#one day i will find my soulmate an this will be a distant memory. a scar that maybe tingles a little. but it doesnt hurt anymore | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

roturo · 6 months ago

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✒ LOML ⋆⭒˚.⋆ (geto's version)

⋆⭒˚.⋆ sypnosis: You and Suguru Geto were once inseparable, bound by shared dreams and laughter. As time passed, the warmth of those days faded into distant echoes, leaving behind only the haunting traces of a love that once was. Feeling the touch of someone closer made you feel real again. But nothing lasts forever, right?

warnings: smut, unprocteted sex, angst, widow!reader, cult!geto suguru, mentions of ptsd, mentions of death, time passes, soulmate!geto suguru, reader x gojo satoru, mentions of past, let me know if i missed smt.

A/N: okay so, i just broke my back at dance but dw guys i just finished this request so i'll upload it, that means it’s npr— i dont know if yall will get my idea but i made a try, reblog and leave a comment for support !

The bell rang, reminding you how you felt once at the end of another day at Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical School. Amid the crowd of other sorcerers streaming out of the classrooms, you and Suguru Geto stood out as high school sweethearts. You were inseparable, sharing laughs, secrets, and dreams of a future together. Your friends always snickered about when you would marry and have kids. Gojo claimed he would love to see a mini version of yourself and… well, his best friend.

Years passed, and true to the bets, you and Suguru were married in a small, intimate ceremony surrounded by friends and loved ones. The months that followed were filled with joy and love, building a life together that you had once only dreamed of.

But life has a way of taking unexpected turns. As Suguru delved deeper into the world of curses and his cursed technique, his views began to shift. He started to question the very fabric of the world, why he should risk his life to save his and yours, just because of some dumb curses humans create by bringing evil into this world.

"Suguru, what's happening to you?" you asked one evening, your voice stern with concern. He had been distant lately, his once warm eyes now cold and calculating.

"I'm becoming something greater," he replied, his tone flat and emotionless but his face was displaying a sophisticated smirk. "A savior for the sorcerers of this world."

"W-what do you mean?" you asked. "What about the plans we made before getting married?"

Suguru turned to you, a flicker of the old him flashing in his eyes at the memories before it disappeared with a tilt of his head to the side. "We were just kids, babe," he said, almost dismissively with a smile. "Those were dreams of a different time. Ever since I stopped relating to the jujutsu society and more with people of our kind, I finally understand the real meaning of this world and us in it."

“I don’t mind, it takes time, Suguru.”

“You and I went from one kiss to getting married and you think I wouldn’t do this for our world? Our kind? For us?!”

His words cut deep, a painful reminder of the widening chasm between you. Despite your attempts to reach him, Suguru continued down his dark path, growing more entangled in his cult and his delusions of grandeur. The man you had fallen in love with seemed to vanish, replaced by a stranger who saw himself as a legendary figure, destined to reshape the world.

One night, after another heated argument, you woke up startled from another bad dream. He stood before you, a shadow of his former self. "I'm doing this for us, for a better world," he insisted.

He used to think you were better safe than starry-eyed. But you have never felt aglow—never before and never since.

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face unconsciously. "No, Suguru. You're doing this for yourself. You're not the man I married."

He paused, looking at you with a mixture of anger and sadness. "Maybe you're right. But it's too late to change now."

The anguish in his voice was almost too much to bear. You reached out, hoping to find a trace of the boy you once knew, but you couldn’t touch him, every time he felt even farther away from you.

"Suguru, please," you whispered, your voice breaking. "We can still fix this. We can go back to how things were."

He shook his head slowly. "No, we can't. We've come too far. But remember what I said last time? I will never let this get in the way of yo—of us. You’re the love of my life.”

His words echoed in the empty space between you, a final, bitter nail in the coffin of your once bright future. As you blinked and gained full consciousness after waking up, you felt a part of yourself break, knowing that the man you loved was lost to a darkness you couldn't understand or see.

And yet, here you were, standing alone in the ruins of what once was, clutching the shards of a dream that had shattered beyond repair. The emptiness inside you grew, consuming the remnants of hope you clung to, leaving behind an ache that seemed to echo in the hollow spaces of your heart.

He was gone, but his ghost lingered, a painful reminder of the love that was and the love that could never be again.

He wasn’t there anymore, was he?

Holy ghost, he told you he was the love of your life.

About a million times.

Years later, as you stood alone in the quiet of your home, now a dorm back in the school buildings as you decided to work for those sorcerers who started feeling like your loved one, you reflected on the boy you had once loved and the man he had become. The memories of your high school days seemed like a distant dream, a time when you were just kids, full of hope and promise.

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Your breaths and moans mingled, hot and desperate, as Gojo's lips traced a path down your neck while humping his hard cock on the slippery sweet cunt of yours. His touch was familiar, yet foreign, as if you were trying to grasp a memory that slipped through your fingers like sand.

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to be swept away in the moment. You could feel Gojo's need in the way he whispered your name, like he was asking for permission for something, or… someone. His voice, usually so confident and teasing, held a whine that made your heart ache with a confusing blend of longing and sorrow.

His hands roamed over your body with a practiced ease, yet every touch felt like a plea, a silent question of whether this could ever be enough. His lips traced familiar paths down your neck and across your collarbone, igniting sparks that threatened to consume you whole.

Once he finally thrust inside you, both of you moaned out loud and made you open your eyes with a blurry sight, contemplating his dark hair falling on your face while he moved within you. A feeling of completeness invaded your tummy as you whimpered when he touched that spot inside of you.

“Please,” you whispered, but it sounded like a desperate call to the ghost of your past. The reality of the present and the memory of the past blurred, creating a disorienting whirlpool of emotions. “I got it baby… just– Mhm-I” The touch felt so good and… right. You lost yourself in the feeling as tears started drowning your eyes in a mix of emotions.

Gojo's grip tightened as he felt your tears, his whispered name of yours almost a chant, a plea wrapped in longing and regret. The confusion of your feelings deepened—did he really say your name?

You looked back at him, his cold but reassuring black purplish eyes invading the light coming from the lamp as it was the only thing that shined for you. The way his hair fell, the curve of his lips as he groaned, it all felt too familiar and too alien at once. Your climax and his were getting closer, moans escalating in volume as you both sought a release that felt more like an escape.

When your impressionist paintings of Heaven turned out to be fakes, it was as if the vibrant colors of your love had faded into a monochrome nightmare. You had been sold a get-love-quick scheme, and the ink bled into a mess of confusion and heartache.

As you finally reached your high with a shared kiss, Gojo cleaned you up in silence and gave you a water bottle. It was over. You lay there, entwined in Gojo’s arms, feeling his hair cover a part of his chest as you leaned down your head on it.

When you woke up, the morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. You were naked, tangled in the sheets, Gojo's arm still draped over you. The events of the night before replayed in your mind, and the stark reality hit you like a punch to the gut. It hadn't been him; it was never him.

You had been digging up the past, trying to revive a love that was long dead. The realization washed over you, cold and unforgiving. You should've let it stay buried. The feelings you were trying to resurrect were entombed with the boy you once loved, and no amount of closeness with Gojo could bring them back to life.

The night had been a cruel reminder that some ghosts could never be laid to rest, and the void left by his absence was one that Gojo could never fill.

As you stared out at the morning light coming through the window, you knew that you had to find a way to move forward, even if it meant leaving the past behind. The touch of Gojo's arms around you, once comforting, now felt like chains binding you to memories you could never escape. The warmth of his body next to yours only highlighted the cold emptiness within, a void that grew larger with every passing moment.

The room, now bathed in the soft glow of dawn, felt like a cage. Each shadow seemed to whisper the name of the boy you had lost, each ray of light a painful reminder of a future that would never be. You could still feel the echo of his touch on your skin, a ghostly caress that lingered long after the night had ended.

Gojo stirred beside you, his arm tightening around your waist in a sleepy embrace. You glanced back at him, his serene expression a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you. He had tried to fill the void, to be the light in your darkness, but the shadows of the past were too strong, too overwhelming.

You gently extricated yourself from his grasp, moving silently to avoid waking him. As you stood by the window, the first rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds, you felt a tear slip down your cheek. It was a tear for the love you had lost, for the boy who had once been your world, and for the man who now lay beside you, trying to pick up the pieces of a shattered heart.

The realization was stark and unforgiving: no matter how much you tried to move forward, the past would always be a part of you, a haunting reminder of what could have been. And as the morning light washed over you, you knew that the journey ahead would be long and painful, but it was a path you had to walk alone.

With a deep breath, you turned away from the window, determination settling in your heart. The ghosts of the past would always linger, but you had to find a way to live with them, to find peace in the midst of the storm. And maybe, just maybe, you would find a way to heal.

“Suguru,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, “promise me something.”

Suguru’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his eyes reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. “Anything,” he replied, his tone sincere and tender.

“Promise me you’ll never put anyone or anything above us,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “That we’ll always come first.”

Suguru took your hands in his, his touch warm and reassuring. “I’ll never leave,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Nothing and no one will ever come between us. You’re my everything.”

You felt a wave of relief wash over you, his words wrapping around your heart like a protective shield. His lips curved into a gentle smile, and he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I promise,” he murmured. “I’ll always be here for you. We’re in this together.”

The moment felt eternal, a promise etched in the quiet of the twilight. As you nestled against him, the world outside seemed to vanish, leaving only the certainty of Suguru’s words and the warmth of his embrace. You closed your eyes, letting the peaceful promise settle deep within you, trusting that no matter what challenges lay ahead, his commitment would remain steadfast.

In that perfect, fleeting moment, you believed with all your heart that Suguru’s promise was unbreakable.

The memories of his promises, once a source of solace, now felt like daggers, each one twisting deeper into your heart. “I’ll never leave,” he had promised. And yet, here you were, alone, with the emptiness where his presence used to be. The truth was inescapable: Suguru had left, and his promises had been nothing more than comforting words, hollow and unfulfilled.

The room seemed to close in on you, the silence amplifying the ache in your chest. You could still feel the ghost of his touch, the warmth of his embrace, but it was all a cruel illusion, a mirage that had vanished with his departure. “Never mind,” you said to yourself in a breathless chuckle, trying to hide the pain your chest felt, the realization hitting you with a cold, harsh clarity. All those promises were just words—a fleeting comfort that had crumbled to dust.

You buried your face in your hands, tears streaming down your cheeks, each one a testament to the love you had lost. The future you had once envisioned with Suguru was nothing more than a shattered dream, a vision that had dissolved into the stark reality of his absence.

The pain was almost unbearable, the weight of his betrayal settling heavily on your shoulders. You had been left to pick up the pieces, to grapple with the knowledge that the love you had cherished was now a ghost of the past. And as the darkness of the room closed in around you, you knew that the journey to heal from this loss would be long and fraught with heartache.

In the silence of the night, you felt the full force of Suguru’s absence, a painful truth settled within you with the weight of an unbearable burden. “Shit,” you whispered to the empty room, the words trembling on your lips as if they carried the weight of a thousand broken dreams. The room seemed to absorb your sorrow, its silence amplifying the ache in your heart. Each breath felt labored, the air thick with the heavy, oppressive realization of Suguru’s absence.

The absence of his presence was like a gaping wound that no amount of time or consolation could ever heal. His laughter, once so familiar and comforting, was now a distant echo that haunted the corners of your mind. The love you had cherished, so vibrant and full of promise, was now a ghostly whisper, a reminder of what once was but could never be again. The memories, once a source of warmth, now felt like cold, unyielding shadows that only deepened the chasm within you.

The pain was almost unbearable, each moment a torment as you faced the stark reality of Suguru’s departure. The void he left behind was a vast and insurmountable chasm, a darkness that seemed to stretch on endlessly. It was a wound so profound that no amount of time or effort could ever hope to mend it. You tried to imagine a future without him, but every thought seemed to fall short, every hope tarnished by the cruel reality of his absence.

No matter how hard you tried, you knew that the echoes of your shared past would never fully fade. The journey ahead would be marked by the persistent shadow of what you had lost. Each step forward felt weighed down by the remnants of Suguru’s memory, a constant reminder of the love that had slipped through your fingers like sand. The future you once envisioned, full of hope and promise, was now a mirage, forever out of reach.

As the darkness of the room closed in around you, you felt the full force of Suguru’s absence. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the warmth and intimacy that once defined your life together. The realization that the loss of him was a scar that would remain with you forever settled heavily upon you. It was a mark that no amount of time or healing could ever truly erase, a reminder that some wounds are too deep, too profound, to ever be fully healed.

In the quiet of the night, with the shadows stretching long and dark, you felt the weight of Suguru’s absence more acutely than ever. The pain was a constant companion, a relentless reminder of the love that had once been your everything but was now a haunting, unending loss. The room, filled with the echoes of what once was, bore witness to the depth of your grief, a silent testament to the enduring impact of Suguru’s departure on your heart and soul.

And as you sat in the suffocating silence, grappling with the emptiness that had consumed your world, you could only utter one final, heart-wrenching truth: “You’re the loss of my life.”

#gojo satoru smut #geto suguru smut #jjk smut #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #jjk x reader #geto suguru angst #geto suguru #gojo satoru #gojo smut #geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen gojo #geto fic

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darsynia · 1 month ago

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Fate and Fairy Tales (Stephen Strange/Reader)

MCU Masterlist | Steve | Bucky | Tony

Summary: The Sorcerer Supreme spoke your soulmate Words while the magic of Kamar Taj healed your life-threatening wounds. Overwhelmed, you seek to hide your bond and save him from a lifetime of protecting someone as ordinary as you. The time comes to spend a week at the Sanctum, usually a reward for someone at your training level-- but will you make it through with your secrets intact?

Words/Warnings: 4,500 // none

This is a gift for the lovely @sobeautifullyobsessed, I do hope you enjoy! Here's an excerpt to tempt anyone else who might be interested! gif by @doctorstrangegifsparadise

“What do you hope to gain by your silence?” he asks, a tone of warning hovering just out of reach.

You’d already decided that pure silence has been like a scarlet Cloak to Strange’s bullish nature, so you hold up the microfiber cloth you’d been using on the window and address it, rather than him.

“What do you think, scrubcloth, was I looking to gain something by my silence, or simply enjoying my time in a sacred, meaningful space?”

His derisive scoff tickles the back of your neck, and you shiver. Suddenly he’s not an adversary but a man , one that’s technically yours for the taking. This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. His next words heighten your sense of danger.

“You are scheming, and I will find out why.”

Fate and Fairy Tales

Routine is important in Kamar Taj. You’re not much of a routine girl, but you’ve done your best to make up for that, something that’s gotten you recognized as a hard worker. There’s only one thing you’ve managed to dodge so far: a week-long assignment at the New York Sanctum. It’s practically a vacation, with easy work as a caretaker for the Artifacts, scheduled magic use to keep the defensive shielding active, and the opportunity to study some of the books that don’t leave the premises. The real draw for most of your colleagues is personalized instruction from the Sorcerer Supreme.

That's the part you’re worried about.

With your head down, you head for the library, crossing the courtyard by a less-traveled path. Despite this, the silver-threaded soulmate Words on your ankle itch under the leather band you’ve covered them with. Usually that means that Strange is in the vicinity. Though you don’t remember the catastrophic attack that brought you to the sanctuary for rescue, you do remember the flurry of magic and healing that followed.

The only face you recall is that of the tall, attractive man in mystical robes bending close to your crumpled form. He’d rested a steady hand on your cheek and spoken with authority. Look at me--you’re safe now.

They say soulmate Words burn at the magical moment they’re first spoken. You wouldn’t know; the agony you’d felt on that day has been mercifully removed from your mind; you and your magical healers had agreed to wipe your memories of the events leading up to your arrival. That indelible moment is all that’s left. Everything before your life in Kamar Taj has faded into a distant haze, a rare but warned-for side-effect.

A different kind of magic vibrates in your ankle, so much so that you stop and press your back against one of the columns at the edge of the courtyard, closing your eyes. Strange has to be very close by, but you’re off the usual path, and you’ve never spoken to him, so you know his Words won’t buzz from your presence. It isn’t that you’re afraid or repelled by him, far from it. He’s a charismatic leader, powerful to the extreme, and very handsome. You? You don’t even remember the person you were before learning to attune the Mystic Arts.

There’s no way to know what the Fates had in mind when they branded the two of you, but you suspect you’ve fallen far short of their plans. As a wealthy, talented surgeon, Dr. Stephen Strange was always out of your league, but now he’s the Sorcerer Supreme for a powerful cadre of magic users. It’s practically your duty to see that your ships pass quietly in the night, and you’ve done your best to see him as nothing more than the aloof leader of your mystic order. Besides, he deserves a partner as powerful, notable, and charismatic as he is.

To cover the resonant sound of his voice as Strange’s group walks by, you cast a sound-muffling incantation. Soon, the agitation in your ankle fades, replaced by the dull, hollow feeling of a missed connection.

Each time this happens, the ache lasts longer, meaning you’ll be in agony by the end of a week spent in Strange’s company. It’s going to be a nightmare to deal with that pain and the constant vigilance of avoiding directly speaking to your soulmate. The exhaustion alone might put you in danger of a slip up. Now that you can’t avoid your Sanctum assignment, the only thing left to do is persuade the Powers That Be to let you spend your time there under a Silence spell, preferably without explaining why.

Unfortunately, that Power is likely to be Wong, and he’s not known to Be all that lenient.

“--and that’s why I intend to spend the next two weeks under a Silence Vow,” you say, hoping your constructed excuses sound plausible.

Wong hasn’t said more than ten words since you walked in, but his expression speaks volumes. “You’re scheduled for the Sanctum in two days. You can do it when you get back.”

You start for the door with a decisiveness you absolutely don’t feel, hoping to get away with your plan via sheer audacity. “What would you say if I couldn’t speak in the first place, hmm? It’ll be a challenge! Thrive in adversity, and all of that.”

“Sonnet?”

A warm sense of belonging strikes you on hearing the name you’re known by here at Kamar Taj, and you pause to look back at Wong.

“If the Sorcerer Supreme gives his permission, I suppose a week isn’t the end of the world.”

You spend all of your energy preventing your shoulders from slumping as you nod and rush through the door.

It takes you 12 hours to come up with what to do.

Your plan is audacious and absurd, but what convinces you to do it is the knowledge that it’s an act of protection for both Strange and Kamar Taj itself. Someone clearly meddled with the proper order of things to mark you as soulmates, and you’re just… setting things right.

Besides, you’ve been putting your library books back on the returns shelf with portals since three months after you came here, so your plan is only four times more ill-advised than that.

You don’t have to go just outside the Sorcerer Supreme’s study to place your request for an official Period of Silence in his ‘to be fulfilled’ inbox (the existence of which you confirmed with one of your friends, who works as a part-time admin for Kamar Taj leadership), but your Words’ penchant for vibrating in his vicinity is uniquely useful tonight.

Right before you complete the mission, you cast the intricate, personalized incantation you devised to steal away your voice for the following seven days, just in case. No one will know it’s a spell unless they detect as much, but it’ll stop you from speaking out of turn and literally ruining everything.

That turns out not to have been necessary, though. There’s no alarm, no floodlight, no magical imprisoning sentry spell to trap you in place for the room’s owner to come discover what you’d been up to. You simply sneak back out the way you came, silently congratulating yourself on a job well done.

You implement the crucial second part of your plan the second you arrive at the Sanctum: detached competence. You place the groceries you purchased in their places, check the cleanliness of the kitchen and the efficacy of the appliances and tools, and move on to begin laundering all of the towels, sheets, and other cloth items throughout the building. That started, you embark on a deep clean of each floor. The goal is to both seem extremely busy and foolish to have taken on such a labor-intensive plan. It would be crazy to question your actions, given how overdue most of the work is.

The problem? Dr. Stephen Strange is crazy.

Your first encounter at the Sanctum happens one hour into your self-appointed task of thoroughly cleaning every Artifact display case. He’d arrived in the building fifteen minutes ago, according to your erstwhile ankle monitor, the buzzing of which feels almost audible by the time Strange walks into the room. You are on the floor underneath one of the largest display cases, halfway through a painstaking rag and q-tip removal of all residual dust.

With a surprised cough, the Sorcerer Supreme casts a spell to clear the air, rushing over shortly afterwards to crouch down and frown in your direction.

“What on Earth are you--” he starts to say, but you interrupt by lifting up the discard tray full of lemon-scented dusty q-tips, wordlessly tapping it against your industrial-sized spray-can of Pledge. “Must have been one hell of a lost bet,” Strange observes. You shake your head and move to clean out another line of dusty crevices, shaken by how attractive you find his frustrated amusement.

You wrestle with that for a three-dirty-q-tip-long pause before he speaks again.

“You could just use magic for that, you know.”

You swing your head out sideways to offer a skeptical look, which he answers by casting what is probably intended to be a cleaning spell on your next dust target. With as neutral an expression as you can manage, you swipe at the same area with your Pledge’d rag and hold up the (vaguely less dusty, but still obviously disappointing) evidence.

Your soulmate’s deflated sigh accompanies his departure.

Dinner doesn’t go much better; you’d chosen to make your favorite dish despite the 90 minute prep/cook time. You’d taken reassurance from reports that Strange tends to dislike vapid small talk at the table, but something about your silence makes him attempt it anyway.

At first he fires off a sequence of yes or no questions that end with something that requires a complicated answer, an obvious trap which you can’t help but admire even as you dodge it. Next, he turns on the charm, which would have worked if it weren’t for the secret you’re planning to keep from him for all eternity. Despite this, you can’t help but feel a bit of a thrill when he smiles at you. Strange compliments your recovery, your accelerated course of study, and your particular talents in concealment magic. The latter twinges your conscience; your specialty is in preparation for the worst case scenario, the one where you flee somewhere he can’t find you after speaking his Words.

As dinner winds to a close, Strange turns academic, and you almost break when he muses on the meaning of one of your favorite sonnets.

The man fights dirty.

You do your best to fend it all off with nods, smiles, and the occasional thumbs-up, but you’re definitely shaken. You’d never allowed yourself to see him as a man before, certainly not as a potential love interest. He’s attentive, intellectual, and clever, a trifecta that threatens your entire world-view. Eventually your implacable silence sends him into the kitchen with his newly-cleared plate. Seconds later, he appears in the doorway to glower at you.

“You made cheesecake?”

Your cheerful thumbs-up doesn’t prevent him from eating any, but it looks like a near thing. It seems that Stephen Strange hates mysteries almost as much as he hates not being in control.

The next morning at breakfast, Strange casts two spells on you in rapid succession. One is a diagnostic spell that leaves a harsh ringing in your ears-- and the second strips away your silence evocation. You’re left feeling anxious and exposed, but you lean into it and shrug defensively, hoping he’ll get so annoyed by your obstinance that he leaves you alone. Stephen Strange is very handsome when he’s upset, which is a twisted silver lining, to be sure.

You’d almost purged your mind of Strange thoughts (an exercise much more difficult than you would have expected, may the fates be damned) when he steps up behind you while you’re scrubbing windows. Almost the entire day has passed; it’s now the magic twilight time where you can see your reflection in the window but still look through it to see the cityscape beyond. The light outside is beautiful, hovering between golden and navy blue in a way that accentuates the ancient garb Strange is wearing.

“What do you hope to gain by your silence?” he asks, a tone of warning hovering just out of reach.

“What do you think, scrubcloth, was I looking to gain something by my silence, or simply enjoying my time in a sacred, meaningful space?”

“You are scheming, and I will find out why.”

You indulge your instinctive, annoy-thy-neighbor movement to spin around and pat at his chest reassuringly. You’d have said something snarky and encouraging to his Cloak Artifact, but instead the warmth of his chest under your hand and the determined look on his face steal your words away. Briskly, you play off your physical reaction by pretending you’d missed a spot on the window closer to the door.

Once in the hallway, you lean up against the wall and just breathe for a while.

The third day at the Sanctum always comes with one-on-one instruction with the Sorcerer Supreme. You wake with the weight of the world strung up above you, held at bay by the slender threads of your resolve.

Skipping breakfast, you opt for nuclear-grade coffee from a highly-recommended shop nearby. Strange had been absent from dinner the night before, which means the last time you saw him was during your heated confrontation at the window.

For the upcoming metaphorical and instructional battle with Stephen Strange, you choose Kamar Taj battle-dress. The rich, full robes allow for easy movement, which you complement with leather padding for your knees, elbows, and forearms. It’s your heart that’s the least armored today, an oversight you hadn’t considered. As you walk toward the practice room, all you can do is remind yourself how important Stephen Strange is to your order, to humanity in particular, even to the universe as a whole after his confrontation with Dormammu. If he were destined to be with someone ‘ordinary,’ it would be a skilled, compassionate doctor like Christine Palmer, not a woman with no past and an uncertain future.

To your surprise, Strange proceeds to spend the session treating you with kindness, showing no cynicism, sarcasm, or frustration whatsoever. He even weaves poetry into his instruction, the words shocking and romantic coming from that rich, practically sensual voice of his.

“In the absence of a more pleasing sound, close your eyes and listen to my voice, then watch my hands, then you can try it yourself.”

At that, you almost trip on your own feet. Thankfully, Strange was turned away and maybe didn’t see-- but did he somehow know you’d thought of his voice in the same way Shakespeare had written in one of your favorite sonnets? ‘I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound…’

“I know your brain is beguiled by book learning, but you must trust me that practice is the best way to achieve this particular attunement.”

On hearing that one, you drop the mystical pattern you’d been conjuring and frown at him. His own concentration dips, sending his spinning geometric leaves colliding into a shower of sparks that fade into fairy dust.

“What’s wrong?”

You put your hands on your hips, conveying as much ‘give me a break’ as possible.

His voice is gentle. “I thought you liked poetry.”

You almost retort. For a heart-stopping second you wonder if he’s trying to bait out some snarky, poem-related comment for fate to slice into his skin, but no. There’s no way he wouldn’t have magically commanded you to speak if that were the case, not when you’re known throughout Kamar Taj as Sonnet. This cements your resolve, and you convert your anxiety to kinetic magic and conjure a large version of the advanced shield he’d been teaching you to create. You make eye contact with him through the pulsing lines of the pattern, and he dips his head as if to concede the point.

It’s a turning point, a moment when the rightness of fate feels like it’s rubbing through your paper-thin defenses-- but when you focus on the backs of your hands instead of his piercing eyes, you see the defensive scars from your attack. Every reason you’re staying silent crashes back through, and you twist your fingers, spinning the shield into a spiral that guards you on the way to the door.

There you curtsey and leave, pressing the shield against the door on the other side to prevent yourself from being followed.

Seconds later you run smack into your soulmate. He’d opened a portal directly in your way with such precision that his Words on your ankle didn’t even have time to warn you. He catches you against him with one hand splayed across your back and the other clasping your exposed upper arm. Both of you gasp.

Your nerves are singing. It’s glorious and terrifying, stealing your breath such that you must close your eyes against its strength, held in fate’s embrace despite all your efforts to avoid it. The hallway is silent except for heavy, stunned breathing.

Strange swipes a warm caress with his thumb across the skin of your arm and steps back, steadying you for those first bereft seconds-- and then he lets out a deep chuckle.

“This is the reason. Your silence, your avoidance. This!”

It’s somehow both the perfect response and a completely unexpected one. You don’t know whether to be offended or tempted, so you lift your chin and cross your arms tightly, stubbornly leaving your eyes closed.

His chuckle has graduated to a beautiful full laugh. “All these years I thought you were a patient. Someone broken, someone I couldn’t fix. When I came here I accepted that I lost my chance-- and yet here you are! Talented in the Mystic Arts, unafraid of hard work, and as obstinate as I am. Do you even understand how relieved--”

You stagger back, eyes flying open in complete disbelief.

His beautiful eyes search yours, hands held up in the classic ‘not a threat’ pose, though you know differently. You shake your head, seeing his body relax and loosen in response, even as you clench up even more.

He cannot be serious.

Insidious joy seeps across the short distance between you, reminding you of the physical delight true soulmates find in each other. Isn’t Strange the one who knows most about the challenges he faces as the Sorcerer Supreme? If he isn’t concerned, why should--

No. That’s magic speaking, not reason.

You wheel around, turning your back on him. Your heart is a gash inside your chest, and the only way to heal it is to board the whole thing back up. Opening up a portal will give him a chance to follow you, but you’ve been practicing concealment for many months.

“Dear Diary,” you say in a clear, ringing voice, aiming at the dim ceiling rather than the man behind you. “Today I saved a great man from a terrible decision.”

“Oh, Sonnet, don’t,” your soulmate whispers behind you.

You are salt tear crystals compressed into stone as you continue walking away. In your mind’s eye, his confusion and dismay will soon turn into resolute understanding. There’s no other logical option.

“With galactic responsibilities like his,” you continue, “such a man cannot harbor weakness in the form of an inconsequential, imperfect partner--”

His voice is commanding as he interrupts. “You’re wrong.”

You are wrong, but about Strange’s wisdom, as it seems your soulmate is bewitched by the allure of magical bonding. It’s not his fault. He had given up, hadn’t considered the consequences, not like you have. Inside your chest is a hurricane of please yes and please no, swirling around your impenetrable heart.

Never since your arrival in Kamar Taj --never since you’d heard this man’s voice speak your Words-- had you imagined you’d ever be tempted to change your mind, but oh, oh, you hadn’t been prepared for him to disagree with your choice to reject the bond.

Ahead of you, the pair of ornate doors that protect this wing of the Sanctum swing closed, the metal bolt slamming home with a loud clang.

You start gathering magic for your escape. “So, Diary, for the good of all, I must reject the generous offer fate has made to me--”

Strange interrupts to correct you, his tone achingly gentle. “To US. ‘ I fear no fate-- for you are my fate, my sweet. I want no world-- for beautiful, you are my world--’”

The storm in your chest bursts forth into a torrent of tears. That poem by e. e. cummings has always been your favorite, and to have it used against you -! You throw your hands out at your sides, bursting open the doors to the rooms beside you and further still, breaking the windows you’d so recently cleaned.

You need access to as much magic as you can pull from the world at large, and it gathers in your outstretched fists, furious and barely constrained. Embers of magic dart out to sink into your ankle, while others dance around you to fly off out of sight behind you, probably into Strange. Many seconds have passed, and you recognize your mistake in facing away and thus being unprepared for whatever his next move is, but you’re a breath away from casting your spell.

You’d practiced up to this moment a dozen times, triangulating your inner being on a single point, a necessary point in time and space. When you release your grasped magic, you’ll burst into countless points of light and coalesce at that one place. It’s the last step, the one you haven’t been able to complete yet, as it’s limited to one try. Wong’s precious library had taught it to you as the Sorcerer’s Elusion, a combination of illusion and eluding capture.

“Go on,” Strange says behind you, an odd sort of acceptance in his voice. The exultation from his capitulation is the last burst of energy you needed, and you complete the spell, slamming your hands together in an explosion of pain and panacea.

You arrive in a heap at Stephen Strange’s feet.

“No! What?” you groan.

Stephen throws himself down and pulls you to his chest, one hand brushing the tear-wet hair from your eyes. “I’m sorry, dearest.”

You’re completely spent, but the magically-crafted, fate-tuned pleasure in his touch is sour in the back of your throat as you struggle to pull back. You forget yourself in that moment, aiming your misery and disappointment directly at him. “Just give up! I’m too broken, it’s not right!”

“That has never been true, and it never will be,” your soulmate says. “Trust me, I’ve been there.”

He strokes his fingers across the fists you’re shoving him away with, and even through your tear-blurred eyes you can see the scars he also bears. “You deserve better,” you whisper.

“How far into the tome did you read, about the Elusion?”

“You’re just trying to distract me.” The quaver in your voice nullifies your attempt at outrage.

“No, I’m trying to figure out whether you’re impulsive or arrogant,” Stephen says, clearly amused. You lift your head and glare at him, but the damned man cups your face with his hand just as he’d done when speaking your Words. “It’s only been cast successfully three times, Sonnet. If that’s not proof you’re worthy to stand beside me, I don’t know what is.”

You blink up at him in disbelief, your instinctive retort falling flat. “There’s no chance that’s true.”

His smile is heart-stoppingly gorgeous. “You’re right, in a way-- it’s four times now. All of the others were life or death situations.” He lifts you up to a stand with impossible grace, adding, “We’ll never live it down, I hope you know that.”

“Hang on, now!” you burst out, frowning against the rush of rightness his words engender. “There’s no we! You and I barely know each other! I’ve spent our entire acquaintance avoiding you, and I just broke a bunch of the windows in the Sanctum attempting to--”

“--ruin my life, yes, I know. There are some trouble spots.”

“Trouble spots?!" Your lifelong instinct during outrageous moments such as these has always been to pace around, sometimes while gesticulating, but when you start, your soulmate catches your hand in his, arresting your spin. He tugs, and though you hold onto your reluctance as a matter of habit, you end up standing in front of him.

Only then do the words ‘ruin my life’ register, and it’s enough to cement your feet in place and really look at him. He seems utterly sincere, gentle even, and he uses that opportunity to take your other hand, clasping both lightly, a low-dipping bridge between the two of you.

“I’m going to ask you some yes or no questions. Is that all right?”

“I suppose,” you say, instead of ‘yes.’

There’s heat in the little chastising glare he offers, but Stephen just says, “Did you research soulmates?”

“Yes.”

“Did you research me?”

You bite your lip. “Yes.”

“You researched escape mechanisms, both physical and mystic?”

“Yes.”

“Did you research fairy tales?”

Your brows crinkle up. “What?”

Stephen squeezes your joined hands and smiles. “In fairy tales about lovers, the couple often must use magic in some transformative way to defeat the obstacle to ‘ever after.’ You just defeated yourself. Was it enough, or should I start looking out for feathers or bark while I get to know you? I don’t think I'd make a very good tree.”

There’s an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of your stomach. It flutters there, and every time it makes contact with your innards, you feel more comfortable with this possible future.

It seems like… there’s a chance… it just might be joy.

“Oh, come on, you’d make a majestic tree, what are you even talking about?”

Stephen looks at you like you matter, and it’s heady and glorious until the expression starts to fracture into amusement, and his eyes widen. “No, trust me, trust me,” he gasps out, holding back a laugh. He pulls your joined hands up to his chest and drags you close, looking more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, not that you’ve let yourself be near enough to really say that.

“Tell me,” you whisper, scared he’s just thought of something that means you were right all along, now that you’re almost on board with the crazy insanity that is being his soulmate.

“It’s a poetry joke. I thought of a perfect, terrible poetry joke. You were right to-- well no, you weren’t, but--”

Stephen shakes his head and swoops down, capturing your lips in a brief, intense kiss before he says, “Could you consider the Road Not Taken with me?”

Your lips buzz with possibilities, but something makes you shake off your happy intoxication just long enough to examine why Stephen is so very apologetic. In your head, you pull out the memory of the Robert Frost poem he’s referenced. Two roads diverge in a yellow-- WOOD.

“There it is,” Stephen murmurs.

“Maybe I do deserve you,” you grumble. His triumphant bark of laughter warms you from the inside out.

“I certainly hope so,” he rumbles, sliding a possessive hand into your hair and tipping your head up for a kiss. When your lips meet, all of the best lines of poetry in your memory coalesce into the perfect sonnet about how love (and obstinacy) conquers all.

#stephen strange fanfiction #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x you #doctor strange x reader #doctor strange x you #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #romance #soulmate au #humor #btw yes in fact i do know i will get more readers if i tag people but this happens to be the single only thing i'm fucking shy about #laugh about that for me lol

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 7 months ago

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Hello, Mr. Monster 8

Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader

Master list

Chapter Warnings: SMUT A/N: So... I did a sneaky in this chapter. First one to guess correctly gets a 500 word Sandman drabble (you can give me a prompt or let me go wild - your choice). This is the biggest tender!fuck I've ever seen. Like damn. It's an important beat between chapter arcs, and there are some themes/hints ya'll should really take note of. For reasons. All I want for my birthday are comments, my dears! <3 Thank you for your ongoing support.

8. Seal

What happened?

Creeping out of the fog, she swept together the distant pieces of her waking mind, looking for a thought, or a plan, or…

What happened?

She’d had a wonderful dream. Safe. Warm. Happy. If she could fall back asleep and drop back into that place – those arms – she would, but a sleeping mind never followed the same course. She was waking, and it was over.

But she didn’t remember going to bed.

That was all right. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten drunk or collapsed after days without sleep. Not a problem.

But –

She hadn’t set her wards.

Her eyes snapped open, and her hand sprang out, reaching for the bag of black salt she always kept near her bed in the van. Anything could come, anything could already be there. As she jerked to consciousness, full of half-remembered terror – the mirror, the unseelie, her skin, the dress – long fingers caught her flailing hand. They wove seamlessly between her own, pulling her attention down to starry eyes. Soft lips pressed to her knuckles, calling her back from the brink of delirium.

“All is well.” Morpheus’ thumb rubbed along her throbbing pulse, distracting her from her panic with tactile affection. He read the beat as her memory settled, as she recalled where she was and what they’d shared. He must have felt the spiking rhythm, too, judging by his smirk.

He was beautiful. And definitely naked under the grey silk sheets that gathered over his waist.

She licked her lips, at a loss for words as the butterflies she thought she’d banished sprang back to life in her stomach.

“Hello.”

Yes. Excellent. Definitely the most romantic greeting after waking up for the first time in a lover’s bed. In her fucking eldritch soulmate’s apparent love nest, actually. So far as she could tell, they weren’t even in a room. She could see him easily, but beyond the place where they were lying, she could only see vague, bushy shapes that could’ve been clouds or trees. Lights flickered in them. Maybe stars. Possibly fireflies.

No visible exits. Not even a floor, in fact.

Though it wasn’t like she was in a rush to leave.

“Hello.”

Following his gentle tug, she sank back to rest on her side, facing him.

He was so beautiful. She’d already thought it, but damn if it wasn’t worth thinking twice. With his disheveled raven hair and self-satisfied expression, he looked at least half as debauched as she felt.

Which reminded her.

Oh shit.

She was naked, too.

Her free hand moved towards the sheets that had fallen all the way to her thighs when she sat up, but his disapproving pout made her second guess herself.

Covering bare skin was instinctual. Especially after everything she’d suffered in –

No, no. Not thinking of that. She physically shook her head to banish the flashes of pain and fear trying to manifest.

She was safe. She was happy. Her Dream was real, and she could be vulnerable with him in this world apart. Nothing would hunt her here. Nothing would dare. He would avenge and protect her.

Carefully, consciously, she let her hand drift from the sheets, and Morpheus smiled in the wake of her decision.

“My love,” he purred, looping an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, “I want you.”

He nuzzled into her neck, kissing under her ear and finding new places her blood pounded under her skin. She found herself trying to remember language, how to speak in anything but sighs. Prince of Stories. Right. Whatever. Prince of Carnal Brainmelt more like. He made it impossible to think, working little bites over her flesh as he continued his eager assault, leaving her squirming, and desperate, and tongue-tied.

Even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt them burning far below her skin. Below flesh and bone. Stars were only cold because of their distance, and she was much too close to see them as anything but suns. She knew it was reckless to look, to stare back and let the heat blind her, but…

She couldn’t pull away now, even if she wanted to. He didn’t need prison bars and pansies to trap her.

Panting, she finally strung together an answer. “I want you, too.”

Her words brought him back to her lips, and he wasted no time licking into her mouth, sharing his heated groans. One hand slipped around to cradle her head. The one he’d used to reel her in crept down, brushing along her waist, squeezing her hip, and settling on her thigh. Strong fingers pulled her leg over his hip, and she groaned back into their kiss as his clear desire brushed her clit.

He didn’t press, only dragging himself through her folds as he explored her mouth. When she stopped for breath, he kissed under her chin, palm flexing just over her knee. She writhed with his slow strokes, enjoying the moment but far from satisfied.

“I need you.” Kissing his brow, his cheek, his lips, she sang her yearning. “I need you, Morpheus.”

Her words found him and burned the way his eyes flamed in her soul. She saw them kindling in his gaze as he pulled away to watch her face, swallowing every flicker of expression as he teased her entrance. And pushed inside.

The world hummed.

It was all beginnings and endings and discoveries. Dream was himself, and she was with him.

He moved so slowly, and she clung tight, shaking as the pleasure built with the inexorable pace of sunrise. Clutching his shoulder, his back, she fought to keep breathing, to keep her head above water as he pushed and pulled inside. Gods. He’d drown her, and she’d gladly find death here in his arms.

“You asked what I want.” He wasn’t as helpless to his physical manifestation as she was to her human body, but his rough voice proved how she affected him, and a sunburst of pride glowed in her breast. “Perhaps I was dishonest with myself. I want the measure of your dreams and your waking hours, too.”

He hunted for her fear, waiting for the golden moment to snap under the weight of his confession. His searching eyes flicked over hers, desperate but guarded. She didn’t know what to say. If she could say anything. But she wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t threatening her – this was an invitation. And she could only invite him back, let him feel the truths she couldn’t name yet.

Her hands settled on his face, trying to soothe the needles of anxiety, his anticipated despair. She offered more kisses, pulling at his lips, welcoming and reciprocating each touch in an effort to reach deeper. Too feel even more.

His grip on her thigh tightened, and he rolled half over her, leaving his sedate, almost drowsy lovemaking behind. Still tender, but openly needy, he picked up speed, using the new angle to his advantage.

She thought she’d been breathless before – fuck.

“I want… a life. A story. You.” He was begging. Commanding. On the cusp of claiming his own dream.

He didn’t take. He shared. They gave and met in true union, tasting elements beyond bodies to melt through time embrace destiny. A snare of their wyrds. A welcome loss wrapped in discovery.

Her heart would burst. There wasn’t enough of her to hold the love for something so vast as her monster, her Morpheus, and as he hiked her leg even higher on his waist, she grabbed him by the hair. She needed him. She needed his kiss, his breath, or she’d fall apart. He obliged, but she knew she’d go to pieces regardless.

As his thrusts grew more erratic, she broke.

The most exquisite destruction.

He pushed as deep as he could reach as she pulled out his own end, but he didn’t give her space to breathe. Rolling again so she was half draped – entirely boneless – over his chest, he kept his defiantly hard length inside. She’d have rest, but no peace.

Stroking her hair, he murmured into the crown of her head, “Stay, my love. I’m not ready to let you go.”

#fic: hello mr. monster #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless x original character #morpheus x original character #morpheus fanfiction #sandman x reader #female reader #named reader

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goldfades · 3 months ago

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𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒, 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐅𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 / 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈❜𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ─ SC⁸⁷

TRACK 12 ─── LOML

TTPD CELLY MASTERLIST !

౨ৎ ─ summary | caught in a cycle of love and heartbreak, you find yourself constantly returning to sidney crosby, the one person who promises everything but never follows through. as the years pass and the same promises echo between you, you’re left questioning if holding on is worth more than letting go

─ word count | 6.3k

─ warnings | ANGST ANGST ANGST, oh my god i teared up writing this (im on my period shut up). a rollercoaster of emotions, young love -> soulmate kinda vibe. on and off, just overall angsty (with no happy ending... its ttpd, what do u expect?) idk what else to add but like... if u need a good cry, read this

The night is colder than you remember, and the city lights are muted, softening the edges of every memory you have of this place. Pittsburgh’s skyline blurs through the frost on your windshield, each bright glow fading into the next as you pull into the parking lot of a bar you used to know so well. It’s different now—a new name, new sign, but the same chime of the bell when you push through the door, like a greeting from the past.

You used to come here all the time, back when the two of you were something. Not official, not permanent—never those things—but something more than a fling and less than a promise. He used to sit right there, at the corner booth, baseball cap pulled low and face half-hidden, and you’d slide in next to him like you belonged there. Because, for a while, you thought you did.

But now you stand there, scanning the faces, waiting to see if he’ll show. The text he sent still hangs heavy in your mind, words you could almost memorize by heart: Can we talk? I miss you. It’s always like this—a cycle you’ve danced for longer than you’d care to admit. He always says the right things, words that feel like they could anchor you in the storm of his life, but it’s always just a promise, never reality.

And that’s what scares you most.

Because this time, you don’t know if you’ll fall for it again.

───

It was summer, and everything was golden.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting shadows that danced along the edges of the makeshift hockey rink. You remember the smell of freshly cut grass, the distant hum of cicadas, and the way the air buzzed with a warmth that clung to your skin. You were barely a teenager, and the world felt infinite, stretched out before you like the blue sky above. It was one of those summer afternoons when the days felt endless and you thought you had all the time in the world.

The rink wasn’t anything special—just a patch of concrete nestled in the middle of the park, surrounded by chain-link fences and littered with the scuffs and scratches of a hundred other games. But for you, it was everything. Your brother had dragged you along, promising it would be “cool” and that the guys he played with wouldn’t care that you tagged along. You’d insisted on wearing his old jersey, the one that hung loose over your frame and brushed against your knees when you walked. It smelled faintly like sweat and summer afternoons, and even though it was too big, you wore it like armor.

He was already there when you arrived, leaning casually against the boards with his stick resting on his shoulder. He wore a backwards cap that made him look like an absolute douche, but you could still see the way his grin spread wide when he laughed. He was tall, at least compared to the other boys, and he had this presence about him—like he knew exactly where he belonged, and it was right there on that concrete. He radiated this easy confidence, the kind that made people naturally gravitate toward him, and you found yourself watching him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

“Hey, kid, you play?” he called out as your brother introduced you to the group. His voice was light, teasing, but there was something in it that made you straighten your shoulders, determined to prove you weren’t just some tag-along.

You lifted your chin, clutching your stick a little tighter. “Yeah, I do.”

A laugh rippled through the group, and he tilted his head, an eyebrow raised in a way that seemed to dare you. “Alright, show me.”

You skated out onto the concrete, feeling the rough texture beneath your sneakers, the familiar push and glide that came as natural as breathing. You could feel the eyes on you, the judgment, the expectation that you’d stumble or falter.

But you didn’t.

You skated like you always did—like you had something to prove, even when no one was watching. You could feel the summer breeze tugging at your hair, could hear the sounds of sticks clashing, wheels spinning, and the distant shouts of kids playing in the park. The world faded into a blur of movement and sound, and for a moment, it was just you and the puck, gliding across the concrete.

When you stopped, stick planted firmly, the puck resting right where you aimed, you turned to face him. His grin had shifted into something softer, something that looked like approval. He nodded, a small movement that somehow felt like a victory, like you’d passed some unspoken test.

“You’re pretty good,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m Sidney.”

You told him your name, trying to play it cool, but there was something about the way he looked at you, something that made your heart beat a little faster. You brushed it off—he was just another kid, another boy who thought he ruled the rink. But when he passed you the puck during the game, when he skated close enough that you could hear his breath, quick and heavy, you felt something shift, like the start of a story you hadn’t planned on telling.

The hours blurred together, the sun sinking lower as the sky melted into hues of orange and pink. You played until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from smiling. He was quick, his movements sharp and precise, but he had this way of gliding past the others like he was weightless, like he’d been born on skates. And every time he sent the puck your way, you felt that rush again, that thrill of being seen, of being chosen.

At one point, when you stopped to catch your breath, he skated up beside you, close enough that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes. “You should come out more often,” he said, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “We could use someone like you.”

You shrugged, pretending like you hadn’t already made up your mind. “Maybe.”

But deep down, you knew you’d come back.

And when he grinned, that slow, easy grin that made you feel like you were sharing a secret, you realized that maybe this was the start of something. Something that felt like endless summer days and the thrill of chasing after something just out of reach.

He was only a boy then, and you were only a girl with skates too big for your feet and dreams too big for your chest. But that was the thing about summer—everything felt possible. And standing there, the light catching in his hair and the warmth of his presence radiating like a sunbeam, you felt like you’d met someone who could make it all come true.

The years rolled on like they always do, slow and steady until you looked back and realized how quickly time had slipped by. What started as childhood games on concrete rinks and sticky summer nights turned into something deeper, something that felt like it could last forever.

When you were sixteen, things shifted. You’d always been friends, maybe even best friends. By then, he was already “Sid the Kid,” the local legend whose name was whispered with reverence around the rinks. But to you, he was just Sidney—the same boy who laughed with you when you scored, who always had an extra stick in his bag just in case, who stayed up late with you, lying on the cool grass, tracing constellations with his finger.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and the secret smiles, friendship turned into something more. It wasn’t a single moment; it was a thousand little ones, each building on the next until you both looked up and realized you weren’t just kids playing pretend anymore.

The first time he kissed you, it was right before his first big tournament. You’d been nervous for him, more nervous than he seemed to be. You’d walked down to the empty rink at dusk, the air cool and the sky the color of fading ink. You remember how his hand felt, warm and solid as it slipped into yours, and how he turned to you, eyes bright with something you hadn’t seen before. The kiss was tentative, like he was testing the waters, but it felt like fireworks, a spark in the night that you carried with you long after you pulled away.

From then on, you were something more—together but not quite official. You tried not to think about it too much, content with what you had. You showed up at every game, standing in the crowd with his number on your back, feeling that thrill when he’d glance your way. You’d spend the evenings together, sometimes in the rink, sometimes out by the water, stealing moments in between practices and tournaments. For a while, it was perfect.

Then, life happened.

He got drafted, and everything changed. He moved to Pittsburgh, and suddenly the boy who was always around, who could text or call at any hour, was miles away, caught up in a whirlwind of cameras, contracts, and the pressures of professional hockey. You were still in high school then, watching him from afar, cheering him on from a distance. You told yourself it was fine, that the distance didn’t matter, and that you were both still too young to worry about anything more than the present.

But even then, you could feel the space between you growing.

In his rookie year, you made the decision to move to Pittsburgh. You’d gotten into a college nearby, and when you called to tell him, he was ecstatic. You’d never forget the way his voice sounded on the phone—relieved, almost. Like he’d been waiting for you, hoping you’d make the leap. And so you did. You left your friends, your family, everything familiar to be closer to him. It felt like a grand, romantic gesture—the kind you saw in movies. But in the back of your mind, you knew it was more than that.

The first year was a whirlwind. You were in the stands for his games, holding your breath every time he took a shot, cheering louder than anyone when he scored. Off the ice, it felt like the two of you were creating a life together, slowly but surely. You moved in together, and even though his schedule was insane—practices, games, interviews—there were still those quiet moments.

Mornings when you’d wake up to him already gone, but with a note on the counter that read, I’ll be back soon. Evenings when he’d come home exhausted but would pull you into his arms like nothing else in the world mattered. It was enough, more than enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the cracks started to show. At first, it was small things—missed dinners, texts that went unanswered because he was “caught up in meetings.” Then, the fights started. You’d ask him about the future—where were you going, what were you to each other? He’d dodge the questions, promising you that things would be easier once the season was over, once the next championship was done, once his contract was sorted out.

You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that you were both still young, that you had time. But every time you saw him, it felt like you were grasping at something that was always just slipping out of reach.

The first breakup came after his rookie season. You’d been together for two years, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you, the uncertainty, the feeling that maybe you’d given up too much, too soon. You remember standing in the doorway, watching him lace up his skates, and asking, for the first time, why you weren’t moving forward. He looked at you, eyes soft but distant, and said he didn’t know. That maybe things were moving too fast. You didn’t yell, didn’t cry. You just nodded, kissed him one last time, and left.

It was the first time you thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to be with you the way you needed him to be. But it wasn’t the last.

Over the next few years, it was the same dance—back and forth, the two of you pulled together by some invisible force that neither of you could name, only to be pushed apart by the same old arguments, the same doubts.

Each time you broke up, it felt like the end.

You’d tell yourself that this time, it was really over. You’d pack your things, move out, and try to rebuild your life. But then, he’d call. Sometimes it was months later, sometimes just weeks, but it was always the same: I miss you. I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now.

And every time, you believed him.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like you were the only person who really knew him, who understood the weight he carried every time he stepped onto the ice. Or maybe it was the promises he’d make when he held you close, whispering that one day he’d put a ring on your finger, that one day you’d have a family together. You told yourself that this time would be different, that you could trust him, that he was finally ready.

But each time, it ended the same way. The season would start, and he’d get caught up again—first in the games, then in the championships, then in the next contract. And you’d find yourself alone, the same questions building up, the same empty promises echoing in your head.

It went on like that for years. You tried dating other people, tried moving on, but it was always temporary. No one else felt like home the way he did, and you hated yourself for it. You’d built your life around someone who couldn’t give you the future he kept promising, and the worst part was, you kept going back.

You remember the last time you walked away. It was after another fight, the same one you’d had a dozen times before. You’d asked him about the future, and he’d given you that same look, the one that told you he was already pulling away. But this time, when he said, I just need time, you didn’t have the strength to believe him. You nodded, the lump in your throat too tight to speak, and left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

And now, you find yourself back where it all started, years later, wondering if he’s changed. If this time, when he said I miss you, it really meant something. But deep down, you already know the answer.

It’s the same as it’s always been.

───

You scan the room, your heart pounding, eyes darting from one face to another, hoping—no, dreading—that you’ll see him. Part of you wants to run, to turn around and pretend you never agreed to meet him. But the other part, the part that still holds on to the memories of you and him when things were easy, when love was simple and uncomplicated, keeps your feet rooted to the floor.

He’s always late, and you’ve learned to hate it. It’s not just a bad habit—it’s a symbol of everything between you two, a reminder that he always has something, or someone, else pulling him in another direction. Every time he tells you he’ll be there, every time you stand waiting, it’s like a countdown until he lets you down again.

You glance down at your phone, the screen lighting up with the time: fifteen minutes past when he said he’d be here. You think about leaving, about saving yourself the heartache. You’ve done this dance so many times before. You know the steps, know the way it’ll play out if you wait long enough. He’ll walk in, breathless and apologetic, and those eyes—God, those eyes—will soften when they find yours. He’ll look at you like you’re the only thing that’s kept him steady in a world that’s always moving too fast.

And you’ll feel your resolve slip, just like it always does.

Your hand tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white as you try to steel yourself against the pull of old memories. You think back to the last time you saw him, to the way he looked at you when you said enough. It had been one of those fights, the ones that started small—something about how he missed dinner again, or how you were the only one trying—and escalated into everything you’d ever bottled up. You told him you were tired of waiting, tired of hearing him say he was ready when all he ever did was prove otherwise.

He’d stood there, silent, watching you with that look—the one that said he was sorry but not enough to change. And you left, thinking that maybe this time, you’d finally meant it. That you could walk away and not look back.

But now, here you are, back in the same place, waiting.

A familiar ache spreads through your chest as the seconds tick by, every moment without him another chance for doubt to creep in. You don’t want to be here, don’t want to be the person who keeps holding out hope when all it ever does is hurt. But despite everything, you can’t help the part of you that still believes. The part that whispers this time could be different, even when you know it won’t be.

Just when you’ve almost convinced yourself to leave, the door swings open. Your breath catches as you spot him, shoulders hunched slightly like he’s unsure of how to approach. He looks older, wearier than you remember, but it’s him. The moment his eyes lock with yours, you feel it—the same rush, the same pull that’s always been there, drawing you back in.

He smiles, that small, tentative smile that used to melt your defenses. It’s like he knows exactly how to walk that line between sincerity and charm, and you hate how well it works. You fight the urge to return it, to let that familiar warmth bloom in your chest, and instead, you keep your expression neutral.

He crosses the room with that unhurried stride, his gaze never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he stops, just a foot away, close enough that you can smell the faint hint of his cologne—a scent you’d once known better than your own. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, like he’s memorizing the way you look right now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“Hey.” Your response is cool, guarded. You’re not going to make this easy for him, not this time.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck—a habit you know means he’s nervous. “I’m sorry I’m late. Got caught up—”

You cut him off, tired of the same excuses. “It’s always something with you, Sid.”

He flinches, and you almost feel guilty. Almost. But then you remember all the times you waited, all the empty promises, and you stand your ground.

“I know,” he says softly. “You’re right.”

The words hang between you, heavy with everything that’s come before. It’s different this time. Usually, he jumps right into the apologies, into telling you how much he missed you, how he’s ready now, how he’s changed. But tonight, he just stands there, the look on his face a mixture of regret and something else you can’t quite read.

And maybe that’s the problem. You’ve never been able to fully read him. You’ve spent years trying, and every time you think you’ve figured him out, he slips away. You wonder if he knows how much it hurts—wonder if he even cares.

“So, what is it this time?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest, your eyes searching his for any sign of what he’s thinking. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He exhales, a slow, deep breath that seems to carry the weight of everything you’ve been through together. “I just—” he starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

You shake your head, the familiar ache settling into your bones. “You always miss me when I’m gone.”

His gaze snaps back to yours, and for a moment, you see something raw in his eyes—something real. “No, I mean it. I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I’m tired of losing you.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But the words feel like echoes of promises he’s made a hundred times before. And the part of you that’s always been waiting, hoping, feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

“Prove it,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is racing. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Sid. I can’t keep falling for the same lines.”

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, you feel the pull again—the magnetic force that’s always drawn you back to him, no matter how many times you’ve tried to walk away. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

But as he reaches for your hand, you can’t help but brace yourself for the familiar sting of disappointment. Because no matter what he says, you know how this story ends.

He glanced down, looking down at the promise ring on your finger. Your ring finger. The same ring he'd given you many years ago, before he left for Pittsburgh. He told you it was just the beginning, a placeholder for something bigger. Something that, back then, felt like a certainty. You remember the way he slipped it on your finger, his hands steady and sure. His eyes shone with the same excitement you felt—like the future was a road you were both eager to walk down together.

“I’ll get you the real thing one day,” he’d promised, his voice brimming with that youthful conviction. “Just wait for me.”

And you did. For years, you wore that ring like a badge of honor, a symbol of everything you believed you were building together. When he left for Pittsburgh, you told yourself it was only temporary. Distance was just another hurdle, and the two of you had overcome so many already. You visited him during breaks, and every time he came home, it felt like picking up right where you left off. You thought nothing could break that bond.

Now, standing in front of him, you can see it in his eyes—that same look he’s always given you when he knows he’s let you down. But there’s a hesitation there, too, a weight he’s carrying that wasn’t there before. You wonder if he’s finally seeing it the way you do—if he’s finally realizing that words and promises are never enough.

He reaches for your hand, his thumb grazing the cool, faded metal of the ring. “I know I’ve said it before, but I—”

You pull your hand back, your chest tightening with all the years of waiting, all the times you’ve heard those same words and let yourself believe them. “Don’t. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

His jaw tenses, and he looks up, his eyes searching yours. “I do mean it,” he says, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. “I know I haven’t been fair to you. I know I’ve asked too much.”

You shake your head, the anger and sadness mixing together until they’re almost indistinguishable. “No, Sidney, you’ve taken too much. You’ve taken years of my life—years I can’t get back.”

He winces, and you can see the hurt flash across his face, but you don’t pull back. You can’t. “I’ve given up everything for you—my job, my plans, my own life—because I believed in this. I believed in us. But every time, you leave. Every time, you break your promise.”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can speak. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep living my life waiting for a future that’s never going to come.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, and you can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words—words that you know won’t change anything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it feels like the final nail in the coffin. “I know I don’t deserve you. But I’m here now, and I want to make it right.”

You look down at the ring, that small circle of metal that once meant everything to you. It feels heavy now, like a weight dragging you down, a reminder of all the time you’ve spent waiting for something that never happened.

“I can’t wait forever,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need more than just words, Sid.”

For a moment, it looks like he might finally say something real, something that could change everything. But instead, he just stands there, silent, and you feel your heart break a little more. Because you know, deep down, that he doesn’t have an answer. He never has.

“You still wear it,” he spoke slowly, glancing down at the ring. “Doesn't that mean something? Anything? That maybe, maybe we should give this another try?”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle around you like a storm cloud. It’s so typical of him, to latch onto the smallest signs, to twist reality just enough to make it feel like there’s hope. It’s the same hope that’s kept you coming back time and time again, like a moth drawn to the flicker of a flame.

But this time, that flame feels like it’s burning out.

“Sidney, I never stopped loving you,” you admit, and it’s the raw truth, the kind you’ve tried to keep buried for so long. “But love isn’t the problem. It’s everything else. It’s you telling me we have a future and then disappearing when it matters. It’s you making promises you can’t keep.”

He reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll slip away for good. “I’m different now. I’m ready. I know I said that before, but this time—”

“No,” you interrupt, pulling your arm back, the frustration building in your chest. “You’ve said that every time. You tell me you’re ready, that things will be different, and I believe you because I want to believe you. But then the same thing happens—you get busy, the season gets hard, and suddenly I’m on the sidelines again, waiting for you to make time for me.”

His shoulders slump, and he looks down, like he can’t face the truth of his own words. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I’ve messed up. But I swear, this time—”

“Sid, listen to yourself.” You cross your arms, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “This time, next time—there’s always a next time. But it’s just a cycle. It always has been. And I don’t know if I can keep believing that things will change when they never do.”

His eyes lock onto yours, and there’s a flash of something you haven’t seen before—fear, maybe, or the realization that you’re slipping away. “But I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I can’t lose you.”

For a second, your resolve wavers. You see the boy you fell in love with, the one who used to hold your hand in the stands and tell you he couldn’t imagine his life without you. But the boy grew up, and his dreams took him places you were never a part of, no matter how hard you tried to be.

“You already have, Sid,” you whisper, feeling the ache spread through your chest. “You lost me a long time ago when you chose everything else over us. And I don’t think you even realize it.”

He steps closer, his hand hovering near your face like he’s afraid to touch you, like you’re something fragile that might break. “I’m trying, okay? I’m here now. I’m trying to make it right.”

You close your eyes, fighting the tears threatening to fall. “You always say that. But it’s not about showing up when it’s convenient for you. It’s about showing up when it’s hard, when things aren’t perfect, and proving that I’m more than just an option.”

When you open your eyes, you see the pain on his face, and it almost makes you want to take it all back, to say that you’ll try again, that you’ll believe him just one more time.

But you can’t. Not anymore.

“Tell me what to do,” he pleads, desperation clear in every word. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

But that’s just it. It’s not something you can tell him. It’s something he has to want, something he has to choose—without you holding his hand through it, without you putting your life on pause, waiting for him to catch up.

“I can’t tell you how to love me, Sid,” you say, and it feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. “You either do, or you don’t. But I can’t be the one always holding this together. It has to be both of us, or it’s nothing.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he hesitates, and in that silence, you feel everything shift. It’s as if the reality of the situation is finally sinking in for both of you.

“Maybe…” you start, your voice cracking, “maybe this was always going to be the end.”

His face pales, and you see the fear flash through his eyes, but you hold firm. “I can’t keep living in the past, hoping you’ll change. I need more than just words, and if you can’t give me that, then…” You take a deep breath, the weight of the years falling away with each word. “Then maybe we need to let go.”

Sidney’s lips part as if to protest, but then he stops. His hand falls away from yours, and the emptiness between you feels colder than the Pittsburgh winters.

You let out a bitter chuckle as the tears begin to fall. “We could've had a good life together, Sid. Everything you could've wanted. Kids, a nice house and some... some cute dogs,”

It seemed silly to say, but it was the truth. You swallowed as you looked, trying to stifle your incoming sobs. “And it would’ve been ours. Not just mine, or yours—ours.”

The words are raw, cutting through the stillness between you. You can feel the sobs building in your chest, threatening to spill out, but you hold them back, just for a moment longer. “But you never wanted that. Not really. Not enough to make it real.”

Sidney’s face crumples, and he looks like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. “You always talk about wanting it all—wanting me, wanting the life we could have had, but then you pull away the second it gets too real. And I’m tired, Sid. I’m so damn tired of giving everything to someone who can’t meet me halfway.”

He shifts, taking a hesitant step forward, like he’s testing the waters, his eyes pleading. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want it,” he says, voice rough and cracking. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration evident. “I didn’t know how to balance it all. I thought I’d have more time, that we’d figure it out eventually.”

“Eventually?” you repeat, the bitterness seeping through. “Sid, we’ve been at this for years. Years of back and forth, of me waiting for you to choose me. To really choose me. And every time, it’s the same story. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that things will be different.”

He stands there, shoulders hunched, and you can see the struggle in his eyes. It’s the same look he’s given you countless times before, like he wants so badly to fix things but doesn’t know where to start. It makes your heart ache because you know, deep down, he’s not a bad person. He’s just… lost.

And maybe, you realize, he always will be.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I just—every time I tried to make things work, it felt like something else came up, and I kept thinking if I waited just a little longer—”

“Then everything would magically fall into place?” you cut in, shaking your head. “Life doesn’t work that way, Sid. Love doesn’t work that way. You can’t keep putting off what you want, what you need, and expect everything to turn out okay in the end.”

He takes another step forward, reaching out like he’s about to pull you in, but you take a step back, needing the distance. “I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you say, the tears finally streaming down your cheeks. “I just needed you to try. To show up. To prove that I was worth fighting for. But it feels like every time I turn around, you’re already halfway out the door.”

His expression falters, and you know he wants to argue, to tell you that it’s different this time, that he’s ready now. But you’ve heard it all before, and the words have lost their meaning.

“I wanted the house,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I wanted the dogs, the kids, all of it. I wanted us, Sidney. And I believed we could have it. But you kept pushing it off, and now… I don’t know if I can keep waiting for something that might never come.”

He reaches out again, and this time, you let him. His hand closes around yours, and it feels both familiar and foreign—like holding on to a memory that’s slipping through your fingers.

“I love you,” he says, and there’s a desperation in his voice that makes your heart clench. “I’ve always loved you.”

You give him a sad smile, knowing that, despite everything, that much is true. “I know,” you say, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

And as you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the cold, you hope—maybe for the first time—that you’ll be strong enough to let go. Because you know if you don’t, this cycle will only repeat itself. And you can’t keep breaking your own heart for someone who won’t give you the life you’ve always wanted.

That night, you dreamed of the house. The kids, and the dogs and of him. You'd wake up, it would feel like how it did the day you met—warm and safe, like everything in the world had finally fallen into place.

The sun would stream through the windows of that little house you imagined, its golden light wrapping you in the kind of warmth you’d always craved. You’d roll over, and there he’d be, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his eyes still heavy with sleep but soft, so soft, like he was seeing the whole world in you.

The kids would run down the hall, their laughter echoing, filling the space between your shared breaths. You’d rise together, slowly, and there would be no rush, no impending flight or long distance to worry about. Just you, him, and that perfect slowness of a morning spent together. The dogs would bound into the room, tails wagging, and the day would unfold in simple, perfect moments—breakfast at the table, messy hair and pajamas, the feeling of his hand on yours as he refilled your coffee cup.

It would feel right.

And in that dream, it would all make sense—why you’d waited so long, why you’d kept coming back, even when you knew better. Because in that world, in that life, you had everything you’d ever wanted. It was real, and it was whole, and there were no questions, no doubts, no space for the silence that always lingered between you in reality.

But then, you’d wake up.

You’d open your eyes to the quiet, dark room, the emptiness of your side of the bed. There’d be no warm sunlight, no laughter echoing through the halls, no weight of his arm pulling you close. Just the cold, still air of your apartment, the hum of the city outside, and the realization that it was all just a dream—a dream you’d had a thousand times before, and one you knew you’d have again.

And as you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, you’d feel that ache settle in your chest. The one that reminded you that no matter how real it felt, it was only ever going to be a figment of your imagination. Because the truth was, you had to wake up alone.

In that moment, you’d wonder if he ever dreamed of it too—if he ever pictured that life, those mornings, the way you did. If he ever saw a future where he stayed, where he chose you and didn’t let go. But you knew that even if he did, it wasn’t enough. Because while you were left clinging to dreams, he was off living a life that didn’t have room for you in it.

You’d curl back into the blankets, pulling them tight around you, pretending for just one more moment that the warmth was him. That maybe, one day, you’d wake up to the life you’d always imagined, and it wouldn’t slip away like morning mist.

But until then, all you had were the dreams and the memories of a love that almost was—almost, but never quite enough.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

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honeyhotteoks · 9 months ago

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i genuinely can't stop thinking about yunho as a fallen angel... like...

yunho’s catholic confirmation name is stefano, which is i believe a reference to saint stephen. saint stephen is the patron saint of several different things, but the one that caught my eye was the patron saint of coffin makers. ive had that knowledge churning around in my brain for a long time, especially after watching the kdrama doom at your service, but after seeing these pictures my mind is absolutely spinning with fallen angel soulmate yunho brain rot……… so come along with me

•

fallen angel yunho. he's been wandering the earth for years, passing through life and people and history and he's never known the reason that he was cast out until he meets her, you. he hears you first, a distant voice in the back of his mind, a prayer to his saintly name, a name he hasn't heard in what feels like a millennia. a whisper to saint stephen, the man he used to be, many years and many bodies ago.

no one prays to him anymore, not really. certainly not a voice like yours, ringing clearly and angrily in his ear, a bitter request for a coffin to be ready in early spring. he thinks about the way it's almost winter now, the air turning crisp, and he wonders what in your life has you so angry and yet so practical about death.

he thinks of you for days, weeks, idlily waiting to hear the voice again. he dreams of it, sometimes wakes from a stone sleep to your bitter tenor, the clear catch of tears in your throat, but it's always a memory. he finds himself wandering the city for you, searching through churches, reverent houses of worship that you might be hiding away in. he doesn't expect to find your voice ringing out clear as day across the crowded room of a museum, full of life and joy and the picture of health.

he finds a way to speak to you, he's practiced in the art of conversation, of seduction even when the end goal isn't sex. he just wants to know you, to hear your pretty prayer in person, to understand your voice just a little and why in the world you were praying to him and not god himself like everyone else. in the midst of many, he makes a space for you both alone, the connection and the pull immediate and essential.

for a while, you make him smile, laugh, relax, he feels more at ease and more like a person than he ever would have expected. he doesn't understand you or your prayer though, not until you cough painfully, fitfully into your sleeve and he sees the bright kiss of blood at the corner of your lips. he never imagined you sick, but he supposes it makes sense. in all the versions of meeting you he imagined, this outcome wasn’t one he ever entertained.

he's never watched someone he's loved die before, at least not since his first life, and shamefully he barely remembers the names of his family from then. but somehow he knows he'll remember yours, the way he aches is altogether new and even though he knows it would be better to watch over you from afar, he just can't. and it doesn't help that you keeps finding your way to him around every corner of the city, coincidence after coincidence. so easy to joke about how it must be fate when it is in fact fate, pulling you tightly together and tying the knot tight.

he allows himself to love you then, and you allow yourself one last, good thing. he never lies about who and what he is, and you never really believe him, for all you know he's just a figment of your imagination. a hallucination from one of your tumors like the doctor warned you about. you think if cancer can give you one gift before dying, at least it's him.

for a little while yunho thinks his purpose in falling from grace was to love you, after all you prayed to him, no matter how bitterly. but he understands the truth the moment he meets your daughter, the moment he realizes his purpose for you is much more than momentary, final happiness.

and so he carries you forward through those final months, easing your pain and your giving you one last chance at real, lasting love. and he helps ease you into the other side, his promises whispered tearfully into your hair, that he'll see you again but only after he stays by her side. your child's own guardian angel, happy to watch over her and guide her until it's her time to come home too.

and of course, that means he has to wait. you both do, but he's already waited, even when he didn't know what he was waiting for.

#this is straight rambling #but i know i can commit to writing this fic #so please have a wildly fleshed out idea #honeyhotteoks updates #yunho brain rot #cw cancer #cw death #but like i’m so sorry yunho is prime soulmates fic fodder #like red thread of fate!!!!!!

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bangsinc · 2 years ago

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A Spot x Reader

Where Spot is feeling super insecure - mainly bc everyone left him bc he became the spot but only the Reader stayed. And so when he becomes insecure about himself and not feeling good enough for Reader — can reader lift him up and tell him how perfect he is? 🤭 Something along those lines.. Totally feel free to add or change anything!!

💕Insecurities (Hcs/Drabble)💗

This is so so adorable! Ofc I’ll do this :). And thank you so much for being so polite!!! I’m sorry for the wait btw everyone, I’m working on requests I promise! I’ve jus gotten very sick B)

Also, just wanna add I’ll be making a masterlist for my stuff since so many ppl are requesting and I want it to be easy for everyone to find stuff! <3 and ill be making better cards

Days and nights seemed to never go by ever since the collider incident. Jonathan Ohnn, a man higher than life itself it seemed, reduced to nothing. He yearned for the life he once had, the fame, the community, the job.. but then again, he’d let what happen happen again if it meant you would be there for him.

You were the only person who understood his struggles, it seemed. But words and actions can’t heal wounds easily. He finds himself rather frequently lying awake at night and wondering what could have been. There’s so much he can’t do for you. So much he can never provide. Not even a kiss.

But.. every morning, he wakes up in your arms nonetheless. Your comfort never-ending, your words charming enough to even get to a man like him. A man who believes he’s not worth anything of the sort.

The longer you’re together, the more assured he is that you’re his soulmate, his one and only. He would never be possessive, or sociopathic to you though, but he believes your connection is more than mortal. He’s never seen unconditional love before, and he wishes to cherish it while it’s in his arms.

Often you find yourself holding him, lulling him to sleep despite his cries. He can’t shed tears, but his voice speaks more than his emotions. He’s learned to be good at that skill, since his face is.. nothing.

He holds onto you, begging to never leave him, but your words continue to come. You don’t shun him, or mock him for being so vunerable either. He’s yours, and you’re his.

He knows he can never repay this, he knows that he can’t even show the same affection you show for him, and he most certainly knows one thing. That you love him, forever and always.

The raidos melody flew past the both of your ears as you layed down on the comforter, the fabric clinging to Spots face as he spoke what could only be considered gibberish. His body, while erratic, never dared to move away from your touch. It was all he could feel, all he could care about in that moment.

“Y..you don’t need to always comfort me it—it’s nothing I..” He takes a deep breath, his hand covering the hole on his face to convey embarassment. You use this opportunity to hold his face in your hands, your bodies entangled. The raido was a distant memory, for now.

His cries don’t cease, at first. Instead, he clings to you, his arms wrapping around your figure in a desperate attempt to prove that this wasn’t something that.. would go away. Something that wouldn’t change. He could change, and you could change, but your love for eachother remained. Your love will change, but sometimes change is good.

He’s coming to learn that.

#spiderman #the spot x reader #the spot #across the spiderverse #spider man #into the spider verse #spiderverse imagine #amazing spider man #marvel #marvel x reader #yayyyyy #lovethisrequestbtw

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jjameslily · 3 months ago

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tied to you, ch. 3

soulmate au - a continuation of my microfic posted for jilymicofic's august prompt ( read chapter on AO3 )

if i ever promised chapters would be 1k or less no i didnt

“What?” Her voice cracked, the word barely escaping her lips.

“Were you aware of the connection?” The man repeated calmly.

She blinked, realizing with a start that she had stopped listening. His words were a distant noise, only half-processed as her mind wandered.

It hadn’t been long since she had stirred awake, sunlight coming through the high windows of the hospital wing. The day blurred as she was quietly led from her bed to a cramped office beside the infirmary. Pomfrey had closed the door behind her, leaving Lily alone with a man dressed in healer robes now sitting across from her.

The question hung between them as her mind flitted from one hazy memory to another—fleeting and half-forgotten moments from her childhood she had buried deep. But even as she tried to dig them up, none made any sense to her. She shook her head slowly, her throat tight from the moment the healer had begun to speak.

“Ms. Evans,” the healer filled the silence, “I can understand this is all quite overwhelming. But if you wish to have better control over your connection, you must open yourself to it.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “You mean what happened wasn’t normal?”

He shook his head. “It’s difficult to classify anything as ‘normal’, as the manifestations are quite rare, but I suspect what happened last night could be an effect of a suppressed bridge between souls.”

Her breath caught. “Rare?”

“While we once believed having a soulmate in itself wasn’t entirely uncommon, their manifestations have certainly dwindled since the old days.” He paused, as if he was giving her a moment to catch up. “To put it simply, it’s rare that a bond presents itself clearly—if at all—nowadays. One could live their entire life completely unaware they’re only half of one whole.”

“What makes it manifest then?”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “Soulmate bonds are ancient magic, and very unpredictable. There aren’t fixed rules to them nor are there any leading studies that suggest one reason over another. It just… happens.” The healer paused, studying her carefully before continuing, “For now, I recommend meeting with me over the next few weeks, to guide you through…”

But Lily’s mind began to drift again, the healer unable to keep her attention. Soulmates… suppressed bridge…old magic… She could barely process it. Her stomach was in knots as the idea shifted uncomfortably within her.

Who was her soulmate? How was she meant to find them? Did she want to? The gnawing loneliness she had always carried—had it been shared or had it been her own doing by closing herself off and building her walls up for years until it was just a distant period of her childhood?

When the healer was satisfied her condition was stable, Lily was allowed to take the rest of the day off from classes to rest. She let her feet carry her absentmindedly, moving with the vague intention of heading to her dormitory. The laughter of students rang in the corridors and faces rushed past her, the noise muffled as Lily wandered aimlessly, disconnected from it all.

It wasn’t until the sharp breeze touched her skin that she felt herself pulled back into her body. Her legs had carried her toward the lake, its glistening surface providing her some relief under the late afternoon sun.

Lily wasn’t sure what drew her to it. Perhaps it was the way the water reflected the sky as it did in her dream. She imagined herself back in that forest, the trees rustling in the breeze around her, the invisible string tugging at her hand. Without realizing it, she began to reach out—not with her hands, but with something from deep within her.

Hello? The word drifted out, awkward and clumsy. The image of a deer blinking back at her made her feel foolish as she was met with silence.

For a moment, nothing happened. The stillness wrapped around her, amplifying her uncertainty as she waited with only the sound of her heartbeat drumming in her ears.

But then a laugh filled the empty space. Something not just heard, but felt—and somehow familiar. It brought forward a surge of color, a small spark that flickered in the darkness, and she then sensed it—a presence.

Don’t worry, came an amused response. I’m human.

Lily’s breath hitched as she heard his voice in her mind. The sensation was like a light breeze stirring around her, or the brush of fingertips just barely grazing skin. It was gentle, almost deliberate in the way it slowly came to.

It’s you, she said almost in a daze.

He didn’t say anything, but hesitation fluttered within her. She was stunned at the realization that the feeling wasn’t her own.

Soulmate. The word she had heard all morning seemed to glow as she thought it, escaping before she could reel it in. In this part of her mind, her thoughts and words were intertwined in thin, silvery ropes that she struggled to differentiate.

His presence hummed in response either way. Didn’t you know?

How would I have known?

Her memories came rushing through then, crashing like waves on the shore, too loud and too fast. The healer’s clinical tone as he spoke to her, the clicking of his pen as he wrote down notes, Lily’s guilt as she grappled with the fact that she had intentionally suppressed their bond—yet completely unaware that someone was on the other side of it.

There was an indistinct shudder that passed through them, then a pause. In the silence, she felt him sifting through the tendrils of their shared connection, brushing against her thoughts tentatively. A feeling of surprise surged through her, tinged with something else.

I thought you did... We’ve talked before, just once.

Lily felt the ghost of his own memory surfacing, almost as if she was recalling it herself. Grief pooled like cold water in her chest as he unraveled the memory slowly, almost carefully. Hands clutching a tear-stained t-shirt, the sound of her shuddering breath as she held back her sobs, the force in which he felt her voice calling out to him. As gently as he tried, it still tugged painfully at her as she remembered willing herself to believe it was her father—needing it to be her father—who had spoken to her one last time.

Everything around them began to shake. It was too much.

Without a word, she pivoted from the memory, every image and every feeling shattering like glass. As everything fell away, she was plunged into what felt like an endless void, the sensation leaving her disoriented and nauseous as noise buzzed loudly in her ears. Instinctively, Lily reached out for something solid, desperately searching the contents of her mind for anything to ground her, and in an instant, the darkness fell away—replaced by something else entirely.

It was like stepping into a room bathed in rich golden hues, the kind that filtered through windows on a brilliant summer’s day. It was as though the air itself was sparkling with life, filling the space with a gentle hum that radiated through her and ignited a sense of comfort.

Where her own mind felt like a maze of closed doors and shadows, this space was inviting and bright. She didn’t feel the need to push past any barriers or pry anything open.

And, suddenly, it struck her that this was him—his consciousness.

His amber-lit presence filled the room effortlessly, welcoming her as if he had nothing to hide.

I’m sorry, he said earnestly. I should have warned you about the memories.

What was that?

I’m not sure… I didn't realize you could do that. We’ve never been connected this long.

As she settled into this new space, she realized how calm he had been, despite it all. You don’t seem surprised having a stranger’s voice in your head, she accused.

Well, I’d argue we’re not strangers , he said, and almost as if to tease her, the word that had escaped from her mind earlier floated back to the surface.

Cheeky, she replied, unamused. You must think you know me well enough to be this annoying already.

His laugh rumbled deep and warm, a pleasant sort of sensation that vibrated through her. Lily was surprised by the way she responded to it.

I’ve known you your whole life, he said smoothly.

Just casually lurking in the background all this time, were you?

Let me show you, he said, his tone shifting slightly.

Her mind went blank for a second. He offered her no words or memories this time, only feeling, but she understood all he was trying to convey as she felt his consciousness expand and move through her.

He didn’t know her name, or her face, but he had always been there—in some intangible way, just beneath the surface. To him, they had always existed in the same space, intertwined yet distanced. Unknown yet familiar.

It almost frightened her how easily he shared his mind to her, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

It’s not a bad thing—a soulmate.

Her pulse quickened, mind flaring with resistance she couldn’t help. Of course not… I just have to share my every waking thought with you…

She felt his laugh again, and wondered what it would feel like to mentally kick herself as she hadn’t meant for him to hear that thought again.

Can you hear all my thoughts? Her question was laced with wariness.

Usually, no. Can you hear mine?

She waited, half expecting to hear something ridiculous, like elevator music playing in the background.

No, but I can feel what you feel.

I can too.

All the time?

Not quite. I think they have to be particularly strong. So far though, you seem to do it unconsciously.

And my memories?

Those are trickier, he explained, and it irked her a bit that she was so out of her depth while he seemed so much more in control.

He continued, It’s like quickly flipping through pages of a book. It’s just bits and pieces without much context. They can be hard to understand.

Lily felt a rush of relief. Good, I’d hate for you to know all my embarrassing secrets.

I’m sure I’ll figure them out eventually, he responded playfully.

Brilliant, she said dryly, but a smile tugged at her lips for the first time.

Don’t worry. You haven’t let me in since we were kids , he reminded her, and in that moment, she felt the depth of his patience for her. I haven’t seen anything you didn’t want me to—at least, not on purpose.

But as he said the words, it triggered a curiosity within Lily, setting loose a single silver tendril. Before she even knew what she was doing, she peered deeper, reaching for it. She heard him begin to protest, felt him attempt to stop her, but it was too late.

With her unintentional touch, Lily opened the floodgate.

#jple #jily fic #soulmate au #jily #jily fanfiction #jily au #james potter #lily evans #harry potter #era: marauders #hp #mine: fic

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the-port-mafia · 4 months ago

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My Dazatsu Week entries. I had hoped to do at least 4, but ended up doing 12😳 It was a lot of fun😆

Day 1 - Coffee shop/Soulmate AU bounded by destiny Dazai’s eyes widened in surprise. “I never expected to meet you.” The majority of people never got to meet their soulmate. It was a rare occurrence that only a select few ever got to experience.

Day 2 - Band AU Best Kept Secret Dazai leaned over the couch and read one of the tweets and grinned, “Atsushi’s partner must be amazing! #couplegoals”

Atsushi nearly leapt off his seat from fright. He hadn't heard his boyfriend come home. "Osamu, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Dazai kissed Atsushi’s cheek and climbed over the couch to cuddle up beside him. “Our fans would be the only ones having a heart attack if they knew the truth. Like, look at the username of that account - 'ihatedazai'. They wrote, ‘It's obvious, whoever it is, they're the best person for Atsushi. They make him incredibly happy!' If only they knew it was me.”

Day 2 - holding hands we're not like that "How long have you been dating Atsushi?" Chuuya questioned.

Dazai nearly tripped over his own feet at the question. “What?! I’m not dating Atsushi-kun.” He hoped the blush wasn't noticeable on his face.

Day 3 - Sunset It Began at Sunset Dazai had become pretty distant from Atsushi, so when he receives a message from his boyfriend saying 'they needed to talk,' of course he's going to think the worst.

Day 3 - High School AU Gossip "Why would Dazai-sensei date someone like Nakajima-sensei?”

“Akutagawa-senpei, you've got to have noticed the way Dazai-sensei looks at him.” Higuchi happily sighed. She wanted a relationship where someone would gaze at her with even half of the admiration Dazai had when he looked at Nakajima.

“Tch, if anyone is sneaking looks, it's Nakajima-sensei.” Akutagawa didn't understand why most of the students were so invested in finding out if Dazai and Nakajima were dating.

Day 3 - Amnesia I want this life Dazai ran his hand through his hair but stopped when he felt something cool on his finger. Dazai's eyes widened in disbelief when he saw a gold band on his ring finger. It couldn't possibly be a wedding ring? Was Ranpo pranking him? Was he still annoyed with Dazai for stealing one of his snacks, and was this his little act of revenge?

Day 4 - sic fic Fever Confession When Dazai calls in sick, Kunikida sends Atsushi to check in on him. Day 5 - Beast AU future is bright Since Dazai triggered the singularity that connected him to the other universe, he's been having a difficult time thinking about anything else. Being able to read the memories of the other Dazai and seeing how happy Atsushi was in that world made his heart ache. Dazai had never seen his Atsushi's smile shine so brightly before, as he did in the memories of the other Dazai. Day 6 - Reunion Deal Breaker Atsushi had never felt so nervous as he stood in front of his new boss, Mori Ougai. When he first heard that a member of the agency had to transfer to the Port Mafia, he could hardly believe it, and he would never forget the silence of the agency when Fukuzawa announced Mori had chosen him. Day 6 - Reunion give me a sign “I don’t know how I can keep doing this, Dazai-san.” Atsushi buried his face in his hands. “I'm trying to be strong and hold on to hope, but I've heard nothing.”

“If I just knew if you were alive…” It would give Atsushi the strength to keep going.

Day 7 - Post Canon I will tell you as many times as it takes for you to believe it “Just tell him.” Ranpo commented as he skimmed through a report.

“I can’t do that, Ranpo-san.” Dazai mumbled.

Ranpo rolled his eyes and put aside the report he was reading. “And why not?”

“Atsushi-kun doesn’t like me in that way.” Day 7 - Free Day Isn't he pretty? “Dazai! That’s the boss of the Port Mafia.” Kunikida whispered harshly.

“But more importantly, he’s my boyfriend.” Dazai beamed. “Isn’t he pretty?”

#dazatsu #dazatsuweek2024 #dazai x atsushi #bsd fic #my fic #i'm so proud of these

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ginxyy · 2 months ago

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A Romantic Rhapsody

My soulmate Minghao

A Romantic Rhapsody: Moments with Minghao

Underneath the sprawling canopy of stars that blanketed the sky, I often reflect on how the cosmos aligned our paths. I can still remember the first moment our eyes met, across the crowded room at one of those infamous Seventeen fan meetings. Minghao, effortlessly hypnotic, with that contagious smile that could light up the dullest of days. My heart fluttered wildly in my chest, a tiny bird desperate to break free. Little did I know then that spark would ignite a love story far sweeter than dreams could ever conjure.

Our tale began in the midst of bright flashbulbs and exuberant screams. I couldn’t believe my luck as I found myself sitting just a few feet away from him. Minghao's laughter reverberated through the air, a melody that struck a chord deep within my soul. At that moment, I felt an unexplainable connection, as if the universe had expanded just to weave our preordained destinies together. I couldn’t tell if he noticed me; I was just another face among the crowd. But to me, he was the center of my universe.

As luck would have it, our shared love for wanderlust led to the creation of what I now lovingly call our spontaneous adventures. Our first real memory together, outside of the fan meeting, was a day trip to Hyangilam Hermitage. Minghao had an insatiable need to explore; I can still picture him, his eyes gleaming with excitement as we wandered the narrow, winding paths of the picturesque temple. The scent of pine trees enveloped us, and at that moment, the world beyond felt distant and irrelevant. It was just him and me, laughing about everything and nothing at all.

I remember the sun hanging low in the sky, casting a golden hue on everything it touched. We sat on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the shimmering ocean, a dip of waves gently kissing the shoreline. The wind tousled his hair, and he turned towards me with that dreamy gaze that made my heart skip. “So, what’s next on our list of adventures?” he asked, a playful grin on his lips. And in that moment, I felt like the luckiest person alive, my heart brimming with joy.

From that day forward, we became inseparable. Our moments together filled every beat of my heart with pure, untainted bliss. We explored cafes tucked away in hidden alleys, indulging in the sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee while weaving dreams of future travels. With Minghao, every conversation felt electric, every shared glance sent sparks flying.

There was a night when we bundled ourselves in layers of clothing and ventured out to witness the city waking up. The streets bathed in moonlight looked like a scene straight out of a fairy tale. His hand found mine, fingers interlacing comfortably. We walked down the empty streets, bustling with stories untold. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked, and his question was so sincere that I couldn’t help but think for a moment. “If it means finding you, then yes,” I replied, and we both laughed, the sound echoing like music in the air.

Minghao had a knack for the whimsical. He surprised me with random picnic dates, appearing at my doorstep with a basket filled with all the things I loved bread, fruits, and a bottle of sparkling juice. One particularly sunny afternoon, we sprawled out on a blanket, the gentle breeze whispering secrets around us. With the sun kissing our cheeks, Minghao took my hand, leaning in closer. “You know,” he started, a playful glimmer in his eyes, “I think I could do this forever.” My heart soared at the thought, and in that moment, our laughter intertwined like the most beautiful symphony.

Movies were our escape. I fondly remember how we turned into couch potatoes, binge-watching romantic dramas that fed our souls with sweetness. One rainy evening, curled up on the sofa, our fingers intertwined, I turned to him and said, “What do you think love feels like?” He pondered for a moment, his brow furrowed in the cutest way possible. “Like… having someone to laugh with, to cry with, and to annoy just a little,” he replied, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Fluffy clouds eventually transitioned to raindrops, but nothing could dampen our spirits. Rainy afternoons felt magical with him by my side. As droplets splattered against my window, we would sit by the cozy warmth of our favorite café, drinking steaming cups of cocoa, engaged in playful debates and heartwarming conversations. Those sweet moments where I could lose myself in his warm gaze, feeling entirely at home in his presence.

As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, every memory we created together layered upon the foundation of our love. One evening, he turned to me with an expression that seemed a mix of curiosity and excitement. “If I were to ask you to be my partner in every adventure, from now on, would you?” A lump formed in my throat; I felt an overwhelming wave of emotion wash over me. “With you? Always,” I whispered, our hearts dancing together in an unspoken understanding.

When I think about love, I think about Minghao and all the extraordinary magic in the mundane. How every ordinary day could transform into something ethereal just because we were together. Love isn’t always about grand gestures; it’s in the thrill of the shared moments the laughter echoing in quiet corners and the stolen glances that linger longer than expected.

In the end, it was our collection of simple, sweet moments that defined us. It was the playfulness in our conversations, the warmth in our embraces, and the sparkle in our gazes that held the essence of our love. Life with Minghao, enchanted and whimsical, felt like a beautiful dream a never-ending fairytale that painted our hearts in shades of romance, laughter, and pure fluff. And as I lay beneath the stars, dreaming of all the adventures waiting for us, I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that my heart had found its home in him.

#seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #svt fluff #svt x reader #seventeen #svt carat #svt #svt imagines #seventeen smut #svt smut #svt minghao #minghao #seventeen minghao #seventeen fluff #fluff #minghao fluff

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 2 years ago

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Myth Inspired Twst Series

Access my masterlist here. Already written:

Lilia x Dullahan MC (Oneshot)

Malleus x Light Fae Changeling MC (7 Parts- Completed)

Rook x Pygmalion MC (6 Parts- Completed)

GN terms for all!

Vil x Orpheus MC (Completed)

You're one of the ancestors of Orpheus- great poet, lyricist, and musician. However, your family is cursed to sing songs of heartbreak, woe, and sorrow until your last days due to Orpheus disrespecting Dionysus shortly before his death (his head was cut off, thrown into a river Hebrus to sing mournful songs). The gods also cursed you for all of your relationships to end in heartbreak until you find your soulmate- someone you would venture to the ends of the earth for (based off of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth). Many of your family members were driven to madness- singing songs of sorrow without having a soulmate to share them with; and many of the lovers of your family members met their untimely demise from the wrath of Dionysus. This curse is as well known as the prolific poets and bards of your family, so though people enjoy your songs- they stray away from getting romantically involved.

Despite this curse, you sing your songs with a merry tune- gaining reputation at NRC as the party person/just someone who knows how to have a damn good time. You're a hopeless romantic- falling quickly- but it all ends the same when you confess- "You know how it ends- you get it right?" . You laugh with a knowing smile- because what else could you do in the face of such absurdity?

You're childhood friends with Vil, and he's watched your heart get broken many times. Despite his feelings for you, he doesn't think you'd want to be with someone like him. The ones who did find their soulmate in your family were together with other bards, kings, heros, honorable soliders- so he thinks it's a very low probability that he's actually your soulmate- especially as he us typecasted more and more into the villan role (and is somewhat comfortable in that role with his sharp tongue, even towards you)

Slow burn ensues- friends to lovers dynamic :)

Azul x Mute Siren MC (Completed)

You used to be a relatively well-known singer in the Coral Sea, even being invited to the Ashengrotto family's restaurant on occasion. However because your mother is also a famous singer, you have a lot of her harsh standards to uphold. One day you disappear from the public eye because you are affected with the hanahaki disease- the cause of which is unknown to everyone. Azul, as a child, is worried- but you soon become a distant memory

My take on hanahaki disease is a little different- I think it could affect many types of love including familial, parental, etc. Heartbreak and unrequited love doesn't only exist in romantic contexts. When you find that you're mother doesn't truly love you- but loves you for the extension of herself that you are- you begin coughing up carnations- a flower which symbolizes a mother's love.

Finding that the flowers permanently damaged your throat after surgery- your mother sends you off to one of her sisters since you're no longer of use to her. You grow up in the Southern parts of the Coral Sea at your aunt's flower shop, before your enrollment into NRC where Azul is surprised to find you (and the slow burn begins >:) )

You speak through the language of flowers- hanakotoba- your aunt teaches you. Though no one really reads into the symbolism of flowers, Azul is familiar with it since it was one of your interests as a child.

Jamil x Shikigami MC (Completed)

As a Shikigami, you are bound to your master (an Onmyoji), to serve him until death. Shikigami are usually seen as gods, spirits, or a representation of an Onmyoji's power- so there is no escape from this life unless your Onmyoji is killed, or willingly sets you free (if you've ever seen Spirited away- they're those little paper things thay follow Haku). Because Shikigami are expendable, they're usually set up for less favorable tasks like spying, stealing, assassination, stalking, etc.

Because Shikigami are usually not able to be seen through the human eye- you show quiet signs that you don't actually have a corporeal form- like no shadow, no reflection, no footsteps, no shine in your eye, doll-like limbs. But the body that you're in actually used to be yours- which was cursed into a Shikiouji (a more elite and powerful version of Shikigami) form because you angered a powerful Onmyoji in your past life.

You are ordered by your master to enroll into NRC and kill the Kamil. However- you are stopped by Jamil, who takes you to the headmage who orders temporary in school suspension. Jamil sees your master put hands on you due to your failure- and his instinct kicks in- ordering the Onmyoji to free you. Little does he know this makes him your master now, and you trail him where ever you can.

Though he wants you to leave him alone at first, your admiration of his true skill and talent slowly begins to reveal the humanity in you, as well as bringing him out of his own shell. Enemies to friends to lovers

Lmk what you think (゜゜;)

Feel free to add!

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deobienthusiast · 1 year ago

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something blue | choi chanhee

• pairing: best friend!chanhee x female!reader

• word count: 3.5k words

• genre: fluff, slight angst

• rating: PG

• warnings: weddings, reader is kind of being an asshole, fake friends, and our favorite curse words

• notes: *sigh* thank you to sana ( @heemingyu )for your not so serious but also super serious betaread of this. now that i know what really gets you going i mean continue to hit at that now😘😘 I LOVE YOU

• tagging: @deoboyznet

• synopsis: after getting into a big fight with your best friend the day before your wedding, you’re left wondering if he’ll even show up.

Whoever said your wedding day is the happiest day of your life is an absolute fucking idiot. What is there to be happy about if everything isn’t perfect. You wouldn’t consider yourself a perfectionist by any means, but when you have a vision for something you expect it to be pretty damn near close.

The process of planning your wedding didn’t start when you got engaged to your amazing fiancé Sangyeon. It started when you were a kid, sitting in your living room watching the Disney princesses who had happy endings and fairytale weddings. You knew you wanted a wedding similar to those of the princesses. Which princess didn’t matter, but as long as the wedding was to your standard of perfection, it would be fine.

Alongside your planning was your best friend, Chanhee. He wasn’t just your best friend. He was your person, or as your fiancé liked to say ‘your soulmate’. You had never really believed in soulmates, but when more and more people pointed out that you and Chanhee could be soulmates, you began to listen. It made sense. Chanhee was always there. From your earliest memories in Kindergarten to graduating college, to getting your dream job. Everywhere page in your mind was littered with your best friend. The small, skinny kid that would bring you pretty blue forget-me-nots every time he saw you. Chanhee helped you plan your dream wedding, combining elements of each Disney princess into one big wedding. He called himself your unofficial wedding planner. He made sure everything would go off without any problems, even threatening to throw out some of your work friends if they got too drunk.

Chanhee even planned your pre-wedding party. When you and your wedding party went out, Chanhee had everything covered. From the party bus, to dinner, to the club, your best friend was on it. Chanhee only wanted the best for his best friend, while you only wanted him to at some point let loose and enjoy himself.

The dinner you and your wedding party went to seemed like such a distant memory now. Despite having been only a couple of hours ago, the amount of alcohol in your system made it seem like dinner was months ago. You and your work friends were trashed, to say the least. Hopping from table to table, stealing people’s drinks, getting heavily belligerent with anyone that tried to stop you. You were on a wrecking ball, wreaking havoc across the club. People were starting to complain to the managers, and Chanhee was just trying to find your purse and shoes that you somehow rid yourself of in the midst of all the madness. His constant apologies were falling on deaf ears as all people wanted now was for you and your rowdy entourage to leave.

“Hey, why don’t we sit and have some water?” Chanhee asked you, having finally caught up to you.

You were once again at a table that was not yours as you took a shot from the hands of one of the guests occupying the table. “Water? I don’t need water, Chanhee. I need more vodka!”

Chanhee gave a sympathetic look to the other partygoers as he spoke. “I’m really sorry. I’m trying my hardest to get everything under control.”

The guest who’s drink had been stolen scoffed. “Try harder dude. This is ridiculous.”

The people at the table stood up, moving from the area as Chanhee began to get frustrated. You had never acted like this before. He always said your work buddies only brought out the worst in you, but you never listened to him. In fact, Chanhee couldn’t even spot any of your so-called work “friends”.

“Where is everyone? I want to hit up another party.” You yelled.

Chanhee grabbed your arm, ripping the glass from your hand as he began to drag you towards the exit. “They left! And that’s what we’re doing.”

On his trek towards the door, Chanhee spotted your shoes and purse, squeezing behind a nasty trash can that they were sitting behind. He let go of you momentarily to make sure your credit cards, ID, and cash were all still in your wallet. As his fingers slipped through the loops of your heels to pick them up, he heard a loud crash. Turning around, a table filled with bottles of vodka had hit the floor and you were now face to face with an angry patreon.

The girl was screaming in your face about how you didn’t need to be drinking anymore, while all you could do was yell back about how she wasn’t the boss of you. You were having a good time, why was everyone trying to stop you. Chanhee pulled you back to him, heading for the door before stopping.

“Shit, the tab.” Chanhee whispered.

You were still yelling over your shoulder to the girl as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his card. He wasn’t even sure what the final bill was, but he was willing to pay for it if it meant getting you out of the club in one piece. The bartender took the card, looking over the slumped over state of you as he shook his head. He swiped the card, pulled out a receipt and handed both the card and receipt to Chanhee. Your best friend let out a sigh as he practically carried you to the exit. When he got outside, he sat you down on the curb as he began to call someone.

“Where are we going?” You asked, your sentence is just barely able to be made out by Chanhee.

The boy looked at you as he rolled his eyes. “The hotel.”

You perked up. “I don’t wanna leave. The girls are still inside.”

Chanhee shook his head. “That’s too bad. They can find their own way back to the hotel.”

“I don’t wanna leave.”

“You are beyond drunk. You can barely stand, you have no shoes on, and you are so fucking lucky someone didn’t rob you. You’ve made a mess of yourself and this club, you have no choice but to leave.” Chanhee said sternly.

The alcohol in your system didn’t like the way he was talking to you. He had never talked to you like this before.

“Why are you being so mean?” You asked rather loudly.

Chanhee let out a humorless laugh. “I’m being honest. You need to go to bed. It’s three in the morning on your wedding day. You have to be up early for breakfast, you have to have your makeup done, you can’t stay out with them any longer.”

He heard you begin to mumble as he began to get impatient. All he wanted to do was get you safely to your hotel suite, and go to bed himself.

Why wasn’t the driver picking up his fucking phone?

“You’re just jealous of them.” You said softly.

Chanhee froze. “What did you just say to me?”

You looked up at the boy, eyes wide as you spoke louder this time. “You are just jealous of my relationship with the girls. I see them everyday, and we don’t see each other every day. They are better best friends to me than you are.”

The phone that was covering his ear was now down by his waist. “How dare you?”

You could only look back at the boy, the realization of your words now dawning on you. “Chanhee,”

“Do you know what I’ve had to go through to make sure your fucking wedding day is perfect? I’ve given up my own personal time to be here and plan EVERYTHING for you. May I remind you that I was the only one that helped you pick out your outfit. I helped pick out the food and recommended the bakery for the cake. I found the DJ, the place for dinner tonight, and the fucking club. I have kept you from getting arrested tonight on more than one occasion. I’ve canceled plans to be at your beck and call anytime that you have ever needed me. I’ve done everything for you from the time we met each other when we were five! No one, and I mean no one, will ever be a better best friend than me.” Chanhee yelled.

Before you could speak, he continued. “Do you think they are better than me? The person that has held your hand through sicknesses, the person who has been there to pick up the pieces through every heartbreak you’ve gone through with shitty guys. I introduced you to Sangyeon. He was my friend first, and yet he seems to be the only one appreciative of what I’ve done, not just for him but for you. Not once have you ever told me thank you for anything. Anything!”

He dropped your shoes, grabbing your hand from the sitting position you were in to smack your purse into it. Chanhee brought a hand up to his forehead, rubbing over it as he began to feel a migraine coming on. He could hear talking on the other end of his phone as he tossed it to you, making you flinch as it hit your chest.

“Find your own way back to the hotel. Or better yet, go ask your best friends since they are better to you than I am. They can get you back to the hotel, and they can help you out in the morning. I’m done!” Chanhee said.

He turned quickly on his feet, walking off in the opposite direction of the club. You felt tears well up in your eyes as you tried to get yourself up to stop your best friend. His legs carried him quickly to a bus that had stopped at a bus stop as he hopped on it. You watched the bus pass you as you let out a sob.

You didn’t sleep very well when you got back from the club. All you did was cry over what Chanhee had said, and your work friends were beginning to get annoyed. They merely dropped you off at your suite and left to continue their night. All you could do is sit against the headboard of the hotel bed as you looked around the lavish room that your best friend had spent his hard earned money on, reminding you that as the bride you “deserve the best”. Now you weren’t so sure.

The alarm on your phone went off, signaling that you needed to get up, but you didn’t really have the energy. In fact, you weren’t even sure you wanted to get married. You knew that wouldn’t be fair to Sangyeon, calling off your wedding over the fact that you got into a fight with your best friend. Although Sangyeon would’ve understood, you couldn’t do it to him. A knock at your room door pulled you from your thoughts as you groaned, dragging your body weight out of the bed.

You looked through the peephole on the door and groaned again, seeing the cheery face of your mother and future mother in law. Opening the door, both ladies squealed.

“Happy wedding day!” Your mother exclaimed happily as she pulled you in for a hug.

Sangyeon’s mom did the same before pulling back just slightly, whispering to you. “Are you okay dear?”

You looked at the woman, feeling tears well up in your eyes. You gave her a nod, trying to force a smile on your face. She wanted to speak again before your mom interrupted.

“You need to shower, and you need to be quick. Makeup won’t wait all day. And all day isn’t what we have time wise.” She said, pushing you into the bathroom.

The only sound that left your mouth was a sigh as you let your mother practically manhandle you into the shower. She was quick to pick up your pajamas that you don’t even remember getting into last night as she exited, leaving you to wallow in your own self pity as the hot water cascaded onto your skin. You slowly washed your body, attempting to scrub the dead skin, sweat, and the memories from last night off of your body and down the drain. You weren’t sure how long you were in the shower, having at some point zoned out. The water had gone cold, and you were beginning to shiver as you turned the handle, shutting off the shower.

When you pulled back the curtain, the remaining steam from the previously hot water was still fogging up the bathroom. You could see it get pushed around from the sudden release of cold air from the cold water. You noticed a towel and satin bathrobe set upon the countertop. Reaching for both, you quickly dried off and threw on the bathrobe before opening the bathroom door and letting your mother whisk you off to your makeup appointment.

The day dragged on. All your work friends managed to make it to the venue for hair and makeup. Strolling into the building wielding water, liquid IV packages, sunglasses, and a hangover, they didn’t look very pleased anymore about the time you chose for all of this. They let the artists get them ready with no complaints, just barely sparing you a hello. You weren’t all that thrilled to see them either, so this didn’t bother you a bit. Your mother was making her rounds, checking on each girl before one of them got sick, making her stop to tend to the one person that couldn’t handle her hangover. This gave Sangyeon’s mom a chance to check on you.

“Hey,” She said softly, catching your attention. “Are you okay? Truly?”

You couldn’t turn your head due to the makeup being put on so you opted to just locking eyes with her through the mirror.

“Is it that obvious that something is bothering me?”

She chuckled. “I’ve known you long enough to see a change in your moods.”

For the first time today, you cracked an actual genuine smile.

“I got into a fight.” You said quietly.

“With who? One of the girls?”

Shaking your head. “With Chanhee.”

“Oh sweetheart. I’m sure it wasn’t too bad.” She cooed.

You chuckled. “He’s not here, is he? Something tells me he’s not with Sangyeon either.”

Your mother in law frowned as she excused herself, pulling out her phone as she stepped outside the room you were in.

The artists were slowly getting everyone finished as each girl got into her bridesmaid dress. You were the last to be finished, and you could hear the shouting and greeting of your guests making their way into the venue hall. Your bridesmaids left you to go mingle with some of the single men that your future husband had invited to keep them controlled. Your mother helped you get into your dress before disappearing herself to greet guests.

The words Chanhee had said to you continued to run through your mind, making you zone out once again. You were starting to get upset as someone knocked on the door. You checked your makeup in the mirror as you walked to the door. You went to grab the handle to open the door before someone put weight on it, keeping it closed.

“Hey,” Your fiancé’s voice rang through the wood of the door. “Don’t open it. It’s bad luck for a groom to see his bride before she walks down the aisle.”

A sense of calmness washed over you at the sound of Sangyeon’s voice.

“I missed you.”

He chuckled. “I missed you too. I’m ready to marry you.”

This time you chuckled. “So am I.”

You both laughed before he spoke again.

“I just wanted to check on you. My mom said you were a little down about not seeing Chanhee yet.”

You perked up slightly at the mention of your best friend. “Has he shown up?”

The other side of the door was silent before Sangyeon spoke. “He didn’t tell you? He got sick. He must have come down with something while he was out with you. He stayed back at my hotel so he wouldn’t get anyone else sick.”

Your eyes closed as you let out a sigh. You couldn’t believe it.

He wasn’t coming.

“Oh, okay. He must have just forgotten.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. He always bounces back, you know that.” Sangyeon told you.

You wanted to reply before hearing a loud yell from the other side of the door.

“There you are man! We’ve been looking for you.”

You’d recognize the voice anywhere.

“We’re stealing your husband back real quick. You’ll get him back when you walk down the aisle!”

“He’s not my husband yet, Eric. You can take him, though.” You said with a roll of your eyes.

He patted the door in response before Sangyeon replied.

“I love you.”

You could hear him get dragged away by the younger boy as you picked up your dress so it wouldn’t drag, walking back towards the makeup station you were previously sat at. Pulling out your phone, you pulled up Chanhee’s contact. Your finger hovered over the call button before you jumped.

The far side door opened, revealing your best friend dressed in a tux. He closed the door behind him quickly as you stood up.

“Chanhee!” You said happily.

When he turned to look at you, you quieted quickly. He looked dejected, hurt, as he made his way towards you.

“I was supposed to give you this last night. However, due to certain circumstances, I got distracted.” Chanhee whispered.

You swallowed hard, trying to gulp down the knot in your throat. He reached into his suit jacket as he pulled out a box. It was black leather, with slight tears in it. He handed it to you quietly, choosing not to say anything.

Gently taking the box from him, you opened it. You let out a gasp as you took in the beautiful sight before you. The box held a beautiful hair clip decorated in white gold with blue diamonds.

“It’s a forget-me-not. Our flower.” Chanhee uttered out.

He took the clip from the box, pulling you to stand centered in front of the mirror as he slipped the clip into your hair. The lights in the room made the blue diamonds sparkle as he spoke.

“I found it in a thrift shop. It was a family heirloom that eventually ended up in the shop. I figured you’d like it. Brides are supposed to have something old, something new, something used, and something blue, right? I guess it falls under every category.” Chanhee told you softly.

You couldn’t help but bring your hand up to your hair, running your fingers over the emblem. You should’ve told him it was beautiful, should’ve said thank you.

Instead you opted for this.

“You came.”

Chanhee nodded. “I couldn’t miss your wedding even if I wanted to. You're my best friend.”

Feeling your eyes start to water you whipped around, pulling him into a tight hug. Chanhee hugged back, just as tightly, as he let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled out into his jacket.

You felt him shake his head. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t deserve you.” You mumbled again.

This time, Chanhee chuckled. “You’re right. That’s a conversation for a different day, though.”

You two pulled apart to look at each other as he spoke again.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Come on. Let’s go get you married.” He said, walking you to the door.

You let him lead the way before you both stopped. You took a deep breath before looking at your best friend. He gave you a smile.

“You're the best Chanhee! I love you.”

Chanhee chuckled. “Careful. Sangyeon might think you’re falling in love with me.”

You both laughed as your mom opened the door, greeting Chanhee happily as she told you everything was ready. As she led the both of you to the front of venue, Chanhee was ready to walk you down the aisle as he whispered to you.

“I love you, too!”

all written works on this blog belong to @deobienthusiast and are protected under copyright- absolutely no translating/reposting or claiming my work as your own.

#deoboyznet #kvanity #the boyz #tbz #the boyz new #tbz new #choi chanhee #the boyz chanhee #tbz chanhee #chanhee x reader #the boyz imagines #tbz imagines #the boyz fluff #the boyz angst #the boyz scenarios #the boyz x you #the boyz x reader

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wizardingdiaries · 1 year ago

Text

🥀 angst | ☁️ fluff | ✨ faves | 🔥 smut

🪐 already on notes | 🍂 to be read

Draco Malfoy 1

By lastheavcns

sectumsempra ☁️ - AU where it was the reader who hexed Katie Bell.

soulmates ☁️ - AU where at the age of 16, the first words your soulmate says to you appears on your wrist then fades away after meeting them.

faking it 🍂 - You fake a relationship with Draco Malfoy to avoid a classmate.

drunk nights ☁️ - Draco stumbles into your dorm room late at night.

remember me 🍂 - Reader loses her memory of Draco and their relationship, and he pretends they were never together at all.

By henqtic

𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 🥀✨ - Ever since the beginning of the year, Draco just needed someone to hold him.

𝘈𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘔𝘦 𝘈 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 ☁️ - what would happen if your parents arranged for you both to attend the yule ball together.

hot chocolate and cookies 🍂 - post-war dracoxreader with a lot of fluff

By iwritesiriusly

Distant 🍂

Comfort Crowd ☁️

Cold 🍂 - Draco noticing the reader is cold and constantly trying to offer his sweater to her.

By awritingtree

Crystals and Stars 🍂 - Draco arrives at the Astronomy tower in hope of some peace and quiet. What happens when he finds a familiar face already there?

Can’t Help Falling In Love 🍂 - Y/N and Draco Malfoy have been forced into a marriage.

By willowbleedsonpaper

Carrot Cake 🍂 - soulmate au post war.

By coffee--writes

Expecto Patronum 🍂 - In which, Draco Malfoy was never able to cast a Patronus. At least up until now…

By selenes-sun

Two 🥀 - angsty

By heloisedaphnebrightmore

By your side 🥀✨ - Draco is suffering alone and you can’t stand aside anymore, watching him losing himself in pain.

I like me better 🍂 - Draco is having a hard time, but you are there by his side, reassuring him of how much you love him.

By iliveiloveiwrite

Healer | Healing Hands 🍂 - An injury takes you to St Mungo’s where you run into a familiar face. (post Hogwarts).

Unrequited? 🍂 - Parties are always the catalyst for confessions.

Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble 🍂 - Draco needs a new stockist.

How To Stop Time: Touch ☁️ - Please could you do a soulmate au where time stops when soulmates touch for the first time.

this life is short, darling. so come, run away with me. 🍂 - talks of the future.

Secrets 🍂 - “Is that my shirt?”

Tell Me Something Good 🍂 - “I think I’m in love with you.”

Somebody’s Heartbreak 🍂 - “Are you… Are you flirting with me?” (fake dating)

home is wherever I'm with you 🍂 - Draco x Reader with a Post War AU friends to lovers.

Bets and Bludgers 🍂 - “I can’t even look at you right now.”

First Date 🍂

Accident Prone 🍂 - Healer!Draco and his quidditch player gf who always ends up injured somehow.

Something I Need ☁️🥀 - some angst - nightmares, reader comforting Draco, lots of fluff and love.

Haunted Forests 🍂

Good Days and Bad Days 🍂 - fluff and comfort and a really cheesy ending.

Love Languages 🍂 - Five times Draco shows you he loves you, and the one time he tells you.

Stargazing and Waltzing 🍂 - stars and waltzes tend to lead to something more.

Chase Away The Dark 🍂 - reader has some awful nightmares and Draco wakes her up and comforts her.

Chasers and Cuddles 🍂 - draco who’s sore and tired from quidditch pls with a Slytherin reader.

Better 🍂 - academic rivalries, fluff, flirting, mutual pining, making out.

Late Fees ☁️ - A Librarian AU that absolutely no-one asked for.

Wait For Me 🍂 - draco performed the obliviate curse on his gf before the war, then met her again post war when he became a healer.

Love 🍂 - Draco x reader where they are dating in school, maybe just chilling and he realises he truly loves her.

In Dreams 🥀 - In dreams, he talks with you.

Take Me To Your Heart 🍂 - love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go.

Time Heals 🍂 - The aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts is a time for healing for everyone, Draco included.

By dracomalfoysslave

masturbation schedules 🔥

Sweet and Sour ��

By finnwrld

Always so cold 🍂 - the five times Draco Malfoy gave you his jumper and the one time you accepted.

By mirclealignr

a beautiful dream 🍂 - “I let you hurt me because i thought you would hurt less”

#mine

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louis-ii-reyes-strand · 1 year ago

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semicompleted saturday sunday

Rules: Share one scene or art that never made it into a/the finished piece and probably never will. (And if you want, share what it was supposed to be and why you left it out or never finished it.)

Thank you @heartstringsduet for the tag! Most of the stuff i've written ends up in the graveyard for one reason or another, which is why i've not posted anything yet. But I like the idea of some of it seeing the light of day.

So, this scene is the only thing i've ever written for this fic. The idea came to me very vividly and this scene in particular, but, as you will see, it's disjointed as hell and I couldn't find a way to make it work.

The premise is that TK and Carlos get into a fight years into their marriage and Carlos walks out to calm down. It's the middle of the night so he ends up sat on a bench in a small park. Then through the power of ✨magic✨ he is sent back in time to important moments in his and TK's relationship and realises how stupid he'd been.

---

Carlos blinked and he was at the honky-tonk, the first day that he and TK met.

It had been years and there were countless other moments they had shared together, but he still remembered it like it was yesterday.

Michelle had been waiting for him outside when he arrived, feeling a little silly in his tight shirt, and a little apprehensive about being invited. But she hadn’t let him linger in those thoughts at all, had started talking to him before he was even next to her, and all but dragged him to the table she was sharing with Nancy and Tim. They greeted him politely, not quite friends but not distant acquaintances either, it wasn’t the first time Michelle had forced him to be sociable.

Then Michelle had launched into her plan to haze Captain Strand. She liked him, Carlos could tell that much, but she was also Michelle and she was going to assert her dominance as Paramedic Captain to make sure the new captain was a good fit for their station.

Carlos quickly made an excuse to get himself a beer while the other three were giggling about her plan. He didn’t want to get mixed up in their politics.

As he walked across the room to get to the bar, he noticed where the new look 126 had set up across a couple of tables.

He remembered feeling just as floored by TK’s everything as he had at the accident earlier in the night, if not more so without the rain to blur his vision. Everything had narrowed to where TK was laughing along with his new co-workers.

Then he had spent so long by the bar, just watching him and how he interacted with the people around him that he finished his beer and Michelle came to find him. She followed his eyeline and then laughed. “You need to get laid.”

Carlos had blushed and spluttered, but this time he didn’t.

It had been half he needed to get laid, and half so much more than that. He hadn’t known how meeting TK had shifted his entire world on its axis then, but some part of him knew that meeting TK was momentous.

“Distract his Dad?”

Michelle considered him for a moment but shrugged and went to drag Owen off to the dancefloor just as she had the first time this happened.

Carlos remembered so clearly the nerves he had felt as he approached TK, not knowing if he was gay, not knowing if he would be into him even if he was. Now, his mind full of memories this body hadn’t yet had a chance to make, all he felt was love.

“Hey,” He said as he came to stand by TK. He looked so much younger, so much more guarded too.

TK glanced over to him, a smile forcing its way off his lips before it could even appear. He gave Carlos an obvious once over that set a fire in his gut just the way it had the first time, maybe even more so now that he knew what was waiting for him. “Hey”

“We’re soulmates.”

TK looked so taken aback by how strong his words were, it made Carlos laugh.

“We’re soulmates and it doesn’t matter that I’m saying it to you now because I'm pretty sure you’re a figment of my imagination sent to kick my ass. I’m going to tell you this now and when I wake up I’m going to drive home and tell you again.” He took a deep breath. “This moment right here changed my life, if you didn’t dance we me then drag me off to that bathroom so we could get each other off, I wouldn’t have reconnected with my family, I wouldn’t have friends that I care for like a second family, I wouldn’t be a detective, I wouldn’t have anything. I would’ve stayed trapped while I waited for my life to start, and I don’t tell you enough how much I love you. I think a part of me has always known that I love you since this moment. And I have loved you at every single moment since, even when you broke my heart and I thought it was going to end up alone forever. I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt that and I’m going to do better. I’m going to do so much better, baby.”

The TK from the past was looking around for someone, probably his dad or anyone else he recognised, looking for a way out of this interaction. Carlos didn’t blame him, he’d just had a love confession from a guy that he’d met once.

“I’m going, don’t worry.” He held his hands up with a smile and started backing away, unable to take his eyes off TK as he did so until he bumped into someone behind him and was forced to look where he was going.

He ran outside the honky-tonky, looked up to the sky and shouted, “Okay! You win! I understand now, let me go home and tell my husband I love him.”

He closed his eyes and waited.

i'm not gonna tag anyone because i have again missed the boat (i'm pulling seven sentence sunday together asap!) so if you see this: hi.

#semi complete saturday #fic outtakes #kit writes #i remember this possessed me for an afternoon but every attempt at writing an actual fic to go with the pay off #was like stubbing the same toe over and over again

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 years ago

Text

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Eight: Nine Days

A week of torture. An expert in human psyche. A deeply dangerous development.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

Content warning: There's torture in this one. It's not too graphic, and it's not too long, but it is intense.

-----

CHAPTER EIGHT: NINE DAYS

The actual traveling is dizzying as hell, and Jon can’t block it out.

Can’t avoid the vacuum-pinch in his ears or the clench of his sinuses or the spin of his gut.

But then it’s over, and they’ve arrived.

This is a temple. Dimly lit by distant daylight, all white marble, pillars carved with what look like tentacles or really thick vines, and the King’s three-hook symbol sits prominent in ebony and takes up most of the floor.

And apart from the King and Jon, it is absolutely empty.

Jon is on his knees.

It’s inevitable that this monster-god will lose patience over his continued refusal, and when that happens, it’s going to be bad. Jon knows he’ll be tortured. Burned. Skinned.

Waiting to be tortured, burned, and skinned is almost worse than the thing itself, and he’s torn between pushing until the King snaps and starts hurting him, or playing nice and putting off the pain as long as possible.

Jon doesn’t like pain.

So: long game. He intends to give this being no reason to hurt him apart from that one, crucial thing that he will not do. He remains on his knees.

“You’re so certain I’m going to harm you,” says the King, who sounds (and hopefully still is) amused.

Jon swallows.

“Have I hurt you so far, Jon?”

Regret, regret, should have stuck with Archivist— “Apart from ripping me away from my soulmate and forcing me to relive my worst memories, not at all,” says Jon before he can stop himself, and winces.

So much for the long game.

Not like I’ve ever been able to avoid irritating anyone, even when they were about to melt my hand, he thinks, and almost laughs, but that would peel right off into hysterics, so he keeps it down.

The King’s voice is low, pleased. “Look at me, Jon.”

Jon is too afraid.

One of those hideous tentacles touches under his chin, lifting his face. The King’s gaze pins him like nails through his eyes, power and penetration, and Jon is well aware the King could do that in a way that makes it hurt.

But he’s not.

“Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” says the King. “I’ll ask you this: what do you think I want from you?”

Jon is shuddering. “Something I can’t give.”

“Can’t you? I only ask for something you already want to give.”

The King isn’t wrong. Of course there’s a broken, bruised part of him that wants to answer their call.

“I don’t,” Jon lies.

Oh. He feels the King in his mind.

“You do. A strange state of affairs, isn’t it? For one whose very blood flows with truths to deny one of his own.”

The King is prodding through his head, that’s what’s happening. Finding thoughts, lifting sensations like rocks to see what’s underneath. Finds, somehow, his tether to the Dread Powers, that connection, always on, circuit open, always calling, always beckoning.

For all the world, it feels like the King plucks that tether.

—and Jon finds himself curled on the floor with no memory of going down. He’s gasping.

The King waits. Silent. Watching.

Jon doesn't know what just happened. He completely blacked out; feels the horrifying vibration of the Dread Powers in him, still calling—but he didn't answer. He didn’t. Relief brings tears to his eyes.

Jon forces his voice to work. “You don’t understand. I already did this. I damned everybody. I… I can’t do it again. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

The chuckle is dark. “You’re really very bad at lying. It’s almost… endearing.”

He’d lied?

Jon has no idea what this being considers lying. “Endearing. Sure it is,” he mutters. “Look, let’s just cut through the filler, shall we? I intimately felt the suffering of seven and a half billion people.” His voice is rough as he pushes shakily back to his knees. “I know their fear, sorrow, horror. I felt it all, every scream, every terror. I know what can be done to the human body and mind, and I know what’s coming, and I’d rather just get on with it, if it’s all the same to you!”

The King studies him. “Walk with me, Jon.”

Jon grits his teeth, shudders. Somehow, he stands, and walks.

He’s dizzy.

The King keeps his pace to Jon’s, leading through this enormous white space, empty and echoing. Ahead, what looks like bright sunlight spills onto the floor. “Let’s begin again. You know what I want.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, then, what you think I want.”

Hadn’t they just… “You want me to bring the Fears into this world, and you think you can control them, but you can’t.”

The King chuckles. “I have to admit I’m surprised, Jon. I thought you had better reading comprehension.” And the King leads him onto a balcony that is somehow, impossibly, on the edge of the world.

Before them is all the universe.

Jon gasps.

It’s a clarity he could never have had on his own. Stars and suns and swirling constellations, comets and nebulas and wide, wild things that human astronomy hasn’t discovered and has no name for, and—

He feels them, feels the violence of star-births and the grasping pressure of their deaths, feels the tiny few sparks of life that start for reasons unknown and sputter out so fast that their own stars never knew they were there. Feels whispers of fear and anger and love and joy and all the things that are life, echoing still, even from worlds long gone.

He makes a small, wondering sound.

It’s beautiful. Engulfing. Calming.

Vastness without the fear of the Vast.

A feast so rich even the barest whiff from emptied plates is enough to sate him.

Jon feels like he could just drift into it, be ashed away, and find solace in dissolution.

His soil is watered. He hasn’t felt this good in… a long time.

A moment later (an hour, a year), Jon realizes he’s entranced.

It doesn’t seem terribly urgent.

“All of this is mine,” says the King, voice buzzing pleasantly against his ears. “So tell me again how you think I can’t contain the Entities.”

“Yours?” Jon sounds dream-like to himself, and wonders what he’s going to say next. “There were other beings in those books. They don’t share the universe with you?” Is it a spell he’s cast on me? he wonders dreamily. Some kind of harmonic resonance? Will it be permanent?

“There were… but I’ve banished them, or gained their fealty. As I will do with your Entities, once you call them here.”

How is it done? Does everyone in the world feel this? Is it just his will, being pushed on everybody? How were we immune? Does it weaken me? Does the Beholding care?

It does, and it isn’t happy with this.

What an odd thing to know.

“Jon,” prompts the King.

Oh, yes, he’d been asked something, hadn’t he? “The Dread Powers aren’t like you, or like any of the others in this place,” Jon finally answers. “It won’t work.”

“Oh?”

Muscle spasm, Jon thinks. “They don’t reason. Most of them. They can’t be satisfied, paid off, bought, threatened. You can’t gain their fealty because they have none.”

“You’re so sure.”

Could this free me from the Eye? Would Martin like that? Will I die if the Eye is broken away from me?

But these questions are… less, somehow.

Dimming.

The part of him that always asks, that always questions, is getting harder to see in some failing light. It doesn’t feel very good.

“Jon.” Prompting, warm.

“I….” What had he said? Ah—”Yes, I’m sure. You’d hold them for a while, then be overwhelmed.”

The King laughs. “They only held your Earth. I hold much more.”

“They….” Jon’s heart gives a strange, painful thud.

He can’t find his questions.

He can’t find his fear.

He’s starting to feel like he can’t get enough air.

“Jon.”

“They rewrote reality to suit themselves,” Jon says, breathy.

“So have I.” The King says. “I’ve created perfection. No wars. No murder. No theft. No rape. No children are harmed. No animals abused. The land is pristine. Your Fears are no threat to me.”

And Jon answers, because he can’t not, and because he can’t even feel the warning ping of self-preservation that might have kept him quiet. “There’s also no hope. No stories. No healing from unnamed sorrow. No caves to be explored, no yearning for endless sky. Questions unanswered, stars unseen, and true happiness always out of reach.”

Jon feels like he’s speaking a lullaby, a rhythm to his words, musical. He can’t help it. The Beholding has followed the thread of itself back into his mind, and it’s wonderful.

Feels like it’s spilling into him, unstructured, ink in a vat of water.

And whatever the King is doing seems to be pushing back. Rigid. Hard, like thrusting a pipe of metal right down his gullet and around his heart.

It hurts.

Jon should be afraid.

Part of him is.

The rest….

“They don’t need those things, Jon. They have me,” says the King. He drapes one hand over Jon’s shoulder, huge, familiar, heavy. “I am in no danger from your Entities.”

Jon knows he isn’t thinking very clearly; it’s slow, thick, like honey running downhill, and still doesn’t feel urgent. “They change,” he tries to explain, watching the birth of a star, watching it spin through its fiery, moon-building cycle, bloom blue, and then slowly fade into its eventual death. “That’s why they would win.”

That rumble again, that sound of displeasure. “So? Do you think I don’t change? Adapt? Learn?” The King’s other hand joins the first, on both shoulders now, just brushing his throat, caging him in.

Safe. Secure. Who needs questions? (I do. I need questions.) “They mutate. They….” (The Beholding is reaching, displeased, maybe just as pained without questions, without more.)

“They what, Jon?” prompts the King

(The Beholding, deep in Jon’s core, the wire at the heart of him, from toe to crown and thrumming—) “They change,” Jon says again, low. “They are now as they were in my world, but that wouldn’t last. Once through, they’d alter themselves, becoming as fear here dictates.”

“There is no fear here.” The King’s thumbs just brush Jon’s jaw.

He obediently tilts his head back, eyes lidded, still watching the stars. “Yes, there is, Hastur,” he says, and does not quite register the King’s hands twitch on his shoulders. “So much fear.” And he can taste it.

Hastur, the King in Yellow, has gone very still.

The Beholding is flooding the walls that Hastur built, rusting through with questions, with knowledge, lifting fake happinesses like rocks to see what’s underneath. “So much fear,” Jon whispers. “Suppressed, but so much. A wealth of it, banked and building. Hastur, they’ll eat this world, and then they’ll eat you, because you’re afraid of—”

Hastur suddenly grips him hard and hurls him onto the floor.

Jon is wrenched out of his peace and skids across the marble, dazed and aching.

“He got your name?” comes Kayne’s voice, and then a terrible cackle that rips through the air (and makes Jon’s vision shatter, and makes Jon cry out). “That’s great! Do it again, go on, go on, do it again, push your luck.”

“You aren’t invited here,” says the King with that horrible growl, that rumble of warning.

“And he knows you’re afraid! Oh, oh, oh, that’s just rich! You want a snack? I’m having a snack. I can’t wait to see what happens next.” A crunching sound.

Kayne terrifies Jon on an instinctive level that he cannot name.

This is the antithesis of all he is, somehow. This isn’t an enemy. This is…

Undoing, he thinks, and isn’t even sure what he means. He can’t sit up yet. He’s still dazed from the universe.

The King descends on Jon.

Grabs him with too many limbs and does not try to be gentle, compresses him so hard that his bones crack, and Jon manages one wheezy cry.

“You’ve rejected the easy way, Jon,” Hastur says, one wide, terrible hand tilting Jon’s face toward his. “But judging by your past, you always do.”

And the King takes a fistful of Jon’s mind and squeezes.

Squashing thought, displacing memory. Burying him, drowning him under wet and heavy concrete, forcing him into the mud.

It’s the King’s will, completely subsuming his own—and it’s worse than anything Jon has ever felt.

The panic that hits now makes forgetfulness in the Unknowing seem cheap, makes the Web’s control seem just a warm-up, and as who he is suffocates, his panic rockets past every other fear to take the number one slot.

The Beholding drinks that fear like nitro, and it responds.

There is pain (but incidental, like Jon is a channel, a mere transmitter between), a shocking burning biting splashing slicing —

The King throws him with a deep and terrible cry.

Jon lands badly. This panic precludes silence, precludes sense, precludes anything but primal desperation, and he wraps both arms around his head and makes noises he doesn’t recognize as human.

Kayne gasps dramatically. “You cheated!” he cries, and then he cackles. That laughter is madness and lightning, that laughter is hysteria enfleshed, that laughter is so extreme and so chaotic that hurts to hear.

“Be quiet!” the King rumbles.

“I told you you couldn’t suppress him. That fucking eyeball doesn’t care if you hurt him, but theft? Come on! Did you really think that thing wouldn’t respond to its pet being poached? Ahaha!”

“He had no memories of anything like this happening!”

“No, but all those memories were before deification, my darling boy. My lovely idiot. My charming pup. All fluff, no brain.”

“Silence!” the King snarls, growls, roars.

“You even lost an arm! Oh, oh, oh, this is delicious. I gotta ask, though, you gonna eat that? Because it’s better fresh, and it’s already lost a lot of… mm, that’s not blood, what would you call that, ichor?”

The only answer is that horrible, low growl.

The growl means the King is angry. If he’s angry, he might do that again, and Jon whimpers.

Then the Beholding wraps over his mind like a heavy, warm blanket.

Jon can’t think, can’t identify what’s happening, can’t reason through this, or what it might mean. He is cradled in the familiar grip of the Eye, the one who claims him, loves his fear, recognizes him as key to its ascent.

The Eye is fixing what was squashed.

Jon feels his memories filling back in, feels his thoughts flow as channels rebuild, feels himself being lifted out of the mud where the King pushed him down. Because of course the Eye can do that, the Eye knows him, the Eye can heal a severed finger, and the Eye can put everything back where it was.

And it feels so right.

Jon moans.

“And would you look at what’s happening now,” says Kayne.

“He made it more aware,” murmurs the King.

“Of course he did, you fucking sock.” The tone changes, and now it is violence, now it is low and sultry and venomous. “And I told you you couldn’t couldn’t force your way with this one, but no, you wouldn’t listen. You cheated, and that means I get an advantage, and that fallout, dear Hastur, will be all your fault.”

Jon barely hears any of it.

He is complete.

Complete in a way he’s only briefly known, complete in a way he’s only given himself fully to once.

It was three minutes of bliss, wholeness, peace.

Then the distress of his (Martin lover soulmate heart) Own had turned that moment so sour.

Martin isn’t here right now, and Jon can’t even think to pull away from what is happening.

Home.

“That’s a lot of blood, old buddy, old pal,” says Kayne so happily. “Can he lose that much? I dunno, I was never great with math.”

“I know.” Hastur still hasn’t moved.

Home. Home. Jon is home.

Communing with the Ceaseless Watcher. Being communed. Fitting in place, into the space made for him, filling with fear and joy in equal measure.

“Mmm, true worship. Amazing to see, isn’t it? Been a long damn time since you got any of that, isn’t it?”

“Go away,” Hastur says.

“All that puppeteering, and when was the last time you actually saw worship?”

“I’m warning you,” says Hastur.

“What? Leave? And miss all this? Not on your life, buddy.”

And Jon—

He’s hit the block, the wall, the place where the Eye can push no further unless he lets them all in.

The place where they must all be invited.

As always, it fingers the door, as always, it tries the lock, as always, it knocks, beckoning with soft and intimate whispers.

Jon remembers the death of the world and does not open the door. I can’t.

And he regrets it.

I can’t let you in.

And he grieves.

Kayne sighs. “Are you giving up? I’d guess he has a few minutes left, bleeding like that. Far be it from me to tell you what to do with your toys, but once he’s dead, you automatically lose. You know that, right? That you lose? And then you’re mine? Is that really what you want?” There’s a sound, like gnashing of teeth.

Hastur growls and picks Jon off the floor so gingerly that it’s like he thinks he’s going to be blasted.

Jon is suddenly aware just how badly his side hurts. He gasps.

Then he’s aware of the King.

Of what the King did.

The panic comes back full force, and Jon twists himself out of the King’s loose grip and onto the floor with a crunch.

Kayne howls like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

Jon is beyond reason, beyond caring that he feels freshly stabbed, feels his torn flesh rubbing against itself in the space Martin’s knife made.

He tries to drag himself away.

Kayne appears in front of him, crouching, just some guy in homespun clothes and incongruous snake-leather boots. “Inquiring minds want to know: just where in fuck do you think you’re going?”

Jon looks up.

And sees Disorder.

Chaos in the flesh, Madness and Gripping Insanity, Wideness and Wildness and Strife, Peacelessness and Impossible Things that could never be and should never are and never did become.

Sees the universe not as it is, but completely unhinged, gravity twisted, stars colliding and darkness in their wake.

Jon scrambles backwards, gasping, slipping on his own blood.

And Disorder looks… surprised.

“You cheated!” Hastur roars, and finally picks Jon up with enough force to keep him from squirming away.

“He sees me,” says the other with wonder, the Undoing, the Strife, and then falls into absolute laughing hysterics.

“Cheater!” proclaims the King.

“Don’t you wish I had?” cackles Kayne (that’s Martin’s chaos god, here in the non-flesh, and oh gods Martin be careful). “Because I’m wearing my guise, big boy, and it doesn’t matter. He got my name, then he got your name, and now, he’s got my face. What else can he do?”

“He got your name?” says the King, startled.

“Nyarlathotep,” Jon gasps, pushing fruitlessly against Hastur’s hands.

“Ahahaha!”

Jon also gets that he’s bleeding badly, very badly, and his vision is beginning to tunnel. Maybe this is the way out, he thinks. Maybe I can just die here, end it. Just fucking BLEED out.

Hastur lays him out on the floor and begins prodding at his side.

Jon tries to roll away.

Hastur catches him and puts him back down like a toddler getting changed.

“Mmmm, good luck fixing this mess, darling.”

“Get out!”

“Fine, I guess I’ll go bother my guy for a while. Ta!”

The Madness’ absence is like the removal of a flame, the burning finally gone away.

Leaving Jon with him, the King, who did that to his mind, and yes, he’s healed, and yes, it’s fixed, and yes, this now scares him more than anything else. He tries to scramble away again.

“Stop it,” snaps the King, catching him.

“Leave me alone!” snaps Jon.

“I am trying to keep you from dying,” the King says.

And Jon doesn’t know what his face does, but it must be the same look that makes Martin frown, because the King draws back as though absolutely shocked, then snarls like a freight train and yanks Jon up to mask-level. “Enough!” the King bellows, and then—

Jon wakes.

He can’t see. But he can feel.

This isn’t where he was. This is not Somewhere Else.

“Welcome back,” says the King, who was waiting. “I don’t want to do this, Jon—and I guarantee I will not actually damage you. But it’s going to hurt. You will not enjoy it. Call the Entities—or else.” He sounds regretful.

Jon knew this was coming. “No,” he whispers, and then, oh, there is pain.

Breaking pain, burning page. Sharp pain and banging pain. Pain so bad it shoves him into darkness.

He wakes again, shaking.

But pain is not all he feels.

This placeis a bad place, it is an in-between place, a stuck place, so close to the Fears that he feels them, feels them like claws on his throat and spine, feels them like familiar touches just shy of piercing his skin, feels them lingering over sensitive parts with knowledge where to taste him, how to tempt.

They are right behind some thin, useless sheet, pressing so hard that they deform its shape with their faces. Ghosts, on the other side of the veil, nearly through. “Where am I?” he says, hoarse.

“The only place you can stay alive right now. Call the Entities,” rumbles the King. “Don’t make me do this, Jon.”

“No,” whispers Jon, and again: “Where am I?”

“That’s all you have to say?” the King says, and it is a warm tone, almost a caress, affectionate. “That’s too bad.”

Pain.

Jon knows he’s screaming. His darkened vision flashes white and red, and when it finally lets up, he feels like he’s dripping all over—sweat, blood, he has no idea.

He can’t stop making little breathy sounds, and he hates them.

“I can do this for centuries,” the King croons in his ear. “You don’t age, Jon.”

“I… I wh… what?” Horror makes his voice crack.

“You don’t want this pain, do you? I don’t. Call. The Entities.”

Jon laughs. It’s a bad sound. “No.”

There is pain.

Then there is nothing at all.

When he wakes, it’s pleasure.

This is worse.

He’s still blind, and his hands are tied above his head. Something like electricity is buzzing through his nerves from his toes to his scalp, under his skin, a manual and emotionless manipulation.

He does not want this, does not like this, and he screams.

The King adds humiliation, standing near, letting Jon feel his presence, just watching, watching, watching. “Call the Entities, Jon, and all of this will end.”

“No!” Jon sobs it.

It doesn’t stop, and it doesn’t stop. It rises, crests, teases into burning, aching tension, and it does not stop.

“We don’t have to do this, Jon. Call the Entities.”

“No!” Jon whimpers, struggles, tries fruitlessly to get away.

It surges past pleasure and into something like pain but worse because it isn’t, and no matter how he twists, what he does, he cannot make it lessen. It’s in him, in his bones, tracing every branch of his nerve and neural network. He cries out, half a sob.

“Call. The Entities,” says the King.

Shame peaks along with agony, tormented ecstasy, and Jon weeps. “Go to hell!” he shouts.

Darkness hits him hard.

He wakes without sensation, without anything of any kind. No touch, no sound, no smell.

Compete deprivation.

He still feels the Eye—far more keenly than before—as well as the other Fears, their proximity horrifying, tempting, terrifying, tantalizing.

Call the Entities. It’s directly in his head, piped in, and other than the Fears, the only thing that’s real.

And Jon knows that this will break him.

Is against his nature, starving his need to know, learn, touch, taste, feel, experience.

This. This is his personal hell. The King found it.

Jon doesn’t mean to reach for the Eye. Desperate, a drowning man, he still does.

And sees through the King’s eyes, and it is disorientating: Jon sees himself floating in the air, horizontal and nude, hair curtaining down. The look on his face is terrible, pained—he looks like he was frozen mid-scream, but he doesn’t make a sound.

And yes, there is a blindfold. Jon knows (knows) that his eyes are open beneath it.

But that’s not all he sees.

Green, liquid light loops all around and through Jon, like dripping solar flares. They surge and ebb, expand and contract, coiling wildly, and something about them makes him think of breathing.

What is this? The Eye? Something else?

I’m beautiful, he thinks in shock, and wonders if all humans look like this, or if this is somehow connected to his many marks and scars.

The King speaks. Do you see, now? Why would I want to hurt this? To hurt you? I don’t, Jon. This isn’t my choice. This is yours.

Each flare pulses, and Jon doesn’t know if they match his racing heartbeat, but they seem to.

Call the Entities, or I go, and leave you alone until you can’t remember your own name.

Jon can see himself crying—unmoving, but tears somehow escape the blindfold, floating around him in whatever field the King has generated.

So. This, forever.

Starvation.

And Jon is terrified that the Eye will eventually grow bored with unchanging experience and leave him here. Right now, in this naked and true place, that feels worse than—

Almost anything.

One moment more painful still remains, one moment more terrible: when realization bloomed that he was killing Martin.

When he saw Martin’s cheek bleed as the Panopticon fell down around them.

And it didn’t matter that Jon would have become the pupil anyway when Jonah died, no matter who had done the deed.

Didn’t matter that all he’d done was speed things along by killing Jonah himself.

Didn’t matter that he was the tether through no choice of his own, through the machinations of the Web and Jonah Magnus.

That didn’t change what happened.

By doing it the way he did, he’d broken his promise, and he’d stabbed Martin more surely than Martin had stabbed him.

That is still worse. He won’t do it again. And if never betraying Martin again means… this, floating forever in nothing, cut off from everything, even the Eye…

It’s what I owe, he thinks, and it still won’t be enough, he thinks, and then finally answers the King.

No.

Jon sees his body hitching, trying to cry, but he can’t hear himself, can’t feel it. Can’t even feel the sobs in his throat.

The King sounds sad. As you wish, Jon. And he does—

Something.

Jon is booted from his view, his head, back into total darkness.

Into nothing.

The Eye isn’t gone yet, no. But it will be, eventually.

Anticipating abandonment, silent, unheard, Jon weeps.

He wakes flooded.

Overwhelmed.

Sensation, too much of it, inside and out, loud and bright and painful on every inch of his body.

Blood sears his veins, air peels his lungs, his hair sizzles like lightning along his skin.

He cries out, but that’s too loud, and he tries to curl in on himself, but that’s too painful, and the Eye is here and the Fears are here and they don’t care about his distress, and they demand, demand, demand… something.

Something he can’t recall, doesn’t know how to do.

He can’t remember who he is. Who they are. What this is. Where he is. Anything.

Could not answer that call if he tried.

It’s too much. He’s slipping, falling back, unbalancing his way right off a cliff into comforting madness, into no thought and no reason and nothing matters.

And then the Eye reaches into him, through him, and steadies his balance, and keeps him from breaking.

Jon remembers who he is.

The Eye wants to see, to watch, to know, and it wants these things through him. It likes his responses when he’s sane. If it didn’t, it would let him fall.

Jon is so afraid.

“I think I’ve finally figured out where our little disconnect is, Jon,” says the King congenially, and he isn’t shouting, and he doesn’t have to, because it’s still so loud, too much sound, and the Eye has to translate. “Of course, I could just keep doing this. It wouldn’t take much; I could douse you in fire, drown you in bliss, or deny you every sensation over and over again. I could do that.”

Jon knows he could. “Wh… why….” Whatever he’s lying on hurts, and he whimpers. Jon’s own voice hurts him—too loud, too much. Feels like a rock in his throat.

“Exactly, Jon, very good! I thought, why? I don’t actually want to hurt you. I like you. I take no pleasure in this—and obviously, neither do you, no matter how much you demand it.” The King’s chuckle beats against Jon’s skin like wings made of iron.

Jon makes a small, helpless sound. He can almost understand these words on his own without the Eye’s help, now. Whatever he’s lying on merely feels abrasive, rather than made of woven fire. “Y….” His voice hurts him, and he winces. “You d… don’t?”

“YourEntities love your suffering, don’t they?”

It’s such a warm voice, so pleased, so penetrative. Jon whimpers. “Yes.”

“They love it when you’re injured, or anticipating injury. Don’t they? Anything to make you afraid.”

“Yes,” Jon whispers.

“They feed off you.”

Jon sobs. “Yes.”

“I don’t.”

The silence is strange.

“What?” says Jon after a moment.

“I don’t feed off fear. I don’t feed off torment or pain. None of that does anything for me, apart from… occasional personal proclivities.”

Jon is confused. “What?”

“You expect me to hurt you because your former gods will always hurt you. That is their nature. They will terrify you, deprive you, burn you, cut you. That is what they are.”

Jon shakes. Sheets. He’s on sheets. They’re soft. His skin is lying.

“You don’t belong to them anymore—you just haven’t realized it yet. You’re mine. Do you understand why this matters, Jon?”

“No,” Jon manages.

“That’s all right. You will. You’re not stupid.” That tone is mocking, because Jon can be very stupid, or… or is Jon just hearing mockery because he expects to hear it?

“It’s all changed for you, Jon.” The King is coming closer now, and Jon can feel him, feel his approach like a wave of heat before an open fire.

Jon curls tighter. He can’t seem to avoid making the noises he’s making with every breath.

Heat from the king’s face, from the King’s breath, right against his ear. “I like you, Jon. I know you better than you know yourself—and I am not going to hurt you anymore. I want you to thrive, so instead, I’m going to make you understand.”

He’s not sure what that means. If he heard it right. “Un… understand what?”

“Like breathing,” says the King, softly. Something of the King’s touches him, starting at his scalp, running down his spine, and it hurts. It’s too much.

Jon cries out.

“When you’re ready, you and I will have a talk. I’d guess it’ll take a day or so for you to adapt to… everything. Once you understand, I think you’ll do as I ask. You might even apologize to me for making me wait so long.” And the King laughs.

Every pulse judders through Jon, shakes his nerves like trying to break their necks, thrusts him past pleasure or pain into white flashes and a brain that gongs like a bell.

Then the King is gone.

Just that, just that absence, helps so much.

Jon pants, slowly adapting. Slowly adjusting.

It’s a nice bed, really. It’s not sandpaper.

And it’s quiet in here. Really.

Dark, too—though even this dim light hurts right now.

The part of Jon that needs to know is ravenous. Wants to see where he is, explore, sate his curiosity. To learn how he can be so close to the Fears, yet so separate from any reality he’s known.

His body decides otherwise. He falls into a deep sleep.

Untold ages later, Jon wakes and knows the King is watching him.

He wakes, and knows a lot more than that.

The King tortured him for seven days, unceasing.

Only seven days. It felt so much longer.

Jon has slept for a day and a half, and now, he’s in a different world.

“Dreamlands?” he mumbles, unsure what that means. It’s just one of many useless facts the Eye hurls at him, information without understanding, data without discernment.

Right now, that’s particularly frustrating.

“It had to be the stupidest of the lot, didn’t it?” Jon mutters, struggling to sit up. “Oh, no, I couldn’t have a god capable of reason, no, that’d just be silly.”

Except the King in Yellow claims to be his god now, and the King is regrettably capable.

Jon tries to take stock.

He’s aware he’s been worked over by an expert in human psyche.

This was intended to leave him vulnerable. (It did.)

Intended to leave him raw. (It did.)

Intended to render him unable to trust his emotions or judgment. (It did.)

The bleeding, cracked part of himself that’s trying to be objective sounds like a child in his head—tiny and powerless.

Just don’t call them, he reminds himself, the one signpost he can trust. Nothing else matters.

He’s also still naked. “Ugh,” he says, a general commentary, and finally slides off the bed.

The bottoms of his feet hurt. That just seems unfair.

It’s a room. Just a room. Walls and floor of big, stone blocks. A bed, dressed all in white. A single bureau with two drawers, a mirror, and a hair brush. A small yellow ribbon sits on top.

There are two doors, and there is one window.

Jon heads right for the window, then stops because he remembers he’s naked.

He can truly be stupid with curiosity. The Beholding hadn’t chosen him by accident.

He sighs at himself.

The bureau, happily, does have some clothing in the top drawer. Unhappily, it’s some satiny material in the King’s specific yellow.

The outfit has no name because the King never named it. It’s short, revealing; it’ll show his legs, and his chest, and sort of drape over his shoulders, and probably flutter up in a light breeze like some damned fan-service thing.

Maybe naked would be less embarrassing. Or he could do something with a pillow case.

At least it wasn’t identical to the outfit he’d been wearing in that vision the King shoved into him that first meeting.

But that thought brings with it a caravan, wagon after wagon of horrors from the past week, violation and pain and sensory deprivation—

Jon finds himself hyperventilating, crumpled, having somehow wedged himself into the space between the dresser and the wall.

The floor and wall are cold. This is not comfortable.

This is fine, he thinks.

(Jon is not ready to deal with what happened.)

“Lovely,” he mutters, shaking too hard to stand. “Panic attacks over nothing. Very impressive, Sims.”

(He may never be ready to deal with it.)

“Ugh,” he says again, crawling free, and focuses, so he can get through this.

Through this to what? He doesn’t know.

(The King says he likes you! Haha! Good joke, he thinks in Breekon’s terrible Russian accent.)

Then he’s laughing, or maybe crying. He doesn’t know, and for a long moment, cannot stop.

Jon is deeply, achingly grateful that Martin is not here.

He doesn’t want Martin to see this.

To see him… like this.

He already knows how this is going to go. The King will let him get better, just begin to hope it won’t happen again, and then it will happen again, all of it, maybe even longer, and this time, when he gets out, the King will swear it’s the last time for real, and then….

(He said he doesn’t want to hurt you.)

Jon rubs his face. He’s sweating and freezing at once.

(Said he likes you.)

“Balderdash,” he says with full sincerity.

He throws the yellow outfit on the bed and goes to peek at the doors.

The first door exits to some kind of hall, so Jon keeps that shut for now. No lock, of course—not that it would do any good.

The second door is a bathroom. There’s a huge tub, a small sink, and a sort of Turkish-style toilet.

That’s when it hits him that everything in here is his size.

Made for humans. Even the mirror in the bedroom only reaches a foot or so above his head.

The Eye informs him this is the King’s palace, and he can make whatever he wants happen here, but Jon doesn’t think that explains this place.

It all feels… old. Unused for a long time, but established, somehow.

Jon runs the water in the tub. What comes out first is dark brown and gritty—pipes that have not functioned in a while.

He leaves the water running and goes back to the bedroom. That window is calling his name, and curiosity takes precedence over pride.

It looks out on a landscape that changes with every blink.

Lit by one moon, then two, then none, it is a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of galaxies and planets and stars, absolutely dizzying and amazing and incredible.

The Eye wants to know what every single landscape is.

Jon wants to know what every single landscape is.

“Probably why he gave me this view,” Jon mutters, certain he’s being bribed.

Then he looks down, which is a mistake.

The tower plummets into nothing.

Nothing. There’s no need for anything down there, because the King doesn’t live down there, so it’s void, empty, non-existence, truly nothing, and the knowledge of complete absence of the real smacks Jon like a hammer to the head.

He spins away from the window, gasping. No escape, he thinks. Not if he wants to keep existing, anyway.

That gets logged away for later.

Trembling, he heads back to the bathroom, where the water is finally running clear.

Use of the toilet and then a hot bath aren’t a compromise, he tells himself. He reeks. And he’s freezing. And it delays the inevitable moment of stepping into that hall.

The Eye wants to see what’s out there.

Jon wants to see what’s out there.

Stubborn, he stays in the tub—which is enormous—hunched over and boiling, and he does not leave until the water has gone just a little bit cold.

There are no underthings with this stupid outfit, and Jon seriously reconsiders trying to use a pillowcase.

The thing fastens at the waist with a single brooch in the King’s three-hook shape—which, he notes, possesses a very thick needle. He logs that away, too. Not that he’s sure what he’d ever do with it, but it’s good to know he possesses something sharp.

The outfit isn’t very… much. It wraps around, loops over, and drapes prettily on his shoulders. Jon can see all the scars on his thighs, his arms, his torso. The one on his neck is on full display.

It’s a lovely enough style, he supposes, or would be on some Adonis.

He is no Adonis, and this is absurd.

“Ugh,” he says again, then eyes the yellow ribbon.

It’s an ownership marker, he knows. It’s somehow more meaningful that he dons this unnecessary bit of color than the only clothing he’s been given.

Well, it’s this or leaving his hair loose.

Martin likes his hair. That’s why Jon kept it long after the coma. The long hair is Martin’s, and he decides he won’t leave it loose for anyone else. Braided, it is. The ribbon doesn’t matter.

“Well,” he says to the Eye. “I suppose this is it.”

The only answer is the desire to see what’s in the hall.

Fair enough. Jon wants to see, too.

Hands shaking (which he ignores), at last, he opens the door.

The hall is long and curves gently, as though crescent-shaped. Doors identical to his line the inside wall. On the outside wall are tall windows, bright as if in sun.

But that’s not glass. It’s some kind of mist. And every single one of them is too high up for Jon to see through.

Those windows are for the King, not the humans who used the rooms. It’s as if he and his pet humans would walk these halls together. Actively together.

It unnerves Jon, somehow. It doesn’t fit his image of the cruel god high above the rest, only deigning to touch his peons with the lash of a whip.

Trying to shake it, Jon turns right and walks.

He checks a few doors. They’re all the same—rooms like his, beds made, windows opened to a changing nighttime landscape. After a while, he stops checking.

They’re all unoccupied, anyway. “Where is everybody?” he mutters at empty rooms.

Eventually, he comes back to his own door, which he’d left open.

That shouldn’t be possible. That means this place is a circle, so the inner bedroom windows can’t open onto unending landscapes with variable moons.

Except they do.

He also found no exit, and fear flutters through his heart.

There must be an exit. He just missed it, he tells himself.

So this time, he opens every door. Every. Single. One.

And returns to his own.

“Right,” he says, breathing a little too hard. “Right. This isn’t anything to panic over. He’s just… got you in the cookie jar, for later. That’s all.”

(More human psyche manipulation. Lovely place, all needs cared for, but a cage.)

He makes a small, panicked noise, no matter how hard he tries not to.

The Eye beckons, offers, tempts. It can show him the way.

He laughs unsteadily. “Now? Really?” he asks it. “Like I’m going to lean on you in this place, so close to where you all might break through?”

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t reach.

The Eye shows him, anyway.

A path opens, and Jon gasps. It’s light and misty, and goes straight through the hallway wall.

He hadn’t asked.

The Eye is being proactive? Why? How? What is happening?

Jon stares at the path, shaking. Can he even walk on it? Will he fall through to the nothing below if he tries? Where does it lead?

He has to know. He has to see.

That need to see what is unseen crests over his fear and his worry and insecurity and doubt. It is familiar and warm and his, and he clings to it like a drowning man to a rope.

Jon swallows hard, braces himself, and steps onto the white and misty pathway.

Kayne sits cross legged on the arm of Hastur’s throne and juggles human skulls. “I told you.”

“I know,” the King rumbles, growling, warning.

“You’re gonna have a time keeping this one locked up.” He adds a fourth skull, juggling with ease.

“Of course,” says the King, as though planning this all along. “The illusion of power will only ease his transition.”

Kayne laughs. “Illusion of power? Hastur. Lying, now? We should add that to the list of cheats. If we can lie, Hastur, then you know I’ve already won.”

Hastur growls. “I am content with my choice,” he says. “And when I have won, you will bow to me.”

“Mm, and when you have lost, I will eat you. One. Bite. At a time.” Kayne smacks his lips, smiles with too many teeth, then hurls a skull at the approaching Jonathan Sims.

Jon can’t see what’s on the other end of this path. It’s more mist, bright, like in the windows.

But he does hear the voice.

He knows that voice. That’s Undoing, the ender of worlds, the heart’s blood of chaos. He stops walking.

And clear as a bell, knows that if he stops walking for too long, stops seeing the path he’s on, he’s going to fall.

Into nothing.

Forward or back, Sims, he tells himself.

He has to know what’s on the other side. Has to. Feels like he’ll chew his own arms off if he doesn’t.

It’s not like he can run away from any of these beings, anyway. Haha.

(He is not okay.)

He chooses forward.

Hears the rumble of a displeased King (and immediately breaks out in a cold sweat), hears the mad cackle of Chaos incarnate.

Through the mist, out—

Into a throne room.

And a human skull comes flying at his face.

Sports were never Jon’s… thing, and he barely catches it, fumbles it several times, then drops it.

It shatters.

“Wow, what an entrance!” howls Kayne, clapping. “Encore!”

(Humiliation.)

Which means nothing to them, they’re alien, they’re not relishing it, it’s just a button to push—

Jon takes a deep breath and tries to stay out of his own head.

The room resembles the temple. It’s white marble, the king’s symbol on the floor, an enormous throne at the head of it. The left side of the room has no wall. The view is only broken by four thin and narrow curtains, white, diaphanous, and fluttering.

Beyond them hangs the biggest moon Jon has ever seen, shocking above a choppy, gray sea.

It helps to look at this, to study the crater-pattern—completely different from both his moon and the moon of Somewhere Else. Off-rhythm splashes hint at huge beasts below the water, beasts that fear nothing and hunt in the night, and he yearns to know what they are.

There’s even a second, smaller moon, peeking out from behind the big one. Amazing.

This is much better than looking at gods.

At the Undoing, who has some interest in Martin (and that thought makes Jon willing to do something very badly rash, though he doesn’t know what).

At the King, whose presence inspires fear and shame in equal measure.

“Jon,” says the King, sounding warm and welcoming. “Come. Break your fast with me.”

Jon makes himself look.

In the moment between Jon’s emergence and looking at the moon, the King has laid a table. Bowls of sliced fruits, cheeses, and breads sit between pitchers of some yellow liquid.

There are flowers Jon does not know in a vase, vaguely lily-shaped, black and speckled with the King’s yellow.

Cantus Flos, the Eye informs him. Song Flower, bred by early worshippers of Hastur the Shepherd god, designed to record and repeat his praises in an endless loop.

Well, that’s a thing.

Jon glances behind him. The path is still there. He could go back to his bedroom.

Or he could face this like an adult.

Can’t run, anyway. (And thinking about that nearly sends him into panic again, which will not do.)

It’s the waiting that’s worse, he decides—waiting for this play-acted niceness to be over with so hope has no chance to bloom, and he can lose himself in the torment.

Well, he can do something about that.

It’s time to don his spiniest, thickest-gauge armor. “You could’ve at least given me socks,” he snaps, heading toward the table.

Kayne cackles.

The King looks surprised. It’s a full-body movement, pulling back. “Perhaps I shall, soon enough. For now, though, I prefer you like this—on display, your power and presence witnessed.”

“You mean my scars? The physical manifestation of my every failure? Oh, of course, worm-holes must be all the rage this season.”

Kayne loses it again.

The King is silent.

Jon sits across from him, pauses, then adjusts the stupid skirt-thing, which isn’t long enough to feel comfortable against the smooth wooden bench. It’s horrifyingly revealing.

“I prefer you on display,” says Hastur, as if Jon’s not getting it. “Seen.”

The word is triggering, appealing, tugs at something deep in him, and it is terrifying that Hastur knows to use it in such a powerful way.

Jon is afraid.

He retreats further into his armor and raises one eyebrow. “A kink?” he drawls in his driest academic dismissal. “Is this really the time? Well, if you feel like sharing, I suppose that’s your prerogative.”

That sets Kayne off again.

It makes the King growl.

Jon’s breath is uneven. If he’s good at anything, it’s eroding social situations. This mockery of pleasantries won’t last much longer.

Kayne abruptly flops onto a chair he seems to have manifested at the head of the table. “You’re actually interesting today.”

Jon glances over. “If all it took to get your attention is a little rudeness, then I wonder how bored you must actually be.”

“Ooh,” says Kayne, low. “Ooh, I would hurt you so much if I could.”

That is completely terrifying.

Jon wants to lean in, press every button he can find, chew on every wire—but he fears Kayne taking it out on Martin.

He can’t risk Martin.

So. “I apologize. To you.” He looks away.

“This is unexpected,” says the King. “You’re acting like you’re not afraid, but you are.”

“Of course I’m afraid.” Jon's voice breaks just a little. “I’m damned terrified. Do you have a point, or are we already reduced to banal observation?”

The low rumble is a warning.

The play-acting will be over quicker than I thought. Jon steels himself for horror, torture, isolation.

“When you were afraid before, you were respectful,” says the King.

Jon is surprised at his own vitriol. “And it accomplished nothing. I gave you no reason to hurt me, and you still hurt me worse than… you hurt me. And then you had the… the gall to insinuate you didn’t want to, and you’d rather play nice, and it would all be tea parties from now on. I’m not that stupid. We both know you’re going to torture me, anyway. I see no point in pretending.”

“Ooh, solid logic there,” says Kayne, and holds up a chalk slate. He proceeds to draw “1” under the column labeled “J.”

Hastur snatches the slate and crushes it.

Kayne produces another.

Jon swallows.

Hastur sighs. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jon. I won’t torture you any more.”

“You’ll say that,” Jon challenges, “until I start to believe it, and then you’ll do it anyway.”

Kayne draws 2 under the J, chalk screeching.

Jon’s unsure what that means. Does it mean Jon’s right? Or that he’s sincere? Or that it was just an entertaining delivery?

The King seems to have decided to pretend Kayne is not there. “You’re correct that such a method would be effective… if I wanted to break you. However, I do not. I need you whole, Jonathan Sims. You know that.”

He can’t call the Fears if he’s broken. “I do. I also know you could still hurt me very badly without breaking me. You think I don’t know how this works? All you’ve done is strip away whatever polite varnish I had. You say you like me? That you know me better than I know myself? Then all of this—” he gestures at himself, at his unpleasantness, his venom, his spikes—”should hardly be a surprise.”

Kayne draws a 3 under the J column.

Hastur leans in, and for one moment, Jon thinks this is it. Hastur’s going to skin him right here, or start crushing his fingers one by one, or—

The King wraps one tendril around his back so he can’t pull away. The touch is gentle, terrifying because it could crush, but does not. “I do like you,” says Hastur, and this close, Jon realizes that is not a mask. “You’re amusing. Perhaps… unrefined. Yes, we would work on this attitude of yours—but I don’t find it offensive because I see what’s behind it. You aren’t being rebellious, Jon, no matter what you think you’re doing. You’re afraid. You forget that I gain nothing from your terror, Jonathan Sims—and I gain everything from your praise.”

“Praise!” Jon says, taken aback.

Kayne draws a 1 in the H column.

That frightens Jon very much.

Does it mean Hastur is sincere? Hastur wants Jon to praise him? What the actual hell?

Jon hasn’t even dealt with the fact yet that Hastur—whatever the hell he is—is not one of the Fears. What does this praise thing even mean?

This isn’t the time for philosophical dilemma, so instead of replying, he scoffs.

Jon is very good at scoffing.

No one he’s scoffed at has ever taken it in stride, and the King is not the first. He rears back again.

Kayne erases the 3 in the J column and replaces it with 5. “Bonus point for casting so much shade without a word.”

“Leave!” snarls the King, turning on him, and the room trembles so hard that Jon’s bench rattles.

Kayne sighs and drapes backward in his chair. “Oh, all right. Ooh! Ooh,you know what would make this better? A recap for my soon-to-be-partner-in-crime who just loves this series, got a lifelong subscription, you know, and I’m gonna go watch his face when we hit the plot twists. Ciao.” And he vanishes.

The slate drops to the table with a thunk, and his chair—which is some sort of clown-faced monstrosity—blows a raspberry at them both before disappearing with a pop.

Jon is shaking. That was a terrible sentence to leave on. “If he’s… if by throwing him out, you’ve aimed him at Martin like some sort of gun….”

“I haven’t, but now, I’m curious. You would do what, if I had?” The King sounds amused.

What does Jon have, after all? What leverage?

Jon scowls at the table. He’s got nothing. “I’ll be really unpleasant.”

That earns a deep, dark chuckle. “If you want to protect your lover, there’s only one way,” says Hastur.

“Calling the Entities won’t protect him. He’d be sucked back into the Lonely. That’s betraying him, not saving him.”

“An interesting perspective. Let’s unpack that, shall we?” says Hastur, and begins building a plate of fruit and cheese. “You fear suffering—but I have ended suffering.”

“That isn’t true.”

“I’ve come very close. You know I have.”

“I know you’ve created a world in which I would have been murdered and thanked you for it, and now you want me to make it worse.”

“On the contrary. I want you to make it better—to make it unnecessary to cull in the name of peace.”

The slate screeches, and a 2 appears under the H column.

Jon swallows. He doesn’t understand.

His stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and he is irrationally angry at it.

Hastur hands him the plate. “Eat, Jon,” he says. “Surely, your hunger is not the hill to die on.”

It’s a good point.

Jon sighs and takes the plate.

The slate changes to 3 in the H column.

“Oh, shut up,” Jon mutters at it. “You think the Dread Powers would let you do anything good? They preclude comfort! There would be no joy, no peace. Even the shallow pond you’ve forced everybody into would dry up.”

“I don’t intend to give your Fears free rein,” says Hastur. “They will power good things, not steer bad ones.”

“You can’t control them.”

“The reality I’ve built says I can,” says the King.

“They’ll adapt until you can’t. That’s what they do. Even if, for some horrible reason, I did want you to burn away the crumbs of free will left in this place, it still wouldn’t work. You’re not listening.”

“What makes you think I want to remove free will? I intend to restore it.”

The slate screeches and writes a 4 in the H column.

Jon stares at it.

To avoid answering, Jon focuses on eating (because of course it’s going to be taken away once Hastur decides to stop playing this game, and it’s better than gruel, or sinews, or whatever is coming).

Hastur waits.

Jon wishes he wouldn’t.

The fruit is amazing. Unfair. Distracting.

He’s finished half the plate before he can think to reply.

It takes effort to summon his most dubious researcher voice. “I find your assertion… unlikely.”

With unnerving grace, Hastur lifts a pitcher and pours him some of the golden liquid. “I understand why. You and I haven’t had the smoothest interaction, so far. You haven’t seen me at my best.”

“Is any of this poisoned?” Jon says with power, and didn’t mean to do it at all.

“No,” says Hastur obediently, then goes very, very still.

The J column changes to 6, and it is a terrible, squeaky sound in the thick and heavy silence.

Jon clutches the edge of the table, expecting to be blasted, burnt, beaten. Trying to push away the utter shock that it worked.

The low, warning rumble is looming doom, an avalanche beginning, a volcano threatening to spew. “Was that an accident?”

“Yes.” Not that it ever mattered, Jon thinks, horrified that he can suddenly compel again, horrified at what it could mean, horrified at the memories of avatars who responded to his questions with violence, rage, pain.

Something in the rumble changes. It feels… pleased. “Yet you kept asking, didn’t you? Even when they hurt you, you kept asking.”

“I had to,” says Jon in a tiny voice, knowing it won’t matter.

“But it does matter. You’re making my case for me. You just don’t know it yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is food and drink,” says Hastur instead of answering, “the finest I only gave to my high priests. None of this is poisoned, altered, or laced with any substance that might affect your body or mind. I’ve already tried to sway you that way, Jon. I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”

The universe. Of course. What else had that been but a perfect drug for Jon?

Unnervingly perfect, now that Jon takes a moment to think about it. He’d have happily stood there, seeing it all, until his body gave out.

“I told you—I know you,” says the King, placing the glass of golden liquid in front of him.

The H column changes to 5.

Jon’s not at all sure what that means, and is disturbed. “You realize that places every single one of our interactions squarely in suspicious,” he snaps.

“For now,” says the King. “I don’t want to destroy free will. Do you think I don’t know I’ve halted progress? That wasn’t my plan. It’s a temporary state of things, only necessary because I lack the power to do what I truly want.”

“Which, I’m sure, doesn’t at all include murdering people who ask too many questions,” Jon quips.

And he’s too curious, absolutely reckless about it, because he tries the golden drink.

Hastur gives him a moment to process.

Jon needs it.

This is divine. Light, cold, refreshing. Very slightly alcoholic, but neither dry nor fruity. Should be next to “rejuvenate” in the dictionary, Jon thinks, staring at it.

Hastur sounds pleased. “I created it for them—my chosen faithful.”

“You didn’t… squeeze this out of any part of yourself, did you?” says Jon with such grave suspicion that Hastur finds it funny.

Apparently, so does Kayne. The J column changes to 7.

“No, child. It’s only wine. Anything that squeezed out of me would kill you. Mortal flesh—even changed as yours is—can only take so much.”

Changed. Yeah, that’s another fun little horror going on the back burner for now.

Jon grimaces and changes topics. “You say you don’t want the very thing you’re proud of creating. They’re all bound, somehow. Half of themselves is gone.”

“Not gone. Suppressed. Do you want to know why?”

Yes, Jon thinks, and clenches his jaw out of pure stubbornness. “No.”

He can’t see expression on the mask that is Hastur’s face, but Jon feels like he just made the thing smile and doesn’t not know why. “You don’t lie well, Jon.”

Jon sighs. “I know.”

And then Hastur answers. “I don’t want to suppress them because humans without free will can’t provide true worship.”

Jon doesn’t understand.

The H column changes to 6.

Hastur isn’t lying.

“What are you playing at?” Jon asks the slate.

It draws a smiley face.

Jon sighs, shakes his head. “That makes no sense,” he says, and gestures at the empty temple, the empty rooms, this place designed for many people, devoid of human life other than himself. “Why would this place be deserted, in that case? You could pack it full of acolytes. The whole world already worships you, even the ones you’re actively murdering. Or did you forget that evening at the Dandridge Grove?”

“There was a time the cleverest students came to me instead of that fate, Jon. They came here, to serve and learn, to worship. It was a reward.”

Learn what? Is there a library? More classes? Learn how? “I don’t believe you. But. Assuming I did, how did that work, and why did it stop?”

“Do you know what true worship is, Jon?”

Jon’s only experience of corporate religion was being dragged to the Church of England by his grandmother, and he’d apparently asked all the wrong questions in catechism classes until they’d told him to stop, just stop. So he did, and never returned.

“No,” he says, simplifying.

“Let me show you.” Hastur waved his tentacles to Jon’s left, toward the throne.

Suddenly, Jon sees himself. Himself, on the floor, moments after the King had tried to take over his mind.

The King had failed.

(And something bad had happened, but Jon can’t recall what.)

He sees those wild, green flares all over himself again, and they are so beautiful, and so random, and it is hard to watch himself curled up and whimpering beneath them, in obvious distress.

And then the Beholding began.

Now, Jon is seeing something else. Something he can’t fully comprehend. He’s an ant, watching quantum mechanics.

It’s sight, his instinct tells him, but that makes no sense. It’s not a beam of light or questing hands or strings attached to all his soul, but it is those, and more.

Sight the way the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze destroyed the Not-Sasha, he thinks, but this sight hadn’t destroyed him. Instead, he’d bloomed.

Uncurled, stretched out flat on his back and spread-eagled, every single cell willing and vulnerable. The flares were no longer random. They focused, pulsing with his heart, washing in and through that sight like some weird and wonderful lovemaking.

It’s so deeply intimate that Jon’s face burns.

The Jon on the floor turned his face toward the sight, wearing ecstasy—a look he has never seen on himself, and it’s private, a revelation that belongs to Martin alone, and he misses Martin very much.

The Jon on the floor is also bleeding very badly.

“That is worship,” says Hastur, and Jon jumps because he forgot the King was there.

“Why was I bleeding?”

“Your Ceaseless Watcher is imperfectly bound with you, thanks to the poor manner in which you were deified. In the human world, it can either focus fully on your mind, or your body. When it needs to concentrate on your mental state, your wound reopens. That’s the reason I brought you here, Jon. This is much closer to it. In the Dreamlands, it can manage both.”

So if Jon found a way to cut tether for good, he really would die.

So they hadn’t actually healed that wound, which was apparently more esoteric than either of them had guessed.

The image fades. His face still burns. “I wasn’t doing any of that on purpose.”

“I know you weren’t. Worship is a response. It’s supposed to be like breathing, Jon.”

Chalk screeches, and Jon doesn’t have to look at the slate to know the H column is up to 7.

“That’s what you want,” Jon says.

“Yes.”

“You were getting it. I was at the Grove. I saw—”

Hastur waves his tentacles almost angrily, and now Jon sees that night at the Grove—matriculation.

At everyone screaming and singing and writhing around, a thing that looked like ecstasy.

But it wasn’t.

Jon’s eyes widen. Those people didn’t have the same flares he does, no; but what small spurts of light did fizz around them were chaotic, flicking randomly in all directions.

None of them point toward Hastur.

Not one, even though whatever will or wicked power Hastur is forcing onto them (which hurts to look at, not entirely unlike the Dark) is quite deeply embedded in them all.

“No one’s interacting with it,” murmurs Jon. “But they mean it. They’re all… how can that not be worship?”

“It’s not a response. I’m making them do it, Jon. It isn’t the same.”

So the puppeting was even worse than he’d thought.

“Come,” says Hastur. “I will show you something else.”

“What now?” Is it done? The peaceful break is over?

The King chuckles. One of his tentacles appears from under the damn table to touch Jon’s arm.

Jon is off the bench and away from the whole setup so fast he almost doesn’t remember moving, and he can’t decide if he’s angrier he didn’t get to finish his plate, or that the King would be so… so… “Are you a child?” Jon demands. “That wasn’t funny!”

“It was,” says the King, absolutely magnanimous. “And I find your prickliness amusing. Fortunately for you.”

The slate screeches an 8 in the H column.

Jon doesn’t want to play anymore. “Show me what, then? Let’s get this over with,” he snaps.

“This way.”

Again, the King adjusts his speed to Jon’s, not rushing him, not going so fast that he has to hurry. It’s beginning to bother Jon.

The craftiness of it.

(Or thoughtfulness?)

Right, says Jon, reminding himself of the hell he went through before waking up in that damned bedroom prison. None of that.

“I am not so easily categorized for you,” says the King, still responding to his thoughts. “Nor should I be. In time, you’ll come to see that applying human morality to me is a foolish effort.”

“Wouldn’t that make you the worst possible deity to place in charge of humanity, then?” Jon quips, and wonders if the slate recorded that.

“Not quite.” The King stops outside a door. Behind them is another open wall, facing the opposite direction of the throne room—but it, too, shows the moons, the choppy sea, the hints of hidden beasts. “I am qualified to judge humanity because I am not part of it. I can see the waste, the greed, the cruelty far better than they, who tend to excuse all their bad decisions. Don’t you agree?”

Jon knows his emotions and judgment are suspect right now.

He still can’t help feeling… moved by these words.

“I’m not going to like you,” Jon suddenly says, because it’s bothering him, because this apparent reasonableness is like slow-acting poison, because he knows he’s fragile, knows he’s been left vulnerable to kindness. “I’m not going to agree with you, and I’m not going to suddenly see you as good. You’ve guaranteed that with your own damn hands.”

“Those are strong words from one who betrayed his most important person so deeply.”

Jon stops breathing.

“Who, in fact, depends on the very forgiveness you deny me… on your lover’s choice to see you as worthy, even though what you did was truly unforgivable.”

There is a small, final crack from back in the throne room, and Jon knows the slate just broke.

Of course it did.

It turns out the King understands love very well, and also, how to weaponize it.

There’s no comeback for that. That’s what Jon did, after all.

The physical pain in his chest is so bad, so bad; he’s almost amazed it doesn’t kill him outright.

He’s silent, looking at the floor.

The King doesn’t let it go on too long. “I don’t relish your pain, Jon,” he says, one of those tendrils sliding over Jon’s head. He ignores Jon’s flinch. “This way.” And he opens the door.

Jon never saw the animated Beauty and the Beast, but if he had, he’d think of this.

It’s like the Grove in London, but on steroids. Huge. Circular balconies and books rising up and up and out of sight, shelves going on forever.

Jon stares. His mouth hangs open.

Hastur’s not done. “I don’t want to set false expectations for you. These aren’t scholarly works. This isn’t some repository of dry knowledge. Each of these books is—”

“The life of someone who served you,” Jon interrupts, and his voice is hoarse, as if he’s being strangled. “Thoughts and fears and dreams and everything, preserved.”

The King in Yellow sounds like he’s smiling. “That’s right—because to serve me is, in some ways, to live forever. And I’m giving them to you.”

Statements, is what Jon hears, and this is the thing he wanted to avoid, this is the thing he’s been terrified of since they landed here and thought he was free.

He’s breathing fast and shallow, and it’s too late, because the scent of this place has caught him through the skull with absolute gut-breaking throat-parching eye-bleeding need.

He can’t speak.

He can’t quite remember what they were just talking about.

He feels these stories.

So much fear in this room.

“I’d suggest beginning at the top,” says Hastur. “Those are the oldest ones.”

“Wh….” Jon struggles to find himself, to remember himself, as the Eye rising-pushing-drowning-demanding surges, because this is new, new, entirely new things it doesn’t even know through other people’s minds. “Why… would you… show me this?”

“You know why.”

“A… a bribe.”

“A good-will offering. I have some distance to go to make up for what I’ve done to you, Jon. I intend to see it through. You might say I’m playing… the long game.”

Jon looks at him sharply, because even like this, he knows he’s being mocked.

The King looks as serene as a being with a mask-face and inhuman body can look. “Look for yourself. See what life truly was for those who worship me. See if it’s as bad as you feared.”

This place is calling him.

“No. No, don’t make me do this.” Feeling sick, trapped, helpless, Jon backs toward the door. “Please. I got free of this. Please—”

The King presses a book into his hands, and reflexively, Jon takes it.

The room vanishes.

He sees a woman named Adra who lived centuries before, feels her as if she were giving a statement right in front of him, and he could no more resist reaching for her than he could fly like a bird.

His power and the Eye’s curl around and under and over and through and beneath and above and inside her story, and they pull.

Then he knows nothing else at all.

Jon comes to very slowly.

Feels like he’s drifting through space—directionless, without gravity to alter him. There is silence; his very thoughts are so distant that he may never find them again.

Inside, he is still. He knows peace.

Gradually, far away, there are sounds.

A ragged breathing, the King in Yellow, gasping for air.

Jon feels…

Good.

Very good.

Very very good.

Painless. Warm. Thrumming, as though his whole being just finished an orgasm.

His thoughts are louder than they were a moment ago.

“Hastur,” says Kayne, the Chaos, the Undoing, and his strident voice is oddly strained. “I am going to say this once: kill him.”

“No,” says Hastur, sounding utterly wretched.

Noise in the back of his head, now, softly building—the susurrus of life, the universe, his never-ending questions.

“No,” says Hastur again. “This is what I planned. It’s working.”

“So you want to end the universe on the off-chance you can get your stupid guy back.”

“I’m not ending anything. And he’s not stupid.”

“No, no, you’re right, you’re the stupid one. Have you lost your mind? End this.”

“If you’re so afraid, why don’t you end it?” says Hastur with such sweetness that Jon’s teeth hurt.

He’s almost back in his body. It’s all still dark, and floaty, and wondrous, but he can feel the cold, hard marble beneath him now, and hear the echoes of words.

“You can’t,” says Hastur, viciously. “Our bet was worded carefully, fool. Did you truly think you could go up against me and win?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why I did it.”

“You can’t. I’m halfway to my goal now. It’s almost over.”

Jon is being lifted. The king’s limbs are warm and supple—much better than the floor.

“Soon, I will have my heart back—and I will have you, as well. You won’t enjoy it, Kayne. You will not like what I do to you.”

“All because I didn’t play Pet Rescue Saga when asked? You’ll end the universe over that?”

“You could have saved him. You didn’t. I promised you’d pay, Kayne. That time is coming soon.”

“Whatever,” says Kayne, quiet and brief, which is eerily out of character for him, and then he’s gone.

Jon breathes more easily. Kayne gone makes the air better.

“There, there,” says the King, cradling him, stroking his hair. “Come back to me. Come on.”

Jon’s fingers tingle. It’s unpleasant, pins and needles, shocking in the wake of euphoria. “Wh… why does it hurt?”

“Because you stretched your powers, Jon. I’ll be honest—you did quite a bit more than I expected at this stage. You truly are a marvel.”

Jon doesn’t feel like a marvel. The painful tingling has traveled up his arms now, begun in his toes and crept up his legs, and he recognizes it—the paresthesia resulting from a foot falling asleep, only everywhere. He makes an unhappy sound.

“Ride it out. That’s it. It will pass.”

“What happened?” Jon doesn’t want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to remember. Doesn’t want to move.

It’s the closest to sated he’s felt in… a long while. The tingling doesn’t matter. Even with it, he feels so good. Luxurious. Full. Languorous.

Thinks of lying in bed with Martin, the first time they had sex. It’s like that. Just like that. So good—

Like the Panopticon, and becoming the Pupil of the Eye.

That thought feels less good, and he whimpers.

“There, there, Jon. You’re all right.”

Jon finds himself being placed gently in a bath of hot, scented water.

He’s naked, with no memory of that happening.

The realization shocks him. He thrashes, splashing.

The King holds him still.

Vision comes back now, and the King is right over him, all he can see, which doesn’t help the panic.

“Shh. Nothing bad is happening. You need to be cleaned.”

It’s implacable, this strength—not tight enough to hurt him, not hard enough to cause him pain, but he cannot get away. “Let go! Wh… wh… let go!” He’ll be drowned, or boiled, or frozen—

“I am not going to hurt you—especially after that,” says Hastur. “Shhh.”

Jon does not know why he obeys, but with a small sound, he goes still.

The King immediately relaxes his grip. “Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? You’re all right.”

“What happened?” Jon says. “You gave me the book, and I….”

“You gave a statement. We’ll leave it at that,” says Hastur. “I am going to pour water over your head now, Jon. You’ve sweated quite a lot.”

And Jon becomes aware of his own skin, of the tackiness of his scalp, of the fact that his beard feels unpleasantly moist. “Statements don’t make me do that,” he says.

“They do here. Your power is greatly increased.” Hastur makes a happy sound—it’s a rumble, not a purr, not a growl, a low and almost mechanical burr that continues as he speaks. “You gave me a gift, Jon, and I am very grateful.”

“Gift?”

As promised, water pours over his head. It’s scented. Jon keeps his head down.

It’s warm. It’s pleasant.

It’s very difficult to find this unpleasant.

“Yes. For a time, you gave one of my long-dead faithful back to me.”

Jon can’t remember this at all. He goes completely still.

“Drink.”

It’s a glass of that golden liquid, cold and condensating. The moment it touches his lips, he realizes he’s desperately thirsty, and drinks it all.

“Good. Very good, Jon,” rumbles the King.

Jon breathes. A little too fast, but he feels like maybe he didn’t for a while, and has to catch up.

Hastur washes his hair, massaging his scalp.

Kayne wasn’t off. It is vaguely like being a pet.

Jon tries to take umbrage with this. To find insult, to cling to anger.

He can’t find his anger. His spiniest, thickest-gauge armor is misplaced.

“I don’t remember what happened,” he says without meaning to. “It’s blank. Just an empty spot, like someone cut it out with scissors.”

“You will in time. Hold your breath.”

More water, pouring overhead in a stream.

It all smells amazing, lightly scented, just hot enough to chase away the pins and needles, to return some of that bliss.

“Can you stand yet?” says Hastur.

“I don’t know,” says Jon, honest.

Hastur lifts him and wraps in him a towel. It’s huge, thick—very comforting.

Jon is aware he’s being manipulated. That this is the other side of the torture-coin, designed to make him trust, to encourage him to drop his guard, to till his soil for the seeds of torment.

He can’t bring himself to wrath. It’s all too much. The sensations, the fullness, the wholeness. “Why can’t I remember?”

“Perhaps you channeled too much of your Ceaseless Watcher,” says Hastur. “You have the memory; I see it inside you. I suspect it may simply take your human mind a little while to process it.” His voice turns pitying. “You poor thing. You’re divine and finite, a light-bearing vessel, deeply cracked. At odds with yourself. No wonder you couldn’t be happy. You need me, Jon.”

That’s a bit too far, Jon thinks. “I was happy. With Martin.”

“You will be with him again.”

Jon’s throat tightens. “That’s a cruel thing to say.”

“Is it? Once I win my bet, I will reunite you with your lover. He’s your heart, Jon. You think I don’t see that?”

Jon wants to cry.

He hates it. Hates it. Doesn’t want to be vulnerable here, doesn’t want to be moved by these simple and intimate words.

Doesn’t want to believe a thing he desperately wishes were true.

“Next you’re going to say you’re a big romantic,” Jon mutters.

“I have known love,” says Hastur.

Jon stares over the top of his towel. He wants to ask.

He wants to compel.

He wants to know how Hastur knows love.

His feet are cold, and he focuses on that instead.

“Can you walk?”

Jon could, probably. It wouldn’t be comfortable. His feet would hurt by the time they arrived wherever.

Or he could let the horrible monster carry him.

He’s so tired.

Would it really be giving in? Is it really a concession? Or would he be taking advantage of Hastur’s false kindness?

Hastur decides for him and picks him up.

It is the strangest good feeling. “I don’t want to feel good.”

“I know, Jon. It’s all right. I won’t hurt you anymore.”

Jon closes his eyes. Fuck it, he thinks, because it doesn’t matter, this doesn’t matter, it’s all going to the same place, anyway, no matter what he does, because he won’t call the Entities, so he might as well take some comfort while he can.

“A wise choice, if misguided,” rumbles the King.

They’re back in Jon’s room. He’s being put to bed like a child, and there is a towel on the pillow to deal with his wet hair.

“Hey,” he says, which isn’t much of a protest.

“Shhh.”

Jon is being tucked in.

This is beyond surreal.

It feels so good.

It’s absolutely outside anything that makes a lick of sense, or falls into reasonable description.

He’d laugh if he had more energy, but… he doesn’t.

“Sleep, Jon,” says the King, sounding warm and pleased and patient.

Maybe Hastur is right. Maybe he needs to sleep. Maybe—

He must be asleep, because the Eye has him, guiding him through a new dream, and he watches a woman named Adra live, serve, and finally die, and the intensity of her experience is such that while he dreams her, he is her.

The Eye eats it all, and is sated.

(part nine)

NOTES

Torture's done from here on out, FYI. We're on to gaslighting now, which - in my honest opinion - is worse.

#cw: torture

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