who knows how long ago. With little more than a gesture, I hefted the bedframe onto my shoulder, making it look far easier than it should have been.

As I walked back through the hallways of Nevermore, I couldn’t help but scan the dimly lit corridors and high arched ceilings. This place was dripping with history and secrets—I could practically taste it in the air. I wondered what kind of skeletons were hiding in these closets and whether any of them were literal. The thought amused me enough to crack a smile, which I quickly smothered when I caught sight of the door to our room.

Returning to find Enid attempting to cheerfully hang more decorations—and failing spectacularly in the face of Wednesday’s withering glares—was almost worth the trouble. Almost. I stepped into the room, set down the bedframe with a soft thud, and stretched slightly, letting out a satisfied sigh that earned me a sideways glance from both girls. I raised an eyebrow at Wednesday, who, naturally, looked unimpressed.

“You’re back,” she stated flatly, her attention already returning to the clack of typewriter keys. “I’d begun hoping you’d gotten lost and decided to stay that way.”

I grinned, leaning casually against the wall as I met her icy gaze. “Oh, did you miss me already, Wednesday? I’m touched.” I let my words drip with playful mockery, watching for her reaction.

She didn’t even pause her typing. “I don’t miss nuisances. They have a way of making themselves known whether one wishes it or not.”

“Well, it’s good to know I’ve made an impression,” I replied lightly, crossing my arms. “I do so hate being forgettable.”

There it was—a slight pause in her keystrokes. Barely perceptible, but I saw it. Victory. She resumed typing, but I could see the muscles in her jaw tense, and that alone was worth every ounce of effort. Behind me, Enid let out an exaggerated groan.

“Can you two not flirt for five minutes?” Enid asked, half-exasperated and half-amused as she tossed another garish pillow onto her bed.

“Flirting?” I said innocently, a hand coming to my chest. “Enid, I think you’ve misunderstood me. I was simply trying to have a civil conversation.”

“Your idea of civil conversation seems to involve needling people until they bleed,” Wednesday remarked coolly, finally glancing my way. “I’m sure you’re quite proud of yourself.”

“Oh, very,” I said, flashing a grin that showed just the hint of fang. “But I only needle people who are interesting. Take that as a compliment.”

Her expression didn’t change, but there was a spark in her dark eyes. A dangerous, calculating spark. “Compliments from you hold about as much value as a counterfeit coin. Useless and possibly diseased.”

I tilted my head, letting my smile widen. “And yet you’ve pocketed it anyway.”

“Enough!” Enid interjected, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m already regretting my decision to be roommates with either of you.”

“I thought we were best friends, Enid?” I teased, giving her a mock-wounded look. She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

As the brief silence fell, Wednesday turned back to her typewriter, the clack of the keys resuming with renewed vigor. I moved to finish setting up my space, feeling her presence keenly even as she pretended, I didn’t exist. But I knew better. She’d noticed me, whether she liked it or not. And I intended to keep it that way.

I focused on arranging the few belongings I had, keeping one eye on my two roommates. Enid flitted around, determined to keep the atmosphere upbeat despite the thickening tension, while Wednesday remained stoic, her fingers tapping out words with relentless precision. The mechanical clatter of the typewriter filled the room, a fitting soundtrack to our peculiar dynamic.

As I stowed the last of my clothes, I moved to the shared windowsill. Half of it, Wednesday’s half, was bare and colorless, just like the rest of her side. I dragged a finger across the divider she’d drawn—black tape down the middle, stark and deliberate. When she’d divided the room, she hadn’t left any margin for negotiation. That was fine. I wasn’t one to negotiate either.

“Did you choose the décor yourself?” I asked, tone light but teasing. “It really says a lot about you.”

The typewriter stopped mid-sentence, and her head turned, her expression a mask of cold detachment. “If by ‘a lot’ you mean ‘nothing,’ then you are correct. My surroundings reflect my disregard for frivolity.”

I leaned back against the windowsill, arms crossed, giving her a slow once-over. “Yes, I see that. Stark, somber, a touch of morbidity… What’s next, Wednesday? Iron bars over your window? A ‘keep out’ sign? Or is this already your version of a welcome mat?”

“Those who need signs to warn them of danger are already too foolish to avoid it,” she retorted, her voice like ice. She didn’t look away, and I felt the weight of her attention settle on me like a dare.

“Danger? That sounds intriguing.” I stepped closer, deliberately closing the space between us. “But I’d rather find out for myself than take your word for it.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought she’d lash out. Instead, she simply pushed her chair back with a quiet scrape and stood. “Are you always this insufferable?” she asked, stepping closer herself. We were nearly face-to-face now, her glare as sharp as a blade.

“Only when I’m provoked,” I said, my voice softening, the challenge in it unmistakable. “Or intrigued.”

For a heartbeat, I thought she might reach for one of her knives. It wouldn’t have surprised me. But then she stepped back, and the flicker of emotion was gone, replaced by a cold, composed exterior. “Intrigue is a fleeting distraction. You’ll tire of it soon enough.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” I murmured, watching her turn her back to me and return to her typewriter. I had to give it to her; she was disciplined. She’d withdrawn from the confrontation as if it hadn’t fazed her, as if the moment hadn’t happened. But it had.

Enid broke the silence, plopping down onto her bed with a frustrated sigh. “Why can’t we all just get along? Isn’t this supposed to be like… the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

“I don’t recall asking for friendship,” Wednesday replied without looking up.

“And I don’t recall rejecting it,” I added with a smirk, earning a scoff from Wednesday.

“See?” Enid grinned, ever the optimist. “Progress! I’m telling you, we’re going to be the best trio ever. Just give it time.”

“Optimism is a fool’s currency,” Wednesday stated, resuming her typing. “It’s usually spent too freely and leaves the owner penniless.”

“Good thing I have plenty to spare,” Enid shot back, unfazed. She turned to me. “Y/n, you’ll see. She’s all doom and gloom now, but she’ll warm up eventually.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” I said, letting the implication linger. “Though I have to admit, I like her just the way she is.”

Wednesday’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second, and my grin widened. There it was again—the tell that she was paying attention, even if she pretended otherwise.

Enid reached for her phone, likely ready to drown out the tension with music or social media, but she paused, her expression curious. “So, Y/n… what brought you to Nevermore?”

“Exile,” I said simply, my voice taking on a darker edge. “I’m here because my family thought it would be safer to have me… away.”

Enid blinked, unsure whether I was joking. “Safer for who?”

“Exactly.” I allowed a flicker of my fangs to show, then shrugged. “But this place isn’t so bad. It might even grow on me.”

“It’s full of disappointments,” Wednesday said coolly, not missing a beat. “Don’t let the shadows fool you.”

“Disappointments keep things interesting,” I replied, stepping back toward my side of the room. “And I’ve always been drawn to interesting things.”

I felt her eyes on me even after she turned back to her writing. This was going to be fun. Dangerous, maybe—but undeniably fun.

The next morning, the air was crisp, and a thin layer of fog crept around the gothic towers of Nevermore Academy. I found myself sitting on the edge of my freshly delivered bed, lacing up my boots. The rest of the room was quiet, but I could feel a watchful presence. Turning slightly, I caught Wednesday’s reflection in the mirror; she was silently observing me while pretending to prepare her things. Her eyes were intense as ever, like she was sizing me up, waiting for me to make the first move. It amused me, and I made no effort to hide my grin.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I teased, breaking the tension in the room.

She blinked, a slow, deliberate motion that barely disguised her disdain. “Please spare me your nauseating pleasantries.”

“Why, Wednesday, it almost sounds like you didn’t sleep well.” I stood, stretching. “I’d say I’m hurt by that, but I do recall you typing well into the night. Plotting murder, perhaps?”

“If I were plotting murder, you wouldn’t have woken up,” she replied with a deadpan expression.

I laughed softly, loving how quick she was. “Noted. I’ll try to be more deserving of your mercy.” I leaned closer as I passed her on the way to the door. “For now.”

“Don’t push your luck,” she muttered, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested she was far from indifferent. Oh, this was definitely going to be an interesting place.

The hallway was bustling with other students, each an oddity in their own right—shapeshifters, psychics, sirens, and more. I navigated the throng with ease, catching glimpses of curious eyes that lingered just a moment too long. Whispers followed me. New arrivals always attracted attention, and I wasn’t exactly the type to blend in.

“Y/n!” Enid’s cheery voice pierced the noise, and she bounded over like a hyperactive puppy, practically glowing with excitement. “How did you sleep? Oh! You’re going to love breakfast here—it’s the best part of the day!”

“I’m surprised you managed to sleep at all with the ambiance,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I half-expected bats to swoop down from the rafters.

“Oh, they’ve tried.” She shrugged with a wide smile. “But seriously, come on! The sausages are to die for.”

I followed her, letting Enid’s chatter wash over me. She was like a rainbow in this dreary place, and, strangely, I found her optimism a welcome contrast. Wednesday walked a few steps behind us, silent and brooding as ever. It was almost comforting.

The cafeteria was a storm of voices, laughter, and clinking trays. Enid led me through the throng of students, her energy a stark contrast to the brooding architecture of Nevermore. We found a spot at a small table near one of the tall, stained-glass windows. As I settled in, a presence made itself known—a girl with sleek black hair, crimson-tinted sunglasses, and a confident air that turned heads without effort. She walked up, holding her tray like she owned the place.

“Mind if I join?” she asked, but it was rhetorical. She was already sitting down, her eyes on me.

Enid perked up. “Oh! Y/n, this is Yoko Tanaka. Yoko, meet Y/n. She’s new.”

“Yoko,” I repeated, my gaze trailing over her with casual interest. I extended a hand, playing along. “Nice to meet you.”

Her grip was cool, steady. She didn’t let go right away, and her lips curled into a smile. “The pleasure’s all mine. So, Enid’s newest roommate, huh? Welcome to the madhouse.”

I returned her smile, undeterred by the playful challenge in her tone. “Thanks. From what I’ve seen, I’m going to fit right in.”

“Really?” Yoko’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the table. “It takes a lot to fit in here. But something tells me you’ll manage.” She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not... ordinary, are you?”

I leaned back, crossing my arms. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I might,” she replied, the light catching the edge of her sunglasses. “Most newcomers are easy to read. But you? You’re a little... more.”

Wednesday, who had been quietly picking at her food, suddenly spoke up. “If you two are done exchanging veiled flirtations, there are more important matters at hand.”

I turned my gaze to her, a smirk playing on my lips. “You know, Wednesday, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Jealousy is a pointless emotion,” she said flatly, though her eyes seemed to darken. “I simply despise wasted time.”

“Oh, so you’d rather spend your time... constructively?” I asked, feigning deep interest. “Writing your next bestseller or analyzing the cafeteria’s murder statistics?”

She set her fork down with deliberate precision. “Both. I find productivity in all things. Unlike some people who waste their breath on hollow banter.”

“See?” I leaned forward conspiratorially, turning to Yoko. “This is what I get for trying to lighten the mood.”

Yoko laughed, a rich, throaty sound that drew a few glances. “You two are something. But don’t worry—I enjoy the kind of banter that makes the daylight hours less boring.”

“Is that why you’re here?” I asked, deciding to prod a little. “To liven things up for me?”

She pushed her sunglasses up, revealing striking eyes that glimmered with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to figure you out. Vampires don’t often get surprises, you know.”

“Vampires?” I arched an eyebrow, pretending not to know. “Is that what we’re calling ourselves these days?”

Enid jumped in with a cheerful clap of her hands. “Y/n’s also a vampire, Yoko! You two should totally hang out. Maybe you can teach her the ropes!”

Yoko’s smile widened, showing a hint of fang. “Oh, I’d be delighted. As long as she doesn’t get scared too easily.”

I matched her smile, unflinching. “Scared? That’s not really my thing.”

“Good.” Yoko’s voice dropped, her gaze sharpening. “Because there are plenty of things in Nevermore that will test your limits. I’d hate for you to miss out.”

Before I could respond, Wednesday stood up abruptly, gathering her tray. “This conversation has officially crossed into drivel. Some of us have standards.”

“Leaving already?” I asked, enjoying the way her expression never wavered.

“Unlike you, I have productive tasks awaiting me.” She paused, her dark eyes meeting mine. “Try not to lower the collective intelligence of the room while I’m gone.”

I grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

She left without another word, and for a moment, I could have sworn there was a hint of amusement hidden beneath her icy exterior. Yoko watched her go, then turned back to me, a knowing look on her face. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Good,” I replied. “I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

#wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter x reader #wednesday addams #jenna ortega x you #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday addams x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday netflix #jenna ortega x fem reader #tara carpenter x fem!reader

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kiame-sama · 1 month ago

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Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 14

(For those that don't know, this ^ is Papa Hades. For the sake of the story, Papa Hades is platonic and not romantic. If y'all really want to hear about a romance with Papa Hades, it's gonna have to be a non-canon spin off ask about it.)

Warnings; Shinigami ancestor has entered the arena, yandere, multiple yanderes, platonic yanderes, romantic yanderes, varying degrees of yandere levels, monster men, various monsters mentioned, TWST AU, mention of injury, mention of blood, Rook is obsessed with the human's feet, sparing use of French, feisty reader, Shinigami, Crow, Hellcat, Vampire Bat, Dragon, Cervitaur, Drider, Harpy, Selkie, Gnoll

~~~~~~~~

"Hello, Little One."

Standing before you was a very tired and almost sad looking man. Despite how softly he spoke, his voice was a deep baritone that almost shook the walls around you. He reminded you a lot of Idia and Ortho, meaning this was likely the one they had all been taking about, Hades.

The Shinigami was taller than Idia and had to look down at you in order to fully take your appearance in. Streaking down his pale and almost gray cheeks seemed to be what looked like shining blue tears that stained the soft skin a dark color, yet sparkled like the night sky. His flaming blue hair was short compared to Idia and seemed more the length of Ortho's hair. Wrapped around his shoulders and body was a black mourning shawl that seemed to have light trapped within the fabric itself.

He was handsome.

"Um... Hi?"

He examined you, kneeling down in front of you to get a better look at you. His golden eyes held a kind of spark in them that spoke to his interest in you and you wondered just what that interest was. Crowley said he was kind to Humans and loved them, but did that mean he loved Humans as pets or as equals? Could any of these men say they saw Humans as equals when they were clearly much stronger and more adapted to survival in this world?

"I am Hades Shroud, the ancestor of the two you know as Idia and Ortho. It is a pleasure to meet you, Little One. Many an age has passed since I have last held conversation with a Human. Would you do me the honor of telling me your name?"

"It's (Y/n) (L/n)... Are you going to take me away from here?"

"I would rather not, but it doesn't seem particularly safe for you here either. It would be safer for you to live somewhere more secure."

You frowned at this, feeling your nails bite into the couch beneath you as you felt more than a little unnerved by the large man. Crowley said Hades took away the last Human that lived in Night Raven, but you didn't want to go anywhere especially if there was a chance you might be able to go back to your true home. There was also the fear that he wouldn't let Grim come with if he did wind up taking you away.

"I'll fight you to stay here."

"... What?"

"This is my home now. I don't care how dangerous it is, I want to stay here. I would rather go to my original home, but that doesn't seem to be an option for me right now. I don't want to go anywhere with anyone I don't know, and I really don't know you. Grim is here. Tsuno, Silver, Sebek, and Lilia are here. Rook is here. Divus and Trein are here. Ace and Deuce are here. Even Headmage Crowley. Everyone I know- and can trust- in this world lives right here, not wherever it is you want to take me. I'll fight you if you try to take me from here. It won't be a long or glorious fight, but a fight it will be."

Hades seemed almost taken off guard by your declaration before a soft noise escaped him, much like a soft chuckle before it evolved into a full laugh. The sound was unusual as if he had not laughed in a very long time and had almost forgotten how. Everyone seemed surprised by his mirth, none moreso than Idia and Ortho as they looked absolutely floored, but clearly the confusion of the others did not bother the old Shinigami.

"Stop laughing at me!"

"I'm not laughing at you, Little One. I'm laughing because only a handful of those I have interacted with in the past thousand years have deigned to try and pick a fight with me, let alone a verbal joust. Most scrape and bow- even my own descendants- but not you, clearly. I won't take you from here, if that is what you truly wish, but goodness knows I have no interest in fighting you. Something tells me you would win that battle."

He smiled gently at you and you almost relaxed in response. Grim frowned from where he was laying in your arms, not really trusting anyone who you didn't trust. As the cat-beast looked up at you, you pet his forehead to soothe him and he began to purr gently. The movement of your hand drew the Shinigami's attention to the blue eyed beast that watched him warily.

"Is this the young forest beast you have adopted? Crowley tells me you found him in the woods when you first fell into our world. I expected a weasel by his description, not a young Hellcat. I would never expect to see one of those outside of Tartarus."

"Wait," Idia interrupted, "did you say a Hellcat? Like a genuine 'out of the flames, a Shinigami's best friend' Hellcat?"

"So it seems. Hellcats aren't native to the land of the living like this. No wonder his wings are so torn up, most forest beasts would easily slaughter a kit like this."

Grim perked up almost instantly at the Shinigami's words, his little wings spread out wide in surprise. He stood up from your arms, his tail waving excitedly and eyes shining with emotion.

"Wait... You know what I am? Where- where I'm from?"

"Yes. You're a Hellcat kit, probably only a decade old judging from your lack of horns, hardly even old enough to be away from your mother. It is unusual for any creature native to Tartarus- even Shinigami- to be beyond the realm of the dead, especially when I myself did not let them through, but the fact that you're alone tells me quite a bit."

"A Hellcat..?"

You pet Grim's forehead, smiling at the now confirmed to be kitten. It was easy to tell he was young but you were glad to now know how young and maybe even get confirmation about what he was. He seemed excited to finally have answers for what may have caused him to be left in the forest however long ago.

"May I?"

Hades asked, holding his hands out to Grim who looked first to you for approval. You hesitated for just a moment, pulling him close before you nodded. Feeling conflicted, you lifted the kitten into the large hands of the Shinigami who smiled gently at him. He quickly looked over the many scars of the soft creature and at the ruined wings with a slight grimace. A certain softness had taken over his expression before he hummed out his assessment.

"Poor little kit. He's even younger than I thought. Truly, he shouldn't be away from his mother at this age. Hellcat kits often stay within their mother's territory well into their adult years, but this one isn't even near the age to leave his mother's protection. He will get much bigger than this when he enters his juvenile days."

"You do realize you're not allowed to take him either, right? Grim is my boy and I am not giving him up."

"I know. I have been told he is your companion and friend, a chosen child you've taken on. I won't be taking him either. It is unusual his mother is nowhere to be found, as they are fiercely protective of their young, but there's no need to remove him from the mother he has. We can talk later about what could be done to try and repair his wings."

You held your arms open and Grim happily jumped back into them, affectionately bumping his forehead into yours with a loud purr. It was great news to find out that Grim could possibly get his wings back. The topic of his wings have been a sensitive spot for the little Hellcat ever since you met him.

Idia's words rang in your ears as you remembered what he had called the old Shinigami. Despite your willingness to fight him for your right to choose your fate, he had been polite and kind to you. It sounded like he was only interested in what you wanted, which was a breath of fresh air compared to a lot of the beast men you'd met so far. Why not show a bit of trust?

"That is amazing news! Did you hear that, Grim? Papa Hades said It might be possible to fix your wings!"

The world turned near silent for the Shinigami as two familiar words he had not heard for centuries from a Human voice rang in his ears. A certain warmth filled the ancient being's chest and more tears fell anew down the streaked and stained skin. How long he had wished to hear those words again from a Human, and now he finally got them once more.

"Now then, Little One, young Idia has informed me of the attempt made on you by a representative and his reasoning for why he believes it happened. Let us discuss this matter as it directly concerns your wellbeing."

You didn't seem to notice the profound impact of your words as you cuddled your Hellcat, but Idia and Ortho did. All of the monster men standing around you saw the gentlest smile and warmest look on the Shinigami's face as even his hair seemed to breathe a new life in how brightly it burned. The impact of just a few words was clear as it deeply soothed the ragged pain in the Shinigami's heart.

Thousands of faces looking up at him adoringly as they chirped out their greetings. A thousand faces that returned screaming. For just a moment, the old Shinigami could forget the wailing souls that came to him and simply remembered the joy they once held for the ancient death God.

"Right, those scrubs won't realize how rekt they are now that Papa Hades is zeroed in on them. Oh, right, (Y/n), I also have your new collars primed and ready for you and Grim... I only have the condition that I want to hold Grim to put on his collar."

Idia held out his hands expectantly with a wide grin and Grim sighed, his ears laying somewhat flat as if annoyed but he didn't argue against the suggestion. His response told you Idia likely held onto him when he was showing the Hellcat the new additions to your dorm. Not thinking, you stood up with your weight on your leg and let out a hiss of pain, feeling the stitches strain and the wound start to weep.

The sudden sound of your pain unsettled the men around you as Malleus and Lilia both rushed to your side. Lilia made you sit again and picked up Grim, handing the Hellcat to Idia. Grim didn't complain and instead looked worried as Malleus' hand began to glow with green magic. As his hand drew close, the pain numbed back down to a dull throb.

"There. You know better than to be standing on that injury, child of man."

Malleus gently scolded you as you sighed, looking away from the chastising Dragon to glare at nothing in particular. He was right, but that didn't mean you weren't annoyed by his nannying. Still, Malleus was the main contributor to your comfort as it was his magic that soothed your pain.

"I know. I just forgot in all this excitement."

"Well, I shall remain right here to ensure you do not forget again. Now what is this I hear about a representative?"

~•§•~

You sat in the Pomefiore ballroom with three of the many monster men buzzing around you. Divus was helping Vil sew in the hemming on your new top, the tall stool you were perched on helping the two meticulously work around you. Rook lay at your feet, having been measuring your ankles, leg length, and feet for what seemed like just a bit too long. After your rather quick introduction with the ancient Shinigami, you received a text on your phone requesting you come to Pomefiore for the 'design team'- as they have named themselves- to properly fit your new outfits.

Despite your desire to stay and talk more with the elder Shinigami, Crowley insisted you go with Grim and Silver to Pomefiore. Malleus wanted to come along as well, but decided to forego in favor of learning more about Idia's findings on the poachers. Instead, Ortho came with the three of you so that at least one of your official guards for the week was with you and could relay updates back to the group in Ramshackle.

A slow and almost appraising stroke up your leg had you frowning and looking down to the Drider at your feet. Rook has long since put down his tape measure and now just held your leg, his leather gloved hands cupping the heel of your foot and his other hand was somewhat stroking the arch. His eyes seemed darker than usual as if his pupils were slightly too big for his iris to contain them.

"Désolé, mon chérie. Your paws are so unusual they've somewhat captivated me."

"Rook," your voice almost startled the Drider whose fair cheeks blushed a fierce red at being caught, "are you still measuring for the socks and shoes, or were you doing something else?"

"Feet, Rook. Those are called feet. Paws are more like that of a cat or a dog. Do other species not have feet like mine?"

"Non, not even shadow folk or Genies have these feet. Most of Twisted Wonderland's species have paws, talons, hooves, or even flippers. Shadow folk and Genies are somewhat similar in shape, but even they have pads on their paws. These," he gestured to your foot, which was still resting in his hand, "are wholly unique. They would take an equally unique design to properly warm and protect them. Simply being thorough in my inspection."

"Right, so thorough you are petting them?"

"W-well," he looked much more flustered than you expected at your accusation, "I just wanted to know if your feet responded the same way talons would or if they were like the paws of driders."

"By... caressing them?"

It was then Vil interrupted, sparing the Drider your questions and taking your attention away from his boon companion.

"There. The hemming is finished. Sit up straight for me so I can make sure it's even. After that, we can move on to the next one."

You did as the Harpy asked, turning back to Rook whose legs had started moving. At first you thought he was just shuffling his spider legs back and forth, but you realized he was actually actively weaving what looked like a sock around your foot. The spindly spider limbs moved quickly, seeming to knit around your foot and up your leg.

"Wait, you can knit with your silk?"

"Oui. The clothing you wear now was all made from my silk. Drider silk is commonly used for clothing, as the silk strands are durable and don't often form holes. We had to craft these ensembles for you from scratch, most tailors make clothing better suited for the likes of Vil and I- with extra room for limbs and varying morphs. Due to your Human figure, it is better to make our own designs for you."

You hummed in response to his words, feeling a slight magic tingle cover your skin as your top changed from the fitted one to a new design that had yet to be fitted. It seemed Vil was content with the hem on the top prior and now moved on to another. Rook worked quickly as you found one sock already done, the Drider moving on to your other leg and being much more gentle to not move it too much as it was your injured leg.

"Careful, Pup, if you break her stitches I will not hesitate to give you detention."

"You wound me, Roi du Selkie! I take great pride in how gentle I can be, I would never harm her."

"Yes, well, take care to remember that before you drool over my pup's flippers again."

You almost laughed at how swiftly Vil and Divus scolded the handsome Drider for his clear interest in your feet. It was interesting to know that Human feet were unusual in Twisted Wonderland and you vaguely wondered if seeing your feet awoke something in Rook. Regardless, you allowed the three men to continue their endeavors.

"So... Let's say for arguments sake I wanted to take pictures of myself and post them, would that be a bad thing?"

"Don't be silly," Vil scolded, putting pins very carefully into your sleeve to hold the shape, "we would have even more poachers seeking your head."

"But if Cater already blew the whistle, how much worse would it be to post pictures myself? Everyone already knows I'm here."

"It-"

Vil cut himself off, pausing with several pins sticking out of his mouth as he considered your words. It was true, Cater already decided to post pictures of you and news outlets ran with that image. Activists have already posted that image anywhere they can as to why you should be taken away from Night Raven College because of how unsettled you seemed in the impromptu picture. You had a point.

"Something to think about, I guess."

You went back to focusing on Rook who was almost done with the long socks. Despite how you thought the webbing would be sticky or even stiff, the fabric behaved and sat like cotton yet looked and felt like silk. Part of you was thoroughly surprised to realize this fact as you examined the socks on your legs and the intricate designs on them. How the Drider managed to make them on your legs, you'll never know.

"I'll bring it up to Crowley later, after the representatives have left."

Divus spoke gently, giving you a reassuring smile that you returned. The Selkie man was kind to you and had been the one to patch up both of your major injuries. Clearly, if anyone could be trusted among the staff with your wellbeing, it was Divus.

"Now, we need to work on your pants, skirts, and dresses. I'm going to permit you to stand up so long as you hold onto Rook and keep weight off of that leg."

Rook stood from where he had been resting on the carpet at your feet, holding out both hands to you patiently. The darkness of his eyes only seemed more intense as you took his outstretched hands, leaning on him and letting him help you into a standing position. The Drider moved his hands under your elbows allowing you to lean into his hold and put more weight on him than your leg.

"Don't worry, Mademoiselle Trickster, I've got you."

~•§•~

You sat back in Ramshackle next to Idia, a controller in hand as you finally had the chance to play the promised videogames. It was later in the day now and you were finally allowed to leave Pomefiore after what felt like countless new outfits and fittings. When you returned to the building you hadn't been expecting Hades to assure you he could handle cooking, wanting you to just play games with Idia and Ortho. Lilia even joined in a few rounds despite how odd it felt to see the older Bat Fae absolutely dominate the game.

After a while, you started to forget the worries of the recent events and just focus on what was in front of you. A game that you could play and take your mind off of things. The room seemed to change to the general atmosphere as a kind of magenta light seemed to accent the regular lights. You were tempted to look around for the source when a familiar and almost stressed cackle split through the air.

"Ruggie! Shit, he doesn't know about-!"

A harsh yelping sound made you quickly stand and rush into the kitchen, the pain in your leg be damned as concern filled your mind. Even as Lilia attempted to stop you, you ignored the Bat Fae and hurried to where the yelping originated. What if Hades responded to Ruggie's usual food seeking behavior the way that Lilia did that first morning? You absolutely did not want anything happening to the Gnoll and knew you would feel responsible if he got injured somehow.

"Don't hurt him-!"

You started, almost sliding around the corner where you saw the elder Shinigami was regarding the yelping and flailing Hyena silently. Ruggie had fallen back and was scrambling back on the tiles until he was up against one of the lower cabinets, still yelping like he had been burned. Once he caught sight of you he scrambled over and behind you, another stressed and panicked cackle escaping his muzzle.

"(Y/n)! I thought you were cooking and boy, let me tell you, I was not expecting one of the freaking Seven to be here!"

"Are you okay, Ruggie?"

"No! I had the fright of a lifetime just now."

"But are you hurt?"

"The only thing I've wounded is my pride."

You breathed out a sigh of relief as the Gnoll confirmed he was alright, but as your heart rate fell back into normal range your leg resented your panicked actions. A faint red began to bleed through the wrap around your leg and the clothes you had over it. Judging from the almost tight strain of your skin and the sharp pain from your sprint, you likely pulled a stitch.

"Hey, you aren't bleeding... Are you? Because it smells like you're bleeding."

"... I am."

"Don't tell me you messed up your leg coming to check on me!"

"... I did."

"Leona's gonna be so mad at me for that. Why'd you go and do something like that anyway?"

"Because you were yelping like you were being killed!"

Ruggie seemed embarrassed now as he realized he had been making an awful lot of noise given not an awful lot happened to him to warrant the noise. Still, it was nice to know you cared so much about him.

"A friend of yours, Little One?"

"Yeah. Sorry, Papa Hades, I thought that- well, it doesn't matter now. Ruggie is a usual face here. He always shows up when I'm cooking and I've been feeding him since. Shoot, you're probably starving, aren't you Ruggie? I've been out of Ramshackle and in the infirmary, so you probably haven't eaten in a few days."

Ruggie whined, as if trying to make himself seem truly pathetic and pitiful. He even went as far as to sigh dramatically and rest a hand on his sunken stomach.

"I mean, I've eaten the dandelion and tree-bark diet a lot before, but it certainly isn't those nice meals you make."

"... Papa Hades, could you..?"

The elder Shinigami nodded, already seeming to know what you were going to ask of him and added what seemed to be an extra helping to what he was making. He had been told of the Gnoll by Crowley long before this meeting and he was interested to see you behave so protective of the Hyena man. Gnolls were known for their hunger of Human flesh before the extinction, so seeing a Gnoll not pounce even with the smell of blood in the air was impressive. He certainly didn't expect the Gnoll to scream the way he had- especially since the Shinigami didn't do anything other than look at him- but it was understandable the Gnoll would be surprised.

It wasn't everyday someone with the reputation and history of a literal God was standing making dinner.

"So... Papa Hades, huh?"

"So, Leona, huh?"

"... Point made."

"Hey, Ruggie... Could you... Bring me back to the lounge area? I have to go be scolded by Malleus, and Lilia, and everyone else for ripping a stitch."

"I guess I can, seeing as you ran to help me and feed me most days."

The Gnoll was quick to pick you up, almost awkwardly cradling you in his humanoid arms as he padded back to where an annoyed Malleus was waiting. Hades watched the two of you go, smiling ever so slightly to himself as he returned to his task. You already exceeded his expectations and proved that others cared quite deeply about you. Maybe he was wrong to assume Night Raven College was unsafe. Certainly not as secure as it could be, but given enough time and a helping hand, maybe you could be truly happy and safe here.

Really, that was all he could honestly ask.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #humans are extinct twst au #twst monster au #yandere monster #monster yandere

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moonlightcycle571 · 1 month ago

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The Cons of being Omni-lingual

I made a post about the pros of being omni lingual. Did you really think I would make fluff without making any angst? *insert evil laugh*

As established, Cap can speak any language and knows what’s your Native tongue. Cool right? Wrong.

There’s a reason he hates speaking Themesquiran. Wonder Woman was NOT the first Amazonian he ever met. No, the first time he met one of the warrior women, it was when he was doing a sort of quest as part of his Champion duties where he met an Amazonian away from home. Seeing that she wasn’t affected by All Speak (a type of magic that lets magical or magical adjacent speak in accordance to their environment), he decides to speak Themesquiran. It does not go well. Gets insulted, accused of many things, immediate battle that he doesn’t want to be in. It’s all around not a good thing for him.

So no Diana, he will not be speaking that language, he knows it’s a trap (the last Amazonian said it was OK, but then threw an axe at his head out of reflex)

A very similar experience happened with the Valkery.

Another thing is the suspicion. Sure most of the time, it evaporates after you get to meet him, but it still hurts. What; you think Waller will think ✨magic✨ is a good enough explanation, and not try to pry into his life? Or try to exploit this other facette of him?

It gets especially rough when people don’t take it well. His a big buff white guy, so sometimes speaking more obscure language, or even any non European language, is at best seen as a parlour trick, at worst seen as an insult (how dare he defile our sacred language with his ‘dark arts’).

Another thing to note is that Billy started young. In some iterations, he started at age 8 and joins the JL at 10. So when he hears people curse him under their breath, or even to his face, in another language… he knows. He knows most people don’t think is human, and sometimes doesn’t treat him like one (it doesn’t hurt, really). He knows exactly what people say about him (be it his Cap form or Billy form). And maybe calling them out will make them worse. He’s already been called a freak enough times by his uncle and various foster families, he doesn’t need more

Maybe sometimes he would get captivated by languages long gone, and have access to tidbits of their history, but not have anyone to talk to about it. How many of the languages were forgotten and changed over time, and how many were forcibly destroyed? Would he mourn a civilisation he never knew? Was it even human? The day he found out one of his favourite obscure languages was Kryptonian, his powers opened up a bit, to see what the civilisation was like, and how it ended. He mourns in private and never tells a soul. Cap is not Kryptonian or ever been to Krypton, he has no right to openly mourn. If Supergirl noticed something different in her and Caps hang outs, she says nothing

The worst is when he forgets a word. It happens to everyone, and maybe he was in a place that makes magic glitch. It doesn’t matter. As soon as he finished the mission, he rushes back to the rock to make sure he knows EVERY language. He not forgetting, no, he refuses to forget any language. Especially since for a lot of them, he’s the only one that still remembers them (he may not know the context or culture, but at least he can keep something alive).

#billy batson #dc #dc captain marvel #shazam #supergirl #languages

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ghcstao3 · 28 days ago

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(cw mcd but not in like? a sad way? bittersweet/ambiguous ending at worst but it’s overall hopeful and happy i swear)

(also cw for descriptions of death/dying. not very graphic)

Simon Riley dies alone, buried six feet deep in a Mexican desert. He had scrabbled at his coffin lid until his fingers were raw and bloody and stuck with splinters, then there had been a growing tightness in his chest, and then there had been nothing.

A month ago, Manuel Roba had made the mistake of leaving another soldier buried with the rotted corpse of their former CO, and they had escaped, just barely, with the help of a broken jawbone—until, of course, they were shot point blank once the soil loosened, because Manuel Roba would never be far.

So Simon does not get the same opportunity. Simon does not get to succeed in getting out.

And, ever the restless soul, his ghost wanders. Wanders until he comes upon a town whose name he can’t quite discern in the strange, phantasmal distortion that clouds his senses. But he can hear the buzz of chatter and music, feel the emotion of bodies alive, and so he decides to stay in this unnamed town, wandering, at least until his undetermined eternity runs out.

John MacTavish dies alone, in a Mexican town by the name of Las Almas. He had fought tooth and nail to survive, until blood loss had made him too sluggish, then there had been a second bullet, and then there had been nothing.

No one had predicted Graves and Shepherd’s betrayal, and it had stung. Then with Rodolfo nowhere to be found, Alejandro captured, and no one to help with his escape, John had been left on his own, with nothing. He had nothing to staunch the bleeding of the bullet wound in his bicep, had no weapons to protect himself from the droves of Shadows roaming Alejandro and Rodolfo’s home town, had no way of knowing the church would not serve as sufficient refuge.

He killed the Shadow sitting in wait, but not before they managed to lodge a bullet in his abdomen, and he had realized, then, that it was hopeless to think he could still get out. So, with what little was left of his strength and adrenaline, John deposited the Shadow outside, barricaded himself in, and slumped into a rickety pew until the world faded from around him.

And, ever the restless soul, his ghost wanders. Las Almas becomes John’s home, though it always remains unfamiliar through the otherworldly haze that dilutes his senses. They’re a strong people here, and they rebuild after the Shadows’ brief but cruel rampage, and it’s enough for John, feeling infected by their resilience, to be satisfied with spending the rest of his unknown eternity floating through the town.

At first, neither Simon nor John understand how or why they meet.

It isn't as if they are the only two spirits roaming Las Almas—really, the town is chock full of ghosts, as are most towns and cities and even individual buildings, but paths seldom cross. The afterlife is lonesome, and though it really isn't so terrible, that isolation is only inherent to the nature of death, and so it truly shouldn't be possible that they should ever encounter one another.

And yet, one night—a date they are both unsure of, as time becomes mostly indecipherable once departed from the land of the living—it’s like that fog disappears, that veil lifts, and suddenly the world has become clear once more, clear like both John and Simon had forgotten.

Las Almas seems to be brimming with more life than usual, music and dancing, food and gatherings. John is in awe—despite the festivities, however, he’s also filled with a profound sense of melancholy, mourning everything he’s missed since his passing; since his perception had been reduced to something murky, like he was underwater, looking up and hearing sounds but never quite able to make any of it out. He doesn’t know how long this might last, so he takes advantage of every second—that’s how he eventually stumbles upon Simon Riley.

Simon—he’s heard of Día de los Muertos before, but never quite understood the tradition. His experiences in Mexico were limited, culturally and otherwise, and so it comes as a surprise when he finally feels like he’s living again—but walking through Las Almas, as he finally learns its name, it only takes seeing some ofrendas and listening into conversations to understand what this is, and that it’s only temporary. He is not really a physical being anymore, but he can at least pretend like he is, and that’s how he eventually comes across John MacTavish.

John feels lost, though he’s been haunting these streets for some time now. He spots Simon hanging back in the shadows, notices for the first time that’s it’s someone actually looking at him, not through or past him, and he all but runs up to the man, afraid that if he were to take too long, John might lose his only chance at company.

“You can see me,” John says, breathless.

“I can see you,” the man agrees, the weight of his gaze solid and unwavering.

John wishes to melt alongside the honey-gold flecks in the man’s warm, brown irises, and endeavours to memorize their colour in case he should never get this opportunity again.

“Are you also…?”

A curt nod. “I am.”

John shifts awkwardly. “Do you know what—“

“Day of the Dead,” says the man, not unkindly, though he isn’t necessarily being friendly, either. Obviously, he’s not one for talking—that, or he’s gotten too used to being alone. John doesn’t really care either way. “That’s why there’s so many… people.”

Spirits, the man means, just like the two of them. John feels stupid for not having noticed sooner, and feels his face tingle with a blush. It’s odd, realizing that that’s something he missed about being alive.

“So…” John drums his fingers on either of his thighs, the only thing he’s been able to touch all evening. “You come here often?”

When the man barks out a laugh, John thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, dead and alive. He hopes, somehow, some way, to carry it with him throughout the remainder of his non-existence, however long that may be.

“Are you really hitting on me?” The man asks with incredulity, smiling, and John feels a grin growing on his own face, involuntary and so very welcome.

John shrugs. “Why not?” He surely looks like an idiot right now. He honestly thought he’d forgotten how to smile. “Didn’t think I had any loved ones here, but guess I was wrong.”

It’s dumb and cheesy but John guesses that it works, because suddenly he’s learning the other spirit’s name is Simon, and suddenly Simon is asking if Johnny would like to take a walk with him, and suddenly John finds himself saying yes.

So they wander aimlessly, chat about everything and nothing, and it’s nice, so nice, to get to feel like they’re real again. Even bittersweet as it is, once the sun starts to rise and crowds seem to thin, and John realizes he can’t quite recall the colour of Simon’s eyes anymore.

It’s in a church, the church, where they finally decide to settle and accept the inevitable. Simon still doesn’t understand why they also got to reunite with the living while being strangers to Las Almas, but he doesn’t voice this concern, instead choosing to focus on imagining the warmth of John’s presence beside him as the world starts to fade again, piece by piece.

“I think I’ve been ready for a while now. To move on,” Simon murmurs, staring ahead at the altar, the swathes of glowing candles. “If that’s even how this works. I think I’m just… afraid of what else there might be.”

“I’m not sure,” John admits. He wishes he were able to lean his head on Simon’s shoulder, or intertwine their fingers. “I’ve never thought about it. Don’t think it’d be so bad.”

They’ve only known one another for a few hours, certainly, but John can still sense Simon’s inner turmoil as he nods and hums and stares off into the distance. John wonders if, maybe in another life, they might’ve had a proper chance to have a thousand more conversations before this one. A proper chance to actually build something between them before they find themselves clinging to the dregs of almost-corporeality, just wishing for more time, or maybe something better entirely.

“I’ll go with you,” John adds unthinkingly, feeling his phantom heartbeat jumping in pace. “I don’t really have anything to stay for. That way we’d at least have something familiar.”

“I don’t know if I’d call you familiar,” Simon teases, a faint smile on his lips. “But I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” John says. “Because I wasn’t really giving you a choice.”

Simon laughs quietly, and John grasps desperately onto the sound as he closes his eyes and allows himself to be submerged again. When he opens his eyes, as he expected, the world is as it was before, blurry and distant and incomprehensible.

But this time, it isn’t nearly as lonely.

#since i had no halloween post this year #slightly early little bit of día de los muertos :)#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe #writing

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chibinasuu · 1 month ago

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My Jolly Sailor Bold | Straw Hats x Reader

★ requested by @supernatural-hunter1 (see here)

Summary: You found yourself humming an old song from your childhood as you mend the sails of the Thousand Sunny Tags: sfw, platonic straw hats x reader, GN but written with F!Reader in mind, no use of y/n

The Thousand Sunny floated on the open ocean, in near stillness due to the absence of the sails upon its masts.

You sat on the deck, humming a tune as old as time as you deftly thread a needle through the vast fabric draped all around you, sewing shut a large tear down its length.

A run-in with particularly violent weather had caused some damage to the ship, forcing the crew to momentarily stop in the middle of the now-calm waters for emergency repairs. Franky and Usopp were fixing the splintered railing, and Jinbe had just returned from his underwater inspection below the ship to check for leaks in the hull. Meanwhile, the others were clearing up the deck from debris brought over by the storm.

Your fingers danced upon the sail on autopilot – in and out, in and out. It had become your responsibility to mend the sails anytime damage occurred, even though you knew that Robin, with her powers, could do the job in seconds. But whenever the crew was not in a hurry, you found yourself volunteering for the task, finding it enjoyable and even calming.

Your hums slowly turned into song as you recalled the words to the tune, passed on long ago by your mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her.

“Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be.

Who love a jolly sailor that ploughs the raging sea”

The faint call of the seabirds flying high above complimented your voice, and the slow hammering of your hard-working shipwright provided a steady beat of accompaniment as you continued to softly sing,

“While up aloft in storm, from me his absence mourn

And firmly pray, arrive the day, he's never more to roam”

Some of the crew members near you had started to notice your somber melodies, hands unwittingly pausing in their tasks as if enchanted by a siren’s voice.

“My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold

There is nothing–”

You abruptly stopped singing as you became aware of the sudden silence that washed over the deck. You looked up to see all of your crewmates watching you intently with fond smiles on their faces. Heat spread to your cheeks in embarrassment at their attention, and you covered your face with the sail you were stitching.

“Oh, please don’t stop, darling!” Sanji cooed loudly, “Please let me hear your wonderful voice again!”

Brook came over to you and remarked, “What a beautifully haunting song. I’ve never heard it before in all my life – or death! Yo ho ho ho!”

The musician pulled out his violin, trying to replicate the melodies based only on what he heard you sing. You helped him by humming the notes, and with the repetitive nature of the song, it only took an instant for the maestro to pick it up.

With Brook’s silent encouragement, you joined in the violin’s serenade, singing verse after verse of the song for the small audience.

“There is nothing can console me

But my Jolly Sailor Bold.”

The crew broke out in enthusiastic claps, wolf-whistles, and cheers as the song reached its end. You laughed sheepishly and took a playful bow, before shooing everyone back to their respective chores.

The catchy song seemed to have wormed its way into your crewmates’ heads, and over the next few days, you caught some of them absentmindedly humming the tune, or singing it with jumbled words as they have yet to memorize the lyrics.

Your heart warmed whenever you heard the melodies coming from your crewmates’ lips, breathing a new life to the previously half-forgotten song – a piece of your hometown carried over to your new home.

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lovifie · 9 months ago

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Angst | 1023 words | Back to Masterlist

Immortal!Ghost x Reader that always comes back

The first time they met, they grew up together. Neighbours on their little village, since they met Simon felt this attraction towards her. Every second of the day, his mind was flooded with her.

She didn't feel it. A new soul, too anxious to experience, too eager to see, too impatient to learn.

In her first life, she died young, a tragic death that the whole village mourned. A young woman who curiously travelled inside the forest ignoring the threats behind the tree line.

Simon took it the hardest, they were supposed to go there together, but they argued about something so silly, and he stayed home while she perished.

But he never forgot her. And when he grew up, a grown man, travelling to close villages for his business, he felt the attraction again. Feeling mad at himself for breaking your trust, he waited for the woman to turn, as if ready to fault you for his reaction.

But he came face to face with you. Again. After so many years, there you were. He could feel the tears prick at his eyes, teasing to fall; and he felt as if he had been punched on his lungs the moment you looked back at him.

To Simon, he was looking at his old love, the one that never returned said love, that he lost so long ago. But to you, an older man, crying, was looking at you. So you quickly run back to your house, away from him.

Simon doesn't remember much of your second life, there are so many that blend together, at least those on which you didn't love him back. He hates those the most when he had to live through centuries of looking for you, finding you, watching you fall in love with somebody else and then, as always, die.

But sometimes, there are lives in which you would look back at him, with so much love in your eyes. Not as much as Simon, that would be impossible, Simon had a millennium's worth of love saved up inside his heart and you barely had a decade or two; still, you came second to the competition.

At some point, he stopped ageing, or at least it slowed down to the point it seems he stopped. He was relieved he did, keeping his image of 30-something Simon Riley. But it still added pressure to him; now on top of having to find you, there were lives where he needed to stay in the shadows, waiting for the woman he knew you were going to grow up to be.

He was patient, he needed to be, and he didn't mind waiting. At least, in those lives where you were not together, you keep meeting death at a young age. Always involving yourself with dangerous people or just plain old stupid. Not in the lives you were with him, you always died peacefully of old age in the lives you stayed together, impressed with how young he looked, and with him taking care of you until your last breath.

Having lived so many lives, some memories blend into each other and some simply get forgotten, but there are some he remembers as if they just happened.

Like when you first kissed him, or when you first said you loved him, when he first held you at night or when he almost messed it up once.

He thought you were ready to know the truth, that he knew you from many lives ago, that he was immortal and that you have died so many times he couldn't keep count. You almost left your home that night, only stopping after hearing him:

"Wait, you thought I was serious?" Simon laughed. "That's crazy, love. I was just playing, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

He never tried it again.

In any of your lives did you have kids, he was selfish enough to keep you only for himself. But having a kid, knowing that he would outlive him, and at some point he would disappear to look for you again without being able to give an explanation. It was not the child's fault Simon was a selfish man. But he was patient.

In some lives, you would reappear close. On one live, he found you going out of his house, meeting you next door when you moved into the apartment next to his.

On other ones, you would reappear further away. On some, he wasn't even able to find you. He came face to face with you once when you stayed in Manchester for a while, only being there for work. You didn't even speak English in that life, not to worry, he quickly got to work on learning your language just so he could tell you how much he loved you in a language you would understand.

Now, he could almost speak every single language in the world, not wanting to risk wasting time, even though he was a patient man.

As you were reincarnated again and again, he noticed your personality change. In your earliest lives, you were so energetic, always looking for trouble, getting under his skin, ready to run around the world. As lives went on, you began to be calmer, preferring being a listener rather than a talker.

Simon didn't mind, of course, you always remained kind, gentle and as lovely as in your first life.

Simon was a patient man, he had waited for you so many many lives. Always finding you, always meeting you. You always came back.

You are taking your time on this occasion, but he doesn't worry. He is a patient man.

The original attraction is slowly growing weaker as time goes on, but he doesn't worry. You always come back.

He is starting to forget the last time he saw you, but he doesn't worry. He is a patient man.

You usually only take a couple of decades to come back, but this time is growing closer to a century. But he doesn't worry, you always come back.

Simon Riley is a patient man. And you have always come back.

#lovi writes 🩷#call of duty #cod x reader #cod #call of duty x reader #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #ghost #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost imagine #simon ghost imagine #simon ghost x you

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kingkatsuki · 10 months ago

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No idea where I was going with this but he makes it difficult for me to think.

More Dragon King Bakugou thoughts.

Tw: he calls us “little girl”, if that gives you the ick I’m soz.

It’s difficult for Dragon King Bakugou to treat your body with care. A man who was raised of violence and barbarity, intended from birth to be a vengeful successor who would pillage and rule over Kingdoms with his dragon by his side. The comforting embrace of his mothers hold long forgotten as he seeks pleasure in the death and destruction that follows him.

And although he may seem callous and cold, he’s wholly perceptive of the way you cower from him. Flinching as he moves to hold your arms or cup your face— as though you’re a frightened doe startled by the sudden snap of a twig. For the first time in his life he doesn’t want to be this brute of a man, the bloodthirsty King of Dragons that’s revered around the Country.

You don’t expect him to be soft. Your body already trembles as he steps inside the tent, pulling his thick cloak of furs from around his shoulders as he’s illuminated from the embers of the fire still burning outside. Throwing it down onto your makeshift bed as he tries to make it as comfortable as possible for you, a futile peace offering after stealing you from everything you once knew.

It’s difficult laying beside a man you barely know, even though you’ve been together months now. And you hate the way your body betrays you, turning towards the warmth that exudes from him.

An arm is usually strewn across you throughout the night— whether it’s to keep you from escaping or to keep you safe you’re never certain. But you always find yourself yearning for his touch, desperate to feel comfort from a man you once swore you despised.

His hands are rough, toughened by the harsh elements and fierce battles waged upon nations. The first rough grip of his hand against your hip has your stomach lurching, petrified of how he may handle you like the kill he brings home from hunting, a dead carcas that doesn’t require any sympathy. For Dragon King Bakugou refuses to mourn for the dead. But he fills you with bewilderment as rough callouses catch against your soft skin as he runs them along your body with surprising care.

Bakugou’s warm breath fans your cheek, chapped lips barely hover against your skin as he lingers. The faintest butterfly of a kiss pecks at the corner of your mouth as he lets you decide— for he knows once he starts he will not be able to stop. And you don’t want him to, bridging the gap as you pull him into a gentle kiss.

It’s nothing like you imagined it to be the nights you lay beside him. Allowing your mind to wonder as you pictured him capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, holding you tight and bending you over to claim you as his own.

You can tell he’s holding back, his soft touch nothing like you’ve seen before as he brushes his tongue against your lips. Exploring more unmarked territory as you feel yourself melting into him, finally allowing him to explore new lands as he chances an uncharacteristically gentle grope to your soft breast.

Dragon King Bakugou may be a ruthless, sadistic beast of a man— but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to handle his most prized possession with docious care.

And whilst you indulge in his touches, they’re not enough to satiate the burning hunger that swirls inside you like a molten volcano. The throb between your thighs incessant as you silently beg for him to touch you, to take you— to finally claim you as his own. And you can tell that he’s holding back, because he doesn’t want to hurt you.

Because he knows exactly what he’s capable of.

“There’s no need to be so gentle, my King.”

The words have the blood rushing directly to his cock, pulling the most depraved, sinful growl from deep in his throat as he bares his sharp teeth. As if trying to hold back the final fine threads of resolve that are holding him together— the rope that’s been wearing thin since the first moment he received you.

“I can take it.”

The words leave your lips, but you’re not sure you can. Not now this hulking brute of a man is hovering over you on sturdy knees, crimson eyes darken as he surveys his prey like a predatory wolf. Reaching down to wrap a large palm around the bare column of your neck as he follows the motion, leaning over you to press his lips against the shell of your ear.

“I’m not sure you can, little girl.”

#dragon king bakugou #Bakugou x reader

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sashaisready · 22 days ago

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Since You've Been Gone: Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Series Masterlist

After a regrettable first meeting in the cemetery, you discover that you have something in common with a certain member of the Avengers. Unfortunately, you can't choose your neighbours, even in death.

(Setting is approx. post TFATWS)

Hi, I'm back! I have no idea where this came from, or where it's going! So apologies as updates may not be consistent while I figure it out. Warnings for death of parents, grief, mentions of cemetery/graves - please tread carefully if these are triggers for you.

🍂

It was a chilly Autumn day, but not unbearable. Your coat could more than handle the frigid breeze. You squinted at the headstone as you crouched on your knees, angling your head to make sure you hadn’t left any streaks or marks from the polish. Satisfied with your performance, you trimmed a few of the roses that were leaning against it before standing and taking a step back to admire your handiwork.

Immaculate as always, so neat you could almost be fooled into thinking you weren’t even outside. You could hear your parents’ voices in your head now, joking about being able to keep their graves far cleaner that you ever managed your bedroom to be, their frequent nags falling on deaf adolescent ears.

You smiled sadly as you looked at the intricately engraved text below their names on the shared stone:

Beloved parents taken too soon,

Waiting in heaven to be reunited with their only daughter

You’d never really like that phrasing; it was a little too whimsical for your tastes – especially all these years later. But a recently orphaned teenager wasn’t exactly an expert in choosing the best headstone wording. You’d been more than happy to let your aunt and the funeral home lead the way, too paralysed by grief to make even the smallest decisions in the hellscape that was death admin.

Still, you’d never want to upset your aunt by getting it changed, there’s a lot of strange emotion tied up in grief even when time has passed, and that mourning teen has become an adult. And it wasn’t like new headstones were cheap anyway…

As you packed up your cleaning kit your attention was drawn to the two graves next to your parents’ - George and Winnifred Barnes. They had both passed several decades earlier, long before your parents were buried next to them. They had died only a few months apart according to the text…maybe they’d couldn’t survive without each other.

It was easy to infer that they no longer had anyone left earthside. The graves had been long untouched, unkempt, and overgrown, the inscriptions getting harder to read – and you’d never seen any evidence of a visitor in all your time coming here. Except of course when the cemetery staff did one of their occasional mass clean-ups of the neglected graves.

About a year ago, you’d started tending to them alongside your parents. You weren’t sure why, it just seemed like the right thing to do. They were neighbours after all. And you’d want someone to do the same for your mum and dad if you weren’t around.

You’d cleaned their stones, wiped away the grime and given them a decent polish. You’d trimmed back the weeds and laid fresh flowers. The first time took a while, but after you’d got them to a reasonable standard it was all pretty easy to maintain.

You’d often wondered who they were. What they were like. The dates suggested they’d died of old age, a luxury your parents didn’t have. Were they kind? Funny? What hobbies did they have? They were around during the war, that must’ve been tough. You knew from the inscriptions that they had children who would’ve been over hundred by now. Maybe no grandchildren which is why nobody came by to see them anymore. It made you feel sad, how we could all be just a few generations away from being forgotten entirely. At least you could try to remember them.

You gave their graves a quick once over, took away the dead flowers and added some fresh roses in their place.

“Well, I’m done,” you said aloud, “see you soon, mum and dad. And you too, George and Winnifred. Sleep well”.

You sighed, walking back to your car and back to your life. You knew all too well that the dead may be still, but the world continues around them.

🍂

A week later you were back at the cemetery with your cleaning kit slung over your back, your arms full of fresh flowers.

“Afternoon, mum and dad,” you said as you placed your kit and flowers down and pulled out the foam pad that you used to kneel on, “and you, George and Winnifred”.

“Work has been kicking my ass this week,” you sighed as you got to work on your parents’ stone. “There’s only so much I can take of Brock’s moaning about the numbers…it’s getting harder not to smash my keyboard over his head – yeah I know, violence isn’t the answer, blah-blah-blah…”

You worked diligently, chatting away as you went through your maintenance tasks. It was nice, talking to them like this. You could say anything, really. No judgements, no admonishment, just silent acceptance of everything you told them. It was a bit like therapy for you. You often imagined your parents were sitting behind you as you spoke, just out of sight.

You liked to use old newspaper to buff up the marble. As you gathered your things together, you glanced at some of the headlines from the copy you’d brought with you. Lots of dreary grimness unfortunately. There was also a longread feature on the Avengers and where they were now, their photographs lined up across the top of the page. It was sad that a few of them were dead now, or at least no longer here. You felt a pang of sadness for their loved ones – you knew what that was like.

You didn’t know all the details of The Avengers and their associates, but like everyone else you knew the basics. It was a strange time, just a decade or so ago nobody had ever thought superheroes really existed…but then all of these ‘enhanced’ people started crawling out of the woodwork, revealing weapons and technology that previously had only existed in sci-fi movies. It was hard to believe, really.

You scanned the newspaper page, looking at the pictures for a few moments. You took your time studying their faces before sighing and placing it back down.

“All done…now let’s help out George and Winnie over here, looks like you guys need some new flowers…and all that heavy rain we’ve been having has really done a number on your stones…let me just-”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the gruff voice behind you demanded, causing you such a shock that you nearly joined your parents.

You spun your body away from the graves, horrified to see a man looming over you as you stared at him open-mouthed in surprise. You hadn’t heard him approach, not quite understanding how you hadn’t noticed him coming at all…

“I said what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated to you, his blue eyes alight with anger.

He was big. Bigger than you. Even under his coat you could see his broad shoulders. A mop of dark hair framed his face, most likely quite an attractive face when it wasn’t pulled into a furious sneer like it was now. He wore black gloves as he pointed at you accusingly. The fact that you were kneeling on the ground while he stood towering at his full height had not gone unnoticed by you.

There was something strangely familiar about him, but you couldn’t place it. Did he shop at the same market as you? You couldn’t quite…

“I’m…I’m just-” you spluttered as you fumbled for the words, still caught in your surprise and the fact that this normally serene time had been interrupted by a stranger yelling at you…

“Get away from there!” he snarled.

You quickly realised he was talking about the Barnes’ graves. You bounced backwards, landing painfully on your ass in your desperation to do what he said. He had a chilling air of authority that you didn’t want to screw with. You weren’t trying to piss off an angry man while you were out here all alone…

“I was just tidying them up,” you managed weakly as you sat up and clutched at the flowers.

“Nobody asked you to,” he scoffed in response as he leaned over and ran a gloved finger over Winnifred’s inscription, “you shouldn’t be clambering all over graves of people you don’t know”.

You frowned as the initial shock of the encounter wore off, now annoyed now at his abrupt rudeness towards you when you only had good intentions.

“Oh, and you know them, do you?” you snapped back sharply as your felt your emotions surge and your eyes water, your cheeks hot with mortification, “well, nobody has been to visit those graves in years so-”

“Yeah, actually I do know them - I’m their son,” he spat furiously.

Your head bounced back in surprise and confusion. You curled your lip and frowned at his strange claim, he appeared to be his mid-to-late 30s at most – many years away from the very elderly man he’d need to be for that to be true.

What was his goal here, exactly?

Was this guy just looking to start an argument and decided you’d be his target? Spouting off nonsense about random graves just to mess with you?

And where did you know him from?

Despite your survival instincts, you couldn’t help but fight back. You didn’t appreciate being messed with at the best of times, let alone when you were only here to visit your deceased loved ones. Who came to a graveyard to fuck with people? And yell at them?!

“Huh? Son?” you scoffed with derision and jabbed a finger towards the inscriptions about their children, “well, that can’t be true as that would mean their kids would have to be over a hundred…and how many one-hundred-year-olds look like you…?”

“I’m 107 years old, actually,” he said venomously. He sounded utterly sincere despite the ludicrousness of his claim. His face was sullen, his eyes piercing.

You ignored the shudder that threatened to roll through you in response. It was a strangely familiar expression on his face.

Where had you seen that look?

“Oh, yeah! You’re 107…Sure!” you laughed sarcastically. “You just have the greatest plastic surgeon of all time, in fact there’s a bunch of centenarians wandering around looking thirt-”

You trailed off as a wave of recognition suddenly hit you and the penny dropped. Oh. Oh.

He wasn’t from the market…

It was him.

Your eyes panned down to the crumpled newspaper lying next to you. The same man’s face scrutinised you from the page, an exact mirror image of the brooding 3D version in front of you. A little older now, but still unmistakably the same man.

Oh!

Now you remembered that same picture on the news. Read about the terrible things he’d done before when he was under hypnosis. For the Nazis? The Soviets? Both? Flashes of recollection hit you at once, disjointed and scattered.

It wasn’t really him doing all of it, it was a mind control thing, they’d said. He was like the Captain…the first one from the 40s. Kept young…somehow. He had a robot arm. Then there was the big government pardon after he’d helped to save the world. The deep dive the New York Times had done on his assassin past. What had they said he was called? Iceman? Winter? Winter hitman?

The Winter Soldier.

Barton? Baines? No, Barnes.

Barnes.

As in…son of Winnifred and George?

Ah.

He must’ve seen your train of thought written all over your face as he nodded solemnly at you.

“Yeah. It’s me. And I only found their resting place a few weeks ago,” he said with disdain.

You got to your feet, taking a few cautious steps backwards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You didn’t need to be a jerk - I’ve just been coming here for years, and I’d never seen…”

You trailed off, he didn’t care. His focus was on the graves, one gloved hand gripping the top of his father’s stone as he peered down at the grass below.

You turned to leave, giving him his privacy, “I’m sorry for your loss,” you mumbled quietly as you picked up your kit.

You started to head back to your car, then turned to face him again after a couple of steps. You warily moved back towards him and leaned over, placing a single flower between the feet of his parents’ graves. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pick it up and throw it back in your face, either.

As you walked away, you thought you felt the weight of his gaze on your back.

🍂

Another week passed and you were back at the cemetery once more, working the usual routine and doing your best to forget what had happened the last time you were here. Upsetting a war veteran slash Avengers superhero by accusing him of not being his parents’ child was impressively incompetent, even by your standards. But in your defence, he did just start yelling at you out of nowhere. And you were only trying to help. And he was a literal defiance of nature, time, and aging…

But then again, people weren’t always their best selves in a cemetery. It wasn’t exactly Happy Hour over here. And you’d probably freak out too if you caught a stranger tinkering around with the resting place of your parents. The parents who died of old age while you were cryogenically frozen and a prisoner in your own body…

You’d done a little more reading up on him, James Buchanan Barnes. ‘Bucky’. The man behind the scary winter soldier mask. The older images of him in his combat gear were chilling, as were the alleged stats of his kills, but mainly you just felt immense empathy for a man out of time. A man who had lost his youth, a limb, his autonomy, and everybody he once knew from his old life.

You tried to put it out of your mind, catching your parents up on what they’d missed and pretty-ing things up a little around their plot. You didn’t touch the Barnes’ this time, just gave them a little wave and concentrated on your own flesh and blood.

You were a million miles away, lost in the quiet fog that often seemed to overtake you when you were working in the cemetery. It was peaceful, really. This was the one place you could switch your brain off and quiet the chatter of your head, just concentrate on the tasks you knew so well by now that your hands did them on muscle memory alone.

You were just adjusting the newest flowers when a voice interrupted you.

“Hey,” it said.

It startled you as you were still in your own world and hadn’t heard anyone else approach. You whirled around slightly panicked as a pair of eyes the colour of sapphires met yours.

It was him again.

“Oh, hello,” you replied quietly.

He stared over at you, wrapped up in his coat as he was last time. His stare was still intense despite appearing much calmer than when you first met him. He wore black pants and boots, his hands tucked away into his pockets, a dark backpack slung over his shoulder. His face was more relaxed than it was during your first encounter. His blue eyes were just as arresting, but the absence of anger made them sparkle rather than burn. He had a soft dusting of stubble across his taut jawline, his dark hair was pulled back behind his head as he absent-mindedly ran a hand over it. He was…

…hot?

Fuck.

He nodded at you in acknowledgement and moved to George and Winnifred’s plot, kneeling in front of their stones. He pulled a candle out from his backpack and lit it with a lighter, placing it between where his parents lay.

You turned away sharply, not wanting to look like you were intruding during what was clearly a private moment of mourning. You focused on your own parents’ graves, clipping back the flowers as quietly as possible.

The two of you continued doing your own thing, the awkwardness thick in the air. You remembered how furious he’d been with you last time. You considered saying something, trying to explain that you were only trying to maintain the graves, but you didn’t want to provide any more ammunition for potential anger. Instead, you continued your routine in silence, keeping your eyes down.

After you finished you packed up your stuff and cleared your throat, ‘uh, bye,” you said quietly to him as you hurried down the path and back towards your car. He didn’t respond, but looked up at you as you passed, studying you intently.

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fan fiction #since you've been gone fic

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rottenaero · 1 year ago

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Saw someone say El gets found by Wayne instead of Mike and the gang to which I say hell yeah.

Waynes working late at the plant when hears these noises coming from the woods, then a girl with a shaved head rushes out to grab his coworkers sand which they’d forgotten about hours ago.

She dirty, wearing a hospital gown, and he approaches her. Asks if she has a place, and she’s so fidgety that he’s shocked she hasn’t run away. She must see something to trust in him because when he asks if she wants some real hot food, she says yes.

He grabs an extra coat from his trunk so she can cover up and brings her through a drive through, lets her eat her food in the back while drives back to the trailer. It reminds him of Eddie, when his father had first gone to jail. His hair was buzzed and he was cagey, but was quick to pick through his burger and fries.

He brings her home, learns her name is Eleven, and Eddie meets her. He’s excited to meet her an quickly gives her the nickname El which just sticks. She warms up to the pretty quickly.

About a week after she first gets there, Steve Harrington shows up, trying to get weed for Tommy because the fuckers to lazy to get it himself.

She pokes her head out of Eddie’s room and sees him. She immediately comes out. “Shit,” Eddie mutters, “El, just stay in there another minute.” But she doesn’t, she goes straight up to Steve and just stares.

“Pretty…Pretty hair.” Steve beams, and crouches down to her level. “Thank you. Wanna touch it?” He asks. She nods enthusiastically, starry eyed as she reaches out and runs her hands through it.

“Didn’t know you had a little sister, Munson.” He raises a brow between the two. Eddie doesn’t reply, just stares at the sight.

“I- Uh, yeah.”

“You don’t,” Steve starts, pauses. El’s still playing with his hair when he continues. “You don’t smoke anything around her, right?”

Eddie is quick to shake his head, “Jesus! No Harrington, I only do it when I’m out of the house.”

El pauses. “..Harrington? You are Steve then.”

Steve nods, and Eddie’s are blown wide mouthing nononono, “Yeah, why?”

“He talks about you sometimes.” She shrugs, and pulls away, before looking up at the long-haired guy who looked embarrassed.

“Eggos.” She states. He nods, “Alright, Harrington, the goods, they might take a minute.”

“Dude, are you serious? It’s like 3pm.”

“So? The girl wants Eggos, why not?”

“Because it’s not healthy?” He sighs, gets up, and walks into the kitchen like he owns it. He opens the fridge door, and the freezer. “Do you have panko crumbs and cooking oil?”

He approaches, and leans against the bar, a bit hunched so he doesn’t knock down a hanging mug with his head. “It’s a no on the panko, but we’ve got some veggie-oil.”

Steve grabs eggs and chicken from his fridge and setting them on the counter, and begins opening random cabinets. He gets to the one with the food and grabs half-eaten lays chips, flour, and oil. “Got any seasoning?”

“Dude, what are you even doing?” He asks, El comes up beside him and jumps onto the counter. Steve opens another cabinet and grabs a couple seasonings. “Cooking real food.”

“Well aren’t you a little house-wife.” He snorts as Steve takes a pan off a nearby hook and puts it on the stovetop. His eyes widen, “Oh wait, you’re serious?”

“Uh,” Steve fills it with a little bit of oil, “Duh?” He gets a couple bowls out, cracks some eggs into one, another he puts flour and some other shit into.

He pushes the bag of lays to El, “Can you crunch all of these into tiny pieces?” Before going back to whatever he was doing.

In the end, the chicken tastes good. El loves it, and when Steve leaves she mourns him.

“I like him. He’s nice.”

Steve starts coming over everyday, usually during lunch but sometimes dinner, and makes them foods.

She meets the party who are looking for Will when Steve suggests she meet some friends from Hawkins, and introduces her to Nancy’s little brother.

Eventually, they all get sucked into the upside down when Eddie learns she has powers, and Steve fights the demo-gorgon.

Then El disappears and they’re all super upset, and when they found out that’s she was alive they’re pissed.

She still loves Hopper, but she also loves Wayne so they do weekend swaps and shit.

Steve starts greeting Eddie at school, hanging out with him sometimes. Eddie notices how he doesn’t let anyone touch his hair, but the way that anytime El asks he’ll gladly let her.

Idk, I think it’s sweet. Wayne gets another kid he adores, Eddie as her lame-but-cool-to-her older brother, and Steve as the babysitter, not just for her but Eddie too, because he’s also not allowed Eggos at 3pm are you fucking kidding me??

El is at Hoppers the week the whole star court thing happens and him and Wayne goes to pick her up and she’s sobbing, and Steve’s got his face beaten in.

When Joyce suggests she being El with her to California, Eddie doesn’t want her too, but Wayne thinks it’s best so they hug goodbye.

Steve still drops by everyday.

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #el hopper #wayne munson #jim hopper #eleven stranger things #steddie #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things ficlet #steddie ficlet #crisisinverted17

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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Just Friends (König x F!Reader)

How to Get Her Back 4/4 (Word count 7.3 k)

Summary: König is a horny, creepy killing machine obsessed with a shy, kind reader who has a raging knife kink.

Tags/warnings: 🔞 Eventual smut, eventual violence, angst, dark romance, canon divergence. Crack treated seriously. Yandere undertones, implied stalking, panty stealing, major character death, size kink, voyeurism, possessive sex, twisted, fluffy feelings. Loner boy/gentle girl dynamic. Protective!Obsessive!Top!König. Reader works as a cleaner at the base. She is described to have hair and prefers to wear dresses off work. Not safe or sane but mostly consensual.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The knife still juts from the table.

She touches it often, fondles the handle like it's her lover.

Days pass, and König escapes her stare with raised shoulders and poorly disguised hurt in his eyes. She feels his eyes on her every single time she's not looking.

He breaks into her room every night, but she never wakes up to his presence. The only thing that tells her the man's been there are the fresh flowers on her table next to the knife.

He brings her flowers every morning, just like he promised, and she keeps the blade there to remind him that he's still in her heart. It's like a silent conversation, and it stabs her stomach full of pain.

On the fourth day, he returns her panties. They're covered in dried cum, and at first, it makes her feel disgusted. Then her heart flutters, a warm feeling settles deep inside her stomach when she imagines him jerking himself off to her underwear amidst his knives, with despair and longing coating the air.

For anyone else, it might be a chilling thing to wake up to: to open eyes to the sight of a brutal tactical knife, freshly picked forget-me-nots and some cum-stained lace. But for her, it's a loving attempt to remind her who she belongs to. It's also a sign that the man is trying to let her go and finally obey her wishes to be left alone.

And she doesn't want to be left alone.

He promised she would never be alone.

On the fifth day, there's no flowers, there's nothing. She starts her day with a horrible, awful bawl. Then she puts on a black dress. It makes her look odd, like she's in mourning, but it also gives her… power, somehow. Even if it's another cute kind of cotton babydoll dress, it makes her look more austere.

“König, wait.”

She chases him down this time: runs to his retreating form that stops the instant she calls his name. He’s tense when she walks the last steps to him and hugs him from behind. The familiar scent of tea tree and gasoline and sweat and guns bring a visceral memory of madness to her mind. It’s an ambrosia of crude virility, and she's missed him, God, that she's missed him.

It's also safety. Because no matter what anyone says, he is the only one who knows her, sees her, sees right into her core, her very soul.

He slowly places a hand on hers, the arms that embrace his narrow, treelike middle.

"Engel…"

The voice comes out tight and strained. He caresses her hand with hesitation and swallows.

"I'm confused.. I don't know what you want me to do."

"Come with me," she whispers in his back. He has no gear on, and she can feel his abs through the black shirt, the way his shoulder blades flare against her cheek with shallow breaths. "If you want…?"

"Ganz sicher."

She takes him by the hand and guides him to her room. People look at them with pity and dread, and she feels like they’re in high school where people were divided into groups of popular and unpopular.

She knows where she and König would’ve belonged. Where they belonged now…

And she just doesn't care anymore.

When the door to her room shuts behind him, she feels a little tug near her heart. She had nearly forgotten how big König looks inside her little room, the space she has tried to turn into a cozy home even though she doesn't view the base as her home like the soldiers do. It's just a place for her to reside in when she's working.

But he does not fit into a normal society like she does. The base must be the closest thing to a home for him. Not every elite soldier is a lunatic perhaps, but König certainly couldn't find any other job in the modern world that would cater to his needs without sending him behind bars.

But he was supposed to kill only in the field. Only somewhere far, far away.

Why did you do it?

Why…?!

That's what she meant to ask when they're behind closed doors, but something quite different comes out instead.

"Did you miss me…?"

She stands before him, holding her hands in front of her, looking probably quite silly clad in black.

"I've been in hell ever since I left, Engel."

Christ have mercy…

Normal men just didn't talk like that.

"Will you forgive me?" He looks her up and down, but the calm, proud posture, the way he holds his chin high behind that dark shroud tells her he's not used to begging. She has a feeling that this question is asked only because Soap suggested it would be a good idea to apologize for making her so upset.

"It's not me you should be–" She sighs. "Look… That man had a wife. König, I think he had a kid and everything."

His eyes are covered in a veil of disinterest only she can pierce. There's actually so much going on behind that odd, distanced stare. But what’s horrifying is that he clearly doesn’t agree with her on this matter.

"I kill people every week," he declares. "Just not in the break room."

His logic leaves her wordless for a moment. The officer was not an enemy, he was not part of some foreign military, his only crime was that he was in a hurry…

She has barely even opened her mouth to speak before he finally defends himself.

"How do you know his wife is not secretly happy with the news?"

The question is like a bucket of ice dipped in her head. She had prepared herself for almost anything but this. König only tilts his head and narrows his stare.

"Would you want to be wife to that kind of man?"

Her mouth opens on its own; her jaw would fall to the floor if it could do such a thing. His worldview unfolds before her in full, and it should disgust her: but all she feels is an odd thrill in her stomach from realizing this man is not only possessive; he's also fiercely traditional.

"He just spilled some coffee on me," she whispers in soft, tender horror. "He just happened to have a bad day."

"How many times a week did he have a bad day?"

The defense is solid, even if it's preposterous. The man was rude and disrespectful, yes. To everyone, every day, probably continued the abuse at home, too. But he didn't deserve to be killed for it. Still, König doesn't seem to find any fault in his way of thinking.

"I can tell when people are evil," he crosses his arms over his chest as a final note.

Evil…

Evil.

She's left blinking, then she finds her tongue again.

"You can't just… deal punishment like that," she huffs.

"Why not?"

Jesus Christ…

His arms are still over his chest, and he looks… so big, so powerful, like an omnipotent being.

Probably thinks he is.

"Will you go to jail?" She changes the subject because arguing with this kind of man seems futile. Downright hopeless.

"No," he says with perpetual calm. "Would you want to see me in jail?"

"...No."

He finally unravels his arms and takes a few steps toward her. That swaying lounge is intoxicating and seductive, even when he doesn't mean it as such. It's just the way he walks, but it makes her woozy.

"Engel. You are too… kind for this world."

More odd arguments are laid out before her, more confusion and love and pain. He raises a hand to touch her arm and make his point clear. The weight of him is heavy and adult, his military clothing is in blaring contrast to her tiny, childish dress.

"You don't understand it now, but perhaps someday you will."

The man looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with her. She's a child in his eyes, but something in this lunacy tells her she's dealing with a child, too: a boy who no one ever loved.

"My little angel. Always wearing pretty dresses," he says more softly now.

"I'm not an angel."

"Yes you are," he rules without effort. "And you look good in everything. But you shouldn't wear black."

"Why not…?"

"Because you belong with flowers."

Her heart aches, her eyes prick with burning tears. He's self-aware, that's for sure. He knows what he has done to her, what he is doing to her. And he wishes to spare her from him.

"I thought you liked black," she peeps, her mind and will and defense breaking.

He doesn't say anything, but his hand brushes down her cheek, then cups her chin softly. That same hand must be ironclad when it grips his enemies and brings them to his blade.

"I like this dress," she tries to quarrel, voice shaking.

"And I know a knife that would go perfectly with it."

His eyes are warm. There's even a passing sadness in them. She's relatively sure that he's not talking about butterfly knives any longer – she's almost certain that König hasn't gifted his weapons to any other human being on this earth.

“How about we take off that pretty little dress now, hmm?”

The time for the compulsory explanations is over in his mind, and it’s time for sex. He knows that his exile has ended, that whatever liminal space they walked in for a few days wasn’t enough to rid herself of him. There’s no turning back anymore, and he looks at her with amused hunger when she obeys his suggestion which is, in truth, a command.

Her fingers do not shake anymore as she undresses for him, but a shiver goes through her guts: that stare is a look from beyond. He’s a madman, and falling more in love with her every day, even if the only way he knows how to love is by stabbing people with his cock or his knife.

“Lie down,” he gives her more orders when she stands before him with nothing on.

It’s futile, completely futile to pretend that she doesn’t want this. It’s almost like an act, the way she slowly and demurely obeys his command. In reality, she wants nothing more than to be devoured by him.

He takes his clothes off while she waits for him on the bed like an injured bird. He rips, then throws his gloves off like they have done something naughty, all the while his gaze is fixed on her. She has missed the sight of that faint hair on his abs, missed that broad chest, missed how his muscles bunch even when he gets out of a shirt that weighs practically nothing in his hands.

The long, veined cock flies out from his pants with a demanding bounce that makes her swallow. They form an odd pair on the floor: her little dress and his huge woodland camos. His eyes are surrounded in black paint under the eternal mask, but otherwise, he's the palest man she has ever seen.

Her breasts rise and fall with aroused breaths as he settles himself beside her, naked and blazing. His cock is pure fire when it gets trapped between them, and he's already drooling hot precum on her thigh.

He's gentle, kind of. Slides a hand over her shivering stomach, palms one breast, then takes a nipple between his fingertips and gives her a pinch.

“Did you miss me too?”

The hood makes him look like a hangman, and he’s infuriatingly patient now. She expected him to rail her like a sex toy right after the door was closed.

"Yes."

He releases her, and the callous descends with a gentle, deliberate caress to her waist.

"Then you're the first who ever did."

She just might be the first woman he's gentle with, too, and she cannot help but think if it's because of what she said just before he killed that poor man. If the last piece of the puzzle locked in place when he realized how much she admired him. If her confession also made him stake his claim in the loudest possible way, announcing everyone that he's her protector.

It's not her fault that the man's dead, but she should be ashamed: she's wet already when the murderer's fingers delve further down to meet her folds. He disappears somewhere in her wetness, and her thighs rise and drift apart to give him full access.

And it's always like this: she spreads legs for him with a helpless, longing stare, he takes in what belongs to him with dark, pleased hunger.

He finds her clit in no time, drags his thumb over it, and she gasps. Her breaths come quick now, her nipples are shot to the sky and her back is already arching when he delves down and slides one finger inside. It's long and lean, and her cunt grips him like they have been apart for four weeks instead of four days.

He sighs under the mask, just from her greedy response. She wants to touch him too, but doesn't dare to move when he's looking at her like that. He starts to finger her gently, first with one, then two digits while attending to the tight nub on top. And he's good with a knife, quick with his hands, so what did she expect?

But she’s also sad and mad. Because he definitely knows what he’s doing. And it makes her think…

"Have you had a lot of women..?"

Her question is a mouse's whisper. His fingers halt inside her; they spread her with delicious torture.

"A few," he says. "Back in Austria."

He buries his face in her neck and nuzzles his way to her ear. The bag of darkness is soft and hot, but nothing compared to his heated whisper.

"But they were nothing like you."

He punctuates the declaration by curling the fingers inside her. She bites her lip to stifle a filthy, needy moan. He even grinds his hips against her: that cock is like a heated spear against her soft thigh, and more cum oozes out to trickle down her leg.

"How many men have had you, Engel?"

He doesn't ask: how many men has she had. She may not be his plaything, but she is his possession. In his mind, she belongs to him and only him, no matter who has come before. But the murderous passion with which he waits for her answer makes her flustered, and she bolts her mouth tight in an indication that she will not disclose this information.

"Gut. Don't tell. I would kill them all."

Oh.

Oh…

"Would you like that…?"

"No," she whimpers.

"Yes you would."

“I don’t–I don't want you to–”

“Shh.”

He’s working those fingers smooth and quick, and she’s already leaking on his hand, probably on the bed, too… The room is filled with sighs and whimpers and sobs as he fucks her with slick, wet sounds. She's close the edge in mere minutes, but he won’t let her finish.

Instead, he pulls out just when she's about to tighten around him.

"Why-why did you stop?"

"Angel... Take me in your mouth," he rasps, breathless too despite trying to disguise it. She briefly wonders if this is some sort of a punishment. That perhaps she’s ordered to give him a blowjob just when she’s about to come – after all, she has dared to keep him waiting for days.

But that’s not the case, it seems, as she moves with heavy limbs to fulfill his wish.

"Nein… Other way around. I want to taste you."

The perverse suggestion in the break room turns into a reality as she realizes what he wants to do. Her heart is pounding when she crawls on top of him to meet that leaking cock. How exactly is that thing even going to fit inside her mouth?

A sudden shyness takes her as her thighs are forced into a wide-legged spread from straddling the broadest man on earth. She's exposed to the cold air only for a second before his breath hits her. The shortest shadow of a stubble on that usually clean-shaven chin meets her soaked cunt with hunger.

“Ah… Take it– in your mouth,” he moans orders to her folds, and her cunt clenches immediately, just from hearing that accent and that voice.

She moves to give him a shy lick, sweeps a tongue over that tip to clean him from all that precum. He goes tense under her and breathes heavily when she wraps her hand around him, wraps her mouth around the weeping slit.

He tastes of salt and sin, and the minute she tries to take more of him in, he groans with a dry throat. It's a hot, broken breath that travels straight inside her. It’s too much – the position is far too stimulating, it’s over the top wicked.

And then he starts to lick her. It messes up the blowjob that has barely even started. She knows his hood must be almost completely off, otherwise he wouldn't be able to breathe.

"Take a bit more, Engel," he urges between the long slathers that already sound lewd. There's simply no way to take it fully in, he’s far too long for that. The last thing she wants to do is gag on him. But she does a good enough job, tries to concentrate on breathing through her nose as she goes as deep as she can.

"That's…more like it…"

It’s a relieved notion somewhere behind her before he continues with the agonizingly slow licks. Fat and flat-tongued, the work of a famished man. For someone who's so clumsy with social interaction, he’s infuriatingly good at giving pleasure to women. The tip of his tongue grazes her clit, and causes a muffled moan – her mouth is full of him but she just cannot help herself.

And arms of steel close around her middle the minute she whimpers on his cock. They pull her closer to his face – he wants to hear her make noise, then, and her will to compete arises. She wants to make him moan too. She ups the pace, flattens her tongue on him every time she retreats…

"Where did you learn to–nnh…"

She nearly laughs at his surprise, at their silly little competition. He's shocked, probably jealous too, of her past and the imagined cavalcade of men who may or may not have been inside her mouth before him. She swirls a tongue around the tip every now and then, wraps her lips tight around him, and goes even deeper.

"Verdammte Scheiße.. I'm not going to last long…"

Strong thighs around her power up, and he has stopped licking her altogether: he's just panting in her pussy and holding on to her hips while waiting for the upcoming wave.

"You know what to do, ja?" He pants that question like she doesn't know he's about to shoot a load on her tongue soon.

"Don't make a mess," he shares advice with a sly tone to his voice. "Unless you want to clean after…"

He gives a short laugh as if the joke is funny. As if that's a clever thing to say to a cleaning lady. It makes her grip him harder, and he's close, so close: he's not even moving anymore, everything's just completely rigid under her body and inside her mouth.

"I'm fucking–cumming…"

He spills with a long groan, moans against her cunt, cries inside her with pain. The seed is hot and heavy, it shoots right down her throat even in this position. She does the best she can to not make that mess, but it's hard work when a giant cock pulses in her mouth.

"You're perfect, angel," he sighs behind her, tries to feed more of himself inside her mouth by rolling his hips.

The praise makes her pump and suck him even more, get every last drop out, and a tremble goes through her lover. She has to take support from the bed until the earthquakes recede. His cock is a clean mess after, and she's a mess too: overworked, and shy, and victorious.

They're both left panting: she tries to catch some breath there between his thighs after everything, but she's not allowed to rest and recover. The grip around her middle pulls her back, and a breathless man trying to lick her like it's the end of the world is not only far too much, it's unbearable. She's already overly sensitive and needy from the four days of barren grief.

"It's too much…" She tries to tell him, but he won't listen. If anything, it only spurs him on.

"König, I can't," she wails softly while resting her head on his thigh.

"Yes you can."

A feverish tongue dips inside her as deep as it goes. It forces her legs apart, she spreads herself all over his face completely unwillingly. There's no mercy for her as he flicks a tongue over her clit, plunges a tongue inside her as deep as it goes, returns to the nub again – does it again and again and again like it's some secret code meant to break her.

"You like that, huh?" His rough voice is muffled by her cunt, he sounds both parched and wet.

"Hm? Talk to me," he demands an answer although it should be obvious that she's losing her mind from his treatment.

"Yes," she mewls while being spread so crudely wide for him. "I… I love it…"

"Hah. You sound like a little cat," he laughs, pleased, then gets to it again. She's so close now that she can feel the growing waves. Her thighs are not just shaking, they're trembling.

"So pretty and so wet," he comments between the licking and dipping, voice covered with smoke from all the lust. And he's hard again, too: right next to her face, and she could cry actual tears – what if he plans on fucking her too after this? It's too much, she can't even take this, she can't…

But she does.

Her back starts to arch just before the orgasm. She's not weeping yet, but every noise she makes sounds like she's crying her heart out.

"Slow down, slow–down, please…"

She's a one-woman choir of tight pleas. She tries to muffle them by burying her face somewhere in his thighs and musk. The tongue dips in and out like he's a machine and not a man, and the first wave hits unexpectedly, like a searing, white-hot blade.

"A–ah!"

The climax swallows her, she starts grinding against that face without meaning to. He only laughs and buries his nose and tongue deeper into her slickness. The arms around her hold her like iron bars, his breaths hit her along with his tongue like she's strapped to a torture device.

Her cunt is sloppy, and throbbing, and he is a torturer, licks her even when she's lying on top of him in ruin: a devastated, trembling heap of a woman who's lost everything.

"Stop–König, you need to stop…"

Her weak whispers do nothing. His tongue sweeps her from front to back until she's crying on top of him. Frail fingers try to claw his thighs but grasp nothingness.

When he finally relents, he does it with another laugh. Then he gives her a last lick: a total bully, snorts a chuckle when a tremble goes through her entire body from just that single, fat sweep.

"Mmm. That was good. Right?"

"M–mh…"

There are tears in her eyes, but not one comes out. Her pussy throbs and winks with the aftershocks, and his hand moves up and down her back like she's that little cat.

"You're mean," she sobs. Complains.

"Heh… you didn't like it?"

"I did," she sniffs, and his hand moves to caress her thigh.

"I know you did. I know you. Everything about you."

He sounds merciful at last, pats her leg softly.

"Come here. I'll take care of you."

When she turns and crawls back to him, his mask is fully in place. He receives her with open arms and speaks more softly than ever.

"I have to take care of you after. Isn't that so?"

"Yes…"

She holds onto him, because he's the only thing that's solid in her world at this point. His aftercare is the most tender thing she has ever known: her hair is being caressed gently, the tension in her neck and back is soothed with long, loving strokes. He buries his mask in her hair and inhales her after-sex scent like it's a whole offering of incense.

"Angel. You feel like… like it's my birthday."

His statement brings another round of tears to her eyes. Instinct tells her that birthdays might've been the only happy days of the year for this man.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He sounds worried when she's so quiet and timid again. Her heart settles slowly into a warm pool of love, she presses herself against him with fervor, and he squeezes her in turn like she's the most perfect birthday present ever.

"No."

I really needed that.

I need you…

"I will never let you go again," he promises. "Never. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers. "I don't– I don't want you to go."

"Little one. I'm so glad I found you."

He takes her palm and uses it to brush away the hood from his lips. The violent edge is always taken away after sex, and the devouring is gentle, the passion is blunt. His kiss is soft; sweet.

"König…" She's raw and bare in his arms, her adoration reflects back to her from his blues. "Why did you pick me?"

"You're the one who picked me, Engel. I just answered your call."

He takes in the effect this truth has on her, then takes her breath away with another kiss. A small giggle erupts in the lazy afternoon as he threatens to crush her with a bear hug. Her hand steals its way further under the mask: she meets smooth skin and a collection of even smoother bumps.

"Why can't I see your face..?"

"It's not a pretty sight," he sighs. "Father liked to cut me when I was little."

The laziness leaves her body that very instant. The man is detached, distant: as if he's sharing something trivial, the city he grew up in or his favorite subject in school.

She doesn't know whether to feel pity or terror, but what he says next sends even more ice down her spine.

"Now I cut those who are evil."

Everything starts to make perfect sense.

Why he was bullied at school, why people fear him. Why disrespectful, cruel men deserve to be knifed and why women and wives are angels. Why he wears a mask.

It's not sound reasoning, but it is a strategy, perhaps. Survival… A defense mechanism.

And offense is the best defense…

She had been right: this man is incurable, only in ways she could never have guessed.

Afterwards, he shows her his knives.

His room is full of them: combat knives, throwing knives, bowie knives, daggers, bayonets, balisongs, two machetes, a kukri, knives she doesn't even have a name for… There's swords and sticks and a riot shield. There's only one bed, nothing more, not even a nightstand.

And the room is also full of guns.

Assault rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns, handguns; there's scopes, tripods, gloves, gas masks, a ghillie suit, pouches, plate carrier vests, magazines, grenades, even a launcher.

The room is filled with violence.

And she didn't know what she expected.

Some "Hot Gun Babes" wall calendar and a few pocket knives? That he would play by the rules and keep weapons and gear where they were stored instead of in his fucking room?

He gives her his third gift that pairs well with her black dress, or any dress, for that matter. Another knife, but not the kind he kills people with, nor the flimsy kind used for entertainment purposes.

She receives an automatic switchblade, simple but pretty. The double-edged blade looks almost feminine, the way it curves into a sharp, dainty tip. The handle is made of sturdy, polished wood; it's incredibly beautiful and so dark it's nearly black. The knife is only a threat when it's flicked open: all in all a piece that isn’t what it seems.

"Hier. Good little blade. Would take it wherever I go."

"Thank you."

"Anything for you, Engel."

She kisses him after his gift. She kisses the white scar on his jaw, lifts the mask a bit more, and he doesn't stop her. He doesn't stop her, not even when she finds more keloid cuts and kisses them too.

And he's… simply a man.

There's a human under all that darkness.

It's not a pretty sight, perhaps, but for those scars, she couldn't love him more.

"You're not afraid of me," he sounds surprised when she takes in the violence done to his face with tenderness in her gaze.

"No."

He's speechless. The barricade covering his eyes is permanently broken, and she can see him, all of him.

She falls to her knees and opens his pants, gives the man another round of love. He looks at her with pain and pleasure; a pale, adoring god. Strokes her hair gently while she gets drunk on him like a succubus, wants him to spill that white on her face and all over her pretty black dress.

"Cum on my face, König."

She looks at him with angel eyes while saliva and drool make a rope from her mouth to his throbbing cock. But there is nothing left of the celestial, nothing more than a sweet, fallen angel, and a safe space just for her and him.

"Please…?"

Ruin me.

He hesitates a few seconds, then grabs his cock in an iron fist like it's heavy artillery.

"Whatever my angel wants, she shall have."

. . . . . .

He brings her flowers every morning and fucks her every night.

Sometimes he catches her when she's outside in the sun, reading a book or watching the clouds. He carries her off to the woods and takes her against a tree like they're the first man and woman on the earth after tasting the forbidden apple. They share a few hushed laughs and more than a few desperate kisses under the hood, then he brings her back to earth, straightens her dress like a gentleman before leaving to have a date with death.

He takes her out to eat sometimes, takes her to the shooting range. Calls her his little Wildkatze when she takes a liking to one of his shotguns. He takes her hand when they stroll through the grass and sings an old love song from his homeland. He has a beautiful voice, especially when he forgets he's in company. Or perhaps she's just special like that…

They share a secret language in the base. Whenever he sees her, he draws his knife and throws it in the air ("I miss you") or twirls it around ("The things I will do to you tonight…"). Sometimes, he just places a hand on the handle of the cruel blade. That stands for 'You're mine'.

It's the closest thing to I love you before either of them have spoken the actual words. Or then it's the closest thing to I love you he's capable of.

She gives him a small smile in return, puts a hand in her pocket and fondles the gift she carries everywhere she goes. He knows it's a nod to his secret messages. It stands for 'You're my everything'.

She keeps the switchblade with her even when she's wearing a dress after work. Red this time, the color of passion.

She wants to surprise him: König always comes to her before nightfall, but this time, she wants to go and visit him. She wants him to take her in the middle of black steel and acrid gunpowder while she's dressed in blood.

"Be a darling and fix me a cup of coffee, will you?"

She's stopped by Phillip Graves of all people. Another man who has never paid her any attention. Apparently, red cloth is the same thing for evil men as it is for the enraged animals in bullfighting shows.

She does stop, but she doesn't obey his wishes. She just stares him down like he's filth: another thing she thought she could never do.

I'm not your coffee girl.

"C'mon honey. I've had a bad day." The man only seems to feed off from her silent scorn: like it's some dark game they're playing now. "You could make it so much better."

For fuck's sake…

Here is a man who disrespects everything about her: her position as a cleaner, her value as a woman, her rank as a shy being who is too kind for this world. She's simply a doll who doesn't know how to kill, who doesn't know how to say no. This man however, won't take no for an answer.

"I'm not here to serve coffee," she says with pure ice.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. And I'm off duty, too."

"Thought we could have a little chat, you and I."

"Why?"

"You seem like an interesting woman."

He seems pleased with the fact that for some reason, she's still here, that he has her attention. Thinks he's winning her over with some yucky flirting.

"And wearing a red dress like that…" He tsks, as if it's a crime for a woman to wear red. "Red can drive a man crazy, darling."

She understands why she has been invisible to everyone except König up until this point.

Because deep down, she knows if she would carry herself in full, show herself to the world as the woman she truly is, she would instantly attract love, and power, and hunger, and lust.

"I'm going to go now, sir."

"Tell you what. You serve me that coffee and I'll let you go."

She catches sadism in that stare. And to think she had always found Graves to be somewhat… arrogant, perhaps, but not cruel. The man obviously has a Napoleon complex, but he was not supposed to be sadistic.

How wrong she has been.

She knows she could just get out of the situation by filling that mug the bastard can't fill himself because of some stupid need to have a powerplay moment with an innocent little girl who happens to wear red.

But she doesn't want to. König would have ripped this guy's head off by now.

"I'm off duty," she repeats.

Fuck these men who are always looking for a plaything.

Graves rises from the chair. She's both cold and sweaty by the time he has taken a step, two, three.

But men are a bit stupid sometimes.

They think dresses don't have pockets.

When he takes the fourth and last step, with joy-tinged cruelty in his eyes, she flicks the knife out and open, and simply stabs him in the supposed direction of the organ called heart.

It feels thrilling, pure power: to sink that knife there and catch a man – a soldier of all people – unawares.

So this is what it feels like…

The hurt in his stare doesn't necessarily come from pain, but from the realization that he has made a huge miscalculation.

He looks down at the small knife that will be the end of him, then at her, the woman he thought was just a simple, shy cleaner he could bully into submission.

"You fucking–bitch," he gasps. Weakly.

By the time she pulls the knife out and stabs him again, she's somewhere far away. It hits him in the stomach, and he still doesn't do anything about it, and that's the moment she finds pity, and mercy, and horror.

She turns and stumbles, then runs from the room, unsure if the thump on the floor behind her is real or imagined.

"You fucking whore…!"

The shout is real enough though, and she runs, runs, with a sharp little knife in her hand for what seems like an eternity. That flight is a prolonged medieval torture moment that ends in front of König's door.

Her titan is as calm as ever when he opens the door, and tilts his head when he sees she's breathing fast.

"I think I killed Phillip Graves," she informs with eyes wide.

He blinks, then immediately looks at her hand, the knife, the blood. She goes to him, lifts a hand to his shirt in a desperate attempt to find support. There's not even that much blood. She thought killing would be much messier.

König said it would be messy.

"I… He…"

Her hands won't even shake. All her senses are blown wide and sharp, she sees everything, hears everything, but her hands won't shake.

Is she a psychopath?

"I killed Phillip Graves," she repeats, looks at his chest, clutches at the knife, clutches at his shirt.

The door behind her closes, and König takes hold of her shoulders with warm, warm hands.

"Well done, Engel," he says with such joy, such unbound pride that it snaps her back into reality.

Her jaw starts to tremble, her teeth clatter, she raises her eyes to him…

"He… He wanted coffee, and to talk, and he liked my dress, and–"

"Did he touch you?"

He asks it like it's far more important than what she has just done. She has to shuffle through her memory, but she finds no recalling of Graves laying a single finger on her.

"No."

He was about to. Right?

He was. He threatened me–

"Don't shed tears for him," König says as he looks down at her with mesmerized awe and infatuation. "I can promise you he doesn't deserve them."

Then he hugs her, squeezes her and just holds her, and she's still holding on to the murder weapon.

What will everyone say? What will my friends say?

"My little angel is good with a knife," the titan laughs proudly somewhere high above her.

People have killed each other since the dawn of time.

These things happen.

I'm not the first murderer on this planet.

"My poor little… He was a bad man, Engel. I promise you that."

It's not a big deal. He was a killer too.

He could've died in the field…

"I'm going to jail," she whispers on his shirt. She wants to let go of the knife, but fears it might hurt him or her when it falls.

And she remembers she's not dealing with normal people.

"They will kill me for this," she says with distant realization.

"No they won't," he strokes her hair like she's the best pet he has ever had. "I will take the blame. It was my knife, ja?"

She pushes herself away to look at him, then nods slowly. Her jaw just won't stop trembling.

"Good girl," he pulls her against him again, so fondly that it forces out a whimper.

"Mh."

"Come here," he coos while already holding her so impossibly close. He's surprisingly good at this: at comforting her. Or then it simply feels uncommonly good to have someone sturdy to hang on to while her life and identity are falling apart.

"I'm not sure if he's dead," she whispers when the embrace lingers on. König breaks the hug immediately.

"You didn't confirm the kill?"

She must look like a shy cleaner again, because his resolve is stone cold and solid.

"Engel, I will go and finish it. Where is he?"

She tells, because he would find out anyway. He would start a manhunt and cause even more ruckus.

But when his hand reaches the doorknob, when he's already about to go and finish her crime on top of taking the full blame for it, he turns.

"Do I have your permission?"

Her jaw slowly stops trembling, and a soft sweetness spreads through her heart. The elite soldier, the mass murderer, asks for her permission.

She is more than just special…

"Yes," she whispers, and he gives her a curt nod before storming out the door.

And he's not living in the 21st century.

Instead, he walks in the world of gladiators, rages in a blood-drunk arena, lives in a time where killing was the norm. He solves problems with physical force: it's just that simple. There is no complex society, there are no rules other than the rules of the heart and the loins.

Anyone who disrespects her will get the blade, anyone who might take her away from him will make him do whatever is in his power to prevent it.

And he has the ultimate power: the power of violence.

He comes back surprisingly clean: only a tiny speckle of blood on his camos and some vivid-colored grime on his hands.

"Done."

She nods with solemn silence. She's done, too. Done with everything, because everything's gone. No matter how high the sun is, she will walk in darkness from now on.

"I believe you Engel. He swore he didn't touch you."

And God.

She might be special, but a dying enemy's, a man's word is more worth to him than hers. As if she would try to protect Graves from his wrath by lying.

And Graves wasn't even dead…

But he is now. Probably tortured too to get the truth out about not soiling her with his paws.

"Did anyone see you..?"

"No. But they will know it was me."

It's another gift to her. Another murder. And her purity, intact, in exchange for a compliment, a testimony of his character during a lazy coffee break. For a few kisses on his scars of abuse. For letting him fuck her like a beast.

Her gifts are burning tears, soft flesh and tight little cries…

His gifts are cold, black steel, hot, white cum and a stream of crimson blood.

"Thank you…"

"I would do anything for you." He bows his head, a little nod to inform her that he is hers to command. "Anything you want, just ask."

She's at home in hell, filled with guns and knives and a fallen god. She knows he will take her again tonight, just like he has done every night in the past weeks. In every position imaginable, grunting, howling, panting, laughing how sweet she is, asking if she likes what he is doing to her. She has always whispered yes through tears of hot joy.

Sometimes, they come together and their gazes lock, and it feels like drifting into a starless space with him. He strokes her hair and coats her with whispers of love before they fall asleep. They always curl up together in the cover of womblike darkness, with soft little smiles on their faces, safe from all evil.

"Can you keep me safe…?"

It's a sad little question, but she doesn't feel weak. She knows he is lost in her too: especially when she's wearing a dress the color of blood, especially when she looks at him like he's her God.

"Please keep me safe."

He comes to her carefully, answers her summons. She's pulled into a familiar embrace, and she doesn't even think about Graves anymore: she thinks about whether König will take her on the bed that smells of acid sweat or on the wall next to the gun rack.

"Always, Engel. I promise."

She holds the most powerful weapon in her tiny little hand. A dark, fallen titan who has risen from the depths of the earth to pledge himself to her, body and soul, while her innocent little dresses flutter in the wind and make everyone believe she's a victim. But she doesn't feel sorry.

Because it's just like he said.

They belong together, she and him.

🖤 🖤 🖤

Taglist:

@ghostinvenus @konigsleftkidney @stillinracooncity @valenspuppy @koionthewalls

#könig x reader #könig x female reader #könig x you #könig smut #könig fanfiction #könig #mw2 smut #mw2 fanfic #konig x reader #könig mw2 #call of duty #mw2 x reader #yandere könig #könig imagine #just friends #just friends fic

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