#the present moment is both eternal and painful | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ctrlhope · 11 months ago

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Bound By Blood (m)

synopsis: A servant to the state since birth, forced to work for the royal family until you die. These are the conditions that have granted you life, yet are they are the same ones that can take everything away. He can take everything away. But he would never, for you are his future, his eternity.

k.taehyung x f.reader

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: wc: 16.0k

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: genre: royalty au, soft yandere, fluff, smut, smidge of angst

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: content: soft yandere!prince!taehyung, maid!reader, power imbalance, talks about death/violence, blood, slight predator/prey dynamics, manipulation, misunderstandings, dom!tae, tae calls reader lamb, oral (f.receiving), marriage related dirty talk, virginity kink/loss of virginity, size kink, praise, reader is fucked dumb, implied kissing reader while she sleeps, implied offscreen somno, implied stalking, ownership, tae is rlly sweet and adorable

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: notes: hello!!! this was meant to be a drabble but as you can see it spiralled out of control lmao. i got a little hyper fixated (and grew a really bad crush on this taehyung) so it ended up being way longer than i initially thought! regardless, i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it!!

18+ -> minors / blank blogs dni

The Kim Empire.

Your home, your family, your livelihood all wrapped up in those three little words.

They practically brandish your mind, have been since you were no more than a babe. Stuck in the clutches of everything Kim since you were born. Your mother a maid, your father gone from the face of the earth. At least as far as you are concerned he is, anyway.

He is better off dead. The alternative of him living scott free in some far off land, meanwhile you have to serve the hand and foot of the king sets no more than the bitter taste of coffee beans against your gums.

Bedding your mother, no more than a fresh-faced maid at the time. Outcasting her the second after when he had to have known the rules of the palace. The demise it would cost both her and her future daughter. Perhaps every generation that followed as well– if there were to be any, that is.

Housestaff are not meant to have relationships. They are meant to serve the king and his bountiful family. How are you meant to do anything else with a child bouncing at your hip, a husband grabbing at your ass.

You’ve heard the speech plenty of times. The words ingrained in your skull just as the brand you received when you were far too young to remember the pain of it. Evidence that you are bound to the palace by blood until the very moment you take your last breath.

The punishment for becoming pregnant within the walls of the palace are simple: your child belongs to them. For anything within the Kim Estate is their rightful property, given to them by the grace of god.

You, a gift from god to serve the empire. You would snort at the notion if training from a young age prohibited it. You are just a result of your mothers kindness, her naivety.

You could never find it within your heart to blame her. She was just a girl who thought she was in love. Fired for her love. Had her daughter taken from her to serve for her love.

Love is something you will never be granted the property of.

You will be granted an allowance to send home to your mother to keep her afloat. You will be granted a room to sleep in, clothes to wear, food to eat. A secure job in which you can never be fired– well. That is a lie. Though, your termination would come at the end of an axe, rather than a piece of paper.

You used to muse at the thought– when you were a young girl, no more than 11 or 12. Going through your melancholy years, hating the rest of the world for simply existing. For putting you in a position where you could not change your fate, instead had to endure your present. Feeling like a girl trapped in a tower just like the bedtime stories had always prescribed.

One time you had caused such a ruckus in front of the oldest Kim son you really did think you were going to get the axe. Hell, you were even prepared for it. Locked away in a cell for two nights, brought before the executor.

Right before the swing was meant to be brought down against your neck the head maid ran into the room, gave some sort of letter to the man. She apologised profusely, gripping your ear and dragging you away from the scene.

You hadn’t acted ary since then. It taught you your place. Made you realise the need to survive buried deep within your bones. In the innate way some sort of wildcat would lash out until it was bloodied and on its last breath.

You would not die at the end of a knife. You’d live your life, acting a maid until you could die peacefully of old age. Even if it meant surrendering yourself to servitude for the most annoying brat you’ve ever laid eyes on.

A quiet sigh slips past your lips at the mere thought of him. The sound would get you punished if anyone were to hear, especially in respect to the coveted crown prince of the kingdom. Few share the same opinion as you of him– but then again most that work here aren’t forced.

It is only when the stars are strung high in the sky that you allow yourself to feel such things. When you stay awake past the beginning of rest hours, most of the staff (save for the night shift) falling to sleep hours prior. Only then when you’re out in the gardens do you allow indignation to satiate your brain.

For the few hours of freedom you may hold dear until the next morning begins and you are forced to live the same day once more. Over and over again until the end of time.

Your fingertips reach out as you walk, bruised from the scrubbing of floors, to find purchase against the walls of flowers rimming the maze. Rough fingertips dance against the gentle petals of roses, lulling in the feeling. Picking themselves against the thorns without much of a thought, not withdrawing. Only pausing feet to observe.

How can something so delicate and beautiful wish to cause harm? It does not. It simply desires a way to survive. You could never fault it for that.

“Pretty, are they not?” A dark, husky voice sends cold down your spine. Hairs become on edge, back straightens taught, ears perk just as if you are an obedient dog. Fear flashing through your entire being.

You do not wish to turn around. Do not have any want to face the man that has caught the air in your lungs. The one catching you in the garden without any proper attire in place. Though you must. You must bow, grovel at his feet for forgiveness for allowing him to see you in your nightgown. For not being in bed as you should.

Prince Kim has never been known for being kind.

Your body acts for you while your mind sets on pause– taking several steps forward, bending your body at the hips to give a proper 90 degree bow. Your hands clasp before you, hair coming down in front of your face.

“Prince Kim–” You rush, suddenly out of breath, “Please forgive my insolence. I-I am not of right attire or mind to be standing in front of his excellency right now. Nor should I be excused for touching the property of the palace. I have no proper excuse and any punishment you decide will be deserving. Please forgive me.” The words recite from your lips like a bible– instruction of them being heard time and time again.

Cold night air whips at your ankles, fluttering the gown around your ankles. The chill only adding to the cold sweat you’ve discovered has perspired. Making your hair dance around your shoulders.

You expect something, anything really. A slap, a single word. Though there is only silence in response. Silence that extends far too long and feels far too pungent for your taste. If he was going to do something, you rather he just get it over with.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally hear the baritone of his voice once more.

“Pretty, are they not?” He asks again, repeating the same sentiments as before. Confusion bristles through as a kite in the summer air. Why is he asking you this? Is he not annoyed he caught a maid in such a level of disrobement? What is he trying to gain? What does he want?

All the questions you do not have any hope to answer rush through you causing you to feel confused and incomposed. Every boring lesson you were forced to sit through never taught you how to deal with this exact situation. You aren’t sure what he wants, nor your place in the garden. The thought scares you.

Against your better judgement, you allow your chin to tilt up only slightly. Only enough to look at the man– to try and read the expression on his face so you can better analyse your next action.

The shock you feel when you find his face is only inches from your own, frame bent down to make his eyes level with yours is something you cannot explain in words alone.

You would prefer to scream and run, however that is not an option at this moment, or so it appears. Instead, your eyes only widen in shock, in trepidation. Your mouth opens into a small ‘o’ as you stare.

Never before have you made eye contact with a member of the family. Never before have you had the luxury to view one so close. In any other circumstance, you suppose, you would surely be punished for such a thing. Someone lower should never view a future king in such a way.

You wish you could say he was a heinous, ugly beast for hatred of the palace alone. Yet you can’t, for he isn’t. He is beautiful.

Sure, you knew that already. Paintings of him are plastered across the walls– his face is everywhere eyes are able to reach. Yet this close, at this angle, you can’t stop the way your heart skips a beat. Can’t help but admire every facet of his complexion before being thrown in front of the lion again.

A gorgeous, blinding smile wipes across his face the moment you face him. Lips forming into an adorable box after he finally has your attention fully drawn on him. You’re startled back once again, sending your brain into a further whirlwind than before.

He desires an answer.

“I um… Yes. I suppose they are.” You nod slowly in response, following in his footsteps as he returns to full height.

You must follow his lead– it is how you will survive.

You usher a stray lock of hair over your shoulder, trying to stop it from hitting your face. The air starts to become stale again, feeling empty in the lack of his reply. It is awkward, and the way he stares at you, eyes darting around your face– your figure, has you feeling in some sort of girlish, embarrassed way.

You think you dislike the feeling.

“Are you a fan of roses?” His arms are pulled behind him, wrapped together as he bounces on his toes in something that looks like… boyish delight? The muddle of your brain can't help to understand a single thing. He is making no sense, trying to make conversation with you. Trying to find a morsel of companionship in someone who is meant to bow to him like he is the true god of your mortal plain.

You will have to oblige until he allows you to depart.

“I suppose so.”

He frowns. Try again.

“I adore them, the palace always has the most gorgeous petals all year round.” You smile at him, hoping it masks any discomfort you feel.

The smile returns to his own lips as he begins to walk. Tilting his head to you as a cue to join him. You try to keep your paces a few behind his own, a maid should never walk beside a member of the family. Though he only slows in response, matching your gate even though it is obvious he hates having to slow down.

Why is he behaving in this manner? It makes no sense to you.

“The flower of devotion.” He nods, breaking the silence once more and keeping his eyes straight ahead.

You almost want to admire his profile– the gentle curve of his nose, yet you refrain. Training your eyes ahead, keeping your fingers laced in front of you. Trying to look as put together as possible at this moment.

“Is it?” You quiz, unable to take the awkward silence anymore. He doesn’t seem to mind it. Unbothered, tucking his hands into the pockets of his loose, flowing sleep pants.

“Of many other things, as well.” He nods, sending a slight smile at you.

“I don’t know much about the language of flowers.” Though it feels wrong to be talking with Prince Kim so casually, you try your best. The more you give in, mayhaps the sooner he’ll bore and the faster you will be able to run from the cage.

“Tell me your favourite, maybe I can tell you its meaning.” He pauses and you find yourself at the foot of the gazebo. He reaches out his hand, offering to help you up the small stairs of it.

All over again you find yourself taken aback. The prince is requesting that you touch him, not for his service, but your own. He desires to help you. Is for some reason treating you like a lady.

You don’t understand it, yet with great hesitation you oblige. You place your hand on his much larger one, allowing it to encase it. Help you up the stairs.

“I don’t know many…” You hope he cannot hear the hesitation in your tone, “Though I’ve always been fond of lilies.” You tell him, attempting to pull your hand away from his own as you reach the top.

He doesn’t allow it, keeping your small palm tight in his own. Fear trickles in once more, circling around your heart, constricting it.

You knew you shouldn’t have trusted him in the slightest. It is here where you shall face punishment for all the previous misdemeanours committed. White stone shall be painted with red and you will be left to your own devices to clean up the mess.

Your lungs start to take in more air, though of course you try to disguise it. Turning around to face him, to discover why he has kept you held firm, air is leaving your lungs for another reason entirely.

He holds your hand close, examining your fingers. Tilting it back and forth, smoothing his thumb over the back of your skin. If he takes note of the little dots of red, he doesn’t make comment of it. He only curls his fingers upwards, hooking against your own. Bringing your hand up to his lips as if it was the most delicate thing on earth. Staring at them with a passion you doubt you’ve ever seen before.

“Rebirth.” His breath fans across your knuckles, slowly lowering to place a gentle kiss against the skin. His lips are soft, so gentle against your weary flesh. So full of safety, so full of song.

When he retracts, he pulls away no more than a millimeter, though his grip tightens.

“Purity.”

Your first meeting with the prince had left you with a flurry of emotions, none of which you could hope to syphon through. For hours he kept you in the gazebo, sitting with you. Talking until it appeared the sun was cresting over the horizon.

He refused to release your hand the entire time. His fingers playing with your own, perhaps obsessed with the feeling of your tiny hand laced with his own pristine skin. Did not pay any attention the several times you tried to excuse yourself, only changing the subject of conversation to try and keep you in place.

It was strange. Confusing. You did not understand the reasoning or cause behind any of his actions.

Well, at least until the next morning while you were scrubbing the floors. Your friend Annabell cleaning right by your side. Catching up, gossiping about the new recruits found in the manner. It is only times like these when you actually get the chance to talk, to giggle with someone meant to be your equal in both age and house status.

The only chance you’re truly able to forget about the fact she is able to leave once her contract expires. But it does not matter– any small amount of spite you hold is slashed away by her kind smile. The understanding in her eyes as she treats you like just another maid set to work for the king instead of a captive.

It is only after the 7th yawn of the morning she asks about the poorly covered bags under your eyes. You had gone to bed with the rest of the girls, there is no reason you should be so tired. You never appear to be, at least it is not shown around others.

You struggle with yourself for a moment, trying to decide whether the night before was meant to be kept as a closely guarded secret to your chest. Yet one look at your closest confidant had you spilling everything.

The entire night– the stars, the flowers, the way he prattled on. How tight he gripped your dirty, calloused hand against his pristine soft ones.

You feel strange speaking of it, remembering it in any way. It causes your cheeks to heat and a fury to settle below your ribs.

It is a strange feeling, yet not an entirely unwanted one.

Your eyes train to the floor as you spill your soul, unable to keep it in once it starts pouring out. You try to keep your tone as neutral as possible– to tell her about the night as if it was a simple news story you heard from a guard. Though, you’re unsure of your success in the matter.

A poised laugh leaves the lips of your counter, her eyes cresting into half-moons.

“You cannot be serious right? You tell stories.” She giggles, shaking her head before continuing her assault on the floor.

You simply shake your own.

“It happened, I was as shocked in the moment as you seem to be now.” She lets out a small bellow of giggles once again.

“No, no. I believe it happened entirely. I’m only talking about the fluster of your face.” She giggles, lifting her rag and shaking it for dramatic effect. You roll your eyes, cracking a small smile.

“There is no such thing.” You laugh knowing that there is.

“Oh my heavens. Y/n, you cannot tell me you’ve grown fond of the Prince, have you?” Her words are hushed now, much more so than before. As if someone may be listening to the conversation.

You tense in reply, unsure of the answer yourself. The closest you’ve ever felt to fondness of another man was a stable boy a few years back. Only 17 at the time, head wrapped in romance novels that you didn’t entirely understand. He was handsome and he was kind. However just as you were starting to become closer to him, he was sent away to work at another palace.

You had not been optimistic since then.

She takes your silence as an answer in itself. Moving towards you, gripping your shoulders and hauling you to sit on your haunches. Forcing you to look at her face as she speaks.

“You cannot be serious.” She repeats again, hoping for any sign of doubt. All she receives is bewilderment in reply, “Y/n. You can never trust Prince Kim.”

You sigh, “I know, Anne, I–” You’re cut off with her own voice again.

“No, not in the way you’re imagining.” She sighs, letting her hands drop from your shoulders to continue scrubbing at the floor. Making work of herself as she speaks, “The other maids don’t tell you of much, do they?”

You can’t deny it. Your seclusion within the castle walls is only partly of your own design.

Other maids do not feel as though they can trust you, seeing as you are full property of the crown. In their eyes, you hold not a crumb of loyalty to your own kind. Few maids speak to you like Annabell does for fear the second they say anything wrong you are going to tell the world.

You would never, though your word is worth its weight in feathers to them.

“They don’t care for me as you do… no…” You admit, continuing to clean as well. She already knew the answer, letting out an exhale before she speaks.

“Prince Kim has a pension for… debauchery… I shall say,” She flinches at her own words, yet doesn’t know a better way to put it, “The variety in which he uses pretty words to seduce young ladies to bed with him. Royalty from other lands, general’s daughters, maids. It matters not. He likes them for the night then pretends they shall never exist again.”

Each word she speaks sends another stab into your gut. A dull pain blooming from the same places which a swirling was forming before.

Ah. It all makes sense now.

“Oh.”

“He has a particular fondness for the other maids, you know. Bedding them without a second thought.” A grimace forms on your friend's lips, scrubbing harder into the already shining floors, “There is no reason to form any sort of affection for that man. It will only end with his seed inside your core and a knife in your heart.”

Yes, everything she is saying makes perfect sense. You feel almost stupid to not see it before. Maybe you just didn’t want to see it– want to think about it in any sort of fashion. But this makes much more sense than the crown prince wanting to speak to you for any other purpose. Explains why he was acting as a true gentleman to someone so much lower than him.

However, you find that it does not take away the cavernous pit that has formed in your gut.

“I see, I have no desire for either.” You nod your head in understanding, not sure of what else to say. “I don’t understand why he’s taken an interest in me, though.”

She gawks, “I don’t understand why it has taken him so long to in the first place.” She shakes her head.

“Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter. Y/n, you must promise me. You will not fall for him, nor give any part of yourself to him. He is not someone that will care for you like you deserve.” She states, blue eyes piercing icicles into your own. She is determined and will not relent until you agree.

“I do not wish to. Not after hearing all of…” You make some sort of motion with your hand, “that. Anyone would be a fool to like him.”

You nod your head while Annabell smiles in agreement.

“Good.”

Those are the last words you exchange with anyone for hours. The rest of the day passed by with lightning, an endless turnstile of things to take care of. A ball was to be held soon meaning the castle would be a wreck for the next few days. Too much planning, cleaning, sewing, coordination had to take place before anyone could rest.

Honestly, you were grateful for it. A break from thinking was much needed. As is a good night’s rest.

You sigh, already imagining how lovely it would feel to pull off your shoes for the day. Peel the cotton off your body and replace your dress with something more comfortable.

Oo! Hopefully enough warm water will be left for a quick bath. That would be just wonderful, your muscles would be able to unfurl. The perfect thing to lull you into a glorious sleep.

Your arms stretch over your head as you finish descending the staircase into the maid hallways. Bones in your back pop from the pressure, causing a sigh to make its way from your lungs. Your nimble fingers make their way to the ribbon holding your hair in place, untying it and allowing the tresses to fall.

Soon you would be in the maid resting quarters– your appearance would matter not there anyway.

You send small smiles to other staff members passing you, those that have either just woken for the night or those who still have work to do. Yet in return, each one of them just stares at you with an incredulous look. Turning and whispering to their friends as if you were not still in front of them.

You can’t help to understand why. Those around you may not have considered you a friend, but they were never rude. Always polite when need be. It has you feeling strange, some type of nervousness as you get closer and closer to the hallway extending to the maids personal rooms.

Rounding the corner, you discover exactly why.

His frame looks entirely out of place standing there. A perfect, pristine picture in a hallway of drab, illuminated only by the lanterns hanging on the wall. Royal blue tunic draped on his shoulders only emphasising his status.

He looks as though he was never meant to be here. Like a mistake was made along the cobblestone walls. No, he looks as though he is meant to be among the living. Not in your dreary, windowless life. Nothing could change that.

You stand there frozen, a deer caught in the lanturn of a hunting party. A pounding of your heart, as well as the dark swell of your gut coming back to life. Why is he here? Why the hell does he have a bouquet of flowers?!

You wish to scream, but you don’t. You have already been caught.

His eyes look up from where he created a small pile of dirt on the floor. His face coming alight in an instant, pushing himself to full stature from where he once leaned against the wall. Long legs making their way towards you while he suddenly has the decency to hide the bouquet behind his back.

Annabell certainly did not mention this method of Prince Kim’s seduction. You had never seen him down here before.

“Hi.” Is all he says once he is finally face to face with you. His face bright and youthful. Excited.

It seems all formalities have been dropped in his mind, though you refuse the notion.

“Prince Kim.” You simply reply, lowering yourself in a curtsy.

He pays no mind, almost pretending you never did it in the first place. Instead, he simply rocks back and forth on his heels, bouncing slightly in delight. Wanting something, unable to voice it.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask, hoping to end the encounter swiftly to stop all of the prying eyes leering into your being.

“I brought you something.” His eyes do not break contact with yours once and you can see his hand twitch by his side as if it wants to reach out for something. You're glad he has the decency to hold back, so you shall do the same by pretending you never saw the flowers in the first place.

You choose not to ask yourself why he brought you a present. It must just be a trick of seduction.

“I am honoured to accept such a thing.” You send a small smile his way, something between real and fake. It seems to make him beam.

His arm comes out from behind, holding the flowers between both of your bodies. You look down at them, shock written across your features.

Sure, you had noted them as flowers before. But you think these may be the prettiest ones you’ve seen in your whole life. Petals of orange, white, and purple cloud in your eyes. Stomatas filled with the sweet pollen.

Lilies. All different kinds– ones you’ve never seen before.

They’re out of season, at least you think they are. How did he get these? Why is he giving them to you? Why is he trying to get the butterflies to return? Why is he trying to make your heart explode?

“Prince Kim…” You’re not sure what to say– instead gently reaching out to feel the velvet of a petal. Staring intently at their colours, unable to pull your eyes away.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” His voice is a husk of a whisper, as if you’re the only two in the hallway. As if other maids are not passing, as if they are not staring at the two of you.

“Yes… I… I’m not sure what to say.” It is all so hypnotic.

“Thank you would be a good beginning, no?” His smile is soft, a light chuckle present in the tone.

You pause, tilting your head to look up at him fully– a large, real smile donning your lips.

“Yes. Thank you.”

You feel as if you are floating, just as you would when reading those romance books in your late teen years. Like the world has stopped moving save for the prince in front of you slowly passing the flowers into your arms.

Your hands brush against each other and you feel his fingers twitch, tightening ever so slight. Wishing to grab onto your hand just as he had done the night before. Wishing to insect every line that traces over your fresh once more.

However, he refrains. Allowing his ringed fingers to sink themselves into his pockets.

“I was just going to have them delivered. I’m not really meant to be down here, you know,” His smile is shy, “But I didn’t know your room. That, and I wanted to see you again.”

You look down, unable to keep the eye contact he presses you for. Prince Kim is too much for you. You don’t understand how he couldn’t be too much for anyone.

“Oh…” You’re a flush, “Thank you for saying that.”

“It is nothing to thank me for.” He chuckles, bangs dimming the hues of his eyes, “I’m sure I bored you with all of my ramblings.”

He did, partly, but that was more discombobulation for the situation and a sense of tiredness creeping into your bones. You shake your head quickly.

“Of course not. I had.. Fun.” Mayhaps fun isn’t the right term, yet there is no word that exactly describes your emotions of last night, nor the ones of today.

“As did I.” His lips are tight in a smile again, feet bouncing on their heels once more. He’s nervous, wants to say something again but isn’t sure how.

You’re not sure how to feel about learning what that habit means. Not sure how to feel about what any of this means. You have not had a moment alone to truly dissect what all of it is.

“I would love to spend the night talking to you again, if you would allow me.” You don’t think you would love anything more, yet you know you would not be able to function. Would probably make a fool of yourself, too.

“I-I think it would be best if I were to get some rest… I had not even an hour before I had to start working last night.”

He frowns, “That’s not good for your health…” He pauses, searching your face for any signs of distress, “Then let's talk in your room. I will only stay until you sleep.”

You pause, air drifting back into your lungs.

Ah. Right.

The words of your friend sink in once again, breaking you out of whatever trance he had put you under. Whatever spell he laced through both of your ears to have you singing songs of praises for him and the crown.

He wants you as a notch in a bedpost. Nothing more. It is clear as day and you are a fool to think anything other than that. This is all just a cleverly rehearsed show. You will not fall victim like your mother.

All royalty is the same. Use use use. Beat a dead horse until it stops coughing up any sort of reprise.

Your posture is suddenly tense, fist gripping the flowers so tight your knuckles appear white.

How dare he think so low of you. How dare he think he might be able to fuck you for nothing.

“Men are not allowed in the women's private quarters.” Your voice is staunch, though it is not as if he can tell nor cares.

If he does, he doesn’t show it.

“Ah,” The lilt is still evident in his tone, the cat playing with the mouse, “But I am not any man, am I?” His body leans a bit closer, pulling his face parallel to your own. Smirk playing on his lips.

Beauty is a deceptive thing, isn’t it? “When I am king I’ll make it so I can see you whenever we both desire.” Something heats in your gut at those words, yet anger quells it just as fast.

“It is a shame that you are not King yet, then.” You nod politely in his direction, trying to excuse yourself. Yet your words only seem to excite something in his eyes, lighting a fire behind them.

“My, I didn’t know you felt that way.” He smiles coy. A flustered sensation overcomes you as you realise the double meaning behind your words. You had made it sound like you wanted him in that way when that could not be farther from the truth.

“I do not.” You state, your voice ice. Though once again, it seems that it does not pierce him.

“There is no reason to be so cold, Y/n.” He sing songs, tapping one of his long fingers against the side of his head.

“I am not being cold! You are just not listening.” You sigh in exasperation. Exhaustion and annoyance make you forget yourself, causing your volume to rise just as his own does. This only seems to excite him more.

“I have heard enough.” He giggles, boyish and what others would describe as cute. Right before you’re able to argue back once again, he cuts in with his own voice once more.

“I will leave you for now. Find a pretty place for the flowers.”

He smiles generously at you, beginning to walk away, “Have a good night. I’ll see you soon.”

In your shamble of a disposition, you’re left stuck there. Staring at his back as he retreats down the hallway.

The shock of everything that had just transpired coming over you all at once. How poorly you had behaved. How you spoke to him. He could have you killed for any one of those things however instead he left you with a bouquet of flowers and a promise for another night.

You scramble to find yourself, to move yourself from out of the eyeline of every other maid. To make your way to your room, your one sanctuary as quickly as possible.

It is only when you’re in those walls, hard oak door shut firmly beside you that you have to remind yourself of your promise to your best friend. Remember that the prince fights his battles with words and emotions.

Your second meeting with the man had left you even more confused than the first. Thousands of questions and emotions real through your bones at a pace your brain can’t manage to understand. Leaves you fuming, trying to form a single coherent thought as you analyse the last two nights with a ferocity unimagined.

In your state, however, you neglect to think of the one question that should be dancing before you, held on a string just out of reach.

Why did he know your name?

It is apparent that since that night, Prince Kim has located which room you find habitance in.

This morning, another letter has found itself slipped under the base of your door. They have become commonplace now– letters detailing apologies for why he was unable to visit, what he had gone about on his day, his regrets that he has not heard back from you in what feels like ages.

He’s tried to speak to you a few times in the palace when you work. His eyes always trained on you with something you’re unable to describe when you clean nearby.

You wish you could say it was perverse in manner, but it was nothing of the sort.

Every once and awhile you would catch a lily pinned to his breast pocket. He would send you a secret smile whenever it caught your attention. As if it was a tale meant for only the two of you to know. As if he wanted to carry a portion of you with him.

You may be naive in saying so, nor do you have much experience in the matter, but these do not feel like the actions of a man who simply wishes to find home under your dress. These feel more personal. More extravagant than anything else.

Nevertheless, you ignore every single advance. Annabell made you promise, and it was a promise you were intent on keeping until your dying breath.

Put the letters away in a box, never to be responded to. Avoided looking at him whenever he was near. Rushed out of rooms when it appeared he was intent on making his war for you.

Icing out the prince is what is best. Whatever lilies he will wilt and die and you will be able to continue on with your hatred of the Kim family as well as your blood pact with the throne.

You only wish it was that easy.

“Y/n!! Miss Y/n!!” There is a scramble outside of the door, voices hailing for your presence. You don’t know why– you’re on wash duty. Anyone, unless they’re extraordinarily new, would know that.

The voice grows more erratic, more panicked. As if their life depends on finding you in that very moment. The other maids in the quarters send their glaces to you, urging you to go yet not one opens their mouths.

At least one bonus of endenturing your entire life to the palace is that you have grown in rank. More than 10 years has granted you a decent position.

A hushed sigh slips past your lips and your hands find themselves forcing the pile of sheets into the washing tub. Your hands quickly wipe away at your apron, ridding them of any moisture before pushing open the door.

Stepping into the hallway lined with stone you notice only a single girl. Her entire form shaking as she paces the hall– panicked. Blonde curls bouncing with every step, cheeks a fluster.

A new recruit, indeed. Celley is the name she wears.

She had just entered with the last batch of new maids, starting at the palace no more than 2 months ago. She was a recruit you were unsure of– not having a lick of grace or balance, nor any experience with serving. But you suppose there are many reasons maids are chosen.

You do not like to think of them.

Her feet are suddenly clamouring over to you, noticing your presence for the first time since you’ve stepped in the hallway. Her small, shaking hands grip your shoulders, holding you with all the will she seems to possess.

“Excuse me have you seen–” She stops herself, tiny pants pausing as her eyes go wide, “Oh my days! Miss Y/n! You must hurry!” She rushes, hand gripping your wrist as she tries to pull you away.

Though your face twists in confusion, your feet remain firm.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, both sympathy and concern entering your frame. You can admonish her later for her lack of manners, however now, the girl seems truly frightened. Her large steel eyes looking back at you, pleading.

“The crown prince! He’s!” She’s out of breath once again, continuing to try and urge you on.

This time, the second the word prince is muttered, you begin to follow her pace, “He’s lost his mind! He’s going on a firing spree! Locking up anyone who tries to calm him!”

“What? Why is that? Did something happen?” You ask hushed, urging the girl to keep her voice down. Though you both are similar in age, it is apparent who has experienced this type of thing before.

“He got into some kind of spat with his father. His instructor was fired when he tried to continue on with their lesson.” It seems she understood your message, continuing to hurry you down the halls.

“And what am I meant to do?”

“I-I don’t know!” She lets out a quiet yelp, pulling you closer as you exit the maid hallways and enter the palace ones, “His personal maid is away visiting family. She said to leave everything to you if something were to happen! I-I didn’t know what else to do!”

Damn Eleanor and everything she stands for. Why the hell did she have to bring your name into this?! Shouldn’t the head maid be called in times like this?! Not you, someone who wants nothing to do with any member of the royal family. Especially the crown prince himself. Sure, there must be rumours spreading around but you had managed nearly three weeks without speaking to him!

You let out a sigh, squaring your shoulders in an attempt to appear more confident, more put together. You will do this, and you will come out victorious. Every battle before has left you victor. What is one more?

“I understand. It will be dealt with.”

The least you can gain is the idyllic picture of the prince to be shattered forever. That would be the most ideal outcome, something to truly force him out of your heart for good. You will not fall prey to him and his earthly desires. He will not win your heart.

At least that is what you hope.

The throne room's doors stand before you, delicate lacings of gold worth more than your entire being etched into its surface. A glittering picture for what is sure to be a bloodbath behind its contents.

A deep inhale of warm air fills your lungs, hand pressing against the door as you force it open. Face someone you have not wanted to see nor extinguish the flames of in nearly a month.

He stands before you, 20 paces ahead. A broken bottle in his hand as he heaves, shoulders rising and falling with the passion of ten thousand suns. The look of murder in his eyes as he stares down at a maid, her form on the ground. Bowing with as much might as she can possess, looking for any exit possible. Few other maids stand around the room, keeping their heads low, avoiding any eye contact possible.

Though he looks like a mad man– mayhaps a god of war himself, not a single hair is out of place on his head. He is still the picture of sovereignty. And though your breath spikes, you find that you are not afraid.

What a strange feeling it is.

The creak of the door sends single to him, has him whipping his head to face you. Anger etched into his features, a new target befalling his sight.

You stand tall, moving towards him. You will rise to the position given to you, even if it shall mean your inevitable downfall. As long as the new staff are safe.

Only, when he looks to you, no wrath is found. No anger or deceit. The second his eyes meet your own, his expression drops along with the bottle in his hands. More glass littering the floor in its wake.

His eyes soften, his lips turning from a sneer into a gentle frown. His shoulders automatically lower, and suddenly it appears that there is no one else in the room. His legs move automatically, carrying themselves to you with such a hurried pace you would have thought he had seen a long lost friend.

Oddly, this scares you more than when he was angered.

You start into a bow, “Prince Kim, I’ve come in place of–”

His arms wrap themselves around you before you can speak another word. Pulling you in, wrapping you into his scent as you're pressed against his sturdy chest. Strong arms keep you in place as he tries to make his body become one with your own.

His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, one hand raising to tie itself in your hair. It forces you to stay in place, stay attached to him just the way he wants you to be. Allows him to inhale, breathing in all of you. Finally delving into the scent that he has been craving.

Your eyes only widen, hands staying firm at your side in shock. Heart beginning to race, head becoming lost in the soaps that only a member of a family could possibly own.

You’re not sure what to do. How to behave. As far as you are concerned or aware, this is something that no other has had happen before. At least not so openly. Not so brazenly in front of a myriad of other people.

But, it seems to calm him. To placate him in a way you’re not sure anyone could explain.

You try to make a small twisting motion with your hand, try to urge everyone else to leave while they have the chance.

They seem to take it, exiting the room as fast as possible.

You’re sure word of this will spread throughout the castle quickly. You hope the consequences will not be dire.

“Prince Kim–” You begin to speak after everyone has cleared out, after he holds you for what feels like a lifetime. You can’t find it in you to want him to pull away, no matter how embarrassing this seems.

“Shh,” He quickly silences you with a gentle press of his lips to your pulse, “Let me stay like this for a moment.”

You are unable to move. Unable to breathe after he kisses you. War could begin in that very moment and you’re not sure you would have noticed in the slightest. You are stunned into obeying his whim as he simply inhales and exhales.

The umber in his voice only comes after a millennia, after his shoulders have completely sagged. After all the tension is removed from his body.

“You didn’t respond to my letters.” He still doesn’t pull away, his grip on your hair tightening a fraction.

You pause.

“I…I didn’t know where to send them.” You lie and his hand loosens. The correct answer.

“My study. Put them under the door to my study.” He instructs like a king would.

You’re not sure why the tone of his voice sends shocks to your gut. Pooling into something you only find in your dreams.

“But if someone were to see them–”

“Let them.” Mumbles in your ear to you and you alone, a growl practically spiking through his voice, “I want them to know.”

Oh. This is new. This is definitely new. This is not the same way you felt with the stable boy years ago. This has become something entirely alienating. A completely different beast. You know that now as his baritone voice sends waves straight through your gut.

You simply nod in reply, your mouth unwilling to say anything back. The arm around your lower back grows more firm.

“Tell me where you will put your replies.” He commands into your ear.

“Under the door to your study.” Your reply is automatic, years of answering to the kingdom evident in your tone.

He sighs, unfurling his fingers from your locks to gently pet the top of your head, “Good girl.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft as he touches you.

“Good lamb.”

You sigh, fingers deftly searching through your wardrobe for just a single pair of underwear. But once again, you turn up empty. It seems like every day that passes, another pair disappears without your knowledge.

Perhaps one of the new girls is causing a fuss, messing up the laundry for everyone else.

That is the only logical solution, at least.

But logic doesn’t seem to make much sense at all anymore. You couldn’t hope to understand why few of your other belongings have come up indignant as well.

Your favourite perfume, one of your stuffed animals, even your toothbrush! All have magically vanished from thin air over the course of the last week.

It is too bad that you haven’t had the time to think about it, either. Preparations for the ball have been raging throughout the palace. Everyone has been on their toes, unwilling to face the wrath of the planners as they try to make everything perfect.

You have had not one moment alone to think, either swept up in cleaning, decorating, or well… recently you and the prince have been going on walks through the garden at night. Though that doesn’t matter much. It doesn’t mean anything– just another thing he made you promise to. Claiming he wishes to spend as much time with you as he can.

His recent fixation is trying to get you to call him by his true name.

You would never dare, nothing is more inappropriate than such a title. It is something only his most beloved is meant to call him, and that person is certainly not you.

You try to force any thoughts of him out of your head, though it is clearly a fruitless endeavour. Especially with the dream you had the night prior.

His hands finding themselves between your legs, touching you in a way no other has.

You flush, quickly shaking all thoughts of the night away.

The tea! Your tea, yes. A prescription from the doctor for this very thing.

More often than not, you wake to find a mess between your thighs. Sticky arousal between them in a perverse fashion. The region sensitive and overstimulated combined with a mess of dreams. More sexual in nature than ever before.

Embarrassed, you had turned to the only person you could trust. The palace staff’s doctor.

She had told you it was normal– that you were simply having what she described as ‘wet-dreams’. The title alone made you feel embarrassed.

Nevertheless, she prescribed you a tea to help calm your nerves. It was meant to be passifying in nature, calming any lush desires you may have beginning to form.

You were not sure how it functioned, however you trusted her. Found that it quelled whatever fire burned inside of your heart for the time being.

Perhaps just a new oddity to add to your reality, you suppose.

Finally, you find a proper set of undergarments to pull over your legs. Letting out a breath in relief now that you finally have them.

Today is going to be busier than the last month combined– the ball is tonight. You know for a fact you will be rushed around the palace all day, fixing everything into an acute sense of perfection that only the Kim family is known for.

You reach to spray your second favourite perfume across your skin, only to find that the bottle has gone missing as well.

Your hairs stand on edge, a dark pit forming in your stomach.

It is all too strange for you to want to understand.

Okay, now you’re sure Annabell must be wrong. She has to be, right? There is no other conclusion possible.

The thoughts run through your head as you pace the small confines of your room. Thumb between your lips, biting the skin feverishly. Contemplating what it is exactly that you should do. A heavy box sitting on your bed, a letter laying next to it along with a single lily.

A month ago, you met Prince Kim in the gardens. A month ago you spoke to him all night long. A month ago he brought you flowers. He has been leaving you letters ever since. Three weeks ago he held you in his arms, made you promise to write him back. Made you promise to meet him in the gardens as many nights as you can.

But this, you could not accept. You could not possibly think this is real. Why has he gifted you something like this?

A dress lays on your bed. The most gorgeous dress you have ever seen, in fact. Lined with crystals and gems, many layers of tulle poof from the underskirt. It must’ve cost a fortune, but it was not meant for you. It is a dress meant for a princess, not a simple maid of the palace. Not… Not someone the prince simply wanted to bed.

So why did it lie here, along with a lace mask and a pair of shoes. Why did it come with a note from the Prince, telling you to put it on for tonight's events? Is this why the head maid dismissed you so early?

No. You could not. You will not make a fool of yourself. You do not belong up there, dressed as a princess when you are far from the thing. That is your decision. It will be the one you stick to.

Even as hours tick past on the clock, even as you can hear the night in full swing, you stay locked in your room. Feeling the same as you did when you were a girl locked in the dungeon all those years ago. Helpless, indignant, stubborn.

Lost in your thoughts as you try to piece together a puzzle that has several spaces missing. Feelings for the stable boy– life with him, it would have been easier than this. You’re sure of it.

You allow yourself to imagine what life could have been like if he stayed. It would have been a cosy, peaceful. A straightforward one that didn’t leave so many questions in your head. Jungkook was always like that, spoke his mind without leaving anything to be guessed. You adored it, wished you could revel in it now. Wish you could kiss him under the cherry tree once more.

A pounding wakes you from the dream you were just beginning to weave. Loud, angry knuckles against the firm oak of your door startling you to your feet in an instant. Chills running down your spine as if your body already knew who was behind it.

You wait too long to reply, another series of rapts following in quick succession. You’re in trouble. You’ve angered the prince in a way you’re not sure you’ll be able to find your way out of, but you have no choice. He knows your inside. You know you must face him. You must be brave.

Right before another series of knocks can echo against the walls, you finally pull the door open.

There stands the man you knew would be there all along, sculpted like the lord had made him himself. You wish you could behold him properly, to stare at his beauty in the suit specially prepared for this night. One he asked your opinion of several times during its construction.

But you are unable to, not when his shoulders heave like a bull planning its charge. Not when his eyes are narrowed into a glare that enters your soul without consequence. Never before had you felt his anger directed at you.

The future king would be a fearsome thing.

“It appears you are not dead.” He states, cold and detached in a way you have never heard before. It makes you feel small, feel weak. Though by now, you know he wants an answer. He will not accept the lack of one from you anymore.

You shift uncomfortably on your feet, “I suppose not…”

“Then what do you suppose.” You flinch. You’re not sure.

“I– Prince Kim…”

“Taehyung.” He interjects, though you ignore him. Only his future wife is meant to call him by that name.

“Prince Kim, I could not possibly accept this gift. You have to understand.” The way he looks at you makes you want to shrink. To appear as small as possible to placate the lion you’ve wondered into the den of.

“I do not. You are to accept any gift I am to give you.” He is stern as if lecturing the ground beneath him. He looks massive in your tiny room, taking up much more space than you wish to grant him.

You begin to grow frustrated, annoyed. Does he have no sanity? Does he really think it is okay to play with the hearts of women so carelessly? It is disgusting. Repulsive even! You do not deserve anything like this. You begin to grow tense, grow firm like a wolf cornered. Ready to lash out with no remorse.

That is what you are, anyway. A cornered animal with no hope to escape.

“I won’t.” You raise your shoulders, stand taller and stare him straight in the eyes. If this will have you sent to the axe then so be it.

He grows just as tense in reply, his lips forming a sneer as he takes a step closer towards you.

Never before has Prince Kim been opposed like this before, you’re sure of it. The way his irises become darker is proof.

“And why is that, lamb?” He mocks, and the fire inside of you only begins to glow brighter Of course, you’re just the lamb that's wandered into the lion's den. The lamb being prepared for meal.

Steam clouds around your head, jaw becoming tense as you try to hold back your rage. Rage for your mother, rage for the life she was taunted into the same way the prince is trying to do to you now.

“I will not become another woman you bed and then lay waste to!” You practically shout, unable to hold back your emotions anymore.

His nostrils flare, “Excuse me?”

“You heard my words.” You state back, indignant, “I will not be an idiot. I will not become another woman who you use for your own pleasures!”

You hear him scoff, head turning away from you for the first time as he looks around your room.

“You think that little of me?” His eyes make their way back to you, his face having the expression of somewhat… hurt?

Suddenly, you’re unsure. You feel stupid all over again though you’re not entirely conscious as to why. You hurt him? How could you possibly hurt the most powerful person in the country?

You falter in your stance, and it is obvious that he takes notice. Uses it to his advantage as he takes another step closer, makes his hand find your own. His thumb brushing soothingly over the knuckle. His hands are always so soft.

“What else am I meant to think? I’ve heard the stories, Prince Kim.” Where once was fire lays blistering coals. Hot to the touch yet unyielding in their passion. The air in the room has changed in much the same way.

“Tell me of them.” He asks you, his voice now gentle, soft.

It is strange, the complete change he’s had since first entering your room. Has your brain going a little haywire. Especially with the way he stares at your hands. Like they could be locked forever.

“I…” You feel flush, embarrassed to mutter the words in front of the prince, “I’ve heard you seduce women… princesses, noblemen’s daughters, maids… the lot. Then you abandon them the next morning with your seed in their core and a knife in their heart.”

You keep your eyes to your feet, face feeling hot by repeating the words of your friend. You refuse to look at him, you cannot take the embarrassment.

A light chuckle leaves his lips, a hand coming up to attempt to muffle them, “Sorry, sorry.” He shakes his head, a playful glint in his eyes. You’re baring your soul to him! How dare he laugh!

He coughs to muffle the rest of the sound, returning to the moment, “I apologise. I just had the realisation. You’re jealous of them, aren’t you lamb?”

A mess of flutters takes up your stomach, your shoulders raising in alarm. Your lips open to try and form words, to try and deny the allegations made your way, yet you are entirely unable.

Especially with the way he moves closer, crowds your space with such ease. Leads close to you, whispers words in your ear, voice lower than before.

“You wish it to just be you I lay with, is that so?” You can practically hear the smile in his voice as another, more erotic chill finds its way down your spine.

“Th-That isn’t–” You try to speak, but your voice sounds as light as air. He moves closer, arm carrying itself around your back, pulling you flush against him as he speaks sinful words. Words only for you.

“Ah…” He sighs in relief, lips practically touching your ear once you’re finally connected to him, “You don’t like it when I go fuck your friends then come to spend my nights talking to you… writing to you… touching myself to the thought of you.”

You cannot take it. You cannot take this, take him. Your head is spinning, clouding with the drug known as Prince Kim. Your knees feel weak, your limbs feel all too heavy. How can someone so pretty say such sinful words without a second thought. It’s too much. Far more than your poor little heart can take.

Your arms come up, press as firm as they can against his chest despite how weak they feel.

“Mmm…?” He asks in response, pulling back to look down on your face. Mock confusion spread across his features. He takes a step back, pretending to look you up and down. Like he is just playing a game of poker while all of your tells are as clear as day.

“Or is that not what you wish?” He asks, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy, “You would like things to remain the same?” He smiles, drawing conclusions all on his own.

He pauses, waits for you to say something, anything before continuing. But you do not, so he will keep playing this game by himself.

“Then I shall go find someone to keep me company for the night. Mmm..” He taps his chin in contemplation, turning on his heels, meanwhile panic and dread fills every facet of your being, “What were those ones you’re friends with again? Celley? That pretty blonde? Oh, or maybe Annabell. I’m sure she would be prepared to go for a second round.”

What? What? No, No! What is he talking about? Why is he starting to walk away?! Wait, Annabell, second time?! She has before?!

Oh heavens, oh gods.

“Anyway, I'll be sure to write to you after. Have a good night, dream of me.” You begin to hyperventilate as he takes one step out the door. No, he can’t leave. You don’t want him to. You don’t want him to be with anybody else. You can’t let it happen. You can’t afford such a thing! Ever! That is not where he is meant to be!

Your body carries you before your mind does. Hand slipping out, gripping onto the back of his coat with all of the strength you can muster. Feet planted firm in your room, doing everything in your power to not let him leave.

It is really too bad you do not see the sick smile that forms on his lips. Maybe then the pieces of the puzzle would have finally clicked in place.

Instead he only tilts his head backwards, painting a complexion of boredom.

“N-No! I don’t want that!” You finally manage to stutter out, knuckles turning white with the strength you hold onto him. Afraid if you let go in the slightest he will pull away and disappear forever. “I don’t want you to be with other women!”

The silence that follows your confession feels a mile long.

“Then go put on the dress.” Out of any response there could be, that certainly was not the one you were anticipating.

“What…?”

His chin tilts in the direction of it, urging you on, “If that is the truth, then go put on the dress.”

“I…” You hesitate for only a moment, but scramble to motion once the prince turns to leave once again.

You make quick paces to your bed, keeping your back to him. You feel his eyes on your back, intent on giving you no privacy to ensure you follow through on his order.

In fact, all he does is close the door behind you. Making sure no one will be able to see in. No one will be able to watch you save for him.

You slowly peel off the cotton of your nightgown, trying to appear brave even though his eyes are trained on your form. Even if your slip still remains on, you have never been this uncovered in front of a man before. You feel entirely bare.

You do not look at him as you finally find your way through the tool, slipping the garment over your head with struggle, yet his face is practically predatory.

You don’t know his plans, or what he wishes to gain. You never do.

As the fabric settles over your hips, half of you wants to question how the size is perfect, but you refrain. Too embarrassed by everything else to even consider it an option. Your hands reach behind you to attempt to lace up the back on your own, yet another pair are already present in their place.

When did he get so close? How did he get so close without you hearing a thing? Your heartbeat must be the only sound in your ears, that must be it.

His fingers work down your spine, tightening the dress so it fits you perfectly. Tying it off with skill you did not know he had. You feel his breath on the back of your neck. A fire begins to grow in your core.

“I was going to present you to my father tonight.” He admits, placing a gentle kiss to the base of your neck, “The ball was meant to find my bride.”

“Oh.” Those are the only words you can say when he is so close, arms enclosing around your waist. Pulling your back flush with his chest.

Only words you can manage at the revelation.

“Imagine his disappointment, more so my own when the girl I had been speaking to him about did not show.” He grunts, almost as if it hurt him. Guiding your body to stand in front of the full mirror in your room. Asking– telling you to look at yourself.

The sight is strange, yet incredible. The crown prince of the entire nation standing in your bedroom, in the maids quarters. Surrounded by squalor and chaos. Arms wrapped around a maid dressed as if she could be a queen.

You look up at him to the best of your ability, regret plastered across your features, “Prince Kim–”

“Taehyung.”

“--I’m so sorry.” He does not look you in the eyes. They stay trained ahead, not straying once from the mirror. One hand rubbing small circles into the fabric covering your stomach, the other sliding to your waist.

He touches you without care, without reason. Feeling you against him for all that it is worth.

“Actions have consequences, that is all. They can come later.” He states plainly, “For now I just wish to indulge in you.”

He brings his face down, placing it right next to yours. His hand rises, making your chin face the mirror as well.

He forces you to make eye contact with him through it, forces you to understand each of his words clearly.

“You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”

You take a deep breath, gulping down all the air you can manage. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything more.

With no more than a nod, his lips are on yours.

Spinning you around, pressing your back against the mirror. His hands cupping your cheeks with such intensity you fear they may become etched into your skin forever. Keeping your lips closed against his own.

His body cages you in, pressing entirely against you. Forming against you in perfect harmony, feeling two souls become one. Feeling each other fully for the first time– no pretence or public eye in the way to stop it.

His teeth nip at your lower lip, biting in a way that has you opening them in pain. He takes the opportunity to lick his way inside, somehow pushing even closer to your body.

Something hard presses against you and the discovery has your knees wishing to collapse.

The prince can’t possibly be this big. He simply can’t.

The kiss has you reeling, unsure of anything. Unsure of what to do at all. It is nothing like your first kiss under the cherry tree with Jungkook. That was soft and sweet, docile as two people discover something new.

This, this is nothing of the sort. It is hungry. It is a beast that has been starved, finally getting its first meal. It is intoxicating. It is needy and desperate in a way that has your fingers trying to press themselves even deeper into the glass. It has your breath being robbed. Your lifeforce wilts away to satisfy only the prince.

The groan he lets out as you finally give into him, finally allow him to take control of the kiss as arousal pools in your gut. It is one of the most deadly siren’s calls you think you’ve ever heard. One that would have any woman throwing themselves overboard for just a taste.

“Finally,” He grunts, pulling no more than a millilitre away from your lips, wetness still connecting them, “My whole life I’ve been waiting for you.” He mumbles, hungrily connecting his mouth back to your own.

Before you know it, you’re lost in the man once again. Allowing him to move you, to guide you to your bed without withdrawing from you once. Tangling your fingers into his hair, trying to make sure he doesn’t pull away. Making you drunk off of his taste, off of him.

When he kisses you like this, you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to live without him.

Your knees hit the frame of your bed and all of a sudden you're falling backwards onto its plush lining. Panting, trying to regain some of the air he stole from you.

For the first time you’re able to look up at him, to discover the mess that he has become. Cheeks red, lips swollen. Eyes dark and twisted with lust. Hair ruffled messily from where your fingers laid. Shoulders rising and falling with effort as he catches his breath as well.

He looks gorgeous and you can’t help yourself hoping this will be only a sight for you forever.

He leans down, pecking your lips once more, “I couldn’t stop myself from imagining this. Since the moment I placed an order for your dress.”

He huffs, dropping to his knees in front of you. You sit up on your elbows, face twisted into confusion as you look down at him.

God. It is too dangerous to look at him right now. You know that as another wave of heat runs straight to your core.

“Pushing up the future queen's skirt.” He groans, hands gaining purchase on your hips, pulling you down so your waist sits at the edge of the bed, “Letting myself have a taste of her while everyone else at the party danced.”

O-Oh. Oh. He sees you as, oh god.

His fingers bunch in the material of your skirt, drawing in a shaky inhale as he holds onto any drop of sanity left.

When he sees no hesitation from you, he slowly begins to push the material up your legs. Eyes trained on your own, looking to you for any sign of discomfort.

“Have her come undone on my tongue while no else was the wiser.” He groans as he finally comes face to face with your panty covered core.

Your brain moves at a snail's pace, trying to keep up with every tiny movement the prince makes. Trying to process his words while your head becomes fuzzy with your own arousal.

You feel like mush, so pliable in his grip.

His large hands slowly begin to part your thighs, to look at what he has been craving for so long when your brain catches up with you, embarrassment overcoming your being.

“Y-You can’t! I-it is dirty to do such a thing.” At least, that is what you had been taught. Though, the look in his eyes and the growl from his throat tells you the opposite.

“You could never be dirty. No part of you could ever be.” The sound he lets out is more akin to an animal than anything else, and suddenly you feel like a schoolgirl. Flustered and embarrassed beyond anything else.

The muscles of your thighs untense, the look on your face blushed and biting.

“You will let me?” He asks again, and despite your embarrassment, you nod. He is going to be king… his word is rule afterall. He wishes it, so it will happen. You could not be more pleased to oblige.

His grip on your thighs is more firm than before, blunt nails digging into soft flesh as he pries your legs apart. He lets a groan resonate from the back of his throat at the sight. Panties sticking to your center, wetness pooling just behind causing the material to almost become transparent before him.

You did not know it was possible for a man to have such an effect on you.

Without a second thought, he pushes the material down your thighs. His tongue licking a long stripe up your cunt, savouring the flavour for every cent it is worth.

He moans at the taste, not wasting a second before he dives back in. Lapping against you like it is his last meal.

A mewl leaves your lips, too many feelings crossing you at once for any of them to be worth anything.

Embarrassment, shame, fear all vanish the moment his lips wrap around your clit, sucking against the small bundle of nerves in a manner that has your back arching against the bed. Fingertips digging into the sheets to find a second lease on life.

You try to look down at him, to find him between all of your small pants of pleasure, however he is gone. Disappearing until the layers of fabric while he brings you sensations you never thought were possible.

His tongue moves like it is made to pleasure only you. Taking turns flicking your clit to lowering into your center. Licking up any bit of arousal he can make out. Trailing up once again to press flat against the bundle of nerves.

All of it has your legs kicking, your breath melting.

He is not quiet either, letting you know exactly how much he adores this. Adores the feeling of your thighs wrapped tight around his head. Adores every little sound and reaction you have to give him. Adores the taste of you on his tongue. It was only meant for him.

It feels like he has been wishing to do this far longer than you would ever know. Consuming you whole from the inside out. Causing you to become addicted, to desire him just as much as he carnally craves you.

His nails dig into the flesh of your thighs as your hips begin to rock against his face, seeking out every ounce of pleasure that he is willing to give you. Your adorable mewls and whines grow louder, peaking every time he sucks on your clit.

A coil has begun to form in your gut, feeling as though it could snap at any second. You wish you could see him, to look at his face and see the crazed gleam in his eyes. Observe the exact look on his face as he licks your cunt.

You try to picture it. Try to imagine the way he would look up at you from between your legs. The dark umber his eyes would become, the gentle circles he would rub into your thigh as you finally make eye contact.

Your walls clench around his tongue, sending a new waves of whines out of your mouth. He somehow moves faster, more precisely with every movement. Like he is able to hone in on the exact things that have your thighs quivering.

His tongue moves up, takes your small, worn clit into his mouth. Alternating between sucking against it, flicking at it, and pressing against it firm with the flat of his tongue.

Without warning, nor any reprise, one of his thick fingers is thrust into your wet heat. Filling you in a way you have never been able to do to yourself. Stretching you. And all of a sudden, you’re flying off the edge of a precipice.

“Prince Kim!” Your back arches off of the bed, head thrown back against the mattress as you let out a moan. Your hips jolt, cunt squeezing around his fingers, heels digging into the floor as you come undone before him.

He works you through it with ease and grace, finger slowly thrusting in and out. Tongue firmly planted against your clit to ride you through your high.

It would not be your last of the night. He must be gentle.

Slowly, you relax against the bed, chest heaving from exertion. He pulls away from you, standing to full height before leaning over your shaking form.

Your arousal coats his face, a sheen from his lips and chin evident against the soft yellow glow of the room. He looks down at you, concern and adoration written across his features. Though in his eyes, it appears that the beast has yet to be quelled.

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You taste yourself against them.

“You are delicious. I wish to eat you every night until I die.” He mumbles against your lips, his knee sliding between your legs. Muscle pressing against your swollen cunt.

You try to flinch away, yet the hand on your hip keeps you in place.

He will not have you running away.

Not now.

Your cheeks flush at his words, wide eyes looking up at him like he is all that matters.

He is.

He presses his knee further against your pussy while his lips trail down the column of your neck. Urging you towards the headboard with no words spoken until your head is against the pillows.

Your arms wind their way around his neck, keeping him in place, “I-if we were married, I would let you.” You manage to speak, your voice shaky.

He only smiles in reply. Fingers digging deeper into your waist as if he is holding himself back.

“Then we shall call this practice for our wedding night.” He smiles, sitting back on his heels.

Marriage, wedding night. You allow the thought to ghost through your mind, willing it to be reality.

He smiles down at you, taking note in the way you seem to gleam at the idea. A small chuckle leaves his lips, you really are too cute for your own good.

His voice is no more than a whisper, forcing you to stay enrapt, “You will let me, right?” He asks, eyes glancing down to where his pants strain against his hips, “I wish to make love to my future wife.”

Your mouth practically waters at the sight, his hard cock pressed taught against the expensive material. You swear there may even be a wet spot where his cum has leaked through.

Your pussy clenches, wanting nothing more for him to find his way inside. For him to claim you for himself. Destroy you so no other man can have you in the same way.

You struggle against yourself for no more than a moment, but the way his hand reaches down, grips at his cock. Brushes his thumb over the surface has you moaning in want.

“Please.”

He smiles, the motion following swift. All at once his hands unbutton his pants, pushing the material down his thighs just enough for his cock to spring free. He groans at the feeling, thick length hitting his stomach. Pretty pre-cum dripping down the side.

Your eyes go wide. If you imagined him to be large before, seeing it now looked impossible. He is thick, long. Far too big to ever hope to fit inside of you.

But the desperate groan in his voice, the hungry look in his eyes only has you spreading your legs. Wishing nothing more than for him to destroy you.

One hand wraps around the base as he moves closer, the other forcing the skirt of your dress as high as it will allow. He makes space for himself in between your thighs, slotting himself in. Ready to do what he has been waiting years for.

Not yet.

He sees the hesitation in your eyes, the worry. So he leans down, planting a gentle, soothing kiss to your lips. One filled with years of time behind it.

He knows he must be careful with you. Knows all of his patience will have been worth it when he is finally able to take your virginity.

“Will it hurt?” You as quietly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to keep him close. You find comfort in him. Find a sense of safety within his eyes.

He nods in response, “Only for a little while, I promise.” He mumbles against your lips, placing a soft kiss against them once more.

He slowly rubs the fat head between your folds, coating himself in your arousal. Your hips buck slightly in response, and he can’t help but smirk.

So sensitive. So ready for him.

As much as he wants to be rough, he can’t. He can’t scare you away just yet.

He looks into your eyes once more, “Ready?” He asks, giving you one final chance to back out. You only nod your head, pulling him close, hiding your face in his neck.

His head catches on your opening with the final drag of his length through your lips. His hands practically shake in excitement, as he guides himself inside. Letting go only once the tip is buried within your walls.

He feels your teeth sink into his coat, your body burning with the stretch of him. He only has the first inch inside, yet you think it is more than you could possibly take.

A choked cry leaves your lips as he continues to slowly thrust inside. Your arms cling to him as tight as possible. Tears prick in the corner of your eyes as he fills you, forming your entire body just around him. Just around his cock.

He pauses only once half of his cock is buried in your needy cunt. You feel his hand come up to caress your cheek, to bring you back down to reality from the pain you feel digging at your core. Trying to bring you some sense of comfort.

You pull back from his shoulder to look him in the eyes, expecting to see them soft. Filled with concern. Though there is nothing of the sort there.

Behind his bangs is only the look of pure insanity.

Though he tries to be compassionate, he really does.

“Are you doing okay?” His voice is strangled, coming out in only desperate cracks. He shakes, wanting nothing more than to fuck himself inside. Fuck himself deeper and deeper, until your cunt is shaped for his cock alone.

But he holds restraint. Just enough.

The way he looks at you, the way he speaks has a wave of pleasure rushing through your skin. Your walls clamp around him, tightening even more.

He is falling apart before you, because of you.

He has gone mad because of you.

The feeling only makes you want to urge him on. See just how far the prince can fall.

You nod your head, looking at him with all the affections in the world, “Don’t stop.”

He groans at your words, mind losing itself as he snaps his hips forward, forcing his cock inside until his hips are firm against your own. Teeth digging into the fragile skin of your neck.

You cry out in pain, your walls squeezing around him in shock. Pain coursing through your entire system as you are filled to the brim. Walls stretched as wide as humanly possible. The head of cock so deep inside you swear you can feel it in your lungs.

“Shit.” He groans, mouth falling open, “This pretty thing is wrapped around me so tight, lamb. So fucking tight I can’t think.”

He slowly tries to move his hips, though you only shout in response. Your legs wrap around his back, doing their utmost to keep him in place.

“Hurts!” You whine, shaking your head quickly.

Fucking hell. What is the point of a pussy as sweet as your own if he can’t use it properly?

His hand moves between your legs, growl of impatience slipping past his lips as his fingers find your clit. They work with urgency, with need. Rubbing tight circles into it, trying to get you to feel the same pleasure he does.

You whine, overstimulated. Shots fired in all directions leaving you messy and confused.

With every circle, a mewl sounds from your throat. Slowly your legs behind him loosen, the pain from before mixing with pleasure to become something wonderful. Something that has you whimpering for him to not stop.

“See?” He grunts, slowly slipping out of your heat until only the tip remains, “We were made for each other.”

He forces his cock back inside, fucking you open just for him. Only ever for him.

Your nails dig into his back, heels digging into the mattress as you moan for him. As your cunt becomes addicted to the feeling of him filling you so perfectly. Addicted to everything he has to offer.

He moves too fast, too hard for you to even hope to keep up with. Hips pistoning into you, forcing you to take everything he has to give and more. Forcing you to be the perfect little doll for him, give him all the pleasure he can want and more. White mixing with red around the base of his cock.

Your back arches off the mattress to try and get closer to him, to try and keep up with him in any hope of the sentiment. Hips trying their best to keep him as close and as deep as possible, knowing they crave one thing and one thing alone.

“Prince Kim!” You moan, yet he growls in response. A sharp slap to your thigh sounds throughout the room as his hips pause, fingers removing themselves from your clit.

“That isn’t my name to you anymore.” His voice is low, menacing in your ear. One more poke of the bear and you will be punished. “Tae–Hyung.”

He emphasises the words with a sharp thrust of his hips, one that brushes against the bundle inside of you. One that leaves you crying out for him. Clinging on to him.

“Say it.” He grunts, animalistic and desperate. Yet you’re too lost in yourself to realise how debauched he’s become. Looking less and less like a man, more like a demon come to lay waste to your soul.

That is close enough to the truth, anyway.

“Say it until it becomes the only word you know. Every question I ask, every time I fuck myself into this sweet little cunt. Your only reply should be my name.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to stare at him.

Your fucked out little features as you bob your head in compliance.

“I-I” You swallow, trying to understand his words as he pounds away at your core, “I understand!”

He smiles, almost proud of the work he has done today.

His hips only move impossibly faster, impossibly harder in a way that has that knot in your gut tightening once more.

“We’ll start simple then. What is my name?” He asks, angling his hips to press against your sweet spot with ever slight movement. Breathe panting, his mind falling deeper and deeper into the thralls of your body.

“P-Prin–” You stop yourself, a pinch coming down on your skin, “Taehyung!”

He groans, almost coming undone as he hears your name fall from your lips for the very first time. The pretty sound your voice makes with every letter.

It could be the only thing he hears for the rest of his life.

“Who are you going to marry?”

You whine, your head thrashing around slightly. He smiles. You must really enjoy the idea of that, huh?

“T-Taehyung!” You manage to stutter out again, feeling your release coming closer and closer as the seconds pass by.

“Who is the man you have fallen for?” The answer to the question is easy, especially when he is fucking into you like you’re the only woman that matters. Nothing matters except for him.

“Taehyung!” Your brain is too fuzzy to process anything else. Anything other than the way his cock fills you. Anything other than the one word he told you is your gospel.

“Who is the boy that kissed you under the cherry tree?” You don’t even know anymore.

Does any man exist beside Taehyung anyway? You doubt it.

“Taehyung!” He smiles into your neck.

“Who was the boy that was going to have you killed? That saved your life?” His words don’t process through your ears, yet you know what you are meant to say anyway.

“Taehyung!” He groans, his hips stuttering, losing their pace ever so slightly.

“Who do you belong to?”

“Taehyung!” You whine, your thighs shaking. The coil so tight you think you may just die if it doesn’t come undone in this very moment.

His breath is quiet, only a rough whisper in your ear, “Cum.”

Just as your king commands, you fall apart around him. White dots in the corner of your eyes as you clamp down around him, your legs pulling him close. A cry of his name leaving your lungs as if it is the very air you breathe.

You feel him paint the inside of your walls white, his hips stuttering– fucking himself as deep into you as he could possibly manage. If you had any sense left in your little head you would have told him to pull out, yet your brain is so high. Filled with pleasure that only Taehyung can provide.

Waves of arousal crash around you as he slows his hips, ensuring that you ride out your orgasm to its fullest before pulling away. You wish he could stay buried inside of you, just like that. Yet you doubt that would be very wise.

“Was that good for you, little lamb?” He asks, slowly helping you into a sit. You’re not sure how to properly answer– mouth feeling dry. Your head has not yet come crashing back down, though that is probably a good thing.

Facing reality is too scary right now. Especially when Taehyung is so warm. So caring as he removes your dress. Slips your nightgown back over your soiled body.

“Very…” You nod, unable to take your eyes off of him as he moves around the bed. Tucking himself back into his pants, removing his shirt and dress-coat. Placing them over the back of a chair. Neatly hanging the dress on a hook, taking care that it is not damaged in any way.

Your arms find themselves reaching out to him, trying to pull him closer to you. He smiles once he takes notice.

“Would you like me to stay the night?” It is clear he was already planning on it, but hearing the words make you smile oh-so bright.

“Yes, please.” You nod quickly, eyes already feeling tired. You did not know how he had so much energy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Right now he is meant to be in your bed, arms around you. In fact, you become annoyed that he isn’t already.

“Alright.” He smiles, slipping next to your form. Wrapping his arms around you, pulling you as close as possible.

You feel so safe. So warm with him. So protected that you can’t stop yourself from falling asleep.

“Goodnight my lamb.”

The Kim Empire.

His home, his family, his livelihood all wrapped up in those three little words.

Yet, the only thoughts that seem to brandish his mind since the young age of 15 are about you.

When you first stumbled in front of him, carrying a tray of tea. Spilling it all over his shoes. That quick curse that left your lips before looking up at him. The wide, doelike vision you had once recognition had set in. One the realisation of error set into your bones.

He will never forget the way his heart began to race in that very moment. The way he felt a cloth of sickness overcome his whole body at the mere sight of you. Looking so serendipitous below him.

At first he thought it was hate, how silly he had been back then. Ah, the way he sent you to be killed was just funny to him now. He is grateful he talked to his mother before your execution date. Spilling his soul to her, detailing how he could not seem to remove you from his brain.

Ah, he was lucky he managed to get the letter to the executioner in time. What a pity that would be if he couldn’t. Then he wouldn’t have been able to lay next to you now. Wouldn’t be able to play with your hair, caress you like he pleases.

It is truly too bad that was not his only trial on the road towards you. It was really a pity he had to send Jungkook away. Taehyung quite liked the kid. He was fun to play with and wouldn’t shy away from his games.

But he just had to try and seduce you. Poor thing. You really were too innocent at the time. More than eager to kiss him for no reason. To give him even a peace of your heart that was meant for Taehyung alone.

He remembers as clear as day, the rage he felt as he watched your soft lips press against another mans. How terribly he wanted to go out and strike Jungkook with a sword. Of course he didn’t though, that would have scared you away. He would have hated that.

He thanks god every day he was really your first kiss, even if you didn’t know it.

Patiences was the hardest battle of all, and he will admit, he has faltered a few times over the years. Kisses stolen while you sleep, a few of your belongings robbed to keep him satiated. Mayhaps a few trips to your room in the night.

But who could blame him? He was a man in love. There was nothing that could stop him when he was so hungry for you.

Ah, and then of course his father. He wanted to separate your love as well. A maid could never possibly be suited to be queen, blah blah. He doesn’t care. And at least that fight allowed him to hug you for the first time.

God. You felt so perfect in his arms, then and now. You have always been meant for this. Meant for him.

If his father plans to keep standing in the way, he will simply have to remove him from the equation. His bonds to the man are as thick as water. He cares more for you than he possibly could anyone else.

You’ve belonged to him since you were born, anyway. If a maid becomes pregnant while working for the castle, her child becomes property of the state. Of the crown. Of him.

It only makes sense that you are meant to be with him until death. It is the path lined for you. Your fate since birth.

He knows it as his delicate fingers trace over the small patches of blood dirtying the sheets. Evidence of the hours before, of your virginity robbed. Of your promises to him.

You are bound to him by blood after all.

5K notes · View notes

meownotgood · 2 months ago

Text

in circles (running down) / viktor x gn!reader, character study, yearning, angst, seriously too much angst, hurt/comfort, implied past relationship, season 2 spoilers, s2 act 2 viktor, astral intimacy, (you follow the rumors of a healer to the commune, and viktor allows you to teach him what it means to be human.) word count: 15.7k

read on ao3

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Metamorphosis begins with kaleidoscopes of colors, an ache between your ribs, and your hands tightly gripped around Viktor's wrists.

You have him pressed underneath you, pinned in place, like a butterfly's specimen; unearthly gaze pliant, gazing up at you as though you're something worth observing. A sea of stars. Infinite possibilities. Or perhaps he can see the intricate pattern of every notion you've tried to keep hidden.

There is a distant, fragile outcome somewhere, blissfully free of the strife he's been attempting to cure, where the both of you are guided only by the present. Where stumbling inside the elysium he's made for himself means falling into familiar, waiting arms. It means whispered confessions of, Viktor, I missed you. It sets itself into motion with your arms around his neck, while your mouth remembers the shape of his. Blurring moments upon days upon years into a worshipful, mortal culmination.

Somewhere. It isn't this reality.

Your temple forms a near painful knot, your breathing is weighty in your tired lungs, but your old partner's expression remains blissfully passive; Schrodinger's, some kind of paradox. Not dead, not alive. It should be easy to keep him pinned underneath you, despite the newfound weight to his form. Your arms shouldn't be shaking. Viktor eyes you calmly, as patient as he is unreadable.

His hands twitch slightly — you're binding his wings — less akin to a human's natural irregularity. Instead, more like a complex system, thumbing through and testing its limits. Still, he doesn't attempt to break away from you. He has no need to.

"I am certain you have recognized," Viktor begins, his voice familiar, despite the odd steadiness it carries, like the calmness of a frozen, still lake. Despite the distant rumble of monotonous vibrations that manifest between his words, "I need not delve into your mind, in order to unravel it."

Understanding one another comes naturally, when you've long since held his shape in your soul.

Your grip tightens on his wrists. The soft satin of his makeshift clothing brushes your skin when your knee prods into his stomach.

You've seen what Viktor is capable of. The rumors were everywhere, from the moment you fled into the Undercity. Deciphering thoughts with a mere touch, examining the minds of those he pries into. Sensing emotions and evolving them, eclipsing them. Healing ailments that shouldn't be fixable; accomplishing the future you once dreamed of, one way or another. No matter the consequence, whatever it takes.

He isn't the man you remember. This new boundary of existence is something near-eternal. Something more star-bound, boundlessly fate-defying.

The utopia he's prospered runs cold, when the vessels within it lack heat. Cool air, clean and sharp, nips at your skin, carried on its own phantom breeze. Viktor's chambers are quiet, more ghostly than peaceful. He's lined the floor of his cocoon with flowers. Brilliant blooms of purple hydrangea and blue wolfsbane, petals rustling, whispering prayers to the deep night sky.

Flowers, in the Undercity. Gods.

Viktor's hair fans out around him, messy and unkempt. Longer than you remember, chestnut strands tapering off into hues of vanilla. His gaze swirls, in shades of sunset and petroleum, polychrome like the rainbow of oil on water. His eyes remind you of a summer storm. Clouds covering the sun, before it begins to shine again.

You shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have let his doe-eyed acolytes lead you in. But when one of them murmured in a voice you'd almost forgotten, a voice you were sure you'd never hear again — when Viktor spoke through them, to sweetly promise he'd been expecting you, how were you ever meant to escape?

You could fill an ocean with your doubts and shouldn'ts — it was foolish. Stupidly, terribly irrational, to follow the rumors that Viktor was still alive. Looking at him now fills your veins with nothing and everything. A cataclysm of sensations, compounding all at once.

Grief echoes in the hollow chamber of your chest. Viktor can't be real, he was supposed to stay dead. Your hands shake, fingertips digging firmly into the hard edges of his synthetic wrists.

Viktor, on the opposite spectrum of emotion, barely falters.

"It must be all-consuming. Irrefutable. An… anomaly, burning within you. What epitomizes the worst burden to bear?" He murmurs, resolute. Gaze examining you, submerged in tender oblivion. "Resentment? Regret? Misery?"

Are those words an attempt to unequivocally define love, or an admission, an echo of what he is sure you are experiencing, because he once felt it in turn?

You resent the reverberation of his voice as it throbs through your mind. You've come to regret every wasted moment, each swallowed confession. Finding him again feels like a curse — and he knows. There's a gaping, empty maw in the pit of your stomach, and you can't keep it from destroying you. You've sacrificed yourself on his altar, without realization. Twin flames are destined to find one another. They were born from the same wildfire.

"It doesn't matter, not to you," You're gritting out. They're the first words you've spoken in ages, and they're all-too sharp when they spit from the edges of your teeth. "You don't feel anything."

Viktor's chest heaves gently, faint breaths that contrast the mechanical thrum of his shell.

"Your accusations are turning bold," He hums, not denying, not quite acknowledging. His voice isn't what you remember, but it's close enough, accented. Warm, when directed towards you. Enough to kill. "There is a persistent numbness, that emanates from a lack of humanity. But it is not infallible."

Your brows pinch. "So that's- that's it? I was some kind of afterthought, I meant so little and you were so numb you couldn't think to tell me you were still-"

"No," Viktor interrupts. Tone gentle, dream-like. Eyes softening, as his words become perfectly and paradoxically earnest. "You were the reason I felt alive."

He watches you, observes the conflict in your shifting expression. Flexes his fingers, clenches his hands. Idly thinking. The mere sight of you is an anchor within him. Returned pieces, notches clicking into place. Radiancy, bursting with light within him like a sacred heart — a final brush of his fingertips, to the fading edges of mortality.

Figments of sensations, the qualities he'd assumed were lost on him, are made to surge through him with the strength of a dull current; this is your doing. He can sense the faint warmth of your hands, nearly chokes on your name in his throat when he swallows. There's pain in your expression, a desire to falter, and it feels — reminds him of a gaping hole to the chest.

Viktor opens his mouth to speak, and your free hand opts to harshly wrap around his neck.

"The hurt, you are experiencing- when it is able to be sensed, examined," Viktor takes a harsh breath, as you tilt his chin up with a firm, bruising grip. "It begins to resound." His jaw grinds. Strands of his soft hair tickle your knuckles. His pretty, familiar mole follows his mouth when his lips briefly press into a hard line. "It is innate. Engrained memories, amidst fleeting desires for connection. Knowing how deeply you are broken vexes me."

He waits for your eyes to meet his own. Your gaze is practically piercing.

"And nothing is stronger than this ache."

The ache he can sense, because you are caught in it. Shared, entwined pain; two complements, sewn together.

Viktor believes part of you exists within him. It's inescapable: one's ties to another.

Simplicity was a circumstance he took for granted. Days in the Undercity, before it became this. Evenings spent researching or collaborating or re-learning how to breathe, when your dreams hovered just out of reach. Now, you're masquerading as a God and an apostate.

His mind hasn't quieted, since he felt your presence in his sanctuary. How could so much hurt stem from a once endless abundance of fondness? Tossing aside all past restraints seemed to be the most sensible option, the arcane's chosen option, but you are such an oddity.

Your very existence defies and redefines reason. You are… unforgettable. A sweet, exceedingly tempting obstacle. An inevitable destiny, worthy of any sacrifice. Irregardless of if the threads of fate decide they should will it. You were the missing piece to this theorem. And yet, my ignorance aspired to push you away.

I have you, now. I can reach you, I could begin to quiet the pestilence within you.

So why do you refuse?

Viktor's jaw clenches ever-so slightly. His gaze flashes with a hint of resolve, or tenderness, or something in between.

"I understand you have… missed me," He murmurs, his tone fraying around the words when he reaches their sore spot. To have each other as something to miss is so very human, so very quaint. "There is so much tension, hidden behind your eyes. Volatile. Yet still so… gentle. I remember the times when I would call out to you, simply to watch the way they softened."

They're softening now; your gaze can't help but melt, every single time you look at him. Despite the pain, despite the anger. The memory digs at you, it pries into your chest with sharp, thorned roots. Irreplaceable murmurs of your name in his voice. With his accent, with life in his tone, before the world sought to take it from him. With the cadence he clings to each time he goes through the syllables, your syllables, that screams, you are something I covet.

For a brief moment, you swear Viktor shifts from his ever-endless calm expression, chapped lips tilting to form the slightest, melancholy ghost of a smile.

"I fear I have long since owed you many apologies, little spark. There isn't much to offer, in the way of consolation. But, I-" Viktor's gaze weakens, flickers over you with dying sparks like a candle-lit flame; his hands clench, his sharp breathing echoes.

"I would have never forgotten you. You were irreplaceable. As was the life we once shared together. For every moment spent in my solitude, I lost myself, in the certainty that we might meet again."

Your throat tightens. An ache forms in your chest, threatening to spill over, like an overflowing chalice.

There's a distinct weight to his wrists, as you continue to hold them in place. A heavy, but still hollow chassis, his hands are criss-crossed with various mechanical patterns. The Hexcore's corruption is beginning to envelop more of him. It isn't like carving runes into delicate skin. That, at least, was a choice. A desperate, self-destructive, self-saving choice.

Bright, purple veins surge across what remains of his skin. They knot into his forehead, they curve underneath his tired eyes. Energy thrums from inside his hands, reminiscent of sparks rippling through electrical wire. The glow is faint, perhaps weakened. Ornaments trail down his neck, beneath his robes. Outlines of steel and amber carved into his figure.

Unconsciously, you long to reach out and touch. To trace your fingers along his intricacies: golden, godlike. To decide if his skin, if the smallest shred of what remains of him, is still as soft and lovely as you remember.

Your palm slips from his neck first.

It trails across his chest, in between the silhouette of collarbones. He isn't cold, nor warm. Empty, more like. Pulses of distant magic meet your fingertips, like pressing your hand to a static-filled television screen. He weakens underneath your touch, body going limp as a silent acknowledgment. There is no heartbeat. But you can feel the repeated ricochet of his breathing, however fake, however practiced.

Viktor's body feels powerful, reflecting the extent of his talents. It is a strong, complex, restrained prison. It must be freeing, in some ways; to breathe without the choke of rot in your lungs. To run, with the wind at your back as the ground meets your feet. You should be happy. Grateful. Viktor is alive — but he isn't able to be saved.

The objective you arrived with is already starting to crumble. Oh, you knew this wouldn't be a quick affair.

You didn't follow him for information, or for evidence. You weren't led by the wishes of the council's remains, or by the ambitions of your once-shared lab partner — or by anything else, besides your own heart. Nothing else matters. Just your own wavering strength, and the echoes in your mind to do something. Just each shaky step you took, traveling further into Zaun despite the smog that filled your chest. Just the plea in your mind, and the rumors at your feet that Viktor hadn't fully left.

Finally, when you stumbled into the commune with tired legs and weary lungs, you could breathe. And you couldn't decide if it was because of the plants, the trees, the fresh air, or if it's because of him.

You failed. You weren't meant to stay, weren't meant to trust him. But the moment your eyes locked with his, it was over. (Viktor smiled, you swore you saw amber, and he beckoned you close, without hesitation.)

It's crushing, to feel so much. You're suffocating in the wake of your own pounding heartbeat. Throbbing in your chest, echoing in your eardrums. Pulsing in your throat.

There's no use reconciling with your partner's shadow. And yet, in spite of it all, your partner, your reflection, rests underneath you. Gazing up at you with eyes that whirl in endless, lifeless shades. The silence stretches, and he doesn't fight the enveloping sting.

Yes, he was right, you are burning. As bright as the sun, with a fierce fire in your chest; caught between your ribs, as the flames attempt to escape through the gaps. It's reminiscent of the sticky-warm suffocation of bleeding out. Blood made to pour onto his chest and his clothes and his hands, as Viktor would press his palms to your side to stop your wound from spilling.

Love is a promise to pursue. To covet a name underneath your tongue. To swear to be doomed from the start. Like tying a string around two fingers — the path was set, you only needed to follow.

Your shoulders become tense, before they start to shake. The grip you've been holding on his wrists loosens. Viktor allows his hands to flex, now freed, but you're stumbling, collapsing in on yourself.

Uselessly, clumsily, you hide your face in your hands. It hardly helps. Your chest stings, your cheeks are wet. Your tears fall onto him like rain, droplets gently hitting his cheek.

"Oh," Viktor's lips quiver, as he tries to find words, but there's only one solution: "Come here."

And as though every reality led to this moment, as though embracing you is less of a conscious choice, and simply what he was made for, Viktor reaches for you, without hesitation.

The simple movement of his palm warps reality around it. His hand hums, buzzes mechanically, thrums with an otherworldly glow. His fingers are shaky; they haven't trembled this much in ages.

Careful fingertips brush up your arm. Your shoulders slump, and he grabs onto your wrist with little force. He feels your pulse. Each dull thud reverberates in his own chest, twisting up his spine as a surge of fire. His eyes can't help but flutter closed.

That's when natural intuition takes over, a pulse resounds throughout the entirety of Viktor's system, and all at once, he is touching your soul.

Your pent up emotions are an aurora in his mind. A vast array, everything complex, knit together so tightly, he doubts it's unwindable. He attempts to search through each individual spark, between every luminous flicker of starlight. Your very essence is rich with a sense of longing; it tastes like sugar on his tongue.

Slowly, carefully, you unfurl, as if your petals were exposed to the sun. Your heart hears him, you recognize it is Viktor's touch. Soul to soul, hands threading over you, within you. And like running into a waiting embrace, you vividly let the layers of your mind open.

There are beautiful rays of loving light, warmth that feels like the sun on his face, and subsequently feels like you. Affection burns into him with the heat of fierce, dripping candle wax. Then, there's fragile echoes that pierce through him, like pulling your lover in by the wrists, while they plunge a knife into your heart.

And there are deep, dark depths of drowning water. An endless, barren abyss to be swallowed into; you sit at the very bottom, curled in on yourself, untouchable. He reaches out to you, extends a palm for you to take, but you won't come. From here, you won't even look at him.

When he dives further, he sees himself.

Feels himself, sensing and tasting and experiencing his own image through your perception. He is the warmth underneath your skin, you are the celestial glow in his ribcage. It's a rebound, a ripple, a pulse of sonar. Touches and affections that he can feel on his skin, within his own body, and then through you, with your palms.

A touch to the small of one's back, or to a tensed shoulder, to a protruding spine. A palm between the butterfly-wing shape of his rigid shoulder blades, soft caresses to calloused knuckles and fresh wounds. His hands to the weakest parts of you, and your fingertips, tracing the still-human parts of him, before they were lost to his reunion with fatality.

Hands finding one another, fingers brushing, fingers interlacing — and Viktor remembers how it felt to wish your hand could be in his forever. He memorizes the shape of your heartbeat, as if it were his own.

Drowned in vivid color, painting-like and hazy, he reaches stretches of your imagination. It's easy to become lost in your dreams, within the places you wanted those touches to lead. Where you wanted him to touch. Your reveries are so bright they're blinding.

In your dreamscape, caresses travel. Your hands become bolder than they should, when they're massaging and soothing the ache in his shoulders. The press of skin to skin is a gentle connection, between soft, hesitant, dangerous pleas for more. There are confessions in a thousand different ways, countless almosts and bitten tongues.

Every instance is simple. Blissfully mundane. You replay and reimagine a sudden profession, while your head is resting on his shoulder, and it feels good instead of terrifying to let everything change. And when your hand finds his own, his thin fingers lace with yours naturally. And the academy is quiet, but your voice as you mumble his name is infinitely quieter.

You imagine mutual desperations to pull each other closer.

(Gentle brushes led by quickened breaths, exploring pallid skin, skimming the details you've mapped out in your mind. There's faint freckles on his arms, when he rolls up his sleeves. He has a mole on the back of his neck, only noticeable when his collar gets loose. A palm traces his spine, and you're picturing pressing your mouth to the scattered trail of moles on his back. Your breath is hot enough to burn, to leave behind marks of your own.)

Oh, and you wanted him so close. Closer than he knew. Closer than you could ever be, not now, not anymore.

Viktor sees his own image more clearly than ever; vibrant, when filtered through your eyes. Every moment shared between you plays on repeat. Looping, convening together.

Everything he achieved — the complexities of his discoveries and innovations amazed you, but they begin to blur in your vision, when you can't help but be drawn to the thrilled, pretty look on his face. All of his details — down to the most minute. The routine fidgeting of his fingers when he's lost in thought. The specific swirl he adds to a select few letters when he writes.

Your heart cradles each of his subtleties. Gods, how you adore him. You have all of him memorized.

Heavy and encapsulating, the warmth left by you is so much worse, when he is pressed in between all of your pieces. He remembers himself in a much kinder way. In the way you remembered him: intelligent, remarkable, enthralling. Edges blur together and clutter the horizon where he ends and you begin. He's lost in soft greetings, and gentle farewells, reverberating in his own voice. I missed you, I was thinking of you, I'll see you.

He walks through cathedrals of everything you admired. Your shared dreams, and his budding ambitions. Promises to make his home a better place. Hallways of framed stolen glances. Quiet utterances of the smallest assurances, and swears to achieve great things together. Embraces that molded you into one another's muse. (Something fulfilled, and something lost.)

And deeply, strongly, he aches. His chest burns, explodes with light. To you, he represents a spark, the sun, the moon, the stars. He radiates in echoes of everything at once. And he is —

Alive, he is irrefutably, relentlessly alive.

Your fondness forms around him as palpable rays of radiance; glimmers surround his stratosphere, small suns and brilliant meteor showers. You are a thousand beautiful colors, smashing and blending together. You are as exceptional as he always knew you to be, you are the definition of devotion. As if your hand is at his arm, guiding him to touch the edges of the sky and the sea. Together, you are one in the same.

It transcends corporality. Viktor reaches into the spiral of your mind. He finds you, he drags you from the depths you've tried to hide yourself in, and he pulls you into the cosmos. He embraces you. Palms pressed to your back, arms around you, as the phantom edges of his figure merge into yours, like paint blending together on a palette.

Viktor clings onto your starlit particles at his fingertips, he savors every flickering memory and vivid emotion. You're unraveled in his palms completely, deciphered down to your faintest atoms. Your limbs entwine with his; without strife, utterly weightless.

Time fades, combines itself into a single thread — until, for a brief moment, it's impossible to tell if minutes have passed, or hours, or centuries.

Until he feels your touch, and realizes it isn't within the confines of your shared mind. It's real.

All at once, he returns to reality.

Viktor's eyes flutter open abruptly. His own soul careens back into him with the force of a freight train. His breath comes in hard pants that half-fill his makeshift lungs, and shake the entirety of his chest. The back of his throat is rough and raw. He blinks, to refocus his misty vision.

Oh. He's cupping your face in his hand.

Your palm has decided to press itself to the back of his knuckles, determined to keep him there. Absently, your fingertips brush the sharp angles of his metallic joints, his gold accents. The flowers surrounding his chambers rustle. Their soft petals tickle his cheek.

Dull energy thrums from his touch — sparks of the arcane, briefly buzzing on your skin like static. Touching the scars within your deepest layers. Your presence has pulled him back onto your plane. His magic tapers off, slowly and steadily.

Now it's just him, just his hand at your cheek. Blissfully simple.

Your tears have stopped. Your breathing shakes. With merciful, trembling touches, Viktor caresses your face, as though it's the first time. His thumb gently brushes away a stray droplet.

The intricate texture of his hand is irregular, almost metallic. Far from what you remember, far from the familiar softness of skin. It isn't anything you could consider human — and yet, you still lean into him, your cheek practically nuzzling into the hard edges of his palm. Brazen and affectionate, desperate and cat-like.

Viktor's jaw clenches. His harsh gasps echo throughout the vastness of his hollow chambers.

No, this isn't- it's not possible, he thinks, in his own stupidly weak voice, barely able to form the words. It can't be. The arcane would not allow it.

He feels like his head might pound out of his own skull. The warmth of your cheek is the only thing he can focus on, radiating against his palm like your skin is made from stardust.

All at once, he has been carved down to his most basic components, until what remains is pure, raw emotion. His emotion, not the residuals of yours.

He is himself, no longer on the outside looking in. Not the shell of what remained after the fire, the hunger, the waves of corruption. A soul returning to the body feels nothing like how he'd imagined — it's sudden, unexpected. It's a swell of fire, like kindling familiar flames in the depths of your chest.

And his complex theories should prove that this shouldn't be happening. This body feels in tessellations, with precise, predetermined, machine-like processes. Everything within him must work in harmony. The arcane possesses, as much as it aspires to synchronize.

His own quickened breathing resounds in his eardrums mockingly. He's grown used to what became of his body and the Hexcore, and the fusion between them: the thrumming in his veins, sparking impulse, potential.

Yet, within him now, there's nothing but silence. Endless, persistent silence.

It scares him.

Countless cycles of inner contemplations led him to this. His thoughts and functions are supposed to click into place, to be understandable. Distance is meant to be placed between the inner self and the surface. Separating the body from the mind is how he was able to foster this community in the first place, how he's managed to help so many — his own sense of self needed to be secondary. His own desires, his emotions. Like a covetous God, the greater good demands sacrifice.

But there was an outlier. A contingency. A chance, a small stir amongst his faded, longing ashes, that promised it could metamorphose him. Viktor considered every possible option. In every prediction, within the web of this reality, it doesn't work.

His reunion with you was inevitable, but in his predictions, when you arrive to see what the arcane has made of him, everything begins crumbling down. The soft embrace he'd share with you is limited only to his imagination. Your fingertips press to numb metal, and Viktor can't feel your touch when it finds him.

He foresaw your arrival. It wasn't part of his plan; it meant little to the overarching design, to his hopes for the Undercity. It was — you were — a fated tie. He'd hoped for this. Lost himself, in the inevitably of finding you, just to have you torn from him once more.

Every intricacy in the array before him gave the same response. He knew this was written to be a tragedy, but Gods, none of it would matter once he saw your face, one last time.

But this? This, he could not predict.

The intense radiance in his veins, the fire in his ribs, the warmth of you underneath his own palm; you've flipped everything on its head. Somehow, someway, you've proved him wrong. You have proven fate wrong. You are the cause of his newfound light, and you are the lighter to his innermost match.

You've made him return to humanity.

Viktor pulls his palm away from your cheek. His chest heaves. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, and runs his purple-hued fingers through his hair, over his forehead, somewhat surprised by the lack of sweat.

Then, he examines his hand. Turns it over, flexes his shaky fingers. Vividly ascertains that yes, these are his own eyes that he's looking through. He attempts to steady his breathing, he tries to send power thrumming through his system. Nothing answers. Magic fails to reach his palm, aside from a few faint buzzes, like the sparks that would linger after cutting a power line.

"Impossible," Viktor grits out, half in wonderment, half in panicked disbelief. His own hand continues to shake in front of him. He can't think, now that he has you, and he has no idea what to do with his own soul; "How could this- how could you-"

With a dull, echoing sob, you're tipping into him.

Viktor feels your arms clumsily wrap around his shoulders. Your weight rests comfortably against his fake body. He sees in hues of amber and gold, basking in the honey-rich glow of the sun as it fills his iris, before the sky darkens, and the colors around him go wild once more.

You embrace him. So, so tight. As though he might disappear, slipping through the gaps in your arms and the cracks between your fingertips, if you ever were to let go.

A hand grabs a fistful of his rumpled clothing, a palm staggers down and finds where it's loose, to let your fingers feel the back of his neck. They trace down, unsteady. You brush your fingertips over the first bolt embedded into his makeshift spine. Grazing it repeatedly, feeling the defined notch. Caressing the smooth, metal surface underneath your thumb.

It's an anxious, idle motion. Viktor listens to the shake in your breathing. He remains still, half-limp in your weak arms.

This is unnatural — the press of soft human limbs, to an ever-present mechanical body. Yet, Viktor can feel all of you. Every gentle fan of your breath on his neck. He senses your fingertips when they move, and with another sad little sob that has his heart splintering, your hands are getting lost in his long hair. Grasping, trembling. Viktor feels electricity race from his scalp, down to his back.

A thousand connecting sensations come to life within him: constellations of memories, once-dormant hopes that bud like wildflowers. And he realizes, fiercely, abruptly, within what has become of him, he still remembers the shape of your name in his chest.

Holding you is an action he wasn't meant for, it embodies everything he isn't. But Viktor expels a soft sigh. He allows himself to pretend. His arm slowly wraps around you, and his palm gently finds your back, when your head buries itself into the perfect crook of his neck.

This body has been re-made, sculpted in the image of the arcane, and yet it cannot rid itself of the most basic human subtleties. The curve between his neck and his shoulder was made for you to rest there. He caresses your back with smooth, slow motions, and your frames fit together like two pieces of the same inseparable, destiny-drawn puzzle.

Faint thrums of power emanate from the entirety of his shape. Weak, constant. An enveloping throb, to substitute a quickly beating heart. You sniffle against his nape, and Viktor holds you just a little bit tighter.

Deep down, with the desperation of a man too entwined in the eternal threads of fate, he wishes he'd have the strength to bring about change. Not for this, not for him. For you.

If the auroras he's touched and the light he encompasses could press into you, he would eclipse your darkness in radiance. If his hands could be capable of more than healing — of adoring, of remembering, he would let his palms memorize the statue of your frame, so he might carve it into himself. He'd take your strife and make it his.

When you finally pull back from him, it's only slight; you stifle another weak noise, and your forehead falls against his own. The moment your head meets his, he collapses into your soul. He feels your pain ricochet through him, sharp and unpredictable.

Anguish shakes your entire system like stormy waves. Guilt and devotion and lovely past lifetimes paint the surface of his skin, the center of his chest bleeds itself raw — and then, he's gone. Pushed out of your mind, unable to fight as the hold of his weakened magic slips.

Swallowing thickly, eyes fluttering open again, Viktor wills his breath to stop faltering. It was so brief, his second brush with your emotions. But the ache you've been struck by is utterly palpable. It stings the corners of his eyes, sinks sharp teeth into his insides.

He places his palm on your cheek, and he carefully guides the both of you apart, so he can finally look at you.

"All of this pain. This emotion," Viktor murmurs; his voice shudders, resounding like the distant rumble of thunder. His gaze on yours floods with soft colors, reminds you of the surrounding sea of pastel florals. His index tilts your chin, to keep you looking at him. "My poor, resplendent beloved."

You've essentially fallen into his lap; Viktor shifts, props himself up further. Gods, is he captivating. Stupidly, terribly captivating. The gnawing ache within you pleads for you to turn away, to run, but the pained pinch to his thick brows is more familiar than ever. So is the way he looks at you. Reminiscent of the one you once loved, despite the swirling shades that shine beneath.

As you admire him through misty vision, you can almost trick yourself into believing nothing has changed. Almost. The distance in between you and Viktor begs to be closed, it mumbles promises in your ears like the way the edge whispers before a long fall. It won't hurt, as long as you close your eyes.

Compromising, your palms shift to weakly hold his face. They push his messy hair from his eyes, and caress the edges of his jaw, where his skin tapers off into the Hexcore's corruption. Your thumb strokes lazy circles over the mole above his mouth. His skin is soft, his jaw is rigid, silky with a labyrinth of smooth, swirling patterns.

To see his face is one thing, to be able to touch him and hold him, and know he's still here — they're privileges you never thought yourself worthy of earning. You hold him warmly, tenderly. The way you wanted to before he was gone. Like he is yours, or a deity worth worshipping.

"Viktor-"

You can't help it. You're starting to sob. Every heave of your chest is dry, your eyes sting with tears that won't come. You take your bottom lip between your teeth and bite hard, but the temporary pain does little to quell your all-consuming heartache.

Trembling thumbs brush his skin, and you shake your head, you sputter, "I'm sorry, Vik, I'm so- s-so sorry…"

Viktor is a servant to the sickening shudder that laces through him. His brows form a knot, his gaze drowns in clear sadness. Refracting in shades of autumn and azure.

"But you have no reason to be. I have you," Viktor murmurs gently, the edges of his tone deliciously smooth. Your arms weakly drop down to his shoulders, and he gives your still-wet cheek a slow caress. "Shh, shh. You do not have to apologize. I know. I know. Your emotions are still so grievously tender."

His tone is warm, like how you remember. Ages ago, you would've done anything to hear it again, filling the silence left by his absence. When you're able to see through the otherworldly rumble, the distant reverberation, you're able to hear just him. As though no time has passed at all, like he never left.

"Viktor-" You hiccup, "Please- I'm sorry- Viktor."

His name was designed to meet your voice. You make it sound maddeningly tender, as though it's something to covet, even when your heart is aching and you wish that it wasn't.

As though you've flipped the meaning. To conquer can be something soft, it can be a gentle checkmate, a hopeful spark between ribs and an ambitious fire at the edges of fingertips. A promise to prevail, with hands intertwined.

He feels like he's going to be sick.

"I'm here. Breathe," Viktor answers, "Talk to me, zlato. Tell me how you are feeling."

"I thought you- thought you were gone," You're sniffling, slurring your words together. Viktor's expression weakens. You are falling apart in his hands, and he feels so unbelievably useless. "When I- when they told me you ran off to Zaun, I was… angry. But I can't- I can't stay mad at you, I just can't."

Viktor softens. His gaze flickers over you, as he fruitlessly attempts to find the right words to fix this. But you're already continuing.

"I grieved you, Vik. So much." You take a slow, shuddering breath. Your words come out one at a time. "Part of me thinks I still should."

The choice to use his familiar nickname, usually spoken so joyfully, so exuberant in his memories — I'm here, I missed you, you're so sweet, Vik. To hear it sputtered, instead, his own name chewed up and spat out short-hand; it's like a kiss to the cheek, in between a punch to the face.

Viktor recalls what it felt like to be lost inside your mind. So much fondness, a dense galaxy of longing, was crammed inside a small, beating heart. Endless implosions of love and loss, with nowhere to go, had no option but to dig themselves deeper. He felt the weight on your shoulders, like the heaviness of rain. The icy pain in your ribs: bleak coldness, where all you can see is your own breath. Once pleasant dreamscapes were twisted and tugged into knots, because this is the end — and Viktor knows he wasn't meant to be granted an epilogue.

"No one could have blamed you," He says, words soft enough to cushion your fall. You clumsily lean back into him, resting on his shoulder, and Viktor calmly pets the back of your head.

Your hands quiver. "I did- I blamed myself."

"And what choice did you have?" Viktor counters, speaking through an almost-sigh. "You were frightened. Alone. You were inconsolable, deprived of respite." And he left you. He wandered astray when you needed him most. "Affection and pain are-" He tenses, quiets. "An antithesis, forming an equilibrium. Fond memories begin to die, as fractured stars do, when such dreams encompass all you have left."

A pause. You savor a few more moments in his arms, debating. Waiting for your resolve to return to you, before you're drawing back, and sitting up. Hastily, you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. When Viktor tries reaching for you, you're swiftly pushing his palm away.

"I- I should leave," You're choking out, "I can't be here."

Viktor's brows furrow.

"Why not?" He questions, and there's a broken edge to his voice, a weakness that nearly sounds hurt. He hurriedly grasps your wrist — faint energy pulses from his touch, weighty enough to make you shiver — but you stay still, not moving, not yet. "You, out of everyone, have always been welcome."

"They were talking about setting up a barricade, back in Piltover," You're mumbling weakly, although it's clear to him you're dancing around the true reason.

"You can stay here," Viktor interrupts.

"No, I can't."

"Yes, you could. There is another reason for your avoidance." His tone softens, lays itself before you like a lamb to be slaughtered. "Let me in. Please."

"There isn't anything, Vik. It'd be better if I wasn't here. That's all. I'm sorry, I just-"

You sniffle, your heart breaks, and Viktor brushes a tear from your eye before it has the chance to fall. His knuckles caress down the length of your jaw, he softly coos a few words of reassurance. Shh, shh. Don't cry.

Bleeding into him distantly, melting against his hand and within his veins; easily this time, as though reaching into the depths of your existence is purely natural — he feels you.

Your soul has decayed to a dull, dying flame. You embody the convergence between warm and cold. Your mind longs to find its place within his arms, to fall into him once more and never return, as much as it believes you should push him away. There's a conflicting, swords-crossing battle inside your own heart. He experiences each of your sensations, tastes and samples them: the pleasant, and the painful. Echoing, exhausted, whispered in your own voice, he hears what you are thinking.

Please, Gods. Why can't I forget him?

Oh. Your mind doesn't lie.

The boundaries of your psyche begin to crumble — toppled bricks, chipped stone, and he can't help but tense. He feels sharpness stab into every part of him, like the closing walls of an iron maiden.

Look at what has become of him. Why must you hold on, when it would be infinitely easier to just let go? Viktor understands. He is well-acquainted with the strife of forgetting.

It must be torture, to hold someone so close to your heart. To remember them as the sun, when all that remains is their shadow. A half-dead symbol of divinity.

Everything would've been easier, more simple, better for the task he sought to accomplish, if he was able to cast his affections aside. This body should make it trivial, but it is still Viktor's body. It is still his vessel, and his mind, and his memories.

Emotions hinder progress. They killed countless Gods before him, and yet love digs in deep and persists. Consumes, from the inside out. It sets fire to your soul, and makes you watch as it burns itself out. The whims of the heart are impossible to stifle. He was correct, to predict your return. But what of a body without a heart, what of him, what of the future?

I believed I could untwine fate, Viktor thinks, as his palms brush the intricate stars laid out before him. Yours, mine. But my attempts were not conceivable. Enlightenment was never strong enough to predominate over devotion. A revival cannot undo the basis of human nature. I can never unwind myself from you, but in this, I was complacent. I was prepared to let you become my ruin.

And your mind resounds. There's a voice, unable to hear him, speaking with itself. Shouting through a storm to harmonize with the whispering wind. Recalling pain, loss, and ashes.

Why was it you, when it could've been me?

Part of you envisions going back. Imagining yourself in his place, threading through options to come up with one that might save him. Or perhaps, in a blind stupor of sadness and frustration, you would've returned to the Undercity. You would try to find yourself and change your path, assuring your younger self to stay, you weren't cut out to be a scientist — to undo the outcome of ever meeting him.

Regret eclipses you, the moment the thought crosses your mind. He overhears your internal struggle, your own voice fighting with itself. No, that isn't true. It can't be, you couldn't bear it.

But perhaps, he thinks, for you, it would have resulted in less pain.

He witnesses every thought, feels every regret and all of your uncertainty. As sharp as a blade, twisting within you; pressing inside him, in turn.

Until Viktor's shaky fingers trail the back of your neck, his eyes fluttering open. He realizes you've collapsed into him, as his own weakness forces him back to the present.

Viktor holds you, for a long stretch of time. You promised you'd leave, and yet, here you are, running into his arms once more. It's still sublimely surreal. Your palms trace his open sides, examining the golden bands, the deep indentations where ribs might sit. When his arm around your back grows loose, you're prying yourself from him hesitantly. He meets your gaze, and his lithe fingers delicately find your jaw. Admiring, thinking.

You are terribly beautiful. Wonderful. There is nothing comparable. Not the sea of vivid flowers, not the sun, not the countless collisions of stars that he's witnessed. If he could go back, he would hold your pain in his hands. He'd make it his.

It would mean more to him than anything, more than all of this, to see you happy, smiling, and free. You've always been so lovely. An inspiration. A dream.

The arcane could strip him of himself, but even as it's pulling his bones from his body, it could never take away the devotion he remembers. Your touch, your voice. Your atoms and your particles, falling like rain at his fingertips, forming every retained, held-onto expression of you.

Soft letters, exchanged between the margins of messily sketched blueprints. Tearing the paper, to keep the note you'd left, because your handwriting felt like home. Drowsy words, shoulders pressed too close together, and almost falling asleep, but trying to stay awake to talk for just a little while longer. Even though hindsight would tell him he's acting a fool. Even though the night is melting into morning, and you have projects to complete by tomorrow. None of it ever seems to matter, when the two of you are lost in each other.

He remembers smiles like sunflowers, bright and radiant. Giddy laughter and naive wishes. Hands brushing when they shouldn't; finding one another under tables, between meetings. Fingers interlacing to swear promises, palms pressed to a quickly beating heart.

Further, there are gentler sentiments, moments that could only come with age and years of understanding. Sitting together in silence, because it helps, when sleep refuses to come. Lessening pain wherever you can. Soothing tired muscles, holding shaky hands. Knowing where it hurts without the need to ask, and when to encourage, but also when to rest.

Falling apart, in the ways no one else gets to see, because he knows you will be there to put back his pieces — and Viktor realizes every memory, every recollection, every death begins and ends with you.

Gods. He breathes soft shushes, and little murmurs of, It's alright. All it takes is one brush with your heart to bring his humanity circling back.

Your expression weakens, your heavy gaze stays steady on his own. For a moment, he expects you to collapse again. He knows he will catch you. But you breathe deeply, and when he caresses your cheek, nice and gentle, your eyes take on a dull sparkle — the same light he remembers, from countless lifetimes ago.

"No," Viktor coos softly, with a shake of his head, "No, I believe this is precisely where you were meant to be."

He holds your chin delicately, between his thumb and forefinger. "Stay. Please." He murmurs, continuing. I need you to stay. "Spare me a few more moments."

His voice sounds impossibly human. There's less of a rumble, more of a tremble. Uniquely him, decidedly weak.

It's fruitless, and he knows it. A few more moments is hardly enough, it won't make up for everything you've needed. But it's all he can have. Because in every reality, this doesn't work.

There are mistakes he can't take back, pain he can't reverse. Humanity is a vice he can no longer hold onto. And you — once again, at the center of everything — you do not deserve this. After the boundaries you've crossed, the lengths you've travelled, you must be so, so tired. You, his dream, for all of the radiance and light in your heart, do not deserve to be drowned in more darkness.

For every almost, for each soft touch and pained reminder of his fragility — the warmth of your arms around him, dulling the sharpness in his leg — he should have pulled you closer. From the very start, he was running out of time. He should have died. Yet, he must continue to live, with the same weight in his shoulders, with the knowledge of his failures. And with the palpable reminders of the twin flame he lost.

He's strayed too far to make things right, now. You're two ships on different currents.

If you were to change course and crash together, hands grasping one another tight, soft skin entwined with unnatural fingers made of violet; close enough to let heavy breaths meld into one; close enough to taunt the forces that made him, the result would prove catastrophic. Shattering his goals, the hold the arcane has on him, and your wavering heart.

Viktor knows he cannot put you through this. His new purpose, his curse, perpetuated by the Hexcore's distant, inexplicable itch, surmises that he is destined for rebirth. Over, and over, and over again. You've already grieved him, and for your sake, this needs to be the final time.

"Okay," You breathe, exhaling heavily, inhaling weakly. He holds your cheek in his familiar hand, and you tremble, struggling not to lean into his touch. "I… Okay. I'll stay."

Your warmth radiates against Viktor's palm. Low and soft, tired and grief-stricken. Then brilliant, burning.

You already know what it's like to lose him; how it feels to watch light slip from his gaze, either as a slow descent into torment, a faint snuffed out flame. Or as a vivid, scorching implosion. Forcing you to remember blood and fire, as smoke overtakes the edges of your vision.

Ash chokes your lungs. Pain thrums in all of your joints. Muffled screams echo in your ringing eardrums. Panicked breaths, and shouts of, he's not breathing, between Jayce grabbing your shoulders, trying to shake you awake, but you just —

Viktor pulls his hand away from your cheek, as though he'd been burned. Dull remnants of your pain linger in his chest, sharp, strained, and ashen. His index finger presses to the side of your jaw, gently guiding you to look at him.

"Don't imagine such things," He mumbles gently; his color-rich gaze finds yours, as naturally as the moon finds the Earth, locked within the same orbit. "You are only going to exhaust yourself further. What happened that day was- it was not your fault. Not in any capacity. You know this, right?"

Right? The soft lilt in his voice — pleading for confirmation — makes a tingle trace your spine.

"I know," You answer dryly, your voice a little sore. "I'm fine."

Your eyes have long since dried up, but you still sound deeply numb. Distant, as though your soul is somewhere far away.

"You are not," Viktor counters quickly. Like you're two rival schoolmates, arguing once again. Not two inseparable souls, on the verge of the end. Close to collapsing and crossing an edge neither of you could come back from.

"I am. I promise."

"You have not slept. You have been following the trail to the commune for days, now. And the moment you try to rest, to let sleep find you, your mind is plagued by fits of nightmares. I do not think you need me to tell you this, but you are pushing yourself to the brink."

It hurts, somewhere in his fragile system, to see the pain he has caused you. He hasn't merely witnessed it, he has felt it. All of your guilt and your emotions, surging through his filaments. Nearly as strong as the passive waves of magic.

"The nightmares started long before this," You're arguing on impulse, mumbling under your breath.

They began when he was dying.

And he knows the nightmares, the visions he saw through your eyes, of embers and death and destruction and fragility — they are all because of him.

You swallow, before you sigh, and your tone quiets when he places a reassuring hand on your tensed shoulder. "I wasn't asking you to pity me. It's just- it isn't anything I'm not used to."

Viktor pauses. Then, he gives a small, amused huff.

"You are as stubborn as you were when we met."

He recalls it vividly: your very first meeting. You were both young, immature, and terribly eager to prove yourselves. Determination and stubbornness were traits you unfortunately shared.

You argued. Over some unimportant invention, and then over your notes, and the ways they differed. Viktor can barely remember the assignment. But he recalls the pinch in your brows, the fiery heat in the back of your gaze. Convinced you were right, and unable to get Viktor to budge, you left, tossing some remark over your shoulder as you slammed the door shut behind you. We should ask the professor if we can change partners. It's clear we'll never get along.

"Am I?" You mutter; it's rhetorical, obviously, made evident from the half-hearted roll of your eyes. He's sure you're dwelling on the very same memory. You breathe something of a feeble, fatigued laugh, "You really think I was the stubborn one?"

"Mmm," Viktor hums. His lips twitch into the faintest imitation of a smile. "Possibly. You haven't told me to shut up yet. I suppose we could consider that an improvement."

Ambitious and tender, alive and in front of you, is a part of him you'd thought you lost.

"And you somehow still remember."

Viktor's temple forms a knot, but his gaze is entirely unreadable. He brushes an exploring palm down the small of your back, keeping himself propped up on his elbow. You're leaning into him naturally, as though you've hardly planned to. Your arms rest on his shoulders, your weight settles gently and tangibly in his lap.

"I told you," He says, voice barely more than a whisper, a plea, a prayer. "Regardless of what is taken from me, you are far too precious to forget."

Your breathing is unsteady. It echoes in his ears, becoming all he can focus on. Sharp in, shaky out.

"I didn't know I mattered so much to you." You're glancing away, while you brush his long hair from his eyes; your breath shakes, you twirl an ombre strand around your finger. "I mean, not after- not when you're- fuck, I don't know."

"Not as you remember?" Viktor completes.

You reply with a shallow nod. "You're just… different."

Alive. Anew. A vessel, not a man, not the one you admired.

Viktor's jaw tenses. His chest stings, it pulls at him like there's a black hole where his heart should be. And this time, he isn't caught between the residuals of your emotions. He is feeling his.

He gives a low, quiet, simple answer. "There is much between us that differs, now."

You're silent, for a few moments, caught chewing on the inside of your cheek.

"The Hexcore," You start, "You… absorbed it, right?"

"In theory."

"Our studies made it seem alive. I wasn't sure if something like that was even possible. I read your notes, Vik, I saw the runes and your leg, and I didn't- I should've been there."

Viktor takes a breath so quiet it nearly goes unnoticed. "I should have made you stay out of it."

He sees the heartache on your face before he feels it — Viktor's fingertips, rough and metal-like, trace the gentle curve of your jaw. But his power is weakened. Your emotions thread through him as faint pulses, and he can't dive deeper.

Even when he closes his eyes, there's a barrier; a wall, for him to bang his fists against, despite knowing there's no way to reach you. Your soul manifests in his horizon line. Admirable and bright, unable to be touched.

When Viktor's eyes flutter open, they're whirling in dizzy, wild shades, like the colors beneath have been mixed and shaken. They shift from crimson, to cobalt, to citrine. Impulsively, he cups your face to keep you close, to make certain you won't disappear. To remind himself that he can still feel your soft skin against his blasphemous palm.

"You have blamed yourself enough for my atrocities. So much of your pain could have been circumvented, but then I-" Viktor softens. He brushes his thumb over your cheek slowly, over and over, like an anxious, desperate tick. "Perhaps I should have turned you away the moment you reached the commune."

Your hand finds his, grasps it tight and keeps him pressed to your cheek; and your pain bleeds for him, inviting him in. Foggy and infinite, covered in thorns. Curling in on itself, an infinite fractal of warm tenderness and icy, bitter melancholy —

"Viktor- that isn't-"

"Your mind crumbles, in all cases, each and every time you look at me." He speaks carefully. Chews through every word, before he spits it out. His voice rumbles, reverberates like an earthquake, "Why?"

He supposes he already has his answer. Delving inside your mind left him with no room for doubt. This is his fault. It's a form of self-sacrifice, a familiar brush with endless destruction, he thinks, to hear you say the final words. The ones he already knows. You are allowed to let go. Fate will embrace you in the ways I could not.

"Because, dammit, I still care about you," You're blurting out, "More than anyone, or anything else."

"I do not deserve it. Considering what I have-"

"I don't care, Vik. And every time I see you, when I feel this," You squeeze his hand hard, enough to incite the rigid surface of his faux fingertips with transcendent sparks of the arcane, "I remember your notes, the fire. The days I spent following you into the Undercity. I see the empty look in your eyes when you first saw me, and I keep thinking this isn't real. That I'm going to wake up, and you… you'll be gone."

Viktor's gaze flickers over your face, wide and iridescent, a perfect contradiction. His breathing runs quick, his palm shakes. But within the dance between your soul and his, he's daring to reach for you.

Bright, vivid light washes over. It blinds him, for a moment. Bathes his figure in radiance. A force within him is gnawing, whispering in runic words that he shouldn't be able to understand, telling him he isn't supposed to feel this, isn't meant to have a place within him carved to fit your shape. The best option is to turn you away, to listen to his head. Evolution requires a steady mind, an unwavering resolve. An inhuman herald.

Viktor refuses. He listens to his non-existent heart, instead, and he feels your petals, closed yet delicate. He lets himself become your sun, so he can watch you bloom. A figment of his own humanity shimmers before him. The light obscures his vision, it burns his eyes. But he holds on — pallid palms pressed together with all his might, containing his bursting luminescence and the flowery resonance of you.

A gentle thumb brushes your cheek, and you're sighing, confessing, "I shouldn't. But I missed you, Viktor. So much."

Your thoughts echo inside him like a ripple in water. I wish you could be more than just a memory.

Nothing exists for him to promise. Your breathing shakes, your eyes flutter. Your body subtly arches into his touch, when he comfortingly caresses the back of your neck.

"I missed you more than words could express," He admits, voice low, close to cracking like the edges of old stone. Everything blends, in a haze of his own making, as his palm clumsily returns to hold your face. As he gently guides you, tilting you towards him by your jaw.

"Look at me. You meant everything. For so long, so deeply, I treasured you- do not ever think otherwise. But I was powerless. Over and over, I perpetually imagined the last time I saw you. The soft sound of your voice, and the mundane instances in between. I would have done it over again, in the same order. To be frozen in time, with this memory of you."

Stars fade, the galaxy around him chips and splinters. But he knows this is the truth. The arguments, the introductions, the pain, the softness, the falling, the fading — history would repeat itself infinitely, and he would gladly lose himself in its spiral with you.

Your hands clench on his shoulders, your gaze grows lost in his own. You drown in the gentle nebulas of eyes that still feel so remarkably his.

Every outcome before him weaves into the same ending, every star carries the same grim message. He cannot go back, that's the crucial cusp of it all. The strings of fate pull him along, igniting a sharp taste in his throat. They seek to make him into the arcane's chosen puppet.

"Viktor," You're sighing, and oh, the syllables of his name are more than a plea when they're breathed from your lips, they're a washed-out memory, a poem and a promise between his ribcage —

"But you have me right now."

"I know," Viktor says, because it's all he can say, "I know."

When you trail off into silence, Viktor finds that the abyss of your soul echoes with a single unfathomable sentence.

I still love you.

So this is the tragedy.

His faithful step in the universe's eternal return. An infinite expression of his fleeting, useless affections, strung throughout an inseparable existence.

Viktor realizes now, the truth was merely a means to the end he expected. This is the predetermined resolution, where he finally gives in, and recognizes he cannot escape the path laid before him. He was always going to break you, perhaps from holding on too tight.

Once again, he is powerless; this time, to his own body. He can sense the thrumming in his limbs, glowing through every vein. This can't last forever. He knows you are his focal point, and once you disappear, the arcane will take your place. In his hands, in his chest, in every breath he takes. Blotting out the last of his humanity.

You smile, and it's a crooked, broken, undeserved thing — but it captivates him just the same. A flicker of heartache catches the light in your eyes. He believes he is watching you think, seeing the cogs click into place as your jaw grits uncomfortably, as your eyes threaten to well up again, as you come to the same conclusion. This is futile.

Then, let this moment at least be yours.

Viktor places both palms on your face. He guides you to follow him, when he falls back. The weight of your body presses his chassis into the ground. His head rests against the flowers. His hair fans out around him, faint blonde strands interwoven, like a painting's highlights: the finishing touches.

But you aren't staring at him. Not at his eyes, your gazes don't meet. You're staring at the pretty mole, placed perfectly above his mouth — and he knows, because this isn't the first time.

It's where you would focus when he found you lost in thought and drowsy, coming up with excuses not to stare at his lips. He remembers feeling you touch the corner of his mouth, close but not quite, before your fingertip brushed down the length of his nose; the space between you barely leaves room for accommodation, and Viktor brings a palm to your chest to push you apart, despite wanting to drop his cane and use both hands to —

Dangerously, you stop yourself by leaning close. Viktor's eyes flutter shut, as your forehead comes to rest against his own.

His voice is barely audible. Accent thick, low, and familiar.

"However this may end, I need you to realize," He exhales, slow and shakily. "There was never a moment where I did not adore you."

Those words press into you like an arrow in your chest, a hot knife lodged between bones. You breathe in deeply, you sigh carefully, and Viktor feels your breath as it fans against his mouth.

It's merely the surface of what he wishes he could say. There is so much more, I admired you since we met. You were smart, radiant. Gods, was it the most egregious combination, because you both intimidated and captivated me. You were effortless to adore. I thought I made myself obvious. Requiring your help for every insignificant invention, stealing you at every turn because it felt delightful, to have you all to myself. Those moments are distant, yes, but they are not blights. They were brilliances.

An infinity would not be near enough time to fall for you. I would wish to alter fate, but I can't, I cannot save you from myself. From this… inevitability, this expectation that we are doomed for ruin.

You unfurl, you blossom. The sparkle of your soul follows the glow in his palms, eclipsing his body, shining over the rot; two lighthouses glimmering towards one another, communicating in their own code — and your mind pleads for him, one last time.

Prove it. I need you to show me.

And he almost does. Really, truly, almost. He nearly pulls you in, denies destiny to follow impulse, and veers both your courses towards destruction.

The simplicity of a kiss would prove this is real, prove his humanity. It would be something for him to have, not a token for the arcane to take. No, the arcane would weep, as he ignites his new body's first experience with selfishness. The intensity he's longed for would no longer be numbed, he'd feel it surge and shine and breathe through him. Pooling at his fingertips, as he pulls you in, guiding heat to draw itself into you.

It'd feel good, to press his mouth to yours, and discover what your lips feel like in the ways he's imagined for ages. He could hold you as if you'd never have to leave. He could pretend, as though the coolness of his sanctuary is just the evening draft in the lab, and he isn't making up for past regrets, he is fixing them.

Warmth would return to his figure, his soul would converge into his body, and fate, as cruel as it is, would be forced to do nothing but watch.

Viktor allows his eyes to open. His palms are still on your face, your gentle weight is still pinning him down. The light of the moon above you creates pale, hazy crescents in the edges of his vision. You are so close. Your heart is its own entity. Pounding so hard in your chest, he can practically feel it as his own. His gaze flickers to your mouth, as his hands faintly caress your skin.

Prove it, prove it, prove it.

For a few moments, he debates the repercussions.

It could be swift, fleeting, an accident. Barely more than a brush, a taste, before he drags himself away. Or, it could be more.

A point of devotion, expressed with closed eyes and soft lips. Admiring you without seeing, confessing without words.

Would your lips feel plush, would you hesitate, would you send him spiraling down along with you, as you pulled him in and whispered his name?

Perhaps it might escalate, into a feverish mess of your hands in his hair and your lips at his throat, and would he still feel them there? Against the gold notches embedded into his neck, kissing down to admire where his body meets magic. Could either of you manage to stop if you tried, or would time bleed together, until he could die like this — until he's convinced he is dying?

Viktor's thumb brushes your lips. Shakily, mechanically.

Gravity threatens to drag him in, steady on your pull, strong like absolution. Centimeters stop him from closing the distance, from pulling you close and colliding so softly, so vividly. In one simple, fluid, perfect movement. He dreams of it. But still, still.

Still, Viktor struggles to catch his own breath, although it hardly makes sense for his perfected system. Still, he allows himself the small privilege of caressing your cheek, feeling your skin beneath his ruined fingertips. Your gaze widens — he can't help but wonder, but foolishly, uselessly hope, that you might've been expecting more — and he finds your chest with his palm, to repeat past actions, to carefully push you away.

It isn't the choice he would wish to make. But for once, it will be his choice, all the same. There is strength, a grounding sense of responsibility, a misguided tenderness, in this. Even if it hurts.

Even if Viktor is already regretting it, the moment he sees the softness fade from your eyes. A wavering gaze stares back at him, as dark as a knot of storm clouds. His hand steadies on your chin to keep you in place.

His last tie to humanity is a knot he can't undo. The one of few left to mourn him deserves more than empty words, or false promises. You deserve to heal. You are his greatest mistake, and his most lovely exception.

You were worth every moment, every word, every star. He can feel you, in the chasm of his chest. Guilt runs thick in his makeshift veins. Newfound pain pushes out from his shoulder blades like wings, and he knows you may have been unable to change his fate, but you have changed him. Every piece of you will always press together to form a part of his entirety — with the same soft edges, amongst familiar galaxies of convergences.

This isn't the end, not yet, not quite. Viktor hopes he can show you. The sun will rise again; you will bask in its glow, warm and unburdened. You'll rediscover your spark. Your soul was meant to burn on a pyre that reciprocates, and logic dictates an inhuman vessel cannot. For you, for your gentle, beating heart, this is only the beginning.

There will be no more nightmares, no more exhaustion. He can be of use, he can help you rest. His power has limits. However faint, however controlled. But this, the science of dreams, leading their way into passages, establishing connections and fateful meetings — considering his experience with magic and the astral, it should be relatively easy to grasp.

And he knows it will hurt hard. To see you, to lose you. Though, unlike him, you cannot force your emotions into silence. Viktor harbors a hint of envy. A flourish of frustration. You have never deserved the world's blind cruelty. He would have torn the universe apart to at least keep his pain, so the sharpness in his chest and the blood stained into his palms could serve as final reminders of you.

One last pleasant memory won't fix what's broken, but it could save you, where he can no longer save himself.

He supposes it's worth a try.

"Viktor," You're murmuring, and he hates the way his own name makes your bottom lip quiver, how your shoulders tense as though you could curl in on yourself. "Sorry, I-"

"No, no, please don't apologize. There is…" Viktor starts; he attempts to keep the words from stammering, but it's difficult when you're still so close. You are all he can see, as your moonlit gaze matches his, like it could guide his waves without trying.

He grinds his jaw, glances away, and tries again. "There is something I've wished to show you. Could I sit up?"

Your palms, pressed to either side of his head to prop yourself up, fidget and clench, fingers trembling. But you nod, you shift. He feels your weight leave his lap when you finally slide off of him.

Viktor pushes himself up. The metal decorations that fix his clothing into place clink together faintly. He carefully folds his legs. He glances towards you, gives a coaxing tilt of his head, and gently pats his palm to his knee.

"Come."

The whispering meadow in his elaborate space leaves you plenty of room to sprawl out, as you rest your head in Viktor's waiting lap. Blades of grass tickle your arms. He is firm, rigid underneath you. Not quite the most comfortable pillow, but it hardly matters to you, because your eyes are already growing nice and heavy.

You're losing your battle with exhaustion, he figures. Resting against him is especially potent at making your tiredness shine through. (He recalls somewhat-sleepovers, sharing the same dorm, your head falling against his shoulder as your breathing echoed into his ear.) He assists the endeavor, brushing his fingertips down either side of your face, adjusting you to make sure his lap is comfortable. You shiver, and he toys with your hair, continuing until you're sighing, relaxing.

Viktor smiles. His gaze above you meets yours, shines with devotion. There's a new color in his eyes. Some cross between amethyst and crimson, like a swirling red wine, like drops of blood in water — sickeningly sweet. His hair frames his face. Strands brush the faux edges of his jaw.

A few more moments to admire you is all he allows for himself. Then, he breathes deeply, calmly. He reaches beside him, into the grass, to delicately snap the stem of a tiny, almost-hidden white daisy.

"I want you to picture," Viktor tucks the flower behind your ear, continuing slowly, the words spoken with a calm, yet melancholy edge: "A place where you can be at peace."

"Mmm," You hum, hands clasped, resting neatly on your stomach, "Like a memory?"

"It could be one, yes."

"Like when we snuck out of our classes to go look at the stars, to see the autumn meteor shower. We missed an evening lecture, and the professor made us write lines…"

Viktor distantly recalls the way his hands cramped for weeks, how his knuckles ached. His palms had thick calluses from where he tightly held his pencil, his skin was stained with graphite from where he rested his hand against the paper — but vividly, as though he could close his eyes and be transported there, he remembers your excitement.

Your pure elation, as you hurriedly climbed the endless stairs to the very top of the viewing tower, mumbling about how you didn't want to miss it. You never stopped grinning, as you guided his hand to show him where the stars would fall, pointing to every distant shimmer in the sky. Although, to him, they never seemed to shine brighter than the look in your eyes.

Ages later, you both returned to that same spot on the outskirts of Piltover, perhaps in an attempt to relive your youth. The viewing tower was rickety and silent. The stairs to the top were long and grueling. The fancy lights shining from various new buildings made the stars impossible to see, now.

The Hexgates were conceptualized the next year. Viktor's doctor recommended a crutch and a brace. So it was your last attempt, in the end.

Your tired eyes flutter open, and Viktor gazes down at you, lips upturned into the faintest hint of somber amusement.

"It only occurs every two hundred years. The professor warned us, he said the meteor shower was a waste of our precious time," Viktor recounts, with a small, playful huff. "He had already seen it, and it failed to impress him."

"We would've seen more elsewhere, he said, which is true, but…" You shrug lazily. "It was so quiet up there. With just us, and the stars."

"The calmest place in all of Piltover," Viktor replies in agreement.

"After that, we talked about getting out of the city. Maybe vacationing somewhere once we graduated, just for a while."

There were late night talks, sleepy confessions, foolish dreams of far-off places. Much like this, really. Your brows pinch, you stifle a yawn. Viktor can't help but find it adorable.

Then, your head tilts back, as you gaze at him again. "Remember?"

Viktor softens. "You dreamt of seeing the flowers in Ionia."

Your smile widens. "I'll try to picture that, then."

Moonlight burns in the back of his gaze. Magic returns to pulse through him — connecting threads to the minds of hundreds of followers, casting a line to hook into the arcane. The sort of pain that becomes a new heartbeat, offering to seal itself within him. His fingers shake, as he hesitates to bring them towards you. He forces himself to steady, to meet your tender expression, and commit the depths of it to memory.

Everything must come to an end. Viktor cups your face in both palms, and prepares for his last dance with mortality.

"Imagine a field of endless, untouched blooms. Culminating in stunning magic, able to be sensed within the ground itself, thrumming underneath your feet." Viktor's voice is a low, level, comforting murmur. Like he's reading straight from an Ionian textbook; in another life, it would be enough to put you to sleep.

"And the air smells lovely," You're mumbling, tired. "And the sky is full of thousands of stars."

"Yes, but," Viktor ever-so gently brushes his fingertips over your eyelids, guiding you to close them. "You must close your eyes, little spark."

Your expression is perfectly, wonderfully peaceful. For a few moments, he savors it. He brushes his thumbs over your skin and relishes the softness. He watches the gentle heave of your chest. The slow, mortal intake of every breath. Heavy with exhaustion.

Viktor feels his heart crumble, although he knows he does not have one.

He swallows, he holds your face tenderly. Energy surges from his palms. Crisp, reality-warping fragments of light. Vivid paradoxes. Sparkling against your skin, in prickles of dull static.

The warmth of your soul is a small, kindled flame, held weakly in his palms. This time, you can feel it. Touches reaching between your ribcage. Tracing your bones, leaving bright flowers and pockets of starlight wherever his fingertips brush. It is a gradual, languid sensation; like a baptism, hands cradling your edges to carefully lower you into deep, warm water. It consumes, distorts and collapses, connects the two of you in a haze of entwined hands and twisted-together veins. Blood and magic, pain and healing.

Viktor allows his voice to echo through your weary mind — though he is sure his words will be forgotten, by the time you awake.

Rest, now. Perhaps, in another reality, or within a distant, rewritten future, we will be offered the chance to begin again. If you and I will it. Not fate, nor the infinite tides of entropy.

His voice sounds clear, undistorted. Rich and enveloping. There's hints of hesitation. A clear shake. Deep traces of a faltering, human-like weakness.

Thank you, for the opportunity to appreciate you one final time. Your mind and your emotions were lovely to be lost in.

And I must apologize. I know our time was meant to be impermanent, yet, I cannot help but believe it was not enough. I am not myself. Your memories showed me this — they reminded me of who I was before I'd lost you.

I'm sorry. There is a revolution I must lead. Burdens I am destined to bear alone.

Viktor's palms leave fingerprints on your soul. The light he presses into you is glittering, hopeful. As bright as a cloudless summer's day. Waves roll over your figure, tenderness and exhaustion running thick like honey — akin to a warm hearth, like the sun in full-bloom.

It perplexes, does it not? The very crux of humanity. I could have held every conceivable universe in my hands. And I would have traded it, to do something good, to earn the privilege of coveting you.

The entire false, star-bound sky shakes with the weight of Viktor's trembling exhale.

But our old sentiments hardly matter to the present. A tragedy claims itself as such, because it is certain, in its irreparability.

Every end merely led me to your beginning.

Your vessel drinks him in. You taste the arcane in your throat, you choke on the way his name blossoms inside your chest, and you allow yourself to drift. To be swallowed in his gentle, heartsick shadow.

I loved you. For as long as I have known you. As immensely as a soulless body is capable.

The last sensation to grace you is Viktor's lips, ever-so gently ghosting your forehead — and then, his fingertips, pressed subtly against your skin, to form a silent goodbye.

Please. Do not come back.

Then, everything concludes. The world pops like a bubble, covering you in mist. Your mind runs blank. A vibrant chalkboard of thoughts and equations and colors, erased. You collapse, even though there's nothing for you to collapse against. You're unsure if someone — if Viktor — caught you, or if you were left to descend, disappearing beneath the earth.

Sleep comes to you in a large, encompassing swell.

And you dream.

—

A meadow manifests before you.

Flowers trail as far as the eye can see. White roses. Red carnations. Puffs of pink and purple hydrangea. Flecks of pollen drift into the air, glittering with magic, shining like little stars. Soft grass tickles your bare feet. Energy surges from the ground, threading through your every limb. Your body feels weightless, warm, and free. The air is crisp, allowing each breath to be deep and clear. You can see distant trees, and above you, intricate galaxies, spread across a dark blue sky.

But you aren't alone.

A figment of luminosity, an anomaly, a hazy spark of pure magic shifts, nearly blinds you, and then convenes into a figure. With a palm cupped over his eyes, to shield himself from his own light, before it finally begins to simmer down.

The phantom edges of his shape shimmer with starlight. His slender frame — astral, seemingly untouchable — shifts in endless, vibrant colors. Faux moonlight shines through his hair, short and tousled, pure white; like soft snow, like the foam at the edges of waves. Swirling with faint whispers of blue, the fluffy tresses remind you of a cloud-filled sky.

Your gazes meet, and it feels familiar; it isn't the first time. When he sees you, he glows, his figure alighting in shades of sunlight and gold. The amber in his eyes catches the moon's low rays, his cheeks soften into a shade of rose. His skin is warm, less pallid. The stress present on his features has changed into soft eyes and smile lines.

Memorized, pretty moles greet you. The one on his cheek stands out like the guiding north star, shining amongst a clear night sky. The mole by his mouth follows along when his lips tip into a carefree, radiant smile. Wide and euphoric and foolish. It shows off the small gap between his teeth.

He looks just like you remember. Just as you wanted to remember. The same handsome features: thick brows, a sharp jaw, eyes that shine as brightly as they once did, when he was lost in his passions. His expression carries a familiar sense of warmth. It reflects the same tenderness he'd reserve just for you, beloved and beckoning. The sight of you is enough to make his eyes well up with tears.

And Viktor walks, strides, runs to you.

He's pulling you into an embrace before you have the chance to breathe; arms holding you tight, squeezing you desperately. Pressing you into his blurry, stelliform shape.

Your palms find his back, feeling where the cosmos meet his skin. He buries himself into your shoulder, brings a shaking palm up to lovingly cradle the back of your head. Breathing you in, he fills with tenderness, spilling over. His nose brushes your nape, weak droplets tap your skin like rain. A heavy throb works its way into every inch that you touch — his back, his shoulder, his neck, like bruises hued in shades of lilac. Your bodies fit together as though they were meant to.

When he finally pulls apart from you, it's slow, gradual. He places both hands on your shoulders, so clumsily it slightly jostles you back and forth. His brows pinch, his hands clench until his knuckles are strained. He takes you in, gaze weakening as it flickers over your form. A palm finds your cheek to hold you tenderly; he can barely believe he is touching you.

"There you are- oh, look at you." Viktor's voice is lovingly fragile, yet perfectly, utterly enamored. Brushing his thumb over your cheek, he can't help but choke on a weak, worthless sob. "Finally, you came, I thought- I was sure it wasn't going to work, but it- I can-"

He cannot think, can barely talk; dizzy, his chest heaves with every sharp, quickened breath he takes in. Viktor tapers off, his palm slips from your face and his hand on your shoulder goes loose as he falters.

Head pounding, chest aching, the very figments of his body burn like dying stars. His own pulse thrums in his throat until he can taste blood, until he believes he might cough up his own heart. He gazes at you like you might fade out, brushes his palm from your neck to your jaw like you aren't real.

But you merely smile, and stare at him as though he holds the entire universe in his eyes.

"Vik," You're mumbling sweetly; your hand blindly reaches for his, your fingertips brush in a clumsy waltz, before you're grabbing, squeezing, steadying him. "You're so beautiful."

Oh. Viktor feels your hand in his, he melts in the heat of your light, and he believes heaven is here, right at his fingertips. He reflects your words, as his figure shimmers brighter than the luminous sky above — he is more than a memory. He is yours: a star incarnate.

"You-" Viktor murmurs, lacing his fingers with yours. Warmth washes over his cheeks and his shoulders; he feels foolish, like he's young and stupid and crushing again. "-rival the divine."

Tension briefly buds in your shoulders. "You won't… you aren't going to disappear, right?"

Index drifting underneath your chin to keep your gaze tilted towards him, Viktor grins, putting the both of you at ease.

"Attempting to get rid of me already?" He asks, a little confident, entirely playful.

When your palm teasingly pushes at his chest, hardly trying to guide him away, your touch ricochets through him. It makes his vessel surge with energy, as though he'd touched a live wire. He can actually feel it. Hues of scarlet and sunset and the sea swirl down from his neck to his shoulders. Glowing fiercely, rippling incandescently.

"No, never," You answer, "I just- I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be worried. It's just been… difficult. Without you, I mean."

There's a hazy cadence to your words. It rivals the intricacy of flower buds opening, revealing themselves to the waiting moon. Familiar to him, by now. In this pocket of the arcane — free from strife, some dreamy recreation of the Garden of Eden — your minds can be blissfully one.

Viktor breathes something of a sigh: a tender, understanding revelation.

"I will stay here for as long as you need," He's cooing, guiding you to look at him again with a soft hold on your chin, even though his radiance in your vision is dazzling. "I promise. We can talk- there is so much I have waited to tell you. Or we can simply lie here. There is time for anything you prefer, my light. My sweet, little spark."

Gaze never leaving yours, Viktor admires you with a look that cradles; palms gentle, when they hold your wings. Your hand reaches up to mirror his, your thumb gently caressing the mole placed onto the apple of his cheek.

He's staring, and you can't help but stumble out a laugh. "What?"

Viktor doesn't answer.

Suddenly, the depths of shared pain and the regret tied to his chosen goodbye barely matter. They are forgotten when you are right here, finally. A thousand emotions thrum through him, thick and overwhelming: fear, regret, hunger, devotion. He can't speak, he couldn't possibly explain everything your warm smile does to him. It reminds him of moments stretched through years, times where you almost pulled him close, and he knew you were just friends but Gods, did he want more —

And perhaps, here and now, in this dream away from reality, the both of you can have it.

Carefully, his palms hold your face: soft skin against the ethereal. Pulled in by gravity, mere inches separate you. Viktor's nose brushes yours — slightly awkward, all-too human. He breathes slowly, for a moment, before he exhales a heavy sigh, that feels like finally letting go of everything. His hesitation, his weakness, his destiny.

And when Viktor kisses you, the infinity before you slips away.

The surrounding galaxy becomes finite, flourishing and existing for only the two of you. It's only a kiss, but it is the implosion of stars, and the formation of new ones — energy explodes in between you with thousands of colors, smearing out from Viktor's form like paint. As though he can't contain his own resplendence.

It is everything you have ever wanted. He makes you feel alive.

Head tilting, he guides you close and keeps you there. Magic sparks within him from the inside out. And yet, this is the closest he's ever been to humanity. In the eyes of a distant astronomer, the press of your figure against his could be mistaken for one singular shape. A puzzle, a paradox. A supernova of affection.

One of his hands remains steady on your cheek, the other confidently reaches for the curve of your waist. Every brush of his lips against yours feels like electricity, tastes the same as palpable desire. He's softer than the ground beneath you as you fall, weightless, landing on your back. Pressed against the flowers and the grass, as if they're made of clouds.

Your thoughts fade out, they burn, becoming fuzzy, unfocused. All you can think about is him. Viktor's touch and his mouth, and every moment where you needed this, desperate to learn how his lips might feel against yours —

Perfect. They feel perfect. Simple, guiltless, and lovely. Like biting into an apple, like giving in to sin. As though this moment was destined in time, and every reality has converged, so the stars and their higher powers could turn to watch it take place.

Viktor laces his hand with yours. The flowers surrounding you tickle your skin, they blossom from his hands. Threading into you when his palm traces your side, intimate petals sweet enough to taste on his tongue. Every kiss brings you closer, igniting past memories. Frustrations you wished to take out, by slamming your mouth against his. Promises and pleas, stifled farewells. Held back tears, silent confessions.

This feels earnestly real. Not a goodbye, nor a useless prayer. But a kiss meant to be shared between two destiny-bound lovers.

Your free hand desperately clings to his shoulders, his back. His body feels radiant, like if a shooting star was tangible. Your fingers thread through his hair, and it's akin to touching waves, or playing with the wind, or sinking your hand into fresh snow.

Viktor curls into your touch; he chases it, as desperately as his lips seek yours. You're sighing, when he shifts to kiss your jaw, your throat. Then, you're arching into him, blurring the outlines between your body and his, sealing his fate, as he presses his mouth to yours once more.

He only pulls away when you're both breathless and panting.

Slowly, gradually, he shifts back to place his figure above you. The light of the sky's faux, anomaly sphere shines onto him. It gives him a halo, bathes him in radiance. You can't decide if it's moonlight or sunlight, or if he is reflecting every ray from within.

Viktor breathes in heavy gasps. The meadow dims, smudges, losing detail. It becomes hazy, and although he knows deep down this won't last forever, the thought hardly crosses his mind. He can only focus on you; a fallen angel, underneath him. The keeper of the love he sought to chase and possess and drown in, until the rest of the world has faded away. An arm braces beside you, while his free hand curves to hold the small of your back.

"Your lips are even softer than I once pictured," He murmurs; his eyes sparkle, tender and loving and jewel-like. "Should… should we stop?"

"No, please," You answer. Your voice is beautiful, unforgettable. Curling into him like a fated spiral. Your fingertips trace the back of his neck, before they re-tangle in his pearlescent hair. "Don't, Vik."

So Viktor doesn't. He pulls you in, he pretends destiny is within his grasp. He guides you with a hand on your cheek and stars at his fingertips, to kiss you again, and again, and again.

—

When you wake, you are far from the Undercity.

Your eyes flutter open, slowly and reluctantly. You recognize the softness of a bed underneath you. The surrounding room is simple, with empty grey walls, and a plain white ceiling. The vents make a low clicking sound as they struggle to choke out warm air. Familiar, the sounds of Piltover hum. An echoing train bell. The tick of gears on the side table's clock. Unfamiliar voices are kept low, just beyond your quarters.

Tingles rake down your entire body once you sit up. Sparks trace your spine, your shoulders, your face, like a phantom touch. But they fade into nothing, as quickly as they came.

It's strange for you to be this well-rested. Your mind feels clear. Relaxed. You were free from nightmares, for the first time in ages; as far as you can remember, at least. You recall sneaking out of Piltover, to descend into Zaun. You were exhausted, stressed, but you reached the commune, and —

Oh. You're throwing your blankets aside, then.

You toss on your old clothes; they smell like magic and citrus. A nurse finds you before you can leave. You've been staying at an old, run-down infirmary, on the outskirts of Piltover. Established to provide care to the Undercity, ages ago. It takes longer than you would have liked to convince her you're fine, you don't need to stay. You have somewhere you need to return to.

You were carried here, she explains, as she walks you to the exit of the infirmary.

There were a few people. Strange garments, they hardly said much. You slept for nearly a day, but otherwise, your condition is stable.

Your heart twists; carried? Why and when and how would you be carried out of the commune? Your mind is still hazy, you suppose. You can barely remember where you were, or if you even reached your destination in the first place.

Perhaps you collapsed just outside of it. Perhaps you failed, and the rumors were wrong, and the one you were searching for wasn't there after all.

Dead men aren't supposed to come back.

Despondent, you offer the nurse a few small words of thanks, shaking her hand before you turn to leave.

She stops you first, though.

Oh, she says, and as for the marks on you, I wouldn't worry. There's been plenty of cases similar to yours, with the same sort of scars. They seem like nothing to fret over.

You freeze.

Reaching up, you shakily brush your hand over your own face. Inscribed onto your skin, marble and metal-like, rests four unmistakable marks to your forehead — the lingering outline of Viktor's fingertips.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane

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suguae · 9 months ago

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Haunted

part one - part two

જ synopsis. After months of longing and uncertainty, you reunite with your ex-boyfriend Toji and his son Megumi at a nearby diner, where the warmth of their presence fills you with hope for a fresh start and a renewed sense of family.

જ pairings. T. Fushiguro x Fem! Reader

જ a/n. You thought I'd give you guys the silent treatment for month again, probably. But I'm back and I'm going to try my best to upload normal again, keyword TRY.

Six months had passed since the last echo of Toji's voice had graced your ears, each day stretching into an eternity of longing and uncertainty. The memory of his deep, resonant tone lingered like a gentle caress against your skin, stirring a tempest of emotions within you. As you navigated the labyrinth of your thoughts, one question loomed larger than all the rest: was Toji doing okay?

Was he still grieving over his dead wife, or had he begun to heal? And if so, was he ready to love you anew, to embark on a journey of rediscovery and redemption together?

The piercing ring of the phone shattered the fragile sanctuary of your thoughts, jolting you back to the stark reality of the present moment. Your heart quickened its pace as you glanced towards the source of the sound, the glow of the screen casting an eerie illumination in the dimness of your tiny apartment.

Toji's name flashed boldly on the display, a beacon of light cutting through the darkness of the night. A surge of emotions welled up within you—surprise, anticipation, and a tinge of apprehension—all swirling together in a tumultuous whirlwind.

It felt like a sign, as if he had heard the silent echoes of your thoughts reverberating through the ether. Could it be mere coincidence, or something more? The very idea sent shivers down your spine, igniting a flicker of hope within the depths of your soul.

With trembling fingers, you reached out to answer the call, the weight of uncertainty heavy upon you. Was this the moment you had been waiting for, the chance to bridge the chasm that had separated you two for so long?

You brought the phone to your ear, the anticipation hung thick in the air, each heartbeat echoing the rhythm of your longing. You couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, fate had finally decided to intervene.

Thoughts of Megumi danced on the periphery of your consciousness. Were you guys finally ready to confront the demons of your past and embrace the promise of a brighter future?

The word slipped from your lips like a fragile prayer, carrying with it the weight of all the unspoken hopes and fears that had lingered between you two for so long. "Hello?" you repeated, the sound hanging heavy in the air, waiting for Toji's response to break the silence.

For a moment, there was nothing but the steady thrum of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. And then, finally, a soft exhale on the other end of the line, the faint rustle of movement as Toji gathered his thoughts.

"Hey," his voice came, soft and tentative, yet infused with a warmth that washed over you like a gentle wave. The sound of it sent a shiver down your spine.

you held your breath, waiting for him to continue, the anticipation mounting with each passing second. And then, with a quiet resolve, you spoke again.

"It's been a while," you said, the understatement hanging heavy between the two, a testament to the distance that had grown between you both in the wake of your shared pain. "How have you been?"

The question lingered in the air, pregnant with meaning, a silent plea for honesty and vulnerability in the face of the uncertain future. And as you waited for Toji's response, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, this conversation was the first step towards healing the wounds that had long divided you both.

Toji's words hung in the air like a delicate melody, each syllable carrying with it the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. "I miss everything about you," he confessed, his voice soft yet filled with a longing that echoed in the depths of your soul. The vulnerability in his words was palpable, a raw honesty that stirred something deep within you.

As his plea washed over you, you felt a flood of emotions surge to the surface—love, longing, and a flicker of hope amidst the shadows of your past. The ache of separation had carved a chasm between you, but in that moment, his words bridged the gap with an unspoken promise of reconciliation and renewal.

"I need to see you," he implored, the urgency in his tone resonating with the echoes of your own heart's desires. The longing in his voice tugged at the strings of your soul, igniting a spark of courage within you.

With a steady resolve, you met his plea with a whisper of your own, "I need to see you too." The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of all that had been left unsaid, yet brimming with the potential of what could be.

Toji's insistence reverberated through the phone, his words a fervent plea for connection and reunion. "We can meet up, somewhere… anywhere, baby, just tell me," he urged, the desperation in his voice pulling at the strings of your heart. The prospect of seeing him again, of bridging the chasm that had separated you for so long, filled you with a heady mix of anticipation and apprehension.

And then, as if a beacon had been lit in the darkness, he spoke his name—Megumi. Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of him, a rush of emotions flooding your senses. He wasn't your child, not biologically at least, but the bond you shared transcended bloodlines. From the moment you had met him, he had nestled his way into the deepest recesses of your heart, filling a void you never knew existed.

The thought of seeing Megumi again, of wrapping him in your arms and showering him with the love he deserved, sent a surge of warmth coursing through your veins. He was a constant presence in your thoughts, a beacon of light in the darkness that had enveloped your life.

"Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, "Yes, let's meet." The words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation and the promise of a reunion long overdue. And as you made plans to come together once more, you couldn't help but feel a sense of peace settle over you—a quiet reassurance that, no matter what the future held, you would face it together, as a family.

During the aftermath of the breakup, you found yourself spiraling into a dark abyss of self-destructive behavior. Drinking became a crutch, a futile attempt to numb the ache that gnawed at your soul. Overworking became a distraction, a way to bury yourself in tasks and responsibilities to avoid facing the gaping void left by Toji's absence. And as the days stretched into weeks and months, the toll of neglecting your own well-being became painfully apparent.

It was all too easy to place blame on Toji, to cast him as the villain in the narrative of your shared pain. But deep down, you knew the truth—it wasn't his fault, not entirely. You had chosen to entangle yourself with a widower, knowing full well the complexities and challenges that came with loving someone who was still grieving.

Yet despite the turmoil raging within you, a glimmer of clarity began to emerge amidst the chaos. The realization that no amount of self-destructive behavior could mend the shattered pieces of your heart, nor could it bridge the chasm that had grown between you and Toji.

Slowly but surely, the bad habits began to wane, replaced by a newfound determination to confront the unresolved issues head-on. You stopped reaching for the bottle as a temporary salve for your pain, recognizing that true healing could only come from within. You eased up on the relentless pursuit of productivity, learning to prioritize self-care and introspection over the relentless pursuit of perfection.

It wasn't an easy journey, fraught with setbacks and moments of doubt. But with each passing day, you grew stronger, more resilient in the face of adversity. And as you looked back on the tumultuous path that had led you to this moment, you realized that the key to finding peace lay not in blaming others, but in taking ownership of your own happiness and well-being.

As the agreed-upon time approached, a sense of anticipation and nervous energy coursed through your veins. The prospect of seeing Toji again after months apart filled you with a heady mix of emotions—hope, uncertainty, and a tinge of excitement. The void that had loomed large in your heart in his absence now seemed poised to be filled, if only for a fleeting moment.

You arrived at the nearby diner with a fluttering heart and a whirlwind of thoughts swirling in your mind. The familiar sights and sounds of the cozy establishment offered a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty that lay ahead. The soft glow of the lights, the gentle hum of conversation, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloped you like a warm embrace.

As you stepped inside, you scanned the room anxiously, searching for Toji's familiar figure amidst the sea of faces. And then, there he was, sitting at a corner table, his gaze locked on yours as if he had been waiting for you all along.

Sitting next to Toji was the little toddler, his bright eyes sparkling with excitement at your appearance. You couldn't help but smile as you caught his gaze, feeling a warmth spread through you at the sight of him. Megumi reached out eagerly towards you, his tiny hand outstretched in silent invitation.

taglist. @maliakealoha @dreamlessnight @mikyapixie @slowlyswimmingmoon @needsleep3000 @blueberryblood11 @ryumurin @adreamingpendulum @aechmea01 @r0ckst4rjk @wr4inn @khaleesihavilliard @sidelnes @nxxun-blog @imnotabot28 @my1guilty1pleasures @ssc7514 @mob1lecatcher @little-duck @i2innie @that-goth-bisexual @kt-willson @swanyie @painted-hills @lunamoons-posts @thekidscallmebosss @furrynightthing @zoemaelol @mochii-13 @mellowarcadefun @kitkatmochi @pega7sus @mitsuki123sstuff @4-gojo @milkm4nz @meandmyhomieshateshibuya @kidd3ath @chadychadyy2k @iamtheunkown @0range-juiceee @kxllanxtdoor @moonchildlv @mimisxs @venus1224idkpleaze @270006 @batw1ngz @gothifiedrei @asceluffy @rhialazyreader @burningwiitches

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arscorpii · 5 months ago

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the way utena held onto wakaba and anthy's hands, trying her best to not let go (even though utena was barely holding onto anthy's hand, i'm sure she never wished to let anthy slip away from her grasp). both shots were lit with soft lighting ⟶ to highlight the importance of the person utena was holding onto and their bonds to utena.

the fact that she reached out to them with her left hand, the hand on which she wore her rose crest ring (the ring being clearly visible in both shots) ⟶ utena believed that she could only save wakaba and anthy by being a prince/playing the role of a prince.

utena caught wakaba's right hand with her left hand; wakaba wasn't holding back. meanwhile, anthy reached out to utena's left hand with her left hand as well. i think the difference in how each pair held hands may lie within the ideals between the pairs in their respective circumstances. with regard to wakaba, she harboured lots of pent-up emotions and thoughts about how unfairly the (ohtori) world treated the people it regarded as "special" and "ordinary," such as utena and herself. wakaba was clouded with feelings of inferiority and wanted to be special, to put it simply. utena didn't understand/wasn't aware of these dichotomous mechanisms/systems at play, at this point at least. these conflicting ideals, as in, awareness versus ignorance, were represented in the way they held hands; the hero/chosen one with her firm grasp on the motionless hand of the underdog/forgettable one.

with regard to anthy, the moment utena cracked open her coffin was the first time the both of them saw each other as they truly were. utena believed in a world beyond eternal pain and suffering anthy had to endure and wanted to share that view with her, wanted anthy to see and experience such a world, to save her from this needless perdition for good. eventually, anthy took the chance on the possibility, given how unyielding utena was in trying to reach her despite being stabbed by anthy herself; anthy hesitantly reached out to utena. both utena and anthy wanted to believe in a world where suffering is transient when they reached out to one another through the coffin opening, and not an eternally all-consuming pain as their fates in ohtori. they shared similar hopes in that moment.

utena reached out to both wakaba and anthy with kindness and love:

in the duel with wakaba, she never drew out the sword of dios or fought her. utena de-escalated the duel carefully by taking hold of wakaba's sword (the sword pulled out of saionji) and cutting off the black rose. despite not understanding the sequence of events that had them facing each other off in the dueling arena, wakaba was one of utena's closest friends and utena would save her. it's a little interesting to note that the audience (and utena, too i believe) didn't get a glimpse of wakaba's face during utena's speech as above. in addition, the focus on their interlocked hands when utena mentioned about not understanding the situation and saving wakaba is also interesting (even though the interlocked hands were due to them struggling against each other). it's possible what utena said at that moment may have reached her heart even while being under the control of the black rose. perhaps the speech may have made wakaba realise that she was indeed special. this "specialness" was emphasised by utena not letting wakaba fall into the outline of one of the bodies like the other black rose duelists; because she mattered to utena. "to not be chosen is to die" but in a way, she was chosen by utena here beyond the presented choice between her or anthy. utena chose wakaba and anthy.

in episode 39, akio used the sword pulled out of utena to break through the rose gate. utena was injured and incapacitated by anthy's stab, while anthy was relentlessly impaled with millions of swords embodying humanity's hatred. akio's futile attempts eventually broke the sword and he gave up on the pursuit. so long as he had anthy, he could try again, as in, try again to gain the power to "revolutionise the world" instead of freeing his little sister. utena tried opening the rose gate with her bare hands; dragging her injured body there, clinging onto the thorny vines of the roses on the gate, pushing through the large stone doors. she only wanted to stop the swords from hurting anthy, to help her. utena's love and care for anthy finally unlocked the rose gate into anthy's coffin. utena steadfastly held out her hand to anthy despite anthy's protests. utena's efforts moved anthy to tears, and she reached out to her. in episode 38, utena chose anthy over akio, and all the way back to episode 11, utena chose anthy over the power to revolutionise the world. utena had always chosen anthy against all odds and choices.

the aftermath:

wakaba wasn't holding back possibly due to being under the control of the black rose while anthy's hand eventually slipped away from utena's hold.

nevertheless, utena's efforts matter, very much so, because wakaba will always be on utena's side no matter what happens and anthy will find utena no matter where she is.

#i love them so very much:(#revolutionary girl utena #shojo kakumei utena #shoujo kakumei utena #rgu #sku #utena tenjou #anthy himemiya #wakaba shinohara #parallels #analysis #i think #i hope this is readable #i don't know if this analysis is anything substantial #i keep rewriting because i wanted to get the points across the best i could #i'm sorry for mistakes and/or misinterpretations #✮

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moonxknightx · 6 months ago

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♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : MORE THAN WORDS : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ Logan Howlett x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Fluff and a bit of angst

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆FANDOM: X-Men

ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNINGS: Pregnancy, Emotional Angst, Brief Mention of Fear of Abandonment, Discussion of Uncertainty About Parenthood

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: You find out you're pregnant with Logan's baby and confide in your sister Jean, unsure how to tell him. With her support, you eventually tell Logan, who’s initially shocked but reassures you he’s not leaving, and the two of you commit to facing the future together.

Based on this request

THE SKY OUTSIDE WAS SOFT WITH THE EARLY LIGHT OF DAWN, casting a warm glow through the large windows of Xavier's School. You stood in the kitchen, gripping a mug of tea between both hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take a sip. The steam swirled up, almost hypnotic, but your mind was far away from the present moment.

You were pregnant.

Logan’s child was growing inside you, and the weight of that realization felt like an anchor pulling you deeper into your own thoughts. How could you tell him? His life had been filled with so much pain, loss, and isolation. What if this wasn’t something he wanted? Or worse, what if this was something he couldn’t handle? The questions swirled around in your head like a storm.

And then there was Jean—your sister. She would know what to do. She always did.

You needed to talk to her.

You found her in the garden, seated on one of the stone benches with a book resting in her lap. Her red hair glistened in the sunlight as the soft breeze carried the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass through the air. You stood there for a moment, watching her, wondering how to even begin.

She glanced up before you could even make a sound, her green eyes immediately softening as she saw the turmoil on your face. “Hey,” she said gently, closing the book and setting it aside. “What’s going on?”

You sat down beside her, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, feeling the weight of the unspoken words pressing against your chest. “Jean, I—I need to tell you something, but I don’t know how to say it.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, concern creeping into her voice. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes focusing on the ground as if it held the answers you were searching for. “I’m pregnant, Jean.”

There was a pause. Silence hung in the air between you for what felt like an eternity before Jean spoke, her voice soft with surprise. “Pregnant?” She turned to face you, her hand gently resting on your arm. “Oh my god… does Logan know?”

You shook your head quickly, the thought of that conversation sending a fresh wave of anxiety through your veins. “No, he doesn’t. I haven’t told him yet. I don’t know how.”

Jean’s face softened, and she squeezed your arm reassuringly. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. Logan loves you. He’ll understand.”

You scoffed lightly, not because you didn’t believe her, but because you didn’t know if Logan knew *how* to deal with something like this. “Jean… he’s been through so much. I don’t want to bring more chaos into his life. He already has enough of that.”

Jean sighed, her eyes thoughtful as she considered your words. “I get it. Logan’s life has been hard—harder than most. But this isn’t chaos. This is something beautiful, something new. You’re not throwing him into more pain. You’re giving him a future.”

You looked at her, biting your lip. “But what if he doesn’t want it? What if this… if I… if we’re not what he needs?”

Jean paused, letting the question linger in the air. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze filled with understanding. “You won’t know until you tell him. But you can’t carry this alone. You’re not alone in this.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “And Logan isn’t the kind of man who would just walk away from something like this. He’s been fighting for a family for years, whether he knows it or not.”

You nodded slowly, her words sinking in, but your heart was still racing. “How do I even start? How do you tell someone something like this?”

Jean smiled gently, trying to ease your fears. “There’s no perfect way. Just tell him the truth. Be honest with him, and let him process it how he needs to. You’re both in this together, remember?”

The thought gave you some strength. Together. You and Logan had always faced the world together, no matter what. Maybe this would be no different.

“I’m scared, Jean,” you admitted, your voice a whisper.

“I know,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to do this alone.”

You gave her a weak smile, feeling some of the weight lift off your chest. “Thanks. I… I just needed to hear that.”

She leaned in and hugged you tightly. “You’ve got this. And if you need me, I’m here, okay?”

You nodded, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Now came the hard part.

You found Logan later that day in the garage, working on one of the old motorcycles. The sight of him, rugged and focused, usually made your heart skip in that familiar way, but today it only heightened your nerves. He wiped the grease from his hands with a rag, looking up when he noticed you standing there.

“Hey, darlin’,” Logan said, his voice low and gruff, though his eyes softened when they landed on you. “You okay? You’ve been quiet all day.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what had to be said. “Can we talk?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, immediately sensing something was up. “’Course. What’s goin’ on?”

You walked closer, feeling your heart pound in your chest. There was no turning back now. “Logan… I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it.”

He set the rag down, giving you his full attention, concern etched in his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m pregnant,” you blurted out, your voice barely above a whisper.

The words hung in the air between you, and you watched as Logan’s face went blank for a moment. His hands stilled, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, you feared the worst—that this was too much for him, that he would shut down or push you away.

But then his brow furrowed, his lips parting as he struggled to find the right words. “You… you’re sure?”

You nodded, biting your lip nervously. “I found out a few days ago. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you.”

Logan stared at you, his intense gaze searching your face for any sign of doubt. Slowly, his hand reached out, resting against your stomach, almost as if he needed to feel it to believe it. His fingers were gentle, the contrast to his usual gruffness catching you off guard.

“You’re havin’ my kid,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he was trying to wrap his head around it.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your eyes fixed on his face, watching for any sign of how he was feeling.

There was a long pause before he looked up at you again, his expression unreadable. “How long have you known?”

“A few days. I wanted to tell you sooner, but… I didn’t know how you’d react.”

Logan’s hand stayed where it was, his thumb unconsciously stroking your skin as he took in a deep breath. “I’m not gonna lie… this is a lot. I wasn’t expectin’ it.”

“I know,” you said quickly, feeling your heart race. “I didn’t expect it either. And if you’re not ready for this, I—”

“Stop,” he cut you off gently, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away. “This is… hell, I don’t know what this is. But I know one thing—I’m not leavin’ you. I’m not walkin’ away from this.”

You blinked, surprise flooding through you. “Logan…”

“I’m not good at this stuff,” he admitted, his voice rough but steady. “I ain’t ever had somethin’ like this. But I want it. I want this with you.” His voice grew softer, more vulnerable. “I don’t know how to be a father… but I’ll try.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed with relief. “I don’t know what I’m doing either, but we’ll figure it out.”

Logan’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he rested his chin on top of your head. His embrace was solid, unyielding, as if he were silently promising that he would be there, no matter what came next.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he murmured, and for the first time that day, you believed it.

🏷️: @twinky-wink @fidgetingbee @astarions-girl-dinner @layladestiny8 @birdy-bat-writes @h0n3y-l3m0n05

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know! 🫶

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fluff #wolverine x reader #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #logan howlett imagine #x men x reader

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froufroukisses · 10 months ago

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cream from sonic vs calico critters bunny GO

#the present moment is both eternal and painful

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writememysticfalls · 5 months ago

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Soaked | Klaus Mikaelson

Summary: You slip in the bathtub, and accidentally call your one night stand Klaus to rescue you. Things get steamy.

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x reader

Genre: Suggestive, friends with benefits, mean!Klaus

Word Count: <1k

You were dozing in the bath when you heard a knock on the door.

You were stranded in your bathtub with a twisted ankle, and you couldn't move. You had left a message begging Elena to come rescue you.

“Come get me, you idiot!” you yelled. You heard a click as the door opened. “Thank you so much. I’ll be your eternal slave!”

There were footsteps, then a very not-Elena voice said, “The eternal slave part sounds nice, love, if a bit extreme.”

You had a sinking feeling. Somehow, Klaus was here.

You wrapped your hands over your bare chest, even though the curtain was pulled and he couldn’t see you.

“Who is this?” you said, though you knew.

“Sadly, not Elena,” Klaus said. “You called me by accident. However, I did leave a message for Elena, so she'll be here soon."

You wished the fall in the bathtub had just killed you. Then you wouldn’t have to have this conversation. The last time you had talked to Klaus was when you had drunken sex in the bushes at the Founder's Ball. What did you say to a person after that?

“Um…thank you,” you forced out.

“It was my pleasure,” Klaus said stiffly. “Well, don't let me - interrupt.”

You heard him walk away. Surprisingly, you felt a stab of fear. If Klaus left, you would be all alone.

“Don't go!” you blurted out. “Stay with me? Till she comes?” you said.

Klaus paused. “Of course, Miss L/n.”

Your eyes widened. Miss L/n? Klaus’s politeness was even more weird than intimacy would have been. Apparently, Klaus could make your eyes roll back in your head in pleasure, but he couldn’t call you by your first name.

A very long time passed where you both said nothing.

You broke it, saying, “Um… could you please give me my phone? It fell, and… I’m bored.”

Klaus pushed your phone through the side of the curtain, without looking in. You tried to grab it, but it slipped out of your hand and fell to the bottom of the bath.

“No!” you cried.

“Y/n?” Klaus said in concern.

“It's nothing,” you said.

“It is something, little human. You dropped the mobile, didn't you?” he replied.

“Maybe,” you whispered.

“Just let me come in and get it, you fool,” he said. “Your pointless modesty achieves nothing.”

You were stunned by the way Klaus had suddenly stopped being polite. “Stop trying to look in here. Pervert,” you shot back.

“Oh please,” Klaus replied. “I know every contour of your little body by heart. And trust me, I've had better.”

You felt yourself blush, and were grateful for the curtain. “Oh really? Which of the… eight women who have slept with you in a thousand years are you thinking of?”

Klaus let out a sudden chuckle, and you found yourself smiling too.

“Oh, Y/n ,” he said. “There was a time when I would snap the neck of anyone who talked to me like that.”

You felt the tiny thrill of pleasure combined with fear that Klaus had always given you. “Please, kill me now,” you answered. “It's better than making chit chat with you.”

Klaus laughed again, not a small chuckle, but a laugh from the belly. You laughed too, until the pain in your ankle felt a little more bearable.

“Just get me out of here,” you groaned. “I want my bed.”

Slowly, Klaus pulled back the curtain. Despite his insults before, he did not look at your body like it was unremarkable. His solemn eyes lingered on every plain of your body. His lips were a hard line of carefully controlled emotion.

Suddenly, the jokey atmosphere evaporated. You had never just had a teasing friendship with Klaus. You had desired each other, so much that you had been willing to risk every relationship you had for one stupid, incredible leap of faith. The memory of that moment hung in the air.

You resisted the urge to cover your body up. Instead, you arched your back, your hair thrown behind your shoulders. You presented your naked body to Klaus like you had nothing to hide.

Klaus smiled slightly, like he could read your mind. Then, he bent over the tub and slowly lifted you into his arms.

Pain shot up your ankle, but with Klaus’s warm breath fanning your bare chest, it was the least of your concerns.

He laid you in bed, leaving your phone beside you, and you wrapped yourself in the covers.

Klaus placed one finger on your chin, and leaned in to your face. His mouth was inches from yours. His eyes flashed to your lips, and instinctively, you felt your whole body tighten in anticipation.

“We - can't do this again,” you blurted out, your heart racing.

Klaus smiled. He had just been reaching to twist a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your face erupted in a painful blush. You couldn’t believe you had assumed he was going to kiss you.

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Klaus said with a smile.

Klaus got up, but just before he walked out of the door, he said, “You would have made a great queen, Y/n.”

And while you were still wondering what he meant, he disappeared.

—

MAIN MASTERLIST

Let us know what you thought in the comments or on anon! 💋

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daddypascal17 · 2 months ago

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𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

Joel Miller x Reader One-Shot

Angst + Fluff

Summary: Joel doesn’t want to risk losing you, even if that means having to push you away.

꧁ ୨୧ ꧂

The world had never been kind, but it was the world you and Joel had come to know—every day was a struggle, every step a risk. And somehow, through it all, you two had become more than just survivors. You had become each other’s anchors.

But lately, something had changed in Joel. The walls he’d already built around himself seemed to be growing taller, the cracks between you widening with each passing day. He was distant, colder than you remembered, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t break through.

It came to a head one night, after a particularly harrowing mission. You’d barely managed to escape a group of hunters, both of you injured in the process—scrapes, bruises, and the ever-present ache of exhaustion. But the moment you found shelter, Joel had shut down entirely, too focused on bandaging his wounds to even glance at you.

You could tell something was off. He was hiding something, and it wasn’t just the blood-stained gauze wrapped around his side.

“Joel,” you said, voice barely above a whisper as you watched him clean his knife, his back to you. “Can we talk?”

He didn’t respond, just kept sharpening it with an almost obsessive precision.

Nervously, you press on. “Joel,” you repeated, a little louder this time, the weight of the silence between you making your heart ache. “Please. We need to talk.”

Finally, he sighed, the sound so heavy it felt like the air in the room had thickened. He put the knife down and turned to face you, but his eyes didn’t meet yours. Instead, his gaze drifted to the floor.

“What do you want to talk about?” His voice was low, cold, and somehow, that hurt more than anything.

You took a deep breath, fighting back the frustration and the sting of your own injury. “This. You. Pushing me away. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Joel, but I need you to tell me.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he was silent, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. It was a long pause, a beat that stretched between you two like an eternity.

“I’m not… I’m not pushin’ you away,” he muttered, his voice rough. “I’m just tryin’ to keep you safe. Can’t keep getting caught up in—”

“In what?” You cut him off, your voice louder than you intended. “In me? Is that it? Are you scared of me getting hurt because you care too much? Or… or do you not care at all?”

The words hung in the air like daggers, and for a long moment, Joel didn’t move. But then, with a painful slowness, he stepped closer to you, his gaze still not meeting yours. He reached out, almost as if he didn’t trust himself to get too close, but his hands brushed your shoulders gently.

“I’ve lost too much already,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly, that wall in his tone cracking. “I can’t lose you too. I’ve already… I’ve already failed, Y/n. And if you… if you get too close, if I let myself care for you like I… like I want to, then I’ll just lose you. And I can’t do that again.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you push me away. And I swear, Joel, I won’t let you do that.”

His eyes softened just slightly, but the doubt was still there. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust himself.

“You don’t know what it’s like, Y/n,” he murmured, his voice low. “To lose someone you care about. Not after everything.”

“I do know,” you said quietly, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “I do. And it hurts. But it doesn’t mean we stop living. It doesn’t mean we stop fighting. Not for each other.”

The tension between you two hung in the air, thick and suffocating. But finally, Joel exhaled a long breath, his hand coming up to rest over yours. It was a small, simple gesture, but it felt like the first step towards something more.

“I’m scared, Y/n,” he admitted softly, finally letting the walls fall just a little bit more. “I’m so damn scared.”

You squeezed his hand, offering him the comfort you knew he needed. “Then let me be scared with you. I don’t care about the world ending or everything falling apart. As long as we’re together, I can face it. You don’t have to carry this alone, Joel. Not anymore.”

His eyes softened as he looked at you, the years of pain and loss etched in the lines of his face, but for once, he didn’t look quite so broken. For the first time in a long while, there was a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Slowly, cautiously, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. You breathed him in—dust, sweat, the faint scent of leather—and just held him. It felt like the world was still out there, cold and unforgiving, but in this moment, in his arms, everything was just a little bit warmer.

And as you both sat there in the dim light of the abandoned shelter, with nothing but the sound of each other’s breathing to fill the silence, you realized something.

The world was cruel. But you had each other. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

#joel miller #joel tlou #tlou #joel the last of us #joel x reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller smut

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sitepathos · 1 month ago

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Imagine the angst if Bruce does end up finding a cure for the Megamycete, but when he injects reader, he starts to calcify immediately bc the megamycete replaced most of his cells already. Reader laughing maniacally as he crumbles bc he won

First of all, I hope everyone had a great holiday season, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, etc. Also, Happy New Year to those already in 2025 and to the rest of us still in 2024, hope you’ve found a fun way to ring in the upcoming year!

Second, I’ve had A LOT of people asking me this question (for real, most of my asks are about the Reader dying after the Megamycete is removed) and I just want to say… sips sweet tea.

Sorry, everyone, that is MAJOR spoiler territory and I’m not ready to reveal that information. You’ll just have to wait until climax of the series to find out whether you lose the Megamycete and what happens if you do, or if you prevail over the Bats.

But, for this individual’s ask, let’s just say the Bats do manage to kill the Megamycete, resulting in your death due to it making up much of your body at this point. You slowly but surely turn an alarming shade of white before crumbing into dust, choosing to spend your last few moments of life to mock them, laugh at them, and that “you’ll see them in hell.”

Bruce would be totally destroyed that he’s the reason for his son’s death. Once again, a member of his family is dead, but unlike Joe Chill and Joker, he was the killer, the smoking gun/detonator in his hand. He completely withdraws into his work, both as Bruce Wayne and Batman; doing anything he can think of to keep from being reminded that the last words his son said to him was that he’d see him in hell (he’ll gladly spend the rest of eternity being tortured if it means being near you). He had your calcified remains gathered into a capsule and buried in the Wayne Family Cemetery (despite Alfred’s best efforts to convince him to bury you next to your mother).

Dick is heartbroken, both at his baby brother being dead and that death was preferable over you being with them, your family. While Bruce withdraws, Dick becomes more present, dropping in on his siblings practically every day, asking how their day was, what they’re currently doing, do they want to hang out, etc. He also visits your grave everyday, telling you about his day, what’s going on with the family, and how he regrets not being a better big brother to you and he wishes he could change the past.

Jason separates himself from the family (except Alfred, of course), pissed at them for mistreating you for years, but mostly pissed at himself for doing the same thing. Looking back, he can see that he was so engulfed in his anger, pain, hatred, and sadness and so convinced that he’s the only one in the family that’s suffering that he couldn’t see that you were just like him; if he had gotten his shit together, he would’ve seen that you clearly didn’t belong in this family of batshit crazy vigilantes and you weren’t getting the proper support you needed. If he had, he would’ve snatched you and raised you himself. But he didn’t do that, and he’ll never get the chance to spend anytime with you.

Tim does the same thing as Bruce, drowning himself in his work, both as Tim Drake and Red Robin, but he goes a step further in his spiral into madness that even Bruce couldn’t bring himself to do: obsess over your remains. After your funeral, he dug up the capsule containing the calcified dust that was once you (he has a very concerning obsession with your remains) and brought it to a safe house he had prepared just for this purpose, using all the scientific equipment within it to analyze your remains down to the atomic level, confident that even in this form, you’re still alive (after all, this is a sentient pile of mold we’re taking about, so logic and reason have long since been thrown out the window). When he’s not obsessing over your remains, he’s obsessing over your game studio, having used Drake Industries to acquire it and personally oversees everything it does, telling everyone that he’s doing it to honor you.

Stephanie tries to cheer everyone up, but if even Dick is depressed, there’s nothing she can do. She feels extremely guilty about how she basically threw you away like a child does an old toy after her first week in Wayne Manor. Since Bruce has basically taken over your old room, like he’ll find you there if he goes there enough times, she takes up the burden of taking care of your house (a task she was able to take right from under the noses of Bruce, Tim, and Damian), going through all your possessions every time she’s over there, reading your books, playing the games on your computer, and even sitting in your bed. As she does, she learns a little more about you, making her grief for you even stronger and wishes she could’ve hung out with you.

Cassandra has only known true regret and grief a few times in her life, but her treatment of you and your death are definitely the worse instances of regret and grief she’s ever experience (and probably ever will experience). She accompanies Steph every time she goes to your house, helping clean it, keep your knick-knacks organized, and pointing out anything you may have hidden. As she gazes upon your various collectibles and posters in your game room, she wishes she could’ve gotten to know you more; when she first met you, she deemed you insignificant due to your lack of combat training and low threat level, but she now knows that you were not only a person, but her brother. She only wishes she would’ve learned that lesson before you were taken from them.

Damian is like his father, withdrawing into himself, but he also comes out every now and then to lash out at anyone unfortunate enough to be near him when his anger reaches its boiling point (Jason gives as good as he gets while Dick takes it all in stride). You were his brother and you were suppose to be by his side! When he realized his error, he had made plans for you to be by his side for all the important moments of his life, like when he inevitably inherited the Cowl of Batman, or when he took over Wayne Enterprises, or when he finally triumphed over Drake! But, not only are you dead, but you used your last few moments of death to curse and taunt him. He becomes a time bomb that goes off unexpectedly on a nearly daily basis.

Alfred is absolutely heartbroken over the end of your feud with the family. He knew that you wouldn’t go back willingly after helping the others relate the error of their ways, and when he learned of you being the host of the Megamycete, he already foresaw the fight you’d put up (so much like your father, he thought), but he never thought that you’d take it so far as to result in your death; had he known that you’d die he would’ve found another way of making you return to the manor. But now, you’re gone reduced to a pile of dust. He tried to convince Bruce that you should be buried in your hometown next to your mother (he’d want that more than anything, Master Bruce, he pleaded), but you ended up being buried in the place you hated more than anywhere else close to the people you hated more than anyone else; as much as he hated to admit it, he liked that you were buried in the Wayne Family Cemetery since he can visit your grave everyday, keep it clean from leaves, dirt, and dust and beg for your forgiveness for not doing more while you were alive.

#asks #from gold to mold

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lxkeee · 11 months ago

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TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

-PART NINE

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Seraphim Angel! Fem! Reader

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Genre: Angst (for now)

Warnings: family trauma/lore

Notes: TSOTSC finally reached 20k words, yippee!

PART ONE | PART EIGHT | PART TEN | NAVIGATION

Azrael looked at the female angel beside him, noticing the lovestruck expression on the girl's face. He looked at her with a deadpanned expression, lips pressed together in a thin line.

Azrael's deep black eyes followed her line of sight, landing on a light blond haired short male angel with rosy spots on his cheeks, Lucifer. Azrael grimaced, watching as Lucifer talked with Michael, Lucifer's twin brother.

Azrael can hear a satisfied sigh left [Y/n]'s lips, Azrael still doesn't know why the girl is so lovestruck with the guy. Lucifer's curiosity is a looming threat, everyone in the high council of angels can feel it but they can't do anything about it as the said angel hasn't done anything yet.

Azrael sighs, grabbing the cloud pillow off the couch so he could sit beside her, the cushioned seat sinking as he sat down. He nudges her, catching her attention.

“I still don't understand what you see on that guy.” he deadpans at her and [Y/n] rolls her eyes at the taller male.

“Do you want me to take out my 50 slide presentation again on why I like him so much?” [Y/n] asked with a raised eyebrow and Azrael flinched, raising his hands in defeat.

“No, thank you.” He mumbled, shuddering as he remembers the time she presented those slides to him, which he still didn't understand why she liked the boy so much. He was zoned out during all of the presentation.

Azrael sighs, chest heavy and tight. He doesn't understand why. The thought of his best friend getting married to someone else hurt for some reason.

“Make sure you won't regret it, you're getting married to him soon.” He deadpans and [Y/n] just laughed, “I won't. He won't do anything to hurt me.” she said confidently.

Azrael rolls his eyes playfully, “You seem confident with that statement.”

[Y/n] scoffs playfully, “Because I know him.”

“Do you really know him?” Azrael retorts back, raising an eyebrow at her. [Y/n] flinches slightly, Azrael is right. She's still 25 years old and so is Lucifer, they're both very young. They still have lots to learn about each other.

It doesn't matter, Lucifer loves her and she loves him back. They have an entire eternity to know each other.

With a long exhale, she turned to look at Azrael, “Maybe I may not know him entirely but I will be able to.”

Azrael just sighs, shaking his head, “Whatever you say [n/n], but if he does something... Don't tell me I didn't tell you so.” he chuckled and [Y/n] rolls her eyes playfully at him, nudging Azrael playfully.

“Hey, I know him. He's my best friend and we've known each other the moment we existed.”

Azrael scoffs playfully at her words, “Who knows? People change.” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. [Y/n] avoided his gaze and turned to look back at Lucifer who seems to notice her.

Lucifer gave her a wink and a charming smile, sending her a kiss to her way causing for her to blush and giggle.

Azrael rolled his eyes at the scene.

“They do and I hope he changes to become a better version of himself.”

After getting married to Lucifer, life felt good. Lucifer treated her so well, bringing her flowers everyday, giving her affections in every chance he gets.

Everything was fine until God created the first ever humans, [Y/n] knows how much of a curious man Lucifer is, naturally, he went out to observe them.

It created cracks in their relationship.

Lucifer began to go home later than usual, occasionally forgetting to give her affections.

And their topics—his topics have now shifted to God's newly created creature, a woman named Lilith.

[Y/n] had to endure the pain and heartache as she listens to her husband talk so fondly about the woman, complimenting Lilith in every possible chance he gets.

But nevertheless, [Y/n] remained to have confidence in him. Choosing to trust him, he is her husband after all. They've been together for many eons, she knows him.

Does she?

No, she doesn't.

Especially on what she's currently witnessing, [Y/n] hid between a large tree in the garden of Eden. She had the urge to check up on Lucifer, her instinct was screaming for her to do so.

Her nails are buried in the bark of the tree, ichor flows out of her fingertips as she tries to prevent a sob from escaping her lips. The wooden sensation of the wood against her fingertips, the stinging pain of the scratched skin of the tips of her fingers is what she felt.

With the additional sensation of the aching feeling that came from where her heart lies.

Warmth slid down her cheeks, bringing her gold covered fingertips to feel her skin.

Tears, the tears never seem to stop running down her beautiful yet sorrowful face.

Her eyes locked on to her husband, Lucifer—who looked at Lilith with so much affection in his eyes as he held the woman's hand.

‘Why... Why is he looking at her like how he used to look at me...?’

[Y/n] asked herself repeatedly in her mind. Each word got louder and louder on her mind, and each time she did, pain became more apparent to her internal voice as she asked herself in anguish.

‘Move... I need to leave... Move [Y/n]!’ she cried to herself, her mind screaming for her to leave. To save herself from even more heartbreak.

Yet, she remained still. Eyes fixed on the two.

Her hands slapped over her mouth to prevent sobs from escaping her plump and soft lips, eyelashes fluttering and glistening with tears. Warm sunlight filtering through the strands of her eyelashes, making the redness around her eyes more prominent.

Dull [e/c] eyes blankly staring at the two—her husband and a different woman.

Despite its dullness, her eyes were filled with anguish.

Tired, dull, and swollen.

No longer bright, hopeful, and happy. It's now filled with sorrow, and unimaginable heartache. Something an angel like her shouldn't feel. Yet, Lucifer Morningstar made that possible.

[Y/n] watches as her husband caresses Lilith's face, so affectionately.

Something she didn't experience from him lately.

“You're so beautiful.”

She heard him mutter to Lilith with a voice that carried so much emotion, it was enough to shatter her heart to tiny million pieces.

Finally gathering enough strength, she finally released herself from where she stood. Finally allowing herself to move, flying away swiftly and discreetly.

A single feather was what was left of where she once stood.

She arrived at her shared home with Lucifer, quickly locking herself inside their bedroom.

Her body slouches against the door as she slowly slides down to the floor.

Painful sobs left her lips, shoulders shaking as she buried her face into her hands.

‘No, no, no, no, no... I must be seeing things... Lucifer can't just fall in love with someone that easy...’ she laughs to herself, voice cracking and trembling as she did so.

Shaking her head as she desperately tries to make herself believe her own words.

“This must be a misunderstanding, that's right... I'll ask him when... When he comes back...”

She says to herself, voice lowering to almost a whisper.

‘That is... If he comes home...’

She thought sadly, supporting her shoulder on to her knees, burying her face into her arms. Strands of her hair falling off to the side of her face, framing the heartbreaking picture of the face that belongs to a heartbroken angel.

‘He can't just... Leave me like that... He can't just break our vows.’

She thought to herself, her hands rubbing her sides for comfort.

She only has herself to comfort herself, her husband isn't here after all.

“When he comes back, the two of us will have a proper and mature conversation... I hope.” she says to herself weakly, picking herself up from the floor. Knees tremble from the weight of her emotions, chest filled with pain and heartache. She can barely breathe, she wonders if she was still breathing.

She felt like a walking corpse.

Wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her dress, the soft material of her dress providing comfort to her swollen and aching eyes.

She dragged herself across the room, finally approaching the full length mirror just by their closet.

She can see how much of a mess she is. Eye bags underneath her eyes, tear streaks evident on her cheeks, her hair a mess. Pale skin and chapped lips from severe dehydration from how much she cried.

‘Is that me...?’ She asked herself, finally processing what she's seeing, finally coming to the realization that the figure in the mirror is her own reflection.

She can barely recognize herself, she doesn't look like that. She doesn't remember looking so tired and so... Sad and pathetic.

‘This wouldn't do, I don't want Lucifer to see me like this..’ she thought to herself sadly, the face of Lilith flashing in her mind.

Lilith, the first ever human woman. Of course, someone as beautiful as her would be someone Lucifer would fancy.

[Y/n] couldn't help but compare herself to the woman. Lilith has bright and blemish pale skin, hers were a sickly kind of pale.

Lilith has bright and hopeful eyes, hers are dull and sad.

Lilith has a beautiful and blemish free face, hers are tired and dark bags are underneath her eyes.

[Y/n] shakes her head, getting rid of the negative thoughts that filled her mind.

“Stop that, Lucifer loved you just the way you are.” she says to herself, yet doubt was evident in her voice.

‘Loved. That's right, he probably doesn't love me anymore.’

She shakes her head once more, ‘Stop that, he hasn't told us that yet... So I shouldn't say something like that...’

‘I'll just clean myself first, make myself presentable. In case he ever comes home.’

She says to herself, dragging herself to the bathroom to freshen up.

He never came home that day.

She lies on their shared bed, coming to that realization as the clock finally hit one in the morning. The bed was cold and lonely, the warmth that was usually beside her isn't present.

Closing her eyes, allowing the tears to glide down her pale cheeks, the tears staining the pillowcase of her pillow.

Past memories flash on her mind, memories of where Lucifer and her were still happy and in love.

“You are my best friend, the love of my life... I am so lucky to be called yours.” Lucifer says to her, kissing her forehead.

They were still teens in love, young and stupid but in love.

“You are so cheesy, stop saying cheesy things you're making me flustered.” she giggles as he twirls her around, bits of the clouds around them fluttering due to their movements.

Lucifer giggles, dipping her effortlessly and presses his forehead against his, “But it's my job to make you flustered, darling.”

She giggles, pink dusting her cheeks, “I love you, Lucifer.”

“I love you too, darling.”

She cried herself to sleep that night.

She sat on the couch of their living room, the early sunlight filtering through the large windows of their home, giving their home some warmth. The warmth makes her forget the coldness of her skin and the numbness of her heart.

Her head whipped to the sound of the door being opened, lo and behold, her husband finally came home.

Her eyebrows furrowed, eye twitching. She was aching to snap at him but she took a deep breath and calmed herself down.

“Lucifer, where have you been?” she asked softly, voice cracking and trembling in each syllable.

Lucifer flinches, jumping slightly from surprise. He was surprised to hear his wife's voice. He didn't expect her to be awake so early in the morning.

He gave her a nervous smile, “Darling, why are you awake so early?” he asked, [Y/n] just continuously tapped her feet against the marble tiles.

“Enough of that, I know you have been spending time with that human.” she says softly and Lucifer's eyes widened, avoiding his wife's eyes because of guilt.

“It's part of my job, love—”

“Stop lying to me, Lucifer Morningstar.” she snaps, eyes glaring at him, “I didn't know telling her that she's beautiful is part of the job? Might I also include... Caressing her face? Was that part of the job? Tell me, Lucifer...”

“Are you tired of me...?” she asked softly, and Lucifer's eyes saddened.

“No, no, no... I can never be tired of you...” he says softly, he's unsure if he's lying to himself or not. But he desperately tries to believe that he's not tired of her. Yes, he still loves her... Right?

He doesn't know the answer to that.

“Then why...?! Why are you spending the majority of your time with her?!” she screamed, her voice filled with anguish as she grips her hair. She swore she ripped some strands but she's too much in pain to care.

Lucifer's eyes widened, surprised by her outburst.

“Because I'm trying to make her feel better because Adam hasn't been good to her and I hope you can find it in your heart to care for her just a little.” he says softly, remembering the things Lilith told him, how Adam was mean to her.

[Y/n]'s eye twitch, the nerve. Why would she care about her?

“Why would I care about her?!” she asked angrily, and Lucifer frowned, “Because I care about her.” he says honestly, annoyance evident in his voice.

“Morning, noon, and night I care about her, yet you cannot spare a single sympathy for her.”

[Y/n] was taken aback, the first time sensing such hostility from him. Her husband defending another woman when all she ever asked from him is his time, some time for her.

“I'm just asking why you're spending so much time with her! I am your wife, Lucifer... I need you too!” She exclaimed, her voice cracking in anguish, “You're barely home anymore and it's getting unbearably lonely in our house, I missed you so, so much... Please.. I need you.”

“For heaven's sake, [Y/n]... Lilith just existed and she's scared and confused and Adam is also not treating her right! She needs someone.” He sighs, blue eyes looking at tired [e/c] ones, he would've asked for her forgiveness for his tone, but he was blind with the sense of duty towards Lilith. He couldn't think straight. Neither of them can.

“So stop being selfish, I'll come back when you have cleared your head, okay...?” he says softly yet a tinge of sharpness in his voice, turning around to leave, his heels clicking against the marbled tiles in each step he took.

The sound of the door clicking as he closed it brought her back to reality.

Her legs gave out as she fell into the cold hard marble floor, kneeling like heaven's first ever sinner. Her sin? Falling in love with heaven's most beautiful angel.

Blinking, she tries to process what just happened.

She and Lucifer just had their very first fight, and she doesn't know how to process it.

‘Azrael was right, I really don't know him at all.’

She thought to herself sadly, wiping her tears with her wrist before a broken sob escaped her lips once more.

She was left alone crying to herself in an empty, cold, and lonely house.

Days passed by, both Lucifer and [Y/n] were ignoring each other, unsure how to approach the other.

[Y/n] remained unmoving in their bed, all alone and cold. It's been so long since she last took care of herself.

“I feel so tired and weak... Heaven's... I feel like I'm about to pass out.” she murmured weakly, turning around to look at the empty spot of her shared bed with Lucifer, to see the said man to be nowhere in sight. He hasn't been home for a few days now.

‘I am so tired... Maybe I should rest for a bit...’ she thought, her eyesight blurring from the lack of sleep, she kept waiting for Lucifer's return but the man was nowhere in sight.

She sighs sadly, her eyes drooping without notice.

She passed out.

She doesn't know how long she was asleep but the moment she woke up she was in Azrael's house, the man told her that she was asleep for days.

And also told her about the fall of both Lucifer and Lilith.

She still couldn't wrap her head around it, refusing to believe it.

Azrael sighs, taking a seat at the edge of the bed of where she was lying down.

“It's true, he and Lilith gave the apple to Eve... I'm afraid work is going to get much harder now that evil exists.” he spoke softly, eyes saddened as he looked at the downcast female.

He's wondering if this is the right time to tell her...

“And another thing... [Y/n]...?” he calls out softly to her, she looks at him with not a single light on her eyes.

“What is it...?”

“You're pregnant.” he says softly, [y/n]'s eyes widened.

“What...?”

[Y/n] gasped loudly as she sat up on the bed, her head whipping around to look at her surroundings.

She's back in her room, weren't she in hell before?

Her breathing was uneven, placing a hand over her chest to calm her fast beating heart.

‘Why now...? Why did the memory have to come back now...?’

Tears were cascading down her cheeks, pitiful sobs leaving her lips.

“Mom...?” a soft male voice calls out, the door to the room opening, the head of Xavier peeking through the small opening.

The boy's eyes widened when he saw his mother crying on her bed.

“MOM...?! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! ARE YOU HURT SOMEWHERE?!” he asked, immediately rushing to his mother's side, kneeling beside the bed.

[Y/n] shakes her head slowly, “I'm alright, I just got a bad dream...” she admitted softly, small hiccups leaving her lips.

Xavier's [e/c] eyes softened, grabbing a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket that he hasn't used yet, using it to wipe his mother's tears away.

“Do you wanna talk about it...?” he asked softly, his hands gently dabbing the soft cloth on [y/n]'s face, making sure to dry her tear stricken face.

“A little bit...” she says softly, smiling gently towards her son. Her eyes saddened even more, Xavier really looked like Lucifer.

“That's alright, don't pressure yourself mom.” Xavier spoke softly, standing up so he could sit at the side of the bed, leaning down to give a kiss on his mother's forehead.

She nodded and took a deep breath, “I dreamt... About your father.” she says softly and avoids her son's eyes.

Xavier's eyes widened, his shoulders dropping but decided not to speak and allowed his mother to talk.

“I dreamt of the past, how happy me and him were used to and now... I don't even know anymore.” she laughs bitterly.

Xavier's hand clenched slightly before relaxing, “It's not your fault mom...”

“I know.”

Xavier sighs softly, “Mom...?” he calls out softly to her, [Y/n] hummed.

“I think we need to talk about him now, it's a long overdue topic.” he says softly to her and she flinches but sighs.

He's right, she's been avoiding this topic for so many eons. It's time to talk about it.

She sighs softly, “You're right... I think we should.” and Xavier smiled, proud of her. He always has been.

[Y/n] remained seated on her bed, thumbs playing with each other. Xavier has already left to do his usual routine around the house.

Their conversation about Lucifer has already ended, she told him everything about what happened. Told him why she loves him so much and what he did to hurt her.

She told him how she and Lucifer were together for how many years before marrying each other, she told him the things that he did that made her love him.

And she just can't let go of her feelings for someone that she loved for so many eons. It's not that easy.

Even after all these years, she can't forget.

[Y/n] sighs softly, her hair cascading down to her face, framing the shape of her face perfectly. She turned her head to the side to look at the window, she could see the large backyard forest-like garden.

Knock, knock, knock.

Her head whipped in the direction of the knock, she turned to look at the door to see Michael standing and leaning against the door frame lazily.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, “Michael... What are you doing here??” she asked softly and Michael sighed as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“I came as I heard what happened, are you alright?” he asked worriedly, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. [Y/n] smiled and nodded, “Yes,I feel slightly a lot better now.”

Michael smiled though, his eyes still held a tinge of worry in them. He sighs, “[Y/n]... Do you want to stop this mission and let someone else do it?” he asked her softly and [Y/n]'s eyes widened.

“I am perfectly capable of doing this, Michael... Don't worry too much about me.” she says softly and Michael sighs once more.

“I'm just worried for you, everyone is.” he says sternly and [Y/n] frowns, “I know but I can assure you that I'm fine with doing this...”

Michael sighs once more, clearly already used to her stubbornness.

“If you say so,” he says softly before looking back at her once more, “—but if it's suddenly too much for you, don't hesitate to tell me okay?” he says sternly to her.

[Y/n] giggles softly, a small smile on her face, “Yes,I'll keep that in mind.”

Michael smiled and gave her a single nod, “You better.”

Michael's eyes widened, snapping his fingers as he seems to remember something, [Y/n] tilted her head at him, confused.

“I just remembered, Gabriel said she was gonna visit later.” he says deadpanning and [Y/n]'s lips tightened into a flat line, she gave Michael a deadpan, “Yay... I can't wait.” she says unenthusiastically.

Michael laughed softly and ruffled her hair, “I'm sure it wouldn't be too bad.”

“She's gonna lecture me again about how men are shit.” she says deadpanning at him as she remembers the times Gabriel kept on lecturing her about how Lucifer was just a man.

“That is so real, love that for her.” Michael says, nodding.

“Michael, you're a man.” [Y/n] says with a small smile while shaking her head with her eyes closed.

“Am I?”

[Y/n] turned to look at Michael... Who's now a woman now. She deadpanned at him, “Really?” She asked sarcastically with a small smile, Michael laughed out loud. His laughs reverberated around the room.

“I think I look gorgeous as one.” he says sassily, flipping his long blond hair behind his back.

[Y/n] giggled and Michael smiled, proud to make her happy.

“You're so silly, try wearing a maid dress next time.” she suggested playfully at him, giving him a wink.

“Don't push your luck.” he says deadpanning at her and she just laughs, holding her hands up in defeat, “Okay, okay... I won't.” she says in-between giggles.

He smiled and ruffled her hair, “Alright, alright... You seem to be feeling much better now,” he says standing up, giving her a small smile, “—I'll head out first, I still have some work that are needed to be finished.” he says with a long sigh.

[Y/n] giggles, “Alright then... Don't push yourself too much okay?” she says softly, her eyes looking at Michael with worry.

“I won't.” he says and she deadpans at him, “I know you're lying.”

“Shush.”

“I'll see you later, [N/n].” he says with a smile, [Y/n] smiled at him, “I'll see you later, Michael.”

“It's Michelle.” he says sassily once more, flipping his long blond hair dramatically making [Y/n] cackle, “Right... Michelle.. lmao.. I'll see you later, Michelle.” she says in-between snickers.

“Laterz girlfriend~” Michael says sassily as he left, transforming back to his male form as he did so.

[Y/n] was left alone in her room, but this time... She was laughing thanks to Michael.

TAGLIST I:

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